Refuges - Part 2 - LibFem Responses

 Refuges

~ Part 2 ~

LibFem Responses

(Part 1 is here, and another example of the kinder, gentler politics of The Right Side of HistoryTM here)

I recently saw a woman online state that she believes refuges should look for empathy and kindness in their residents, as these are the important factors and are all 'non-binary' qualities. She also said in her view, refuges should be blocks of self contained apartments, that 'as a survivor of sexual abuse' she felt she had some personal experience to impart, and the idea of 'women's refuges' made her cringe.

It's jaw-dropping naivety, and extremely telling in regards to the ideological world these people live in they think some form of deep psychoanalysis, background check and personality evaluation is possible. Or that the furnishing of self-contained flats are within reach of a chronically underfunded sector.

These are last ditch rescue resources for extremely vulnerable women, not dating sites which find matches based on compatibility. 

I don't want to dismiss anyone, but it isn't the same to survive sexual abuse and to experience it when completely disenfranchised from society, to have to take what shelter you are given. 

I fully understand the urge to be kind, the hopeful belief that survivors share some unalienable solidarity, despite sex. I wonder how much is a trauma response developed to avoid conflict, and how much is just a misplaced, misinformed, self aggrandising stand of relative privilege.

I replied to her. I explained essentially what I wrote in Part 1. I gave a long reply which, I believe, was compassionate and which certainly made me vulnerable by laying bare my history of abuse.

What I received, you'll see above (my name is obscured in blue, the original commenter's in red and the third woman in green) was another woman putting a laugh emoji on my long comment before the predictable strawmanning. She had already launched into me on another comment, and I blocked her. The hurt and rage was pretty substantial, I was upset for several days. After this, the original commenter advised me to start my own thread, presumably not to challenge hers. I asked what was her response to the woman who had laughed at me. She blocked me. Another woman (I suspect they may not have all been women) commented, ridiculing me, and she blocked me too, before I could read all of her derision.

My (as ever, book-length) reply

So, to sum up - I blocked one for laughing at the worst experience of my life; one blocked me for responding and asking a question; another blocked me to join in on the dismissal and piss taking. So much for solidarity among survivors.

Most refuge referrals come in at the time of absolute crisis - there is no time to sit and run through any personality quirks, potential clashes or traits in common: this is true desperation - a woman terrorised out of her home, beaten and gaslit over what is normally a protracted period. The police are involved and she is terrified what effect this has had on her children, is wondering what might have gone on behind her back, will social services take her children, might they be better off that way... 

She is likely feeling intense guilt for uprooting her family and for having stayed as long as she did. She's likely ashamed, having to confront an ever growing list of long denied incidents she tried to 'rationalise'. She may be afraid to tell anyone outside of the refuge what's really been going on.

This is the most crucial time in her and her children's lives. The success of this, the chances she and her kids stand in recovering any semblance of normality, all hinge on her belief she can be empowered and is somewhere safe.

Normally, there are various activities and peer support meetings where the women have a chance to drop the facade they've constructed. Who wants to be weeping in front of their children at a time like this? You will be doing everything within your power to console and reassure. Group therapy plays an integral role in building sisterhood, which will have inevitably been stripped away from these women as they are increasingly isolated from family and friends. Recognising the common threads of abusive male behaviour are key. Finding support in non-sexual relationships are vital.

A friend of mine wrote a thread on this very subject, and I think it sums this up very articulately.

"You're a mother, in a violent relationship. You tried to make it work, were beaten the average of 35 times before reporting it. You bite the bullet, you stand up for yourself & kids after apologising for your existence & 'failures' every day. You tell the truth to friends & family

For the first time

You can't pay the rent/mortgage alone. You have nowhere to go. To protect yourself & kids you find some strength, & in the short-term you make all your lives more vulnerable, more insecure & poor. Because you know this is breaking you into pieces. The kids are having nightmares. Bedwetting. 

You freeze at the police station when the officer leans over to open a door for you. You feel guilty for upsetting your family, even your ex. Making your kids homeless is gnawing away at you.

You find a refuge. It's pokey, cramped, no room for toys, furniture, all the things you've built up over the years are now impossible

You rehome the dog, against every instinct, with huge guilt.

All this breaks your heart but you need safety.

There's no other option.

In the refuge you have a key worker, regular peer support groups. You meet other women from different backgrounds, but you have an amazing amount in common. You talk & realise so much. How keeping up a pretence of being ok is crushing your insides, how carefully managing how you speak is suffocating your thought. How apologising for your feelings is toxic & just how distorted your perception of yourself & your world became thru relentless gaslighting

You have to be vulnerable to heal

Laura moves in. She is personable, kind, sympathetic. You're aware she is trans, or maybe you're not sure. But she never mentions it, & you can't ask. You talk to your key worker, who tells you everyone here identifies as female. Your kids are blunt about what they see - you hush them, worried about offending her, aware of the rules on conduct 

Another resident is angry. This makes no sense to her. Her 14 yr old has to live elsewhere because of his age & sex & the visceral response this has on the 8yr old along the hall who was abused by an older brother. 

She's livid at the fact her broken family is separated further when this can happen Conversation is awkward. Too many questions hang in the air.

Laura feels ostracized, judged. Unsure of how to broach the subject she glosses over her early life, omits her dysphoria, her history of being persecuted. She nervously uses the bathroom before others wake.

When she pushed open an unlocked door in the toilet & accidentally disturbed a woman, the woman screamed for help. She saw a man, that is her instinct.

But your key worker deflects all comments with 'we're all women here', more abruptly each time.

The other resident, who's son is in care is confrontational, asking why is Laura here when her son isn't? She's told Laura is a woman & continued breaches of conduct will result in eviction.

No one talks freely & with vulnerability in group. Laura is scared & you feel gaslit all over again. Those boundaries you proudly Erected are shaky now, you feel sorry for everyone, sorry for not seeing what you're told to see, & insulted by the evasion & shut down of your key worker

This could be worse, of course. Laura could be much less sympathetic or genuine

Your fear of male bodies could be worse"

Here was a typical reply from a trans advocate:

Another said, simply, "your views are not worthy of respect in a democratic society" - what was said to Maya Forstater in her original employment tribunal. 

Regarding where I'd expect the fictional Laura to go, I fully acknowledge this is difficult. The only way around it, as I see it, is to use some of the massive funding the trans rights lobby has on founding trans specific refuges.

Transmen may be unwilling to enter a women's refuge, but if they do I genuinely don't see this would cause a problem unless other residents weren't aware they were trans. There would be no way round it anyway, as everyone would know men are not permitted. This is a moot point; women do not commit anywhere near the number of violent or sex crimes men do. It is in no way comparable.

Transwomen like Laura are, as the thread explains, going to be in an extremely difficult position in a woman's refuge: either they 'pass' and can conceal their status, which brings all manner of other problems, and presumably stands as an obstacle to healing, which requires long, deep reflection on your childhood, your first intimate relationships, your personal history and the socialisation we receive as girl children to be submissive, accommodating and unconfrontational.

Or, they don't pass. They stick out and are clocked. Women and their children, in the most stressful, precarious and insecure times of their lives, being told to appear oblivious to the sex of a fellow resident runs contrary to every tenet of the ethos in operation here. They must be able to speak about what is happening, who is around them. Living under a pretext, agreeing you see what you don't, lying to yourself is what these people have been forced to do for survival. 

In the case they are like Laura, and I know several transwomen who fit that description, the problems are still ever present. How does Laura - displaced, traumatised and struggling - cope when she inadvertently triggers women is anyone's guess. How she manages to shave and retain her dignity when having to us a communal bathroom is another. It's no exaggeration to say that a male voice, a particular mannerism, can terrify women who've suffered extended abuse at the hands of men. Some might scream, some may even wet themselves. The core thing is these are women who haven't been safe in their own homes. Providing a safe space, and safe as in free from potential triggers, is essential.

This notion all transwomen will be meek, sisterly and kind is not borne out by reality. There have been multiple cases of sex offenders identifying as trans, as you will see on our blogs The Rich Fantasy Self ID Endangers Women. 

I will look at this in the next part, Bad Faith, Violence & Demands.

I'll also do a gallery with other replies I've seen.

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. 

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. 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. Probably, that's the trashy Lifetime TV show fantasy I strongly suspect is behind this. 

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 they're welcoming, but sit up all night talking and you are obliged to play along, even while crumbling at all the words and the noise.

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 crash to the ground within moments? When you turn up, as they invited you to, 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 has heard enough. You need to bring something positive. 

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

My memories of being abused as a very little girl are confused, scary, and only come into consciousness occasionally, 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 it 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't 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 suddenly stopped one day. If you've ever taken MDMA or crack, you might understand this - everything is lush, fascinating, and you have this energy, but abruptly a grey, stark, nihilistic, echoing dullness. It's your favourite music replaced by white noise. 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 blind panic. My heart was pounding into my throat and everyone must know what I'm thinking, 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 hated, 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, and 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 attempts at verbal abuse.

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. But somehow, within a few months I had a big group of friends, went out every night I could, had a lot of fun and went to some brilliant parties. My boyfriend was 24, I thought I loved him.

By the time I was 16, i was lodging. My boyfriend lived in a 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, taking all sorts of substances. I was a mess. 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, and I decided to go to bed. 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 me, I said I was going to bed. I walked down the stairs, had a pee, got into his room, took my trousers off and fell into bed. I didn't notice til I was in the bed, that he 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 and apologised, so I knew everyone else would know he'd been there. I couldn't verbalise, ask for help. I gave into the 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. 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 the bed at this point and realised I could only just see over his shoulder. I'm five foot eight. He seemed huge, he was young and fit.

He lunged, shouted, we fell onto the floor. He was too strong, turning my left arm black for weeks with just two punches. I landed with a thump and felt winded.

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. 

I was too shocked, would he just stop for a moment, I'm too shocked? At the same time, 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, because 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 "thats 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.

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 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. Immutability of sex - he was much stronger, faster, he wasn't shaky or confused. He'd get it 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 mr, 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 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 rooster 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 needed 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, they 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.

When were you last silenced? Reply to Katy Montgomery

By Anna:

A quick (no, sorry, it's not) response to Katy Montgomery -

So, Katy responded to Sonia Sodha's tweet about no-platforming feminists thusly: https://twitter.com/KatyMontgomerie/status/1407768025936412672?s=19









Replying to the 'remember when Paris Lees was on Woman's Hour '





Now, I have a lot of criticisms of Katy, because I don't feel she is honest in how she presents arguments. I do, however, appreciate she does at least remain civil, which is rare among trans rights activists these days. At least to me, or from what I've seen (although I know there's a lot of allegations of inciting dog piles etc). But that civiility matters, and I wanted to reply properly.

I am fucking terrible at keeping replies short and succinct, especially because this whole issue is a viper's pit of logical fallacies and lies... I'm trying my bestest to keep it short here, but in all likelihood I'll fail.

First things first: When Katy clarifies she means 'GC people' I guess this is part of broadening criticism of 'TERFs', who are, by definition, women, to include men.

This is in the gender activist's best interest - the targeting of women as the enemy, and use of misogynistic abuse is increasingly being called out and showing the movement up as aggressively male supremacist and sexist. There's never been so much incentive to point out and condemn gender critical men. Not, of course, that I'm accusing Katy of behaving so cynically, but it's all part of defending a more agreeable version of trans activism.

I also take it to mean gender critique as a view. That is, believing gender is not innate and that it is routed in regressive stereotypes. This isn't necessarily feminism, or an ideology over and above critiquing gender - it doesn't tell you the roots of misogyny or sexism.

What Katy means with reference to this and 'gamete potential' is radical feminism, I reckon. Which holds that sexism/misogyny is rooted in seeking to control our reproductive bodies by a capitalist patriarchy.

For example: animals are in this way treated in farming - from which breeds are most economically rewarding to which cow to put on the 'rape rack' for insemination; which calf to kill because he wont produce milk; which chick to shove into a blender cos he won't produce eggs. It (patriarchy) sees women as bodies, as a resource and as such it needs to control and manage us, based on the potential of our reproductive bodies.

This is the origin, the basis of our oppression. Young men have their bodies exploited in labour, dangerous work and war, and young women have theirs exploited in different forms of labour and as objects of desire and reproductive potential. It’s not possible to challenge objectification without acknowledging the objectification, or its targets. We can't get very far with gender ideology (which, I imagine, Katy will deny as a concept) because it ties our bodies to temperament and behavioural expectations, which in turn are created and enforced by socialisation.

As a feminist, I see the fundamental difference between me and males is our bodies. From that, and society's perception of it, everything else follows. The gendered demands and social norms woven around us are just a shitty, claustrophobic set of rules and roles I want kept a very long way away from my body, which will always be my body.

Gender is a useful tool for a patriarchy which wishes to categorise and control. It's yoked to biological sex, and used as an additional set of limitations which does all of us, including those with dysphoria, a lot of harm. Hysteria and hysterectomy share the same roots, too - but are referent to very different things. It's a bit like that.

And, apart from radical feminists, I'd hazard a guess most people use a real-world taxonomic version of sex, placing self-described identity below physical reality. Being thoughtful and considerate to the upset trans people feel over 'misgendering' doesn't change this.

Typecast 'feminine' traits being hitched to a female body oppresses us. The caricatures of 'feminine' are predicated on women as weak, prone to neurosis (hysteria), needing guidance, being submissive and unable to think deeply and rationally. Our lesser needs are met by frivolous, trivial fixations with gossip and looking pretty; our real fulfilment comes from caring and bearing (maybe baring, too).

The fact 'TERFs' are so despised, though none have ever perpetrated a murder or notable act of violence (are there any?) is proof of the hatred of women defying gender expectations, as well as, on some level, fitting the ancient derogatory, malevolent definitions of women past their biological utility - witches; nags; prudes. Past it yet weirdly obsessed with sex and genitals.





Being male and feminine, female and masculine, or just conforming or not, is something we need to accept and, in the case of children, not be medicating or pathologising - ever. We can challenge the socialisation which enforces them, and not be bigots to those who have a connection to gender.

Suggesting, though, that a boy being drawn to long hair, sparkles, pink and dollies therefore is a girl is not progressive. It reinforces these assumptions, and we see this time and again as the foundation of the evidence that a child is somehow trans. It may be that it's important for a person's self care, to cope with dysphoria, to transition, but a transwoman is the ultimate manifestation of a socially constructed identity and being. 

This construct makes growing demands that everyone adhere to, endorse and defend it as meaning something synonymous with, indistinguishable from, woman. Raging against those who make a distinction, genderists are genuinely authoritarian and censorious, appealing constantly to cultural stereotypes. Therefore it continues to bind gender stereotypes to sex, and it categorises adult human females who may live their lives without resort to gender, or who express it in terms culturally coded masculine, as 'cis'.

And, when we state our case against this, we are abused.

The term 'cis', to me, is as helpful to feminism as climbing a mountain, only to have your kit swapped on the last day with that of an ice skater and being asked to appreciate the pretty spandex and blades. It's just another burden, a luxury obstacle and it looks and feels stupid. A trivial, distracting hindrance that might be fun for someone with nothing to climb and endless leisure time, but for me it's an anti-tool. A handicap. 

It fundamentally contradicts my understanding and many other's of our lives and trials. It's sunglasses when you need a microscope. 

Sexism and misogyny comes from that commodification of bodies which sorts the milk-producing cow from the bullock. Mammals come in only two sexes, and the fact there's variation and not all bodies function in the way necessarily assumed changes nothing. This was the origin of our subjugation and has been built upon for millenia. The roots are all in the assumption a female has these biological functions and should behave in a prescribed way.

So, when we are told that 'transwomen are women' - and when we are punished for dissent - we are being told our analysis of our own condition is not only worthless but offensive and harmful. How is it, we are damned for holding a different view, while simultaneously accused of being abusive for disagreeing with theirs?

How, if a transwoman doesn't pass, are they affected by misogyny?

Misogyny is hatred of women. Unless I'm mistaken for a transwoman or transman, I won't suffer transphobia and I certainly wouldn't try to tell Katy what it feels like. I may suffer prejudice for being gender nonconforming, which is a large part of transphobia, but, again, has different routes, meanings and consequences.

These things have different origins & definitions. Why deny this? Why try to reduce complex ideas and concepts and analysis to a simple, democratised, pick-yer-own protected group?

I don't suffer racism. Not today. As a kid though, growing up to constant chants of 'g*po' and 'p*key', I did. My whiteness, the banal ubiquity of my surname, separation from family and the way I live now is such I escaped it. I still feel it when I read headlines, overhear conversation on the bus, see vile comments online, but it isn't happening to me. Because my race has no biological features that are distinct from the archetype, I can move on freely.

That has a large part to do with the difference within forms of prejudice. Black and Asian people won't escape like that. Therein lies the spiteful nuances, fixations and characteristic stereotypes that lie at the heart of racism, as it conflicts with the white, English archetype - from antisemitism to xenophobia and colourism. There's differences here and they matter. Prejudice based on any divergence from the male archetype affects both of us, Katy, but in different ways. And as our bodies are only superficially changeable, we will never escape.

Back to Katy's initial point that it is transwomen who are being impacted by gender criticals who are 'going out their way to prevent transwomen talking about their[s]' oppression - where on earth is the evidence?

I've thought of a few things which trans activists have done to us in the UK:

* 1) Feminists have been routinely de-platformed, often with erroneous advice from Stonewall, a national charity which had their feet well under the table of the queer theory banquet. 

* 2) Maria McLaughlin was assaulted for filming counter demonstrators, as she and others were harassed at Speaker's Corner while waiting to find out the venue of a feminist meeting. Trans activists rejoiced.

Who criticised that? Here's a selection of responses, some from relatively big accounts;
















* 3) Women meet to discuss the Labour Campaign for Trans Rights' statement, which claims A Woman's Place and LGB Alliance is transphobic and members should be expelled from the party, favours self ID - which directly undermines women's rights to self segregate, and claims pointing that out is itself transphobia (AWP's response here) and are bombarded by abuse, a smoke grenade (near the Grenfell tower memorial) loud hailers and a young man with a prosthetic penis sewn to his crotch

* 4) A Woman's Place try to meet to discuss their oppression in Leeds, the council cancel it after threats; https://www.leeds-live.co.uk/news/leeds-news/womans-place-uk-leeds-debate-15434988

* 5) Resisters organise a protest in Manchester and are met by Sisters Uncut who release this beforehand:

 

(Let's not forget Sisters Uncut hijacking Sarah Everard's vigil - all detailed in the link above on their name)

* 6) Julie Bindel is abused by 'Cathy Brennan' (who changed their name to that of the American feminist Cathy Brennan, who has been abused for years) after speaking at the event "Women's Sex-Based Rights: what does (and what should) the future hold?"

* 7) A Woman's Place try to meet to discuss their oppression in Brighton and are harassed

One woman's experience of attending the event;



* 8) Anti rape culture flash mob held by Make More Noise is counter protested by activists (Sisters Uncut, again..)

* 9) Abused at Reclaim These Streets in Portsmouth - a protest against male violence. Because feminists joined and dared to have teeshirts and a banner bearing the dictionary definition of woman, they were attacked.

Here is a member of FiLiA recounting her experience, this is Glinners' coverage. Here's a selection of comments from a local Facebook page following;

 

Another witness:

And another:



One man doesn't understand how men chanting abuse at women, throwing their book in a bin and being deliberately intimidatory as well as bundling them off stage is ok -






So, that's nice. Not like we are hitting a bit of a nerve when stating the origins of sexism and misogyny, is it?


Here, one man denies he binned a feminist's book, is defended by a woman who also says it is a lie, before admitting he did in fact bin it:




more denial...












Claire Udy (under the pseudonym Clair Bear), an independent councillor for Portsmouth (after her antisemitic 'jokes' had her ejected from the Labour party) enters the fray, having been accused of exacerbating and participating in the abuse;







It is clear from the video the women 'flipped the bird' - after being jeered at, abused and, allegedly, assaulted. They did so as they left. It's also a pretty shocking state of affairs that women unfurling a banner, which gives definition to what a woman is and thus the basis of our oppression, results in a councillor joining in on chants and telling women to fuck off, upping the tension to a stage a man feels the need to step in and be security. Not sounding very feminist to me...


Here's Claire Udy again:


So there we have it - the dictionary definition of woman is transphobic, out of place at a protest against male violence in the wake of Sarah Everard's murder, and is justly countered by, even if we believe these people's limited account, telling these women to fuck off and chant TERF.


Claire Udy is again accused of chanting 'scum' at these women, and claims to have video footage absolving herself and others, but won't share it.





(The woman writing here swiftly clarifies she means 'trans person', but her anxiety is screwing with her ability to type her thoughts with clarity)






In summary: another man thinks abusing and silencing feminists is fine






In fact, if you really want to get an understanding of just how much women are prevented from speaking about their own oppression, just have a read of Maria McLaughlin's excellent blog where she lists the silencing attempts Trying to stop us meeting. Some more hatred and misogynistic oppression can be seen here.

Katy, it's not looking convincing. Maybe you have a load of counter examples which haven't reached me as I'm in some sort of echo chamber. But, some angry comments about Lees (who has a murky history at best) don't really cut it.

Feminists, gender critical feminists, are harassed; their talks are cancelled; their invitations rescinded; they are mobbed by chanting gangs of activists; they are not only attacked but then vilified further, lied about and see their assaults glorified. This is all down to our understanding of our oppression, and an understanding of what it is to be a woman that's actually shared by most people.

When did gender critical people do similar? When did any try to stop you speaking about your oppression?

Simply, we are saying they are different, with different origins. That isn't oppressing you, or anything like it.

This is DARVO.

Anna (Told you I'm not great at brevity)