“I sure hope to live to read this letter someday.”

I wrote this upon arrival in Durban, South Africa last spring, in a letter to myself that my program director would then give back to us to read at the end of the trip.

I grew up in Newton, Massachusetts, a suburb historically ranked as the safest city in America. That did not stop me—or my neurotic parents—from worrying about crime while I was growing up.  I was raised to take every precaution, to worry about sensational crimes my mother heard about on the news, and to generally live in fear.

Living in irrational fear in suburbia is nothing like living in very rational fear in South Africa.  When we first arrived in Durban, our program directors gave us a list of ‘basic’ safety precautions. Keep your money in your bra or your socks.  Don’t carry more than 80 Rand (about $8).  Keep your phone in your pocket or bra at all times, never take it out in public. Don’t walk around with an iPod or a laptop on your person.  Don’t wear a necklace in public—someone might rip it off your neck.

I lived with a homestay family in a township for most of my trip.  When I first arrived at my new home, I was told to unpack my belongings and store my suitcase above my wardrobe so that it was not visible from the window.  The windows had bars on the outside, but evidently that was not enough.

My family did their best to make me feel safe, but I slept with the light on every night, constantly texting my friend who lived across the street to ask if she had heard what I always thought was a gunshot.  Sometimes when I heard these perceived gunshots while eating dinner with my host family, I would ask about them.  My host father would casually remark that these were in fact gunshots and then point to the shacks down the hill as their source.

One afternoon, I was in my program’s van, driving through the center of Durban on our way home from our school.  There was a traffic jam, no one was stopping at red lights, and all cars in sight were stuck.  Amidst all the chaos, we suddenly heard a particularly frantic honking of a car horn next to us.  I looked over and saw that a man was standing beside it.  I saw him reach through the driver’s open window, grab the driver’s wallet from her hands, and walk away. Her jaw dropped in fear and anger as she screamed, “That man robbed me!” Her whole body visibly shook. Both driver and passenger screamed for help while honking the horn for attention. I watched silently as a street full of pedestrians continued to mill about, passing the pleading car without any recognition.

This image would come back to me later.  During the last month of our trip, our program required us to write a research paper as a culmination of our studies.  My work focused on a Durban newspaper located a quarter-mile walk from the flat I lived in for the last month.  In my project proposal, I had to allot money for transportation.  I debated whether I should walk there or take a taxi.  When I asked our director what he suggested, he told me it was safe enough to walk.  When I asked one of the program’s most trusted taxi drivers, he also said it was safe, though he casually suggested that I buy a cheap wallet to carry in case I got mugged, so I would have something to give to the potential mugger.  Weighing my options, I decided to walk.

As I set out for the newspaper on my first morning of research, the first 10 minutes of the walk were pleasant.  I strolled down a busy street crowded with restaurants and stores—the safest neighborhood I went to in all of Durban.

The last five minutes of the walk, however, entailed an isolated stretch along a road with no sign of life—deserted buildings on one side and a fenced-in dog-racing track on the other.  Walking down this stretch, I noticed a white pick-up truck slowing down next to me; soon it wasn’t just slowing down, it was following me.  I walked faster. He drove slower. I reassured myself that nothing could happen with so many cars whizzing by.

Then I recalled the image of the woman shaking in her car as her wallet was grabbed from her hands.  No one had stopped or cared then, and no one would now.  Durban’s notorious reputation as a city of violent crime and rape flashed through my mind.  I panicked and ran.  I arrived at the newspaper safe, though frazzled and embarrassingly sweaty given the 90-degree weather.

When I finished my research for the day, I immediately called a taxi for a ride home. As we sailed through that isolated stretch, I heaved a sigh of relief that I was safe in a taxi instead of vulnerable on the street. I realized that the moment with the pick-up truck was the first time in my life I had been in a situation with imminent danger. The irrational fears that had characterized my upbringing had been just that—entirely irrational. At home in my sheltered community, I had always been made fun of for being unnecessarily afraid of just about everything.  Coming to Durban, I had wanted to prove to myself that I could triumph over my fears. But as I got out of the taxi in front of my flat that day, I no longer cared how others might judge me.

From then on, I took a taxi everyday.  I knew the taxi drivers probably thought I was a paranoid American to call them for a quarter-mile drive.  I did not care. I knew everyone on my trip thought I was a “neurotic Jewish girl” to pay for a taxi for such a short trip. I also did not care. My own peace of mind mattered more to me than what others thought of me. I had finally learned to trust my own discretion.

As we boarded the plane to fly home in May, our director handed us our letters from the first week of the trip.  Reading my morbid prediction of my own death, I could only laugh. I had become so accustomed to constantly worrying about my safety on a daily basis that I had forgotten how much I had taken personal safety for granted my whole life.

On the flight home, I felt guilty that after only four months in South Africa I had the privilege to return to my safe community, while those who had taken care of me during my stay had to continue to live in fear.  I realized that issues of safety are relative and vary globally.

But upon returning to the United States, I found that attempting to rank different safety concerns hierarchically is not productive. In the end, trusting your own instincts is.