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A rough cord around my neck, my hands manacled behind my back, I follow the man along the narrow alley like a tethered goat follows a shepherd. But that's were the similarities end. A goat doesn't feel shame. It doesn't follow its owner with its head hung low. Its heart doesn't weigh a ton, weighed down by misery, dread and fear. A goat isn't aware of its nakedness, either, it doesn't know about being exposed, looked at, stared at, even. Nobody stares at a goat led along a dirty cobblestoned alley by its owner. Nobody points a finger at it, laughs at it, lusts for it.

Me, I'm not a goat. Unlike a goat I do feel shame, misery and dread. I am aware of my nakedness, my helplessness. I am aware of my breasts' bouncing, the stiffening of my nipples in the chilly morning air, of my dirty, stinking body, including the sperm which is oozing from my sex and drying on my thighs. I do feel the painful bruises the shackles have already left on my wrists, still grating at my skin with every movement. I do know that the people along our path stare at me, the men with lust in their eyes, as if the moment I stop walking they'd grab me and push me in a dark corner to ravish me. The women with disdain, contempt and sometimes pure hatred, because they know what their husbands are thinking, what they long for.

Tears well up once again in my eyes when somebody hits me with a stick, a stinging pain shooting through my buttock, but it's not the pain that evokes the tears, it's the accompanying cry: "Take that, you filthy ...

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