I slowly tear myself away from the billowy blankets and
sleepily get dressed. The sun just starts to creep above the horizon as I take
my first stiff steps into the crisp air. The transition from night to morning
holds a serene peace with it that inspires me to keep coming back.
I turn up my iPod and the beat of music eases me into the
familiarity of my stride. This is my favorite time of day; the day still holds
so much promise and possibility, and the streets are at its quietist. I know by
the time I walk out my gates to head to work, everything will have changed. The
solitude of the morning melts away and the air becomes leaden with
responsibility.
A few scattered people scurry to their respective
destinations wrapped in gabis. They
barely take notice of me as I jog past them, lost in their own world as I am in
mine. I dodge a few trucks without much
effort. A few of the regular runners pass me, gracefully displaying their
superior Abyssinian athletic prowess. Most people run in groups, and it’s very unusual
to see women. Nevertheless there is a sense of solidarity amongst those hitting
the pavement in the early morning hours. A silent and knowing nod is the
reassurance and encouragement that gives me additional incentive.
I pause to allow a car to pass and I see a lone runner head
in my direction. Making a mental note but not paying much attention to him, I continue
along my path, losing myself in the music and the beautiful sunrise. The man
has caught up to me and is now running at my pace but is keeping his distance
across the street. I see he is watching me, but I refuse to make eye contact and
lose my rhythm.
He crosses the street towards me and sets his stride in
parallel with mine. He forces my attention on him. He quickly mumbles words
that I can’t understand. Staring expectantly at me, he tries again. Proclaiming
his love for me, he proceeds to explain how he has been watching me for months.
He inches closer as he speaks. Waiting for my appreciation and reciprocation, I
disappoint him by keeping my eyes firmly focused on the pavement straight
ahead. Frustrated at the loss of my personal space and morning serenity, I ask
him as politely and sternly as I can manage while maintaining my stride to run
on ahead of me. After negotiating my space, he finally relents and speeds away
while I turn the corner, grateful for my renewed freedom. I turn the music back
up and direct my focus on my shallow breathing. I absorb the familiar sights of
a homeless woman wrapped up in a thin blanket with her baby, sitting against
the crumbling stonewall and the street dogs wondering, still wired from their
nocturnal activities.
A few minutes later, this lone runner has rejoined me.
Feeling a bit more brazen and confident, he silently sidles up next to me. Jerked
out of my solitude, he lists the places that he has seen me in the
neighborhood. He moves so close to me that I can smell his cologne trying to cover
up his musky sweat. My muscles automatically clench from the intimacy of the
situation. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been standing so close to a man
that I didn’t know. Then, flashbacks of a violent late night encounter course
through my mind. Scanning the street, I am trying to will people to appear on
the street, seeking protection in their mere existence. I decide to vary my
pace to make it more difficult for him to causal run with me. As we reach the
peak of the hill, I speed up but become quickly aware that he can definitely
outpace me and has exceedingly more endurance. I take a hard unexpected right
turn down a street with a few more pedestrians milling about. I slow down to
catch my breath, taking comfort in the silent soldiers of my neighborhood
watch.
Still by my side, his pleading carries a desperate tone. He
knows his window of opportunity is closing. His hand creeps closer to my body,
and I instinctively grab my pockets. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I vocally
assert my protest. My voice betrays, verging on near shrill hysteria. After a few more imploring attempts from him
and a few more harsh words from me, he throws his hands up in frustration, hissing
“fuck you!” All of my muscles tensed up and my eyes clenched tight as I waited
for the blow. After a few seconds, I peek my eyes open and see that he has
turned the corner and is running in the other direction. My shoulders dropped
at the realization that I am once again, alone.
Almost home, I am replaying the incident in my mind,
thinking of how I should have reacted. This behavior has been ingrained in us.
If someone, particularly a woman, is ever attacked, the questions almost immediately
centers around the victim’s foolish behavior. I go through the same gambit of
questions. Why was I running alone? Why
didn’t I stop running? Why didn’t I stop someone on the street? Why didn’t I
just go home after the first time he approached me? I never have adequate
answers to those questions and they always seem ridiculous at the time. People
are quick to provide “you should be more
careful” advice. It somehow makes them feel like they are contributing to
the situation but when pressed with specifics, they stutter some overly
reactionary advice while secretly admitting that they would never follow their
own advice.
I resolve to be proactive and change my route. I refuse to
give up my morning sanctity and to live in fear. Yet, two days later, I peek
out my gate, looking left and right. Feeling ridiculous and paranoid, I step
out on to the street. Trying to shake it off, I surrender myself to the music.
I am a little unsteady on the unfamiliar roads and cautiously navigate while my
eyes scan every pedestrian. Periodically, I look over my shoulder which is a
bit challenging while trying to dodge the random debris in the road. As I head
back toward my house, I am feeling charged by the new route. I end all of my
runs by going up a long set of stairs. There are often several people who do
their own variations of a stair workout, but I can’t be bothered to do more
then just make it to the top.
Feeling victorious, I stride towards the stairs. My heart
drops when I see him there. He is stretching. He says something but does not
attempt to run with me. When I near the top, I look back to see if he is
following me. To my surprise and delight, he is still at the bottom. Taking
several deep sighs of relief; I walk back to my house. It was all just a
misunderstanding and I overreacted. I turn up the music and allow my thoughts
to drop it.
As I unlock my gate, a movement in my periphery catches my
eye. He is awkwardly stretching in the middle of the road. Hot flashes rush
over my body. His eyes bore into my body. He knows where I live. We stare at
each other for a few seconds and he walks off. I walk in the gate, frustrated
and cursing myself for being so careless. I was so close to evading him. The
questions return: Why did I go back to
the steps? Why didn’t I just cut the run short?
Again, two days later, I cautiously peek out the gates. I
step out on to the road. Not wanting to take any chances, I head in a
completely different direction. In order to do so, I need to cross major roads.
The serenity of my morning runs has transformed in a stressful exercise of
fear: of getting hit by cars, of being followed, and of getting lost. My new
route does not give me the same exhilarated feeling, as I am extra vigilant
about my unknown surroundings. I meet everyone’s gaze with skepticism. My music
is turned down low so that I can hear everything around me. All of my senses
are activated, and I’m exhausted before I’m halfway through my run.
I finish my run without any sightings of the lone runner. My
confidence is measured, knowing full well that he could appear out of anywhere.
Refusing to be lulled into a false sense of security again, I survey everyone
that passes. Nearly a week passes and there have been no sightings. Relieved, but
not overly confident, I maintain my new route which keeps me far from my
neighborhood. I gain a sense of familiarity with the regulars: the early shop
keepers, the taxi drivers, and the old man runner. The music’s familiar pull
gently guides me back into a peaceful feeling.
Feeling fairly reassured that the lone runner has forgotten
me (and hopefully my address), I
begin to reclaim my mornings one day at a time. While I am still cautious
around my neighborhood, I feel confident that the incident is over. That is
until one day, when I peek out of my gate, I see him there. Sitting across the
street. Under no pretense of stretching or running, his gaze locks in on mine. Flustered
and not sure what to do, my body moves automatically. I quickly walk out of the
gate. The shop owner, whom I greet everyone morning, tells me to hurry back
with a concerned look. Initially confused by his words, I surmise that he also
sees the lone runner loitering around. I
am very careful to ensure that he is not following me to my safe route. When I return,
he is still there. He makes no attempt to speak to me. He just sits there. Watching.
And waiting.
No longer considering this guy as an annoyance but an actual
threat, I am desperate for advice. Unsurprisingly, the advice is usually overly
reactionary (read: keep a knife under
your bed) or overly general (read: be
more careful). The next day, I
decide to tell the shop owner. The same
man who told me to hurry back. He sits outside and knows everyone in the
neighborhood. He sees everything. I hope that he will use his neighborhood
watch activities to give me some insight on the situation and offer to talk to
him. Community and social pressure holds strong influence over people’s
behavior, particularly with respect to elders. This gives me confidence about the
shop owner’s seniority to shut down the situation.
When I greet the shop owner, he can see that I want to speak
to him, but there are other people around. I causally wait until the other
patrons have secured their items and move on their way. Unsure of what to say,
I stutter, “I don’t know if you’ve seen him, but there is this guy who hangs
around here. He has been following me and…” Before I can finish, he cuts me off
and says “yes, I tried to warn you. You have to be careful. There are a lot of
mobsters and gangsters around here.” Blinking incredulously, I don’t understand
what he is saying. Despite his perfect English, I could not absorb the
information. There are gangs in Addis? How have I lived in this neighborhood
for 6 months and not notice that this area is a cesspool of criminal activity? I
try to describe the lone runner to him, but again the shop owner cuts me off.
He doesn’t want to be involved. Lowering his voice, he tells me a litany of dangers
from identifying any of these men. He describes the attempted murder over a
watch outside my gate two years ago. I stand there dumbstruck. I don’t know
what to say or do. I don’t want to hear anymore, as if the mere acknowledge me
of it will validate its truthfulness. But he goes on, assaulting my ears with
the retelling of these violent acts. He warns me that the police are useless
and these men are persistent and prevalent.
So now, my question to you all - knowing what I know now,
what should I do?