🥋 Self Defense

This morning, my mind wandered into the idea of self defense.

Walking downtown, I often feel a manageable level of unease—just enough to keep my senses alert. I thought about how my Stanley bottle could be a tool. If I were attacked, I could pour every ounce of power into my arm and swing. It’s not just hydration—it’s a weighted weapon, if needed.

One time I was drinking a can of sparkling water when a woman, less dressed and possibly unhoused, approached me and said, “Can I drink that? I’m very thirsty.” I gave it to her. There wasn’t really an option. She took a sip and tossed the can to the side.

Other times, strangers approach and say things I can’t quite understand.

Back in college, when I was studying in Ankara, I experienced something that still sits sharp in my memory. I was walking in Emek, near the covered bazaar, behind a parked truck. Suddenly, a man appeared with a bright object raised above my shoulder—it looked like a knife. I let out a scream so loud I can’t imagine I could ever produce anything louder. It was pure, visceral.

I ran. I darted into the street. A small car slowed. The man inside asked kindly if I needed help. I was stuttering, trying to explain what had just happened. He offered to drive me where I was going, and though that could’ve been another danger, luckily he was sincere. He treated me as a “sister”—a cultural framing of protection and trust—and dropped me off safely.

In that moment, I thought—maybe wearing hijab also served as a form of self defense. It signals identity in a way that might shift someone’s perception of how to treat you.

Later, I called my sister. Her husband, a police officer, asked, “Do you have any enemies?”I remember thinking, What are you talking about? I’m just a college student.

Years later, when my daughter broke her arm at four, she screamed the hell out of her lungs. We didn’t even understand what had happened at first—they were playing horsy, and my husband was tossing her onto the couch. She landed wrong, her arm twisted and broke in two places. That same arm broke again a year later, falling from the monkey bars. That time she needed metal rods to fix it.

What I learned through these moments—mine and hers—is that screaming is a form of self defense. It’s how we express danger. It’s how we tell the world: something is wrong. Speaking up, out loud, can be a lifeline.

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But I also wonder: could strategic silence be a form of self defense too?

You know those moments in meetings where someone says, “We need volunteers to hand-write 150 thank-you notes…” and silence sweeps the room like a soft fog?Not raising your hand—because you value your time, your energy, your priorities—that’s self defense too.

I’ve heard professors say, “What’s in it for me?” They won’t commit unless there’s a benefit.That’s not selfish. That’s a kind of boundary. A self-preserving shield.

Self defense takes different shapes. It can be martial arts. It can be a scream. It can be saying “no,” or saying nothing at all.

Which form feels closest to you? Have you had to defend yourself—loudly or quietly?