Still Not Asking For It: An Experience of Racialised Street Harassment

In this piece, our guest contributor, Malaika, shares their experience of street harassment and violence on a winter evening during the COVID-19 pandemic. Malaika opens up about the fear and shame of being racially and violently harassed in public spaces. Malaika is a mixed-race musician, producer and podcaster living on Gadigal Land.

Trigger warning: Descriptions of violence and street harassment.

It's the middle of the pandemic, and also the middle of winter.

I think of my partner who doesn't have a heater on this particularly cold night. The thought of her little toes curled over multiple pairs of socks wearing a jacket and scarf as she works away at her desk. An adorably unbearable thought.

I hop up from the couch, it’s decided, I'm going to drop my spare space heater at her place tonight. It’s only 5pm. I pack my backpack and hop on my electric scooter out into the wind that whistles with harsh vigour.

Image description: A photograph of a person riding an electric scooter, with only their hips and below visible. They are wearing denim jeans and white sneakers. The background is blurry.

“A sign?” I think. “Maybe it's too cold to go.” I push those thoughts away, it's only 20 minutes, what's the worst that could happen? We’re in the same LGA, I’ll be back home in no time! Bobo and Flex cackle in my ears as I zoom down the Parramatta Road sidewalk. Ahead in the distance I see a person wearing a rainbow mask. I smile underneath my own mask, “an ally” I clock. I make a quick mental note to slow down as I pass him, so he’ll be able to hear me when I say hello.

I find myself on the ground instead. 

Fight, flight, freeze. I remain frozen. He's already started walking away, leaving me on the icy pavement.

Fight, I get up quickly, picking up my scooter and I go... I turn a corner and another then another. I don’t know where I am, maybe that means he won't find me. I pull off the path to a small patch of grass. I pull out my phone, my shaking thumb hovers over the name of my love. I want to call her so badly, tell her what happened. But I'm a burden, I don't want her to worry, I wasn’t even supposed to be going to her house, just dropping off a surprise. I did this. Only 5 minutes from her home and I pull away, afraid of being too much, she didn’t ask for this.

Image description: A photograph of a sidewalk, with a puddle of water beside it. There are people in the background walking, blurry and out of focus.

Flight. My head is 12 feet above my body, I look down at myself, I can’t feel anything. I concentrate on the only thing I can, safety. Use your eyes, don’t run into anything, I can’t feel anything. I float down side paths and back alleys, somehow instinctively knowing how to get home. Suddenly I'm at my front door attempting to get inside, trembling hands make for cacophonous keys. The jingle jangle of metal and rings clanging as I’m becoming increasingly aware I’m being followed, that this is my horror movie moment. I finally twist the lock open and swing the door basically off its hinges. The wind whistles behind me as I close the door on it all. 

Deep breath in, it smells like melted butter and garlic. I swivel around, I can feel my body again. I feel the keys in my palm and squeeze, I can feel my hands, they’re cold. My twin sister looks up and sees my face as she rushes into my arms. “What happened?” She asks with concern and empathy in her eyes. I walk to the kitchen and grab a bottle of grapefruit soju out of the fridge. I take a large swig, wipe my mouth, and begin to pace. I recant...

I was attacked on Parramatta Road tonight. There was a man. He stopped me, he hit me, he threw me off my scooter. But, it’s funny, I ask myself, what was it about me that was so threatening? Was it my mannish stature balanced on my tiny scooter? Was it my hair? My skin? The fact that I was wearing a mask? Something that’s a blessing and curse as I usually make an effort to smile at passers-by, make myself an “acceptable black”. 

Again, I wonder if I should blame my hoodie. Ma always said “don’t go out wearing something so tattered”, knowing of course the racial connotations, how boys like me get hurt when wearing this uniform. 

I find I blame him last. I shouldn’t have been out this late, during a pandemic. 

I find I blame him last, it was my mistake thinking he was trustworthy from a distance noticing his rainbow mask.

I find I blame him last assuming he an ally, slowing down forgetting my smile was behind tartan protection. 

But he stopped me, he threw me off my scooter, he hit me, and yet I blame him last? Why? 

I slump down on the couch next to my sister, exhausted, she gazes at me kindly and says “pole sana”. In our mother-tongue, Swahili, this loosely translates to, “I’m sorry for your pain.” 

That was all I needed, that was enough. Just an acknowledgement of how fucked up it is, how my hypervigilance couldn't keep me safe from this world that is determined to see me as a threat. Had my sister not been downstairs, I might have just gone to my room and continued to blame myself, but she reminds me - I didn’t ask for this. I smile at my twin, grateful for her tenderness.

I may not always feel safe, but with her, in our home - I do.

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Malaika (they/them) is a mixed-race musician, producer and podcaster living on Gadigal Land. They host the Womb for Improvement podcast with their twin, Ria, where they discuss many topics such as grief, dating, race, disabilities and more with special guests. Malaika is part of the music duo, Boy and Bucket, and is a producer of Queers of Joy, a Trans and Gender Non-Conforming centred performance night in Warrang/Sydney. You can find Malaika's Instagram page here and learn more about the Womb for Improvement podcast here.