I know enough Arabic to be a dick to children.
Arriving in Luxor, Egypt, my husband and I planned to see Karnak Temple. Prepped and pumped to bike along the Nile River, we set out on our adventure.
It was just an ok day.
*(There were no crocodiles, but I love crocodiles, so I drew them anyway).
Five minutes into our bike adventure to Karnak, a group of children sprinted toward us. Their eyes gleamed with excitement as the foreigners approached.
The kid in front didn’t really say that. He asked for a Euro, too.
With the kids crowding us, I knew what to say.
I said “no thank you.”
Having heard Arabic before, the children were unimpressed.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Hand firmly on my bike, the kid in front revealed his belly button.
He wanted to show me something.
Wearing what looked like a poorly made Halloween mummy costume, the kid had wounds—burn marks and deep scarring.
He really wanted a Euro.
With the big reveal, excitement surged: maybe now I’d like to hand over a Euro?
Feeling like a total dick for not turning over any Euros, I tried “no thank you” again.
The kid let go of my bike.
…and grabbed my boob.
It happened fast; I doubted it even happened. My husband rushed over to settle the crowd.
We didn’t throw him in the Nile. There are crocodiles in there.
I spent the remainder of the day ruminating.
Answers hung on the precipice. Was I angry or sad? Was my assailant a victim or perpetrator? Was he a child or young man?
I took a break from selfies.