I asked Babak to kindly cede his space for me this week, to allow me to share an experience I know he is very unlikely to have when walking. I am Babak’s wife, Natalia Viana, an investigative journalist from Brazil, and I love exploring the urban environment and walking by myself as well as with him. 

About two months ago, I was in a conference in Oxford, UK, a city I had, until then, only heard of, and read about. Upon arrival, I found it was all I thought it would be: small, cute, charming, and buzzing with students. As in most of the UK, I felt safe there. I could walk to and from conference venues at any time of the day and without fearing I’d be mugged or robbed.   

Quite often, it is hard for me to let my guard down. Babak knows this. Even when I am in a ‘safe’ city, having grown up in Sao Paulo, I am quite aware of my surroundings, hold my bag in front of me, and never leave any belongings unattended. No typing on my phone while on the sidewalk, no exposing my laptop in a public place.
My good friend Andrea Dip directed a revealing short film about how women experience walking in São Paulo. It’s called Under Constant Threat and was the subject of a WLC café back in 2021. 

And yet, in Oxford, I let mu guard down. Well, perhaps not quite 100%, as I believe a woman never really does.
I was walking back to my AirBNB, around 10 PM on a Friday night, and coming towards me was a man, a bit chubby, a bit unkempt. Only when he came closer did I noticed that he had one hand stuck down his trousers. I then immediately crossed to the sidewalk opposite, which gave me the impression that this offended him in some manner. He then stopped and stared at me. 

The streets were empty, except for a young student who I saw standing in front of what I presumed to be the door to her apartment. And that’s when you instinctively know global female solidarity is going to come to your aid.
I walked towards her and pointed to the man, asking that she let me in, as she promptly did. The man seemed to get even more offended, and rushed to the door.
What followed was a scene fitting a bad horror movie: what now clearly was a drunk man grunting outside the entrance, banging against and trying to force the door, and me, her, and also her roommate inside, without any idea what to do next. 

I felt bad for dragging these young girls into this episode of personal harassment; while they felt bad about being privy to this aggression towards a foreigner.
We called the cops. 

When the police arrived, it still felt like a bad horror movie. They arrested some man that we could not identify, where these lawgivers insisted he was, really, the right man. I was confused, felt guilty, and completely powerless.
In the end I only managed to convince the police to add a specific sentence to the police report; That I was not sure I would be able to recognize the attacker when faced with him. I don’t want to be responsible for an innocent’s man arrest, and I also don’t want to allow a potential sexual predator to hunt the two young students who saved me that night. 

That was back in April, and I still think a lot about that episode. It still strikes me that what I immediately felt, and what the two girls felt, was guilt; I had put them in danger, they felt bad for me.
Should I have taken a cab? Should I have crossed earlier to the other side? Should I avoid any road with a single man walking towards me? Should I never feel safe in any street in the world at night?   

But still, there is only one guilty party in all of this: the attacker. 

It is only because we live in a world in which we, women, are always to blame, expected to take responsibility, that it is so hard for us, and for men, to realise, and talk openly about the fact that 50% of us humans are not completely safe while walking. 

Ever. 

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