I was mortified.
I was in the middle of Africa, with six other girls my age.
We had stopped at a bus station to change buses on our way to a small town eight hours away from our host and our home for the month.
None of us were too excited to leave our comfortable house in the first place. Why should we be? We had comfy beds, a real toilet, a nice shower, and a good ministry routine going. Everything we needed. Our host insisted we pack up and leave for a few days. He wanted us to experience what living in poverty was like, and after what I had just went through, I hated where we were going even more.
Within seconds of getting off of our first bus, men swarmed us. Old men, young men, teenagers, and children. Not another woman to be seen. No biggie, we would just stick together and walk straight to our next bus. There were nine of us total, my team and our hosts’ two daughters, which should have been comforting, right?
I don’t think even having fifty other women around would have made me feel any safer.
My anxiety was starting to sky rocket as I prayed to myself, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
We filed behind a line of people slowly stepping onto the bus, which actually wasn’t a bus at all, but a van, and the men followed. One man was nice and I felt sorry for him. He then shoved sunglasses in my face and begged me to buy them. “Help support me,” he cried. I smiled and told him I was sorry and to have a good day, and then I shuffled a few steps forward.
Then it happened. A man (I wish I could describe him for you, but all I can remember was a camouflage hat on his head) grabbed my arm. I yanked away as hard as I could. He started yelling at me. I was so scared and in shock and his accent was so thick I could hardly make out what he was saying. “Tattoos! Tattoos! Marry me!” Heart racing, I ignored him.
Finally, it was my turn to get on the bus.
I stepped up, and the man grabbed my ankle. I kicked him away and ran up the stairs to find my seat. He stayed outside of the van, but walked right alongside of me. He didn’t take his eyes off of me. He continued to yell,”Tattoos!” trying to get my attention. I didn’t know what his intentions were, but I had an uneasiness in my spirit that I very seldom feel.
I sat down next to a nice looking woman. She pointed to the window opposite of my seat and the man in the camouflage print hat was climbing through the window trying to get to me. He was climbing over a passenger, who must have saw the horror in my face because he turned around very quickly and shoved Mr. Camouflage out the window.
He got up and ran around the van and tried again. This time he was in reach of me and I had nowhere to go. He started putting his hand towards me and I cried, “Please don’t touch me, Please don’t touch me! PLEASE DON’T!!!!” He was determined though and started to grab me again. He stroked my arm and finally (I don’t know why it took her so long) the nice woman I was next to, the woman he was leaning over to touch me, pushed him away and slammed the window shut. I thanked her, and sat in silence.
A voice started ringing in my head, “You know what he wanted don’t you?” My eyes filled with tears but I choked them back. “If you didn’t have those tattoos he wouldn’t have even noticed you.” I pushed the thoughts away and pulled out a book. I needed to distract myself from what had just happened and this lingering voice. I couldn’t shake it though. “He only sees you for what he could do with you,” the voice kept on, “Bet you wish you didn’t have those tattoos now, huh?”
For the first time, I hated my tattoos. I felt pain and emotions I don’t think I could describe if I tried, and at the exact same time I felt nothing at all. I had never felt so low and objectified. I felt disgusting. The voice continued on throughout the day. I cried, I prayed, but it didn’t seem to help.
I went to bed and woke up the next morning thinking about the bus station. My heart was hard. I grew angry at the thought of walking to ministry that day. Why would I want to walk down a street lined with men that would stop whatever they were doing and gawk as my team walked by? I didn’t know if I could hold my composure, but I went. Everything went okay. I looked straight ahead, not glancing to my left or my right a single time.
Then, on our walk home, I saw a group of three teen-aged boys walking towards us. My heart sank. They started walking straight towards us, so I looked at the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one reaching for me. All I could choke out, again, was, “please don’t touch me,” but he did. I couldn’t respond. All I could do was cry.
As soon as I got back to the cement house, I called one of my leaders, who has become a close friend. I told her what I was going through and she didn’t say a whole lot. But the words she did speak had power. She made me stop and listen for what God was saying.
In that moment He whispered, “I’m here. I love you” I sobbed. It was a relief to hear His voice. He continued, “I’m not leaving. I love you and I love your tattoos.” I couldn’t help but giggle. He gave me peace.
I hung up the phone and laid on the bed to talk to The Lord. He reminded me that the men that harassed me needed Him. He said, “Have grace. This is what they have been taught. They do not know any better. Love them as I have loved you.” My anger started to subside and joy flooded my heart.
I felt my normal self again.
I’m not sure why God allowed me to go through this. It was my lowest point on the race thus far, but I’m going to trust that He has a plan for it, and I’m excited to see what that plan is!
“Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.”
