Note: I did have a comment saying I wasn’t passive, and they were right. I didn’t think about that until I had published my story. But I’m going to say my reaction was passive since I wasn’t being openly aggressive. Well, you be the judge.

This was probably illegal, but I’ll tell it anyway. I was a university student and I had just returned from an archaeological dig in Jordan. This detail is important to the story, so bear with me. In Jordan, the archaeologists stayed in a small town which was near the dig site. The people there were not really friendly toward us. It wasn’t overt most of the time. They were especially upset by us women although we were careful to cover our hair, arms and legs in respect to their culture. However, we women put up with rude comments, glares and once I was struck by a boy who had been sent over by a group of men.

I have to say the Jordanians are a friendly and hospitable people, but I think the small village was just very conservative. So after six weeks of this, I had a bit of a short fuse dealing with sexual harassment; especially in the States.

So now to the story. I flew back to the States then took a bus to get home. This was the very early 80’s and I often took Greyhound buses to go across state, etc. So I was on an overnight bus ride. It was probably the middle of the night and we stopped to let some more people on. The bus wasn’t crowded, still a man in a suit sat next to me. That was ok. I was tired; I planned to sleep.

I covered up with a blanket and since I am petite, I was able to cross my legs on the seat and lean back comfortably. I was woken up sometime later by the lightest, briefest touch on my thigh under the blanket. I didn’t move but lay there wondering if I had imagined it. I mean, I had tucked the blanket in around me. I couldn’t understand how the man had managed to get under the layers without me noticing; I am a very light sleeper. Plus I had lived with the fear of scorpions in my bed and I had gotten into the habit of waking up in the middle of the night and lying still as a stone in case one was under the covers with me.

Instead of reacting, I lay there and waited. And in a minute or so, yes, I could feel his hand move by the merest fraction of an inch. It was hovering just over my leg. I was stunned. How had he done it? How had he kept his hand and arm so still? How had he worked his hand under the blanket which was over me without me knowing?

I turned to look at him and he appeared to be sleeping. And then I got mad.

I carried a knife with me; they come in handy on digs, well, to me they do. I slowly pulled it out of my bag I was using for a head rest against the window. I unsheathed it and held it under the blanket over my lap. Then slowly, very slowly I moved it, very slowly until the tip was against the man’s hand. It was a very sharp knife. The hand moved slowly back. Then I pushed harder and faster and his hand became tangled in the blankets. He didn’t have a chance. During this entire encounter I didn’t look at him and just appeared asleep.

He managed to get his hand out but I drew blood and he got up and left me.