Refuges - Part 1 - Be Grateful for What You're Given

Refuges

 - Part 1 -

Be Grateful for What You're Given

I see a lot of comments online about refuges and how they've all been trans inclusive, on the basis of self identification, for decades, without incident.

Then, the arguments, often including claims made entirely speculatively. ''I'd have no problem with a transwoman if I had to go into a refuge. They are women, after all"

They talk on how they think they'd feel, speak in favour of trans inclusion in these spaces, dismissing or outright abusing any woman with deep, male-triggered trauma.

(see here for the deeply disingenuous Stonewall report). 

I'll be illustrating that in subsequent blogs.

 

"I'm trans" is sometimes a suit of armour and claim to the delicacy of a newborn hemophiliac, no matter the real status or blind aggression demonstrated. We, natal women, are expected to be gracious, kind, accommodating - immediately drawn to protect the archetypal unassuming, meek transwoman - Hayley Cropper, or Jazz Jennings, perhaps. We are expected to put gender solidarity at the heart of our recovery. 

Well, it may come as a surprise to some, but when we flee violence, living in unstable, conditional and inadequate housing, it is not the fucking time, ok?

It is not the time to watch our back, watch our words, or budge up. 

We spent so long squeezing ourselves into ever-smaller, apologetic corners. We have cramp, dead legs, and a need for space. 

I am so beyond exhausted, I here write, at length, on what happened to me when I was placed in a hostel with a trans identifying - convicted paedophile - male, and the catalogue of abuse which preceded it.

 

"As a survivor..."

Many, even most of us, have experienced sexual assault. 

Let's say you have, and you don't believe you'd be concerned with sharing with transwomen? Maybe you know transwomen you feel safe with, who would be great support in this awful situation?

I do. 

Maybe it would be instant friendship, and you find meaning in this. Sadly, that's not the reality. It's a trashy Lifetime TV fantasy. 

Sexual assault is a hugely varied crime with an infinite number of short and long term consequences, not necessarily in line with the perceived severity. As much as I try, I can't help but feel those breezily submitting their popular, trendy opinions are crudely trivialising the plight of genuinely vulnerable women. 

Their experience, set in their lives, is a singular one, as all of our experiences are.

Have you been there? Wondering, do you sleep on the street where there are many people, good and bad, or in a park, where there is hardly anyone, but you'd be totally isolated if someone attacked you? And rough sleepers are attacked - taunted, robbed, pissed on, beaten up, raped.

Or sleeping on sofas, aware you're in the way, trying to be useful, unobtrusive, just desperately wanting a little space to cry in, to sleep comfortably, with privacy. 

Or, the person you're crashing with is welcoming, but they sit up all night talking and you are obliged to reciprocate, even while crumbling at all the words and the noise intercepting your thoughts. 

Walking around all day, sitting in public toilets because no one can see you there, and the pressure exerted from all those eyes is crushing you.

When your head is in a mess and people say they'd help, but you can feel the tolerance plummet when you ask? When you turn up, as said you can, and they clearly want you to go, but don't say it. They just hope you'll pick up on the tension and leave. But you are so desperate, you just try to stick it out, ignoring all the cues and hints because it's raining outside. You can't be whining - everyone's heard enough. You need to bring something positive. 

It is like being spun round in circles. It's extraordinarily lonely.

'Lexi' Bowen, convicted rapist and outraged man

 

My memories of being abused as a very little girl are confused, scary, and rarely come into consciousness. Like ancient litter on the river bed, stirred up by turbulence, always just evading my efforts to hold and examine, slipping back and away. 

I have nightmares - it wasn't him, it was a big cat - a wolf, a monster. It chased me up an endless flight of stairs, I kept stumbling and the beast sprang, leapt, pounced. It was so fast. It pinned me down on my bed. I can see the old wallpaper and my sister's posters. Images of memories appear like strobe lights in a nightclub. I don't understand any of these fleeting pictures, they evade my direct view like mice scurrying into kick boards. But it freaks me out on a visceral level that I can never explain. 

I loved and idolised the man who hurt me. He was sometimes so amazing; so much fun, so in tune with me. No one else seemed to get me - just him. 

I was always afraid, and weighed down with an ineffable shame. It must have stopped by the time I was eight, I know that, but he never stopped the creepiness, the inappropriate comments, and grew increasingly paranoid and violent. 

I remember, at around that age, my ability to immerse myself in play abruptly vanished. If you've ever taken MDMA or crack, you might understand this - everything is lush, fascinating, and you have this energy, but out of nowhere it's gone, replaced by a grey, stark, resounding dullness. 

It sweeps in and it drags all of the good away. You can feel it. It slams down like shutters. It takes everything. This was exactly the same. The world was so bleak. I was so unhappy. I can't describe it.

In early adolescence I was assaulted by several men. 

A notable example, when I was twelve: a huge treat, to go to a gig in London. In the crowd at Brixton Academy, a grown man pushed up against me. He put his hands on my waist. I froze. I remained frozen as he nuzzled into my neck, pushed back slightly by scrunchng my shoulders up to my head when I thought he might leave a mark.

I was frozen as he shoved his hand into my pants. It's like I'd accepted this was part of a night out, of growing up. But, also, I was so dirty for it. When it was over I caught a fleeting glimpse of him. I was terrified he would see me, recognise me. And if he saw me, something would happen. Something terrible.

What if he's from my town? Ridiculously unlikely scenarios filled my head. I felt barricaded by shame and a sinking panic. My heart was pounding into my throat and everyone must know, because my mind was blaring. They could see it in my face. Hear it in my voice. I have never told a soul.

My family was blown apart like a snooker break. The thing I'd had before, my stifling refuge as an agoraphobic, school-phobic, mentally ill kid, was gone. A new man came in just as my dad finally left. He insulted us, hit us, and took mum away. The house was sold, we moved across the country, and he demanded I go. And I couldn't go home, there was nowhere to go back to. 

My siblings scattered across other cities, other countries. I was 15. 

I was terrified. I walked along the canal one day, under the trees, where I could watch the herons. A man passed me, then ran up behind me, grabbing my bum. I screamed, he said he wanted my phone number. I told a friend, no one ever suggested the police. 

A hairy, greasy man pulled up near me as I waited for someone. Seemingly deranged and laughing, taunting. He got his cock out. It was like they were all in on a private joke which was mocking of my experience, and I was so weak, they laughed at my feeble verbal abuse. I cursed my lack of violence. I just wanted to make them hurt and scared.

I lost my virginity and began sleeping with almost any man who bought me a drink. It was a strange kind of inoculation against my persistent, secret hope for love and someone to save me. To toughen myself up a bit. Still, somehow, within a few months I had a big group of friends. We took lots of drugs and had stayed up for days partying. I was having my youth for a while. I had a boyfriend. He was 24, and I thought I loved him.

By the time I was 16, I was lodging in the spare room of a single mother who's children were slightly older and younger than me. My boyfriend lived in a squatted party house; people just wandered in off the street, there was always something going on. One time, I'd stayed up a couple of days: amphetamine, getting drunk, sobering up and drinking again.

I was a mess. 

We were at my boyfriend's, and the shop sold several bottles of wine to a new friend when they opened at 6am. I think I'm allergic to red wine - I flush bright red, get a headache, need to sleep.

So a few glasses hit me hard. This new friend, Simon, was good looking. A couple of women, much better than me, really fancied him and I dismissed his general conspiratorial, flirty behaviour, because he wouldn't fancy me. 

Exhaustion hit, I said I was going to bed. I walked down the stairs, had a pee, got into my boyfriend's room, undressed and fell into bed. I didn't notice til I was beside him, that Simon was there.

I couldn't stay awake, I kept drifting in and out, but I said no countless times. He raped me. Someone opened the door at one point, apologised, and I couldn't even speak at this point. I knew she would tell everyone else. I couldn't verbalise, ask for help. I gave into a fiction. We were all promiscuous, hedonistic. It was ok if I pretended it was ok.

My boyfriend lost interest in me, and I couldn't talk to him. Simon's girlfriend found out and publicly confronted me. They were in their late twenties, grown ups - she was a social worker. Everyone assumed it was consensual and I never corrected them. He was good looking. It was a better option for me, somehow, to reframe it that way.

By the time I was 22, I'd been through a lot. After I left a violent relationship I presented at the council offices who eventually put me in a bed and breakfast. Cramped, poxy, tiny and damp rooms, no cooking or refrigeration, the toilet up the stairs and round the hall with men on stag dos staying every weekend. 

Then, finally, I got a flat. 

It was temporary accommodation; tense, rough. I didn't feel safe, but my psycho ex lived nearby, so no one was surprised I felt vulnerable. 

Within the first couple of days, walking carrier bag after carrier bag or belongings back to my new place, I saw a guy outside, who asked me to go for a drink. I Iaughed, but I didn't like it.

But people reassured me - of course I was feeling edgy. It's no big deal. 

It was a new-build shit hole, entrances facing a courtyard - parking for workers, ambulance and police - no resident ever had a vehicle. The window locks were so tight you couldn't get a whole hand out. And the courtyard wasn't lit, at all. I was scared. Then one night walking in, the man was next to me, but I couldn't see him.

He said something, and disappeared into the blackness. Now, that's fucked up, no? My friends told me to relax. I suppose they doubted me. 

But several things happened. I had weird, vivid dreams and afterwards I wasn't sure had he been peeking through the windows or getting in? Things had been moved - was I sleep walking? Maybe I should stop smoking weed. I still don't know the answer.

I tried to make it safe. The previous resident died of an overdose there, and her thick, dark hair clogged the bathroom plug holes. It made me feel sick. I burnt incense and developed a brief spirituality, wishing her well, nauseous at the thought of dying there. It just wasn't right.

After about three weeks there, I'd just got back from a night out. I was a punk, I went to gigs and walked home alone, drunk and feeling safe.

And within a couple of minutes of getting in, the buzzer went. The man was outside. I knew instantly from his voice. Apparently he 'just want to speak' to me. 

It sounds trite, but I had mental images of fox hounds closing in on their quarry. Of exhausted, lagging foxes, losing against a tide of jaws. I felt intensely vulnerable.

I told him, I said "just fuck off. I'll call the police if you bother me again" and went to bed. 

In the night I woke up, anxious. I only had old, scratchy blankets, it was very cold and something was wrong. I got up and put on layers of clothing before getting back to bed. It was the most fortuitous instinct of my life. 

Because later, I felt a rush of cold air and realised - the covers had been lifted off me. 

And, there was a hand on my pillow. There was just enough light to see it was not my ex boyfriend's. There was a man - that man. He was naked, in my bed. 

I think I instantly started screaming and he told me to shush. He said 'I just want a fuck', like it was reassuring.

Here began the profound confusion I couldn't shake for years, like it blew the last fuse in my brain. 

I was screaming, shouting, pleading would he get back, just let me have a moment, to let me understand.

I kept thinking this was all a mistake. Maybe I was in his flat? And I'd been drunk, I'd brought him home, hadn't I? Why was I doing this to him? He seemed so calm, if I just calmed down it'd make sense. 

He wouldn't back off. My brain was screaming 'this isn't real, it isn't real' and I couldn't think.

I was standing on my poxy futon bed at this point, and realised I could only just see over his shoulder. He seemed huge, he was young and fit.

He lunged, shouted, we fell onto the floor; I landed with a thump and felt winded.

He was too strong, turning my left arm black for weeks with just two punches.

I was bargaining in my head the whole time. Occasionally I thought I should let him, maybe. I should, because I cannot die here. I have to speak to someone again, tell someone.

But he wouldn't back off. I couldn't think. I looked around the room and couldn't see any way out. It was unbelievable. It couldn't be true. How many times have I been told I'm exaggerating, hysterical? How many times? It's hard to trust yourself. 

At the same time I wondered about just submitting, the idea of 'letting' him was the most egregious, unthinkable violation. I could never, ever allow it. There was no way out of this room. I couldn't get past him. This can't be real.

When I was at primary school, a little boy in my class developed this fixation with me. He would do the same as that man at Brixton Academy, and I just gave up fighting. Sometimes gangs of kids gathered round as he pinned me to the playing field. It was always the same routine, and I can't be crying in front of people. 

One day, I had to go back to the classroom during P.E. He followed, and the same thing as this happened: we were rolling around, fighting as he tried to rip my leotard off. It was terrifying.

I don't know what made him leave, but I kept quiet for some time. I eventually told a sibling he touched me. Sibling told my mum. I had to explain in detail what happened.

My elder sibling said "that's disgusting" and I thought that was me. That I was disgusting. No one ever asked me if I was ok. It wasn't mentioned again. An old school friend remembers but my family does not. 

And now these memories came crashing down on my head. It was the same. I had a vivid flashback.

 I fought for my life, I thought I would die there. It is incredible how many things can run through your head at once. I was switching from one thought to another. It just couldn't be real.

He beat me up, tore at my clothes and screamed he wanted a fuck, or 'just' a blowjob. We fought. He couldn't get my clothes off, it drove him crazy. In retrospect  I'm amazed how unprepared he was.

He had me on my back on the floor, and I remembered the lethal looking screwdriver I'd put under my bed. I thought, I'll stab him, I'll stab him hard as I can, in the ribs, and I'll run. I wanted to hurt him, I really fucking did, but I couldn't. Because, it dawned on me, I was shaking and in mind-warping shock. He knew exactly what he was doing, he was so close to me he could read my thoughts.

The immutability of sex - he was much stronger, faster, plus he wasn't shaky or confused. He'd get that screwdriver off me. I twisted my legs tight as I could and he almost howled with frustration he couldn't stop me. I prayed he wouldn't see the screwdriver. 

It lasted over 15 minutes, as worked out by my alarm clock going off and the time I called 999. I have never felt desperation like it.

I didn't die there, because I was lucky. Towards the end of this monumental struggle, from fighting to helplessly, hopelessly scanning the room for ways to escape, to trying to speak and humanise myself, ask for a glass of water, or could he go get some beers..? I managed to pull the curtains down, just as he threw me back onto the bed.

It was a miracle. Bright winter sun filled the room and saved me. 

To my huge relief someone was already outside, because of my screaming. While I screamed, by the way, neighbours on the other side of the paper thin walls went quiet. One later told me she didn't call the police because she hates them. I held onto a parcel of hers later, desperate to confront her. Her nonchalance was staggering, like she was wrapped in temazipan jelly.

The power flipped. He pulled his clothes on faster than I could imagine; two movements and he was dressed. He was scared of the light hitting his naked body, embarrassed. He was suddenly clothed, he grabbed a different screwdriver and ran.

I ran, up and down the room, looking for my phone which would only stay on for a few minutes at a time. I was holding it, running back and forth, unaware. I dialled 999, screaming. The police arrived - seven squad cars in that little courtyard. They had to take my clothes, and most of my remaining clothes were at a friend's for washing. I had to change into a tiny skirt and laddered tights. It was humiliating. 

They arrested him close by.

Afterwards, there was an almost euphoric drama around me. Everyone wanted a bit. He said I was a prostitute, I heard it first over the police radio. They screened me for drugs at the SARC. I knew what they thought. They gave me cigarettes and coffee before swabbing my mouth.

For obvious reasons, I couldn't return. He had tried forcing the windows and used a hand drill to get through the locks on the front door. He'd been stalking me for several weeks, the police told me, and he lived next door. After a couple of weeks crying in council offices I was placed in a massive hostel.

The abject terror I was left in was like loud, relentless tinnitus ringing through my body, overwhelming all else. I was stunned, stuck forever in the moment between flight, fight or freeze. I was viewing life with a strange zoning in, zoning out camera angle, like the directer of Peep Show was operating my brain. I couldn't keep up.

Words hung in my head, I repeated things in text messages, or to police and victim support in bizarre patterns that omitted the key word 'rape', just writing or saying 'and he hit me and he tried to... he did. He broke in and he tried to. He kept doing it, and I couldn't get away from him'. 

I woke myself up in the night screaming for help, then had to deal with the profound shame at having called the hostel security staff while still asleep, trying to work out what I'd done and who I was speaking to. 

I couldn't apologise enough, another mark of having been systematically undermined and abused. I didn't sleep properly for years, the smallest unexpected noise, a shadow passing the window, sent me into instant high alert. The pigeons! The pigeons that roosted on the window ledge sent me into an autopilot panic while the other half of me told myself to calm down. Again.

I felt like I was on a tightrope and might fall to my death at any moment. Don't look down, I told myself, as I tried to stop my legs from buckling underneath me.

My entire ability to think with clarity, to take time over how I responded, to hold a thought in my head was smashed to pieces, shattered across a vast expanse of land I had no way to cover. I would have to accept a large part of me was gone now, and any pieces I recovered resulted in lacerations and splinters.

My attacker was the latest in a long line of abusive men who repeated as a cycle. It had begun when I was a tiny child. I struggle to count, or even believe, the number of serious sexual offences, the 'minor' ones, the frightening encounters and massive overstepping of boundaries that followed. 

When you have been acclimated to predatory behaviour, gaslighting and violence, your micro-expressions, that nervous giggle when you actually feel rage, that irrepressible flinch you hate yourself for, your constant second guessing yourself and, in my case, the drunken oversharing - it acts as a giant beacon for any circling vultures. And let me tell you, there are a lot of them.

The fact I had been through something so shocking, so statistically unlikely, a freakish nightmare, had spun my limbic system into such a furious gyration I'm still, almost 20 years later, not the same. I'm still dizzy. I still, after years of psychotherapy and even hypnotherapy, wake my partner up in the night shouting, lashing out, sleepwalking (running) around the room to find my phone and call 999. Which I have done, only to wake up on the phone to emergency services, having to excuse wasting their time again, filled with a gut wrenching horror and shame I cannot articulate.

I had a police investigation to cooperate with and then a court case; not knowing if my attacker would get bail; thinking I saw him when I hadn't; not even having a working mobile phone and so having to call or visit the station to find out, knowing it could happen without being told immediately - all of this while not having my own front door to close where I could find quiet, be alone, uninterrupted, or have friends stay with me. I was at an age many people are at university, going home over the holidays with laundry, and I was completely alone. That time was so bone-shakingly vulnerable I can still feel it. It's a physical memory. 

I had to keep a brave face on. I took a lot of heroin.

All the normal parts of living in a hostel compounded my distress; the noise that never stops; the arguments, fights and tensions; the ready availability of drugs; the theft of my food; the rules and room inspections which made it clear this was not my home; add to that a purported transwoman who displayed no signs of being dysphoric, who wasn't trying to imitate any of the female socialisation imposed on us from birth and was still overtly sexual, making comments about other people's bodies, thoroughly enjoying and wielding the power he had to intimidate staff and breach boundaries, I was blindsided, yet more disoriented and, now, censoring myself.

We knew, early on, he was a sex offender. Among the many rows he got into, one was with a group of teenage boys who were frequently around outside and would shout 'paedo' at him. He told us he was on the sex offenders register. He had no shame about it, and appeared to suffer no social consequences - it was bizarre. His story that it was a 15 year old girl who had lied about her age went down fine with many of the blokes in there, even though he was in his fifties. There was a hierarchy; maybe half a dozen men in this huge hostel would routinely be at any meetings, they ran the cafe in the community space on the ground floor, they arbitrarily decided who was ok and who wasn't. The people who saw through this thin veil of an excuse were there, but disengaged, not that interested over making the occasional cutting remark.

I kept my head down, but had to interact with him at times as certain groups or meetings counted as credit towards moving on. I had to listen to him furiously detail the difficulties of his life, his persecutions and suffering. He saw I didn't want to be near him and drew closer - I'm sure he enjoyed my distress. 

I spoke to my keyworker and expressed my unease; that I didn't trust him, that he was intrusive, aggressive, prurient. My keyworker, probably only 25, stumbled over her words. She wanted to, I felt, agree, but she couldn't. She was uncomfortable, then returned to script, emphasising she and her when speaking about him. This man had both aggressive dominance as a threat and the veneer of victim class oppression as a shield. I've rarely seen such a blatant display of power and male supremacy. It was almost impressive.

A reply from a transwoman who was angry at my story and suggestion that refuges should be single sex. This person hadn't even changed his profile name or 'appeared as' female, as he was 'struggling with transition', but nonetheless demanded he be afforded a place in a women's refuge if he wanted it.

It took me a very long time to speak openly about this, even in my internal dialogue. I told friends that he was there, I may have confided in some how I didn't believe he was genuine but it's only recently I managed to correctly identify him. I came to the conclusion that late-in-life transitioners are often a bit weird, having met others and noticed similar traits. I surmised this was because of the pressure of holding in their identity all those years. It was the best I could do.

A few Facebook replies to my story

Now, I look back at it with outrage. I wonder what it's like now, all these years later.

Granted, it was a mixed sex hostel. There were very few women and it was all I could get. There was no rush to find me somewhere else, and if I left I'd have made myself intentionally homeless. I returned to old coping mechanisms and I still have the trackmarks.

Another reply I received on Facebook

When it comes to refuges, let's get some things clear -

Refuges were founded by second wave feminists, in an incredible effort of sisterhood. They were not 'given' by the state, they were built off of the backs of women's unpaid labour as they struggled against intense societal misogyny and a law which didn't recognise a man could rape 'his' wife. 

Initially, these were often in squatted buildings. It was true grass roots activism which the corporate backed, extremely well represented and loud trans rights movement could only dream of claiming. Janice Turner explains more here.

Refuge workers cannot divulge their place of work to anyone. Not their partners - no one. Only certain taxi firms and designated drivers are used, after debriefing and DBS checks. The same goes for maintenance workers. There will always be efforts to find female workers, and they will always be escorted and attended while working, with the women informed prior.

Any woman will be told, on entering the refuge, that disclosure of the location is a potentially lethal breach, and can result in eviction. Having anyone, especially men, meeting or dropping you off outside without prior approval is also against the rules and punishable by eviction. 

Teen boys are often not accommodated, as there are likely to be children who have been abused by older brothers while growing up in toxic family environments, and because we know that these behaviours of abuse are sometimes replicated, that boys are a potential risk to others and cannot be assessed for these risk factors adequately. Karen Ingala Smith, the directer of two London based women's refuges, explains the difficulties here in Trauma-Informed Services for Women Subjected to Men’s Violence Must be Single-Sex Services

How do we square the exclusion of some of these women's sons, while allowing transwomen in? Transwomen who may or may not have internalised the same toxic, patriarchal behaviours; who may or may not 'pass'; who likely still have a penis; who are under no obligation to take hormones? How do we tell the distraught woman who has given up her life, her home, her pets, to flee a violent partner, then had to place her son in care to live in a refuge, that this is fair?

The usual response I get is that no sex offender should be placed in a women's refuge. Something I'm sure we can agree on. But it is not so simple.

People can change their name for £15. There have been many cases of sex offenders using this second identity, along with the taboo over 'dead naming', to obscure their past.

Krysten Lukess was known as Mark Turton when convicted of sexual abuse against a female child. After transition, he love-bombed a single mother, infiltrating her home and spent four nights a week sleeping at her home - in the same room as her 11 yr old. 

Andrew McNab has 11 separate convictions for sex offences against children. After leaving prison he changed his identity to that of Chloe Thompson, set up social media accounts under the new name and was only caught after his behaviour concerned people around him (although later incidents where he masturbated in a residential street during daylight and, somehow, used a dustbin as a sex toy followed)

Brandon Walker also changed his name to Chloe, and has several other aliases. Walker has been convicted of 49 offences and is only 30. Most of these convictions have been for sex offences.

In fact, over 900 sex offenders have disappeared off the radar by changing their names. The police can't track them - how on earth are charities supposed to know? When convictions for sexual assault and domestic violence are so statistically rare, how many guilty but legally 'innocent' are walking amongst us? 

What do people think these vastly overstretched and underfunded charities are capable of? A screening process with risk assessment and possibly even references from life-long friends seems to be assumed. Expert workers who can sus a wrong 'un out are assumed to gatekeep. 

This is, frankly, laughable in the most bitter way. Seventy percent of those wishing to access refuges are turned away. It's the most desperate cases, cropping up at the same time as a place emerges, who are accepted.

In my next part Refuges - Part 2 - LibFem Responses, I'm going to recount a few common ripostes to the argument refuges must be single sex. Following that is Refuges - Part 3 - The Harassment & Hate and finally Refuges - Part 4 - Reassurances of Hostages which will deal with the Stonewall report, and how it's a massively disingenuous crock of shit. 

See you there.