It was in the harsh heat of Al Ain summer that I found myself standing in an open sand field, surrounded by old brown men rapturously watching me as one man clutched onto his genitals and thrust them towards me.

He smirked audaciously to the camera, astutely aware of my powerlessness in front of him, and all that he symbolized as a man in power. Stumped, I lowered my camera, dropped my gaze and turned away in shame. I walked briskly until the echoes of the men’s laughter became muffled sounds in the distance, and only stopped when I could hear nothing but the desert sand whistling. As I paused to catch my breath, a heavy feeling of resentment enveloped me. I felt enraged that I had spent hours conversing with and photographing this community of men. I felt pathetic for attempting to tell dignifying stories of their lives while they relished in a moment of my indignation. I resented my own helplessness, my inability to stand up for myself as a strong, independent female photographer.

Three years since that incident and this feeling of resentment continues to live with me. Not because it was unforgettable, but because I am reminded of it almost every time I wander the streets of Abu Dhabi and attempt to capture fragments of it through my lens. From taxi drivers who sneak glances at me from their rearview mirror to men sitting in glitzy SUVs nudging me to get into their car, the male gaze is pervasive. It conforms to no status or privilege, superseding even the class structures that appear unshakable in the context of this country. More importantly, this gaze is intrusive, penetrating the lens of my camera and leaving me, the photographer, feeling exposed, watched and objectified.

My photojournalism is based on human interaction, conversation and mutual dignity. Many times, incredible human connections are made in this process, and I am often moved by the openness with which migrant communities allow me to enter their spaces and learn about their stories. And yet, an inescapable fear looms over me. I am astutely aware of where my male subjects’ eyes go when I kneel down to take a photograph. I am conscious of their overenthusiasm when I sit close to them as they share a personal story. I am prudent when responding to their candid inquiries about my age, my marital status or my WhatsApp number.

What didn’t make it to my photo essay on the fishermen of Mina Zayed was the discomfort I felt every time I entered the boats my subjects resided in. Over two weeks, I spent afternoons conversing and sharing meals with this community of fishermen, and still felt exposed. While I desperately wished to forge stronger relationships, ask deeper questions and more rigorously document their fleeting lives in the UAE, I was immobilized by my positionality as a woman. Retrospectively, I questioned if a male photographer would have captured a more intimate picture of the lives of these fishermen, only to realize how undermining and degrading this proposition was to myself and other female photographers.

How, then, does one survive as a female photographer in a city that is predominantly male? How do we engage with communities and exist in public spaces that are solely inhabited by men? I don’t have an answer to this. What I do know, however, is that our very presence in these public spaces is an act of subversion. By entering souks and streets that we are not expected to occupy, we challenge the status quo, opening doors for other women to also do so. This process is emotionally and physically laborious; it leaves me feeling naked sometimes. We shouldn’t have to be abased and sexualized to tell stories of this city — and yet, the only way to defy the male gaze is continuing to do what we love.

This city has phenomenal stories of resilience, migration, friendship, labor and love. They can be found in the everyday lives of small-time vendors, shop owners, taxi drivers and tailors among others. These stories are imperative; they must be documented, orated and captured by every means possible. And being a woman is the last thing that would stop me from doing it.

The camel traders who had rapturously laughed at me as I was harrassed by one of their men had spent the afternoon sharing bits of their lives with me. Some of them had migrated to the UAE even before the country was founded. Others taught me about what the different kinds of turbans they wore and what each symbolized. What I had documented about the Camel Traders of Al Ain was incomplete until now. Their stories were important, but so is mine. By writing this piece, I choose to reclaim my dignity and subvert the male gaze.