Why didn't she go to the police?

a very personal view on why women might not report shit to the police

Disclaimer/Warning: This post contains descriptions of physical assault and gets a bit sweary. There’s quite a lot of swearing in fact. I make no apology for the swearing, and before anyone asks, yes I do think it’s necessary.

When I was assaulted on the smugglers’ path behind our house, calling the police wasn't the first thing on my mind.

The very first thing on my mind was finding the dog.

He’d been in my arms at the moment the man's fist made contact with my jaw. I'm pretty sure he was still in my arms when I was shoved me against the fence. Somewhere between my shock and rising fury, I lost hold of Pickle. It was probably when the man put his hands around my neck and I tried to punch back, startling the arsehole into retreat.

I don't even know how long or if Pickle hung around before bolting. I hope he bolted before the scream of rage and fury took hold of me, and I tried went on the offensive, railing against the man and pushing him further back.

I didn't know which way Pickle had gone, so I took a gamble on him having run downhill, back home.

He hadn't.

I took another chance by knocking on a neighbour's door. Having an ex-army major for a neighbour is a handy thing in a crisis. Adam immediately went into action mode. Not waiting to put on his shoes, he ran in his socked feet back up the muddy footpath I had abandoned while I took an alternative route back up the hill, hoping my shouts would reach Pickle before he reached the main road.

Our separation was relatively brief. There were probably about 15 minutes between the attack, enlisting Adam’s help, and hearing Pickle shouting his little head off from beneath a car where he'd been corralled by concerned householders who'd seen him running, dragging his lead behind him, along their road.

One of the neighbours held out Pickle’s harness and lead to me—he’d pulled it off him trying to get him out from under the car. I reached under the car, grabbed his collar and hauled him out, fearful he’d run again if I didn’t get hold of him. I needn’t have worried about him running. He clung to me like a limpet—so close I struggled to get his harness back on him.

The next thing on my mind was the humiliating realisation that I'd wet myself while I was, as I thought in the moment when the man’s hands were around my throat, fighting for my fucking life.

As I held onto Pickle, my hands and head shaking with adrenaline—I heard the question directed to me—

Have you called the police?

What? No. I’ve only just found Pickle. I’ll do it when I get home.

You need to phone them now.

And I hesitated.

So why was my instinct not to phone the police? 

I can’t honestly be sure.

Maybe I thought I deserved it, or would be told I deserved it, for asking the man to keep his dog under control when it charged, off-lead, at Pickle on the narrow path. 

Maybe I didn't think it was important enough. I was embarrassed. I wondered if I’d be told I asked for it by standing my ground, it was my own fault for walking the back path away from the road. Would I get in trouble for fighting back and trying to punch the man in self-defence and in anger. 

A Series of Unsettling Encounters

This wasn’t my first encounter with … what do I call it? Aggression? Invasion? Threat?

In London, there was the man who tried to climb over our garden fence while I was standing right next to it, emptying the compost bin. Who saw me looking up at him in surprise and with a brief "Sorry" plopped back down into the garden behind.

My first thought was—should I call the police?

Naaaah. It was probably an innocent mistake. Instead, I just laughed. Laughed and shouted after him—

“No problem!”

Now, when I remember my response, I think what the actual fuck? In what world does someone innocently climb over someone else's garden fence? But I was completely ingrained in the mindset that is the woman’s default—

He didn’t mean any harm. Don’t overreact.

Then there was the man on the street at the bottom of Crystal Palace Park who "just wanted to ask me a question".

Who, when my more polite rebuttals came to nought and I shouted at the top of my lungs at him to FUCK OFF, still kept coming, asking why I didn’t want to talk to him.

There was the man who, on a dark night on a badly light street, pulled his car into the kerb right next to me, shot out of the car and into my path so quickly that, had instinct not taken over making me step back and behind his car to cross the road away from him, I could easily have ended up on his back seat.

Even in that moment, I questioned my reaction.

Was I being rude?

I looked back and saw him standing in the middle of the road staring after me. I stared him down, not wanting to turn my back on him—until he got back in the car and drove away. 

No. I wasn’t being rude. 

Calling the Police?

Did I think about phoning the police after either of these street incidents?

I thought about it.

Did I do it? 

No. 

Why? 

Because nothing really happened.

In my training, familial and societal, phoning the police is a Big Deal. You only do it on behalf of other people. Or when something unquestionably huge has happened. If you're questioning it, and you always question it, it can't be huge enough.

Is a guy giving you a fright, being too talkative, too persistent, too verbally aggressive, too physically close a big deal?

Maybe.

How close? How persistent? How aggressive? 

Why don’t we call it out? Why don’t we report it?

We’re trained to always assume the best intentions in others—even when that assumption conflicts with our own instincts. We don't need anyone else to gaslight us in the moment because we've been so well trained, over a lifetime, to do it to ourselves. 

It’s not that bad. I’m sure it wasn’t really like that. He didn’t mean it. 

Because we're trained to be polite and put other people’s comfort ahead of our own safety. 

Don’t upset him by walking away when you feel uncomfortable.

Don’t be rude.

Don’t cause offence.

Don’t be a bitch about it.

It’s really not that big a deal. Just let it go.

Get over it. 

Because when I told my mother about how uncomfortable I felt when the “family plumber” still bear-hugged and crushed me against his chest and pelvis the way he had when I was a child, even after I'd made it absolutely clear to him that I would not tolerate it, her response was a mute silence. 

Because when he did it to me as a child and I tried to hide from him, my mother told me not to be rude, that he was just being friendly.

Because I was taught to distrust my own instinct. To subsume my visceral need to reject this form of “affection”.

Because when you you do everything you think you’re meant to do to keep yourself safe and something still happens, other people’s shitty behaviour is still your responsibility. 

Why didn't you scream?

Why didn't you move away sooner?

—make more noise?

—make less noise?

—draw attention to the situation?

—draw less attention to yourself?

—fight back?

—step back quietly and not antagonise him?

—not make yourself a target?

Even at school, the obligatory "scare the shit out of teenage girls" street-safety talk by a local police officer consisted entirely of telling us not to go out alone, not to go out after dark, not to wear short skirts, and to tie long hair back and tuck it inside our coat so it couldn't be used to grab us and pull us backward into an alley.

I wonder if the boys' school had a similar talk about maybe, just not doing that shit? I think I know the answer.

If you think about calling out the behaviour or calling the police, you find a thousand reasons not to. You rationalise and explain and excuse. You gaslight yourself before anyone else has the chance to do it for you.

Humiliation

After the alleyway attack, I was persuaded to phone the police.

I said I’d do it at home, but Adam, who I think knew I wouldn’t follow through, pushed me to do it there and then in the street with Pickle on my lap. 

As I sat cross-legged on the pavement, phone in hand, Pickle shaking in my arms, neighbours and dog rescuers comparing notes above my head, I felt absolutely humiliated. I was embarrassed at being seen to make a fuss, at being in the centre of this mini-melee, of just being visible and needing help.

These are not things I do.

I also felt overwhelming shame sitting in my urine-dampened trousers, certain that everyone else could see and could smell my shame. I still feel shame now at admitting this failure of my own body and writing about it in a public forum. Even three years later, my shame is still desperate for me to at delete this paragraph. To make myself tidy and presentable in the face of trauma.

Right at that moment all I wanted to do was get home, have a shower, and spend the next two days cuddling Pickle and helping us both to decompress and process what had just happened.

And yes, a large part of me just thought, why bother?

Why Fucking Bother.

Because I knew it was a waste of time. 

Police ineffectiveness

The police did come. The next day. Two of them. They stood in the living room. They always stand, never sit. I gave them a description.

Again.

I'd already given a very clear description on the phone the day of.

They exchanged a look as though they recognised the man I described but wrote nothing down. Then said that without a description there was nothing they could do.

I was so confounded I didn't know what to say. Without a description? I’d just given them a description. Was I missing something? What?

I asked what I should do if I saw him again. They shrugged. Said it wouldn't mean anything unless he did something else. And was witnessed

Why didn’t she call the police?

I can fully understand why might women who suffered far worse experiences than mine might choose to talk to a reputable journalist instead of to the police. 

Aside from all the crap detailed above, the police simply don't have the capacity to hear us in the way we need in those situations. They are over-stretched, under-resourced, their focus is split, priorities muddled. And since Sarah Everard, since Dania Al-Obeid and Patsy Stevenson, women’s trust in the police is at an all time low. 

If you've ever had any kind of experience with reporting shit to the police, I know why you'd hesitate to do it again. When you're in that moment, the energy you have is limited.

You anticipate what’s to come. Remember past exhaustions. You project yourself into the future and predict how much more of your already limited self will be consumed by the process.

The number of times you'll have to go over the Same. Damn. Story.

The number of people who will question, doubt, project, and gaslight. Tell you not to bother reporting any further encounters.

The only time I called the police without hesitation was when I was woken at 2 am by the creak of a floorboard and raised my sleep-fuddled head up to see a man crawling past the foot of my bed. Even while my blood pressure soared and fear seized my breath, I tried to rationalise what I was seeing.

Until he, realising I was awake, leapt up from the ground and screamed in my face before running.

And I still found myself apologising to the police for taking their time. I still expected to be blamed. For sleeping with an open window. For living in a house where the glass in the back door had been installed with the beading on the outside so it was an easy and silent job to remove the pane.

A week later, after being told I’d be kept up to date with any developments, I received a “case closed” letter. I didn't feel entitled to ask for more. Because bigger crimes were happening. Other people were in greater need. Police resources were stretched. All that shit.

I didn’t know it at the time but a whole week of “case open” was good. After the attack on the smugglers’ path, that same letter arrived after only 24 hours. It must have been processed and in the post even while those police officers were standing in my living room, ignoring the description I gave them.

Oh, and I have seen that man again.

Many times.

He walks his dog up the hill past our house at the same time every Thursday around 5pm. 

Response to trauma is not logical

Neither is it consistent. Just because you think you know how you'd respond in a given situation doesn't mean either that that is how you would respond or that you have any right to tell someone else that their response is wrong. 

Perhaps, instead of asking why some women choose not to call the police, not to report assault, abuse and harassment, we should ask why the system for reporting doesn’t provide the sanctuary it should be. How we can make the process effective, trustworthy, and empathic. Why we continue to normalise uncomfortable encounters and societal pressures.

It's time to shift the focus from questioning victims to questioning the systems. It's time to give voice to those who hesitate, to listen to their stories, and to dismantle the structures that perpetuate doubt.

Because the answers to why didn't she call the police? lie not just in the stories of those who remained silent, those we’ll never hear for a thousand reasons, but in the responsibility we all have to create a safer, more compassionate world.

I have no idea what the answers are. I have no idea how we change entire social systems and habits. But I know any change begins with seeking change. It begins with asking the right questions. 

Maybe the first question shouldn’t be Why didn't she call the police? but What are we going to do to make sure she feels safe when she does?