Masons Lane

Fatima Ahmer

CW: Islamophobia and brief mentions of sexual violence

The clock struck 5. Finally done. I rushed out to Lambton Quay. Busses everywhere, the sun warm on my skin. My bed was all I needed. Instincts guided me towards it. I crossed Lambton Quay and headed towards Masons Lane. 

Ping.

A friend needed an urgent answer. I swept to the side, as to not block anyone’s path. My friend was active, so we went back and forth. I stood there for a decent two minutes, maybe even more. 

“You Muslim eh?”

My blood froze, my heart pounding in my ear. I’d seen the statistics of Muslim women getting harassed and beaten on the street, even in broad daylight. I didn’t want to be one of them. 

“Yes.” I gulped. 

The man stepped closer, “peace”, he threw up two fingers. “I’ll give you a hug.”

Islamically, Muslim women aren’t allowed to accept hugs from men. Normally a somewhat articulate person, all I mustered was, “um ... aaa ... I’m fine.”

“Na na, peace and all ya know.” The man threw his arms around me. 

I stiffened. As did passersby. 

When he realised I wasn’t reciprocating, the man stepped back. He looked around. All eyes were on him. 

“What are you looking at?” He asked a suited man perched on the bottom of the staircase. The suited man gulped. 

“Am I giving you any trouble miss?” He asked me.

Again, normally a somewhat articulate person, “n-n-no ... no.”

“See, she’s fine!” The man exclaimed. 

The suited man nodded. Sweat dripped from his forehead. 

The man turned to me, “you know Jesus Christ?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a bit of a mother fucker isn’t he?”

“N-n-no?” My voice shook. 

“He fucked you guys over didn’t he.” 

Jesus in Islam was Prophet Isa. I’m not sure if the man knew that the three major monotheist religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, all have the same prophetic figures. 

“No.” This time I was firm. 

The man narrowed his eyes. He turned around, “what are you looking at mother fucker?” He yelled to a man carrying a briefcase. 

“I’m just trying to make sure if she’s alright.” The man replied, sternly. 

“Am I giving you any trouble miss?”

“N-n-no.” My voice shook, again. 

“See, she’s fine.” The man exclaimed. 

“I don’t think she is mate.” The man carrying a briefcase puffed his chest. “I saw you down at Lambton today mate and you were doing the same thing. You need to stop.”

The man cursed at him, something I won’t repeat. He muttered to himself as he walked upstairs, one by one. Passersby let out the breaths they’d been holding.

A lady pinged my shoulder, her thumb raising with her eyebrow in question. I raised my thumb, unsure if I was okay, but I didn’t want her to worry. I was fine. I must be. 

I took a step. The man walked towards where I was headed. I stiffened. If I walked towards him, this could happen again. If I stayed here, this could happen again too.

A very kind stranger offered to walk with me. They walked me to my building, for which I am eternally grateful for. Especially because we ended up living in the same building, so I met a new neighbour. And especially, because the man did try to approach me again. 

When I finally came up to my apartment and laid down on my bed, I thought of two things. The first was how I was so grateful to live in a country where people have the decency to take time out of their busy days to make sure a stranger on the street is okay. None of them had to stop, but they did, for which I am eternally grateful. 

Secondly, why was I standing there in the first place? Masons Lane is not the nicest place to be answering a text. Dim lighting, narrow stairwells; it’s the perfect place for a crime. 

I cringed. I reflected. I realised what I had said. Why was I standing there in the first place? 

I asked myself: why couldn’t I stand there? Masons Lane is a public space. It was my shortest commute home. It was the connector between Lambton Quay and The Terrace. Why couldn’t I just stand there? What was wrong with it?

It pained me to think that my first reaction after an instance like this was to blame myself. If I wasn’t standing there I wouldn’t have been harassed. Women have been ingrained to think that they are responsible for anything bad that happens to them. 

They’re abusive? You make them mad. They cheated? You didn’t give them enough attention. Got raped? It’s because of what you were wearing. 

It pained me more, because this wasn’t the first time either. On a sunny afternoon in Courtenay Place, the same thing happened. A man asked why I chose to wear a symbol of barbarism and oppression. I was waiting for my bus. 

I know my story isn’t new. Many people reading will relate to it dearly. But there’s one thing I want you to remember: it’s never your fault. Our only crime is daring to exist in a world dominated with entitled men.