On an ordinary afternoon in Mohandessin, a teenage girl was found stumbling through Lebanon Square; bloody, shaking, her clothes torn, and her body covered in bruises. She had been violently assaulted, and her trauma was painfully visible.

This wasn’t just another case of gender-based violence. This was a deeply uncomfortable example of how a girl can be failed not once, but over and over again.

What Happened

According to the girl’s own account she was attacked by four people she knew personally. They beat her, tore her clothes, and left her in the street.

Residents in the area saw her wandering in distress and called the police. But before they arrived, a team from Ma’an Le Enqaz Ensan, an NGO led by Mahmoud Wahid, reached her first.

At first glance, this seemed like a positive intervention. The foundation responded quickly and got her off the street. But the way they documented the moment raises serious ethical concerns.

Our office is based in the area she was found in. We saw the girl before any camera crews arrived. She was barely responsive, clearly in physical pain, and visibly traumatized.

But in the video released by the foundation, she’s shown being propped up on a chair, unable to sit still, with people around her urging her to talk. She was told to explain what happened while struggling to breathe and hold herself up.

At one point, Mahmoud Wahid is seen asking everyone around her to move back—to give her space—except for the person filming.

That camera stayed fixed on her. It zoomed in on her tearful, disoriented face, capturing every breakdown, every attempt to resist, every “no” that went unheard.

They claimed the video was necessary to help identify her. But that could’ve been done in countless other ways. At least not when she’s in visible pain.

Maybe take her to a hospital first? Maybe give her clothes that’s not ripped? Maybe give her a breather to even know where she is?

Instead, what we saw was a girl in agony being recorded and posted for the world to see, her image shared across social media without her consent, and her voice pushed out of her own story.

The Internet Made It Even Worse

Shortly after the video went viral, things took an even uglier turn. Posts began circulating online claiming the girl was pregnant, that she had AIDS, and that she had a criminal record. Others said she was from Alexandria and had been involved in similar incidents before.

None of this was true.

In a later livestream, Mahmoud Wahid himself denied all the rumors. He confirmed the girl was from Cairo, had not been in prison, and had no serious medical conditions. He added that the confusion likely stemmed from a different case dating back to 2017.

But by the time these corrections came out, the damage had already been done. Her face was everywhere. Her trauma had been twisted into clickbait. And her pain was buried under misinformation and gossip.

And Then—Silence

Once the girl was returned to her family, the foundation went quiet. There has been no clear update on her medical care, no information on whether she’s receiving therapy, and no confirmation that her attackers have been found or arrested.

Mahmoud Wahid did state that he would continue following up with the authorities to ensure justice is served. But let’s be honest: justice is not just a police report. It’s physical recovery, emotional support, legal protection, and real accountability. Right now, there’s no sign that any of that is happening.

This Was a Collective Failure

The people who attacked her failed her.

The police, who were late to the scene, failed her.

The NGO, despite their good intentions, failed her by turning her suffering into content.

And the public, who spread her image, repeated lies, and turned her pain into viral posts, failed her most of all.

She was not protected.

She was exposed.

This wasn’t just a girl in distress. This was a human being whose lowest moment became public property. Her body was injured. Her privacy was violated. And her dignity was stripped away—twice.

And now, she’s expected to move on quietly, while everyone else gets to pat themselves on the back or scroll away.

She deserved care, not a camera. She deserved safety, not a storyline. And she deserved to be seen as more than just a headline or a cause.

We need to have a real conversation in this country about how we treat survivors—not just during the crisis, but after the cameras stop rolling. Because if rescue looks like this, then maybe we need to rethink what help really means.