Victimized

Continuation of “Eyes”

What is it like being a female living in Dubai?

I was at a hair salon in Jumeirah Lakes that I had been to for a simple trim twice before. I often went with a girlfriend or two of mine. This time, I was meeting my friend there. When I arrived, she had already done the wash and was sitting quietly in the salon chair. Hair wet. Head down. Her eyes drifted up to meet mine in acknowledgement of my arrival, then her eyes went back towards her lap. She did not have much to say, quieter than usual. But us girls have our moments, right? Then the wash-guy (different guy than the scissor-guy) said he was ready for me.

There were washing bins right here in the same room, but he said that today we would go into the other room for the wash. I figured there was something wrong with the wash bins in hair-cutting room because all the previous times the wash-guy washed my hair, we had stayed in that same room. But he took me over to the other room, sat me down and said the water was still getting hot. So he picked up my hand and began to massage.

This must be a Dubai thing, I thought to myself. I’ll take it. And I began to enjoy a little arm massage as the water was running behind me.

Then arm massage turned into shoulder massage. He even started to lift my arms like he was trying to “stretch” me and then would twist my arms around to turn my spine like he was trying to “pop” my back. I was sure that wash-guy had no chiropractic experience… There was a full-length mirror in front of me and I got a memorable glimpse of the situation. My uncomfortable confusion was telling me something just wasn’t feeling right. I politely pulled my arms away from him and asked if the water was warm yet.

He replied, “Not ready yet.”

He returned to a shoulder massage, then his hands drifted down my top and around my ribs towards my chest. I politely brushed his hands off.

“I think the water is ready,” I said.

He insists, “Not yet.”

“Its hot enough,” I retort. I pressed my neck back to the edge of the wash bin allowing wash-guy to wash my hair…

I returned to the other salon room with my friend who was still sitting quietly in the chair. I met her eyes in the mirror and asked quietly to her as I nodded in the direction of the other wash room, “Was that weird for you?” A shy nod of her head confirmed that yes, that had just happened. To the both of us.

As you can imagine, I was quite upset for not having been warned before I walked into the room. But she was young and has her own past that she must manage within her mental and emotional capacity.

As we finished up at the salon, the images and sensations were not leaving my mind, nor my skin. Like that feeling of needing to wipe a kiss off from someone you didn’t want it from. JUST. GET. OFF. She was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable.

On my drive back to my apartment, fire was burning up inside me. Then I realized, I am not the only one. I may have been the last for now, but more girls and more women will walk into that salon for a typical trim and walk out a victim. I would not be the one to sit quietly, head down.

I called the salon, keeping my identity discrete. In this country, if police find out about the situation, I could be the one to be arrested, not the handsy hair-washer. I let the front desk know about what had happened. The woman I spoke to said that no-one had ever mentioned anything to her about that. I was the first…

How many keep quiet? When does the chain stop? Will my simple call to the front desk make a change? Or did I just “transfer” the “responsibility” onto another woman? Will I ever know?

This is raw. We are human. We are taking risks. Living life. Going to new places. Experiencing other cultures. Its not always pretty. But it is mostly beautiful. Sometimes we are forced to grow. Forced to stretch beyond our limits. Forced to experience.

I write of these situations to warn a traveler into a new culture, or anyone anywhere for that matter, of what these situations may start as, and how they can evolve. It happens quickly, sometimes without even realizing the situation at hand as someone watching from the outside would realize. I believe that now, having been a victim, I could catch on much quicker in these situations. But when it was something I had never experienced before, I blindly walked into the trap without realizing I was stuck in it until I crashed right into the fence in-front of me.

It is nothing to be ashamed of. I actually feel no shame at all. Now at least, years later, I forgive myself. I forgive the silent. I forgive the culture. I forgive the culprit.

I offer grace to the situation and to all involved. I do what I can to prevent myself and others from falling into these situations. I encourage women, especially those close to me, to feel and speak for themselves and step where they need to step. Freely. With confidence.

“I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.”

Maya Angelou