The pain of looking back

Three and a half years ago I led a miniskirt march to the Noord Street taxi rank in protest against the assault on Nwabisa Ngcukana. I had been moved by her experience at the hands of sexist taxi drivers, who had appointed themselves arbiters of what a woman can and cannot wear.

I was sad as I pictured Ngcukana helplessly fending off thugs who attack women as a pastime. When I met her, it was clear that the incident would leave permanent scars on her soul. And it has.

It cannot be true that these men are provoked by mini-skirts. They attack women because it is in their DNA. If violating women is against a man's principles, he will not simply change his value system because of a "miniskirt provocation". A decent man will not harm a woman, even if she walks naked in the streets.

Although I have not suffered in this manner, I could identify with her because when I look at my life and replay events of harassment and abuse, it was always at the hands of the taxi drivers. And it had nothing to do with what I was wearing. As a schoolgirl, clad in full school uniform and sometimes track pants after extramural activities, I had to contend with plenty of these hooligans who would grope me, touch my face and pull my hair while making lewd comments.

On my lucky day, when I was not the victim, there was always some poor woman or girl - especially girl - who was being harassed by a taxi driver. What saddened me was they did not regard it as abuse. They would even declare their "love" while treating their target like a piece of meat.

When reading Ngcukana's story, I recalled an incident just outside the former ANC headquarters, Shell House, where a taxi driver just planted a kiss on the lips of a woman waiting in the queue. She went wild, hitting him with her umbrella. A few of us, with no weapons, no fighting skills, joined in.

We did not pause to think about the consequences. Our reaction as women and girls was a torrent of long-held anger and trauma. Our collective wound was so deep and had been festering for many years. As expected, the taxi drivers stepped in to protect their own and, were it not for the security guards at Shell House, I am sure the drivers would have made us pay for daring to hit a man.

There was another incident where I witnessed a mother screaming at a taxi driver who had spanked her daughter's buttocks while whispering loud enough for all to hear "umuhle yezwa" (you are pretty). Her daughter was wearing jeans and a shirt - no miniskirt.

The mother shouted: "Don't you have any respect? Don't you have children? How would you feel if someone did that to your child in your presence?"

The reply was nonchalant: "Mama, it's not you I want. Aren't you happy you have such a pretty daughter?"

This evoked merriment from the taxi drivers and some onlookers. For the rest of us who have been in these situations, the silent crying continued.

As a teen , I wanted to work hard so I could buy a car and escape those monsters. I had had enough of the vulgarity, disrespect and bullying and since I could not fight back, I had to leave that space .

But recently, long after my escape from the taxi ranks, I went into a garage shop and a taxi driver grabbed my bum. When I asked him what he was doing, he answered: "Awazi umfazi uyabanjwa?" (Don't you know a woman is there to be touched?")

All of this is, of course, nothing compared to what Ngcukana and the two young women who were abused recently at Noord Street taxi rank experienced.

Though luckier than most, I am weakened by the misogyny on our streets. I am angry that these bullies get away with it.

And last week, when asked why I did not organise another march to support the latest victims, I had no answer, other than: it just hurts too much.