I have been waiting for someone to mug me for decades. Probably ever since I moved from the small town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas where I grew up to the relative urban sprawl of Sacramento at the ripe age of 17. I shared a loft space with one other girl in a house with five of us total. We both slept on mattresses on the floor. It was the only place I could even think about being able to afford. The house wasn’t in the worst part of town, but it certainly wasn’t in the best. I would come home at all hours of the night the only way I could afford, on foot or on bike. A friend was held up at gunpoint while biking at night in my neighborhood. Another had all of his clothes stolen at the laundry mat. Others were pickpocketed on the bus, or robbed on the train.
But it never happened to me. While rarely acutely aware, I felt this omnipresent possibility surround me at all times. It wasn’t danger exactly. It was more like a lack of control in the outside world that mirrored the lack of control I was facing in my own inner world. And the chaos that was consuming me at the time tended to drown out any warning bells that may have sounded from the experience of others.
Very, very slowly, I learned how to steady myself and to make safer choices in general. I still generally view the world as chaotic, unknowable, and unpredictable. I don’t, however, think that makes the world or certain parts or the world bad and something to be avoided.
Then I started traveling around the world, especially to Latin America. Roaming the streets of my own country and accepting the risks is one thing. Striking out in a foreign country where I may not always know the rules is another. So as always, I accepted the risks, the chaos, and the possibility. I figured that at some point, as a woman, as a foreigner, as a person in Latin America, it would probably happen sooner or later.
As a testament to my maturity as a person and a traveler, I always carry two credit cards and two debit cards that link to separate accounts, just in case one gets blocked, lost, or worse case, stolen. One set I keep with me and one set I keep with my passport at the hotel, along with a backup phone and SIM card. None of this careful planning would help me in Cuba, where US bank accounts and SIM cards do not work.
When I tell people I was mugged in Cuba, there are two responses. People that know, are surprised, as I was, since mugging is not that as common there as other places in Latin America. In part, this is because the government severely punishes crime committed against tourist in Cuba. The other response, which is the one that pisses me off is, Well, what were you doing in Cuba? Imagine this with the same tone of voice used to ask a woman, Well, what were you wearing? Because fuck you, that’s why.
Of all the conversations I had after along these lines the one that pissed me off the most was when some random asked me what kind of bag I had. When I told him it was a cross body, he said No, you must have been wearing it on one shoulder. No, I wasn’t. Why bother to ask me if you are just going to negate what I say and blame me implicitly for not following some sort of protective code or set of steps that you think distances your behavior from mine and therefor keeps you safe when I was not.
And I thought I was safe. My husband and I paid a premium to stay in a nice Airbnb. The neighborhood seemed not great. But this was Cuba. Everything looks kind of shabby, so it was hard to know. It’s not like there are better and worse neighborhoods. Everything looks rundown, and then there will be one nice hotel, or one nice building. Locals piled their trash in the street instead of a bin one block down from where we stayed, but that seemed to be true of all the neighborhoods.
Our host recommended a couple of nice restaurants. We went to one that was just a few blocks away. One thing that did catch my attention was just how much people stared unabashedly at my husband and I. I noted it because I thought that Cubans would be more used to seeing tourists. I have been deep enough in the jungle of Chiapas that two teenagers asked to take their picture with me because foreigners were such a novelty. But in all my travels, as far flung as Morocco and Japan, I had never felt the fishbowl effect as strongly as I did that afternoon in Cuba.
We had a nice dinner and declined a pedicab ride back to the Airbnb. We made a final visit to a corner store for some water and rum to last us through the rest of the night. I was slowly limping along. I was wearing a medical boot on my foot due to an injury in Guatemala a few month prior. We almost canceled the entire trip because I wasn’t fully healed.
We were maybe two blocks away when it happened. The guy came up behind me completely silently. He was a true professional. I don’t know how, but he managed to get the bag over my head without hitting my head or hurting my neck with the strap, which still amazes me and is something I am grateful for. He sprinted past me with my bag in a sudden burst of speed. Without realizing what was happening, I clutched onto the bag strap. He pulled for four or five steps, causing me to stagger forward. I resisted and without wanting to, my feet stomped down on the dirt street, hard. I was immediately worried about any further damage to my fractured foot bone. As soon as I realized what was happening, that he was mugging me, I released the strap.
Because I held onto the bag, my attacker spun around to face me. My husband started running forward, towards us. The mugger ran towards and then past us in the direction he was already facing. My husband fell changing directions in his dress shoes, jumped up, and kept running after him. The whole altercation lasted only a few seconds. It was strange because not one of us made a single sound during the entire interaction.
Then I was alone. I stood on the street, in my boot, with nothing . What happens now? I thought to myself, staring in the direction where they had both ran. After a few moments I started limping my way to the corner of the street in the direction of where they had both disappeared. I didn’t know what else to do.
Locals started to surround me, wanting to know what had happened. My husband came walking back, his arm dangling uselessly at his side from a dislocated shoulder when he had fallen. Some children gathered around us, bringing me the bottles of water from the bag that my husband had dropped. They must have picked them out carefully amongst the shards of glass from the shattered rum bottle.
It wasn’t even that late, maybe ten or ten thirty pm, but I wished that they were home, safe and asleep. But what do I know. Maybe they were safer there on the street where they are from, surrounded by people who had also spent their entire lives in the same neighborhood, than any child in America. I certainly hope so.
Someone gave us directions to the nearest clinic. Excited and with nothing better to do, the children adopted us as we made our way. Sometimes running ahead, sometimes chatting with me, mimicking the speech of adults they asked me questions like, What color was your phone? What did the guy look like? I replied with a smile. You tell me, you know him! What’s his name? And they laughed and then ran ahead. When we made it to the clinic my husband was aware enough to give them money for their guidance and protection. I was grateful because I wouldn’t have thought to do so.
The doctor was able to fix the shoulder, and this time we elected to make our way back to our Airbnb in the safety and comfort of a pedicab. We were both shook up. I inventoried the monetary damage. I blocked my iPhone, already a few generations old. The thief wouldn’t be able to sell it, although the location showed it at a used electronics store nearby the next day.
He had taken $40 USD and a lip stain. The most valuable item was my ray bans, pretty much the only name brand purchase I allow myself. Plus the cross body bag that I was quite fond of and I learned that night was high enough quality to sustain a violent mugging without breaking. My only hope is that my attacker gave it to his girlfriend or something and didn’t just trash it.
The physical damage was much worse, and the only part of the experience that I find truly regrettable. It would take my husband months to fully rehabilitate his shoulder. I suffered a sprain in my right thumb from holding onto the strap. Another injury that would take months and months to heal.
Lastly, there was the psychological damage. Being mugged is something that I had always assumed was coming my way sooner or later. But now, I couldn’t stop replaying the scene over and over, thinking about what I should have done differently. We should have taken a pedicab from the restaurant, for one. What if we hadn’t stopped to buy drinks on the way home? Maybe if I was holding my husband’s hand, the theif wouldn’t have risked it. Were we speaking Spanish, or English when it happened? Would it have made a difference? What if I didn’t have the boot, and we had made it home sooner. And why did I hold onto the bag? Why didn’t I just let go?
Both my husband and I both experienced this mild form of PTSD, replaying the scene over and over. We were both on edge the rest of our time in Cuba. Back in Miami, I felt anxious. I didn’t want to wait on the street by myself, even through I knew logically I was in a safe neighborhood. That was not a feeling I was used to. To add insult to literal injury, that night robbed me of my confidence in my own judgement. I could no longer hold as tightly onto the feeling of independence and fearlessness that is so important to my self image.
In the immediate aftermath of what happened, I wasn’t angry at the guy who mugged us. It’s risky work for him as well, after all. I truly believe that violent crime is a symptom of societal ills. If this wasn’t his best option, he wouldn’t be doing it. I recognize that the emotional distance I was so easily able to achieve is the result of a privileged position. And of course I am privileged. I grew up with limited resources, but not with the level of poverty experienced in other countries, or in other parts of my own country.
When I think back to those early days in Sacramento, because of how much my behavior and circumstances have changed, in some sense my memories feel like watching a different person. But even back then, when I often had less than $100 to my name and the smallest financial setback could be devastating, it’s hard for me to believe that I would be angry at the individual.
Now, I have cash to spend on whatever I want. The very next day after it happened, I bought a better phone than the one that the thief stole, because I can easily afford it. I bought an exact replica of the bag that the phone was in, because I liked that bag.
My job is salaried as opposed to hourly, and includes benefits like PTO and health insurance. This means I had the time and money to go to the doctor appointments and physical therapy that I needed for my thumb. The money doesn’t only allow me to recover, it also insulates me from harm. It removes me from situations that make it more likely for me to be a victim. I can afford to live in safer neighborhoods now. I have a car now, which means that I don’t need to ride the bus or ride a bike, where I am more likely to get stopped and mugged or pick pocketed or otherwise assaulted.
Just a few weeks later, I was having breakfast at a hotel in São Paulo with my coworkers. A man came in, planted a fake backpack, and stole my coworker’s bag. Another true professional. The only thing of value in the bag was a company laptop. The victim, my coworker, has been working the Latin American region for decades. He seemed shocked it had happened but also took the incident in stride, easily laughing it off. He regaled others as they arrived to breakfast with the story of how it had happened. This wasn’t the first time someone stole his backpack, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. For him and for all of us, it was just another day on the job, traveling in Latin America.
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