6:00 AM
The phone alarm rang out. Nadia woke in an almost mechanical way, going through each of her habitual morning steps before heading to work. She walked to the bathroom, washed her face, and performed her ablutions. In her room, she put on her prayer garment and performed two “rakats”, then got dressed. She didn’t spend much time deliberating in front of her clothes drawer: a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved black-and-white striped shirt would do the job. It was just another ordinary day at work, and there was no need for anything special. She rarely ate breakfast until she reached the office, so she simply took five dates and a bottle of water, slipped them into her handbag, and left.
7:00 AM
It was one of those rare occasions when she arrived before the train departed. Normally she came late and had to run to catch it. Everyone waiting by the tracks was doing as she was, waiting for the 7:15 train. Familiar faces, though she didn’t know their names, having grown accustomed to seeing them every day on the same train heading to Casa-Port station. Most were young workers commuting to the big city, fifty minutes away. They all had to take the same train, and so each day you found them at the same time, in the same place, with the same expressions, more or less: the expressions of routine, repetition, and the weariness of days.
7:25 AM
As usual, the train was ten minutes late. The moment it finally stopped, those waiting jostled in front of the doors to secure their seats, rushing toward them the way cats rush toward food placed on the ground. She didn’t bother competing with them. She stood watching the scene from behind the wave of the jostling crowd until most of them had boarded, and when she finally climbed on, she remained standing near the door of one of the carriages, having scanned the space and found not a single empty seat.
7:50 AM
The train stopped at “Berrechid station”, and more passengers boarded. Different ages, different faces, all sharing a single destination: the big city, engine of the country’s economy and cradle of its capital.
Every space was now taken; there was no room even to stand. The carriage was packed to capacity, and passengers were grumbling about the situation. Nadia stayed where she was, standing, her shoulder leaning against the door separating two carriages. She thought that there were only twenty minutes left before she reached her stop, so a little patience would do no harm. She raised her eyes toward the signs mounted near the ceiling of the carriage to pass the time by reading them. The one depicting a suitcase and children, with the caption “Don’t forget me when you get off,” made her smile. She wondered: what fool would forget their children on a train?
Beside her was a sign reading “No smoking on board,” and yet two young men were standing near the door, smoking their cigarettes with complete indifference to the red lettering. Another sign caught her eye, near the alarm handle: “Emergency alarm: this handle is only to be used in cases of danger. Any misuse will be penalised.” And again, a question came to her: what kind of danger would justify stopping a packed train?
7:55 AM
While she was drifting through her thoughts and questions, trying to pass the remaining time before reaching her workplace, she felt something touch her from behind. She stiffened. She tried to shift her position, but the dense crowd made it impossible. The harasser’s hand slid across her body, and she froze like a statue, not knowing what to do. She understood immediately that the person pressed against her was deliberately letting his hand grow bolder.
Should she turn around and slap him? Scream? Shift her stance?
There wasn’t enough space for even an ant to pass through, but she tried to edge slightly sideways, hoping he might feel ashamed and withdraw his hand. Instead, every time she moved, he pressed closer. She felt dizzy, her fingertips went cold, and all sensation drained from her knees. Breathing became difficult, and every breath she drew was heavy with a foul smell. She froze in place while the man behind her continued to invade her body with his hand, moving upward toward her chest. Like a malignant disease spreading through the body when it reaches its final stages, his hand invaded her entirely, and she remained there, surrendered, as prey surrenders to whatever devours it.
It seemed to her that the train was growing more and more crowded, even though it had not stopped again. The space grew narrower and narrower, and she felt as if she were trapped in a dark corner, with no one around her but a massive hand violating the sanctity of her body. Her teeth chattered, her tongue was powerless to defend her, as though she had swallowed it. She could not utter a single word. She was a statue that neither spoke nor gestured. No one in her life had ever prepared her for a moment like this.
8:00 AM
The minutes passed like hours. One of the passengers got up to go to the bathroom, and those standing tried to make room for him to pass. The harasser pulled back from her slightly. She raised her head to try to see his face, but caught only the outline of a figure that seemed to her large and tall, wearing a cap and a medical mask over his mouth. “Like a rabid dog,” she thought.
She raised her head further and spotted the emergency alarm sign. The idea of pulling the handle crossed her mind. Wasn’t she in danger right now? Who would protect her from this threat? Who would stop the harasser’s hand when her own courage had failed her and she had been unable to stop him herself? Should she tell one of the passengers and hope they might help her get justice? And what if no one believed her?
The question “what if?” always circled back to her. What if she had studied a different subject from the one she had chosen? What would her life have looked like? What if she had decided to start her own business instead of working for a private company? What if she had overslept that morning? Would she be on this train right now? What if she pulled the alarm handle? Would that make her a lawbreaker? And what law would protect her, a woman whose body was being violated? Should she press the button and see what happened? What if she were arrested for disturbing passengers and making them late for work? Did such a charge even exist? And what if it did?
Her imagination swept her away. She saw herself in a dimly lit room, its centre occupied by a desk with a lamp hanging from the ceiling. She was sitting on a chair beside the desk, facing a detective who was smoking greedily, while another stood behind her, firing questions one after another without waiting for an answer:
Why did you stop the train? Danger? You felt you were in danger? What exactly was going to happen to you? Were you going to die? A heart attack? Did someone pull a weapon on you? Did someone steal something from you? Did you see a terrorist? A djinn? Do you have any idea how serious what you did was? Did you stop to think about other people? The sick, those who would be late? What kind of selfishness is this?
8:10 AM
Like a snake gliding through desert sand, the train pulled into Aïn Sebaâ station. A good number of passengers got off, and the crowd thinned a little. Before he stepped out, the harasser turned to face her, stared into her eyes with a provocative look, winked at her, then left the carriage.
She remained rooted near the carriage door, the idea of pulling the alarm handle having seemed too late to save anything. She could not believe his brazenness. Salt water gathered in her eyes, and tears of helplessness and powerlessness began to fall. A lump like a stone lodged in her throat, so solid she could not even swallow. A feeling of utter helplessness washed over her, and she did not know what to do.
8:20 AM
Two more stops later, the train arrived at Casa-Port station. She dragged her feet heavily, her head bowed like someone who has just lost a wrestling match. Yet she had never chosen to step into the ring, and had not wanted to fight anyone or anything. All she had wanted was somewhere to stand until she reached her stop, so she could begin another day of her life: a day that was supposed to have looked like all the other ordinary, repeating days.
As she stepped off, a sign on the other side of the carriage door caught her eye. She read it, and jolted, a tightness seizing her chest, a feeling of suffocation:
“The alarm handle in this carriage is out of service.”