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.

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)

The Sexual Rights Movement

The Sexual Rights Movement 

#SRM

So, first thing first - I got into gender critical feminism via a genuine concern for the people I know and have known - including trans people.

For far too long, I was confused as to why women who appeared to be saying rational, nuanced and inoffensive things were being mercilessly attacked by people I thought of as decent. And after being answered grudgingly with mantras, contradictions in terms, told I should read about it, - I did - I went to 'educate' myself. And everything changed.

Before, I'd held out an embarrassing benefit of the doubt (this was, in reality, doubting my own senses and downplaying my own dignity and safety after a lifetime of gaslighting) for appalling bullying, strawmanning and abuse, watching women being dogpiled and preferring - like Ayesha Hazarika - to be nice, accommodate and concur, or at least keep it quiet. 

But that isn't really who I am; I enjoy debate and don't shy away from disagreement. The obvious lies, transparent rhetorical tricks, the repetitive slogans and determined stupidity was burning at me.

So, given all this, I began compiling my own little gallery - almost to remain sure I had seen what I thought I'd seen. The final straw was when I actually thought back to all of the earlier assumptions, self censorship and cognitive dissonance I'd carried for so many years.

After living through decades of abuse from various men, starting from early childhood, I stopped subduing myself with drugs and alcohol and excuses; I got therapy; I learnt to acknowledge the unwitting part I played in my own oppression. And I realised, I wasn't living as the brave and outspoken type I thought I was. I understood I needed to question things more, listen to others, especially other women.

I also realised how deeply damaged I had been by my experience years ago with a purported transwoman. I finally allowed myself to see this person as the man I knew he was. I'd always disliked him, thought his behaviour was shocking and recognised he was scum, but what I hadn't done is speaak, even think, without self censorship. And I suddenly realised how screwed up it had all been, and just how wrong it is.

I had a son, and I realised how crucial my issues were to resolve, lest I pass it onto him and harm another generation.

This essentially boils down to actually showing integrity and bravery, not drunken, projected anger or shouting along with the mob. Listening and thinking a lot, feeling and acknowledging I was scared, and doing it anyway. Because it's the right thing to do.

I had to speak out on the harms of gender identity activism, for more reasons than I can [easily] list.

So this blog sprung up, between myself and my friend. It was meeting her and comparing eerily similar stories I realised what's actually happening to us.

We were both abused as children, both homeless before the age we could leave home legally, both serially sexually abused, drug and alcohol addicted, both accommodated with a sex offender who identified as trans.

Above all, I've met some incredible women. I was staggered at just how much other women, who appear so much better off than me or my friend, go through. I found it so shocking to realise just how atomised, how separate from other women I had become. Because of men. I never knew just how much we shared.

We, as women, can go through life completely unaware of the barriers we have between ourselves and other women. Sisterhood is a precious thing. Same sex spaces are sacred.

Of all the friends I've lost of the way, the vast majority see themselves as allies, rather than being trans. Some of my trans friends have shared this journey to a degree, and are equally angry. I love them more now, and while I won't always agree with them I appreciate their support. I also worry how they too will ultimately be impacted by this insanity.

They are not represented by the activists behaving as grandiose, misogynistic, arrogant, authoritarian maniacs. 

What is happening then, if those who actually commit to transition aren't being aided by the most aggressive activism around? I think it's deeply sinister.

As I'm quite the archivist, my devices are overloaded with screenshots of tweets, subreddit posts, Facebook comments. I am trying to sort them into a series of catalogues. There's something about galleries that has a particular impact. While we may be uninhibited on social media (unless you've reason to fear the thought police, like Marion Miller, Maya Forstater, Harry Millar etc) and it may show the worst extremities, it still illustrates a culture that many seek to dismiss.

This blog started with The Rich Fantasy, a list if trans identifying sex offenders, murderers etc. Now, rather than trying to match the exemplary work of Dr Em, Genevieve Gluck or Jennifer Bilek etc, I'm going to focus a little on one powerful element of this movement - sexual entitlement.

There's bound to be a tonne of overlap, but these will all be under #SRM = Sexual Rights Movement. I'm speculatively splitting it up into;

* Rape Victims & The Right Side of History, which is thus far almost entirely made up of responses to my friend and I when speaking about our experiences

* Autogynephilia 

* Sissies

* Porn & Kink

* Paedophilia & Bestiality 

* Sexual Violence & Misogyny 

* Sexualisation of Children

* Breaching Boundaries and Sexual Entitlement

Hopefully these will all be up within the next week or two..

Karen White & Steph's Place - tone-deaf with a straight face

Steph is like a dog with a bone with this one, although I appreciate the oblique reference to my previous post by acknowledging White/Woods was known as a 'transfaker'. Steph 'had to dig pretty deep, but obviously, the few gender crits who was aware of Wood's status did not do this' which is just glorious.
If you find massively mismatched battles followed by delusional, bantum-like strutting by the loser entertaining, that is.

On that point, we are accused of not reading the article(s) properly, whilst poor old Steph says it 'appears to suggest that White may have been an occasional crossdresser but was not, in their view, "trans."'
Steph goes on 'I say "appears" because I dont have a Times subscription and am most certainly not going to support an anti-trans rag - so in consequence, I can not read all of the article. But the fact remains the headline uses the words "trans faker".'
Mate, I actually linked to a copy/pasted Times article. So either you are confused, didn't read it properly, or are too paralysed with fear over the impending cognitive dissonance it would provoke. Either way, it's shit.

It's beyond tedious at this stage, and even for me, someone who doesn't enjoy kicking a man when he's down, (but, in the right circumstances, might find it funny) it's beyond a piece of piss to deconstruct this shite.
I've already done that, so many times now (links below) so I'm not bothering now. However, I get the feeling that Steph is very much a last word type. Unfortunately, I have also been cursed with this affliction. It's just a pity, for Steph, that not one of those last, or penultimate or even first words could be accurate, truthful or appropriate. 

It is, on the bright side, funny.

Apparently, gender criticals are 'heartless', even though Steph was asked no less than five times to show a flicker of concern for the women assaulted by White, and after repeatedly diminishing it, decided to gloss over the details and refer to the sexual assaults as 'minor incidents'. 

But it's us who's renowned for the mean stuff.

Now - bat signal to the terven network - we have traitors in our midst! Aside from the shocking tale of Steph meeting a double-agent gender critical in a park - while holding a briefcase, wearing a green neckerchief and muttering about the squirrel flying West for winter - it now emerges feminists have messaged Steph, via some kind of media network, to praise the excellent service of outing White and finally speaking the truth.

Sisters, we must find out who these treasonous backstabbers are. Any information on the psychic communication methods Steph uses to consort with the treacherous must be exposed. Clearly, the hotline to Steph's left temporal lobe is extremely active. No wonder the head is all tilted.

I, unlike Steph, will leave you, as always, to a link to their latest jobby on a plate (UPDATE; dear reader, that link died. Possibly because of me. I hope and pray I won't be implicated come TDoR) 

It appears this is a real hot topic over at that Place, and Sonia Sodha is next in the crosshairs. Sonia, my thoughts are with you. I can only say, through bitter personal experience, it will be fine. Really, really fine. Banality, zero self awareness backed up with a customised echo chamber and an irrational compulsion to flog long dead horses is all that keeps some people going. In the end, it's quite life affirming. There really is something for everyone.

Fada beo an fhírinne!

Ní mná iad fir, cibé méid tilt tú do cheann. Póg mo thóin

My earlier responses to Steph are;

* Steph's Place - Where the facts are fluid

* Steph's Place - Where, to virtually everyone, the truth matters

* No, Steph - Sexual assault is never 'minor'(you cheeky, 'orrible ****)

* It's another Steph's Place response...

Shite said Fred

I saw your article today, Freddie. I felt compelled to respond. The constant use of hyperbole and one-sided appeals to emotion are getting wearing.