I get knocked down, but I get up again.

Remember Chumbawamba? Everyone needs a little throwback to the late '90s to start their day, right?

A would-be purse snatcher attacked me on Saturday night while I was walking to Cool Graoul, Dakar’s monthly dance party. I held on to my bag for dear life while the thief dragged me to the ground. My friend Austin fended off an accomplice, before ripping off the attacker’s shirt. We created such a scene that the two men soon ran off, defeated.

I guess we won that battle of wills, but there was certainly some collateral damage. Today Austin’s nursing a bump on his head, a chipped tooth, and an injured finger and toe. My knees and elbows are scraped up, too, but more significantly I feel a bit emotionally bruised. I can’t shake that sense of uneasiness that comes after being so directly confronted with the worst in humanity. But I feel lucky, too. I keep replaying the scene in my head, running down a list of alternate scenarios. What if Austin hadn’t acted so quickly? What if the attacker had used a weapon?

I also feel partially responsible for the attack. Dakar is a dangerous city, like any other. And we take big chances when we flash our conspicuously white skin on its dark streets at night. Every time I hear about a Peace Corps volunteer falling victim to a crime (which is disturbingly often—Saturday night alone, two other volunteers had their phones stolen and one other one had $60 taken), I am reminded of the risks I’m taking.

Yet take them I do, partially because I’m still young, and recklessness is what we tough young people do best, and partially because I’m not yet willing to let go of that innocent part of me that believes in people’s good intentions and expects that things will always turn out ok. But the longer I’m here, the harder it becomes to maintain this positive outlook on humanity--Senegalese humanity, in particular. The more my body and soul takes a beating in this country, the more difficult it becomes to disassociate this small, but visible, minority of bad apples from my concept of Senegal as a whole.