I was nine years old the first time I was subjected to sexual harassment on the streets of Yemen. On the way back to my home in Sana’a, the capital, we caught a public bus. On the bus, while I was dreaming that when I become older and have a job I will buy lots of chocolate and dolls, suddenly I felt something touching me down my back. I was sure that it would be a cockroach or an insect, so I didn’t move or scream. I didn’t want to show my father my fear; I loved to show him my bravery, even when I was scared. I was uncomfortable with the tickle down my back, which continued for approximately ten minutes. When we got off the bus I discovered what the tickling actually was and it made me experience a type of fear that I had never experienced before. The tickling came from the fingers of a man in his thirties who was sitting behind me. Once we got off the bus, I saw his face through the window, sending me kisses and dirty looks. I was too scared and drowned in silence and shock. I couldn’t tell my father; I didn’t tell anyone. I lived in fear for five days, hating every man in the universe except my father.
