Electric Fence Zine: Mauritius

For those of you who haven't received the memo, street harassment is both pervasive and incessant in Mauritius.

Apart from the daily dose of hissing and leering that I am exposed to, I've been groped by a bus driver, harassed over the telephone by police officers, followed from the market, flashed at a dance club, and most recently, attacked and very nearly sexually assaulted. In a span of 5 months, I have had more experiences of sexual assault than most women accumulate over a lifetime and nothing prepared me for this.. not the Fulbright Foundation, not the Embassy, and not even my experiences of being harassed back home.

The cast of characters are partially new as well as partially old and familiar. They include construction workers, street corner drunks, curmudgeons, as well as motorists (sometimes driving with their children in the rear), married professionals, men on bicycles, doctors, bus conductors, as well as young persons still in their 20s.

One of the things that has unified all of my street-harassers up to date is the fact that all of them have been Indo-Mauritians. Coincidental? Hardly.

My theory on street harassment in Mauritius is a cultural one, concerning in-group and out-group dynamics on the Isle. Namely, I believe men abide by limited rules of decorum when dealing with women from their own ethnic communities, but behave lawlessly when interacting with women of different origins... particularly Black-African and Creole women.

How else to explain the fact that the same Hindu men who leer, stalk, and hiss at me and my White roommate allow sari-clad women pass by totally unperturbed? Or the fact that not a single one of my three dozen harassers has been a Black man?

What is important to note about this hypothesis is that it stops short of indicting Indo-Mauritian culture as being defective in and of itself. Instead, my contention is that the tenants of respect which govern interactions between Indian persons typically are not applied to interactions between Indians and non-Indians.

As a result of all this, the streets and sidewalks of Mauritius are lawless. Indo-Mauritians articulate their desire for non-Indian women crudely and brazenly ... whether it be hissing at them, soliciting them for sex, grabbing at their bodies or, at worst, tearing their clothes off in the middle of the street.

My second cultural explanation for harassment in Mauritius is that racist and misogynistic stereotypes about black women are pervasive. The one time that I was foolhardy enough to invite a male acquaintance over to watch a movie on a Friday evening, the night ended with him begging to stay the night and looking surprised when I turned him down flat. Mind you, he's Muslim, and prior to soliciting me for sex, he explained that Muslim dating in Mauritius is more or less a formal courtship supervised by parents, where hand-holding is about as intimate as things get. Hmm... makes you wonder why with me, he practically came with his bathtowel and toothbrush.

I will allow that some of this is a problem of nationality, and the way that American women are cast in the blockbuster films that are bootlegged and viewed by Mauritians at a dizzying rate. Apparently, we are ravenous consumers of sex, and there's simply no such thing as "not interested" or "not now." However, the perceptions of Americans that exist in so-called socially conservative countries like Mauritius hardly displace race from its place of prominence in my thesis.

If we erase race as an explanatory factor, how do we explain the statements of the law enforcement officers who handled my case? Consider the following exchanges:

(Police Officer speaking in regards to the bus-driver who groped me)
Officer: "Oh, he probably just thought you were Malagasy. You know, a lot of them are prostitutes"
Me: "Actually, he knew I was American."
Officer: "Oh geez, what a monster!"

And how about this one? (said after my latest case-- essentially an attempted rape)
Officer: "Oh you know, he probably thought you were Creole."

Whatever the intent of these statements, they imply that Black and African-descendant women (sex worker or otherwise) are incapable of being sexually assaulted because they are naturally promiscuous. Thus, we (here I include myself) consent to sex, groping, and unsolicited touching by mere fact of our race. Even whilst putting up a fight...

According to the police, the problem isn't that Black women in Mauritius are systematically denied the right to refuse sex like their Indian, White, and Chinese counterparts, the problem is that I am being misread as one of them.

Thinking about all this has me thoroughly exhausted, so that's all for now. However, more commentary to come. Stay tuned...

Labels: assault, street harassment, women's issues

Posted by east of madagascar at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments

Around 9pm as I was walking home, a man on a bicycle rode up beside me and started making unwanted advances. He was Indian, in his 20s, medium-height and slight-build, and spoke only Creole.

I tried to ditch this man several ways... including saying goodnight, turning off the street, and quickening my pace, but to no avail. The man kept following me and asking me to invite him come over, and when I said no, he got physical and used his bicycle to try and pin me against a row of bushes. When I escaped this trap and began to run, he grabbed the drawstring of my hoodie which allowed him to effectively begin chocking me. While he had me by the neck and collar, he balanced his bicycle against his torso and used his other hand to grope me, grab my privates and tear at my clothes.

Needless to say, I fought back like hell and used tactics as various as flinging an entire bottle of water in his face, screaming and shouting "help" "emergency" in French and English (pointedly, no one came out of their houses), and back pedaling at full speed whenever I was able to disorient him.

After my assailant managed to grab me by the neck for a third time, I escaped by clawing him in the eyes and running to the first lit house that I came across. It ended up being he home of a Muslim family, and no less than 6 members of the family came out to check on me, including a girl in her teens and a women in her 60s. They sat me down and called the police, who came by shortly after and drove me home at my request.

I hate that for every pleasant day I spend in Mauritius, something like this happens to remind me that I'm not safe here, that I cannot feel at ease as a woman... never mind as a black woman. Va te faire foutre, Ile Maurice, for denying me even basic peace of mind.

However, I must extend a big thank you to Erica C, for reminding me of my middle school glory days and the time I beat up a certain locker room menace. I honestly think you helped me drum up the confidence I need to kick my would-be rapist's sorry ass.

Going to the precinct tomorrow to file Police Case Number 3. Anyone else think that this is getting a little bit redundant?

Labels: assault, street harassment, women's issues

Posted by east of madagascar at 11:31 PM | Permalink

My first three months in Mauritius have been a crash course in Hindu Male Privilege, 101.

Men in Mauritius, particularly Hindu men, feel enormous amounts of entitlement when it comes to their treatment of women. As a Black woman, my experience has been all the more acute.. scarcely a day goes by when men aren't honking, whistling, staring at me or otherwise carrying on. Doesn't sound too bad? Nothing truly out of the ordinary? Well, try being followed all the way home from the marketplace by married men who are desperate to have a chance with you...

Or, even better, having doctors in fancy cars corner you on the side of the road and essentially proposition you for sex, on grounds that you remind them of a Black women they screwed 20 years ago in the UK, all while offering to give you a free medical exam. And then imagine said lecherous doctor coming back to your neighborhood several days later to scour the block in search of you/your address/the place they last saw you. EEEEK. (Thank God for roommates who lay down the law and scare the creeps away..)

anyhow.. get the picture?

Well, I thought I did... Which is to say, I thought my aforementioned encounters with Mauritian men had shown me the full extent of the sexual harassment that takes place here in Mauritius.

Sadly, however, I stand corrected. As it turns out, sexual harassment in Mauritius has an even more sinister face.

First off, there is the Hindu man who dropped his trousers on me at a club. In previous blog posts and in conversations with friends, I have tried hard to find humor in the situation and turn the whole debacle into a joke. However, the fact remains that the encounter was a huge unnerving mess. If you have never had someone expose themselves to you and say"Je veux vraiment de te baiser" and "Descends" in the dark recesses of a club, I truly hope you never live to see that day. I was so revolted by the experience, I seriously wanted to scrub out my ears and jab out my eyes.

I wish that I had the presence of mind to cuss out the mec in French and English as things were unfolding, but instead all I managed was a meek Bonne Nuit before grabbing my friend Jason and fleeing the club on foot. However, I guess it's better late than never... Vijay, if you're reading this out there in internet land, va te faire foutre.

Fast forward to this week, Monday. It is 4:40pm and I am sitting on a bus, making what is usually a tranquil ten minute trip from my host NGO to the Tae Kwon Do class I began a month ago. One other passenger is on the bus, and she gets off one stop after I get on, leaving me, the driver and the conductor (person who sells tickets to passengers). Seeing that I am alone, the bus conductor crosses the aisle and sits in the seat across from me. From there, he begins addressing me in French and asking me personal questions.. "Am I married?" "Do I have a boyfriend, and am I looking for one?" Do I want to get married in Mauritius?"

Assessing the situation, I take the man's flirtation to be indication that he is another one of Mauritius's typical lecherous curmudgeons. Wrong. As it turns out, a better way to describe this man is an "old, married, snaggletoothed molester"... because before a minute of conversation passes, said gentlemen has begun reaching over the aisle, stroking my thighs and trying to grope my privates.

Dumbfounded, I try to force the guy's hands away using my arms, as well as a water bottle that I'm wielding like a piece of armor. However, the assault continues, with his hands ever-so-persistently divebombing the crotch of my pants. At this point, my head is spinning, and I leap up from my seat and try to move as far away from him as physically possible.. which leaves me pressed against the window of the bus. However, my aggressor responds by tugging my waist and urging me to sit back down. Pretty soon, we’re both standing and he has me cornered against the window.

At this point, despite the fact that the bus is going full throttle, I try and squeeze past my aggressor and make my way for the door. From there, it's utter chaos. My aggressor starts hollering at the bus driver to keep on driving and essentially hold me hostage on the bus-- all the while grabbing my buttocks and telling me vulgar things. In the end, I basically leaped off the bus when it approached its next bus stop, with the conductor following me all the way to the door.

Suffice it to say, I arrived at Tae Kwon Do shell shocked. I didn't really speak to anyone until after the class ended, and when I finally broke my silence I confided in a colleague from work. Upon hearing my story, he insisted that we drive to the nearest police station and file a report.

To my chagrin, the first question I am asked when I sit down before the on-duty officer is, "what were you wearing when this happened?" -- which is unforgivable for reasons that are hopefully obvious (a little blaming the victim, anyone?).

After that grave misstep, however, the police officer asked me to give a full account of what happened, so I spent the better part of an hour recounting the events as he paraphrased them. However, his transcription took liberties with my testimony and featured several undesired flourishes, for instance, statements like "He touched my privates and I felt very embarrassed," and "I have no witnesses." In the end, I got the former changed to "He touched my privates and I felt violated," but the officer kept the latter as is.. despite my arguments that the bus driver witnessed the whole thing and was also somewhat complicit.

Anyhow, while I can say nothing for the Mauritian Police Force's feminist sensitivity training, I left the station believing that they at least had some semblance of professionalism. According to the officer I spoke with, my case would be investigated as a criminal case and I would eventually be called to testify against my assailant in court.

Sadly, however, I was proved wrong yet again. It all started yesterday night, when I received a flirtatious SMS from a telephone number that I did not recognize. The message read: Salut ma belle. Je veux etre amis (Hello my beautiful, I want to be *friends/lovers-- meaning sort of unclear given the context). To which i responded Qui est ce? Je n'identifie pas ce numero (Who is this? I don't recongize this number...)

In response, I receive another message saying "This is Ryan. I'm 25 years old, blah blah blah (insert some French dribble here)" At this point my mind is spinning because I don't know anyone named Ryan, and I can’t understand for the life of me how someone randomly got my cell number. However, it’s late and I'm tired so I simply ignored the message and go to bed.

However, this strategy is less than successful, because come morning I have several new messages from the mystery caller in my inbox, essentially saying "hello beautiful, why didn't you write back, and why are you being so méchante (mean, cruel)..presumably for not writing.

Owning to the fact that I'm as confused as I am disturbed, I write my mystery caller a follow up message asking: Où avons-nous rencontré? Et comment as-tu trouvé mon numero? (Where did we meet? And how did you find my number?) … To which the guy responds in Creole: "No we haven't met, I just saw you in town. I will tell you how I found your number later . Are you married?"

At this point I'm infuriated, so I write the French equivalent of "No, tell me how the hell you got my number, or stop effing contacting me!", to which I receive the following response:

Ok alors, suis policier ok si je ta v enuirais ok tu mexkuz si tu v pas ke nu soyons amis bn 2soler mai jaimeria bien etre amis ok alor a toi maintenant

Between the text message slang and the Creole and the who knows what, I won't even attempt a 1-1 translation of that message. However, in short, my text message stalker revealed himself to be one of the policemen who handled my sexual harassment case, and who apparently, helped himself to the number I left on file.

Honestly, I'm floored. Absolutely floored. In essence, it’s why I decided to rant in my blog tonight. Most of the time when I write about Mauritius, I try and dwell on all the positives because I ultimately feel fortunate to be here.

However, the fact remains that I have never lived in a society like this before.. a society where the harassment of women is so brazen and unabashed, where you get harassed while seeking redress for harassment, or where being black (and to a lesser extent, foreign) makes you a sexual fetish object in such vulgar and explicit ways. And mind you, none of this harassment comes from Creole/African Mauritians, it comes from Indian Mauritians, who constitute the Majority in a Brown-Black society that resembles the U.S. both in terms of the forms of racism that exist and its race based economic disparities.

Up until now, I've tried to keep my feminist politics of the non-separatist variety. However, with every day that passes here, the women-led society that Charlotte Gilman depicts in her novel Herland seems more and more like Utopia. I, for one, think Mauritius could do with a lot less disrespectful, predatory, misogynistic assholes.

Alas, here's to hoping that I can pass my last 7.5 months here without being groped, solicited for sex, picked up by old married men, or hit on by public servants. In the event that this modest wish does not come true, however, I have resolved that I will begin slapping, cursing and hollering at (in all languages that come to mind) anyone who violates or disrespects me in the future... presumably a much better strategy than diving off moving buses and running out of clubs with my hands covering my eyes. Hmph hmph.

Labels: street harassment, women's issues

Posted by east of madagascar at 10:42 PM | Permalink | Comments