Standing in the courtroom, I fought back tears as the judge described me as ‘confrontational’, ‘farfetched’ and accused me of trying to mislead the court with my accounts.
Throughout the proceedings, she’d been callous and hostile towards me – frequently reminding me that I was under oath and ‘had to tell the truth’.
Even though I was doing just that, she didn’t seem to care to listen to the very real, harrowing experiences of my children and I. Instead, the abuse we’d endured in the past was dismissed, trivialised.
Meanwhile, the perpetrator of that very abuse, my ex, Simon*, was met with nothing but kindness, compliments and consideration. The judge even expressed sympathy towards him, saying how ‘this entire ordeal must be so tiring for him’.
Although I had faced racism before, confronting it in this manner was something I never thought possible.
It felt surreal. I share this as a reflection of my experience and as a call for change within the systems meant to be fair and just.
I was trying to start mine and my children’s lives anew, yet, it appeared that this judge didn’t see me as a victim. All she seemingly saw was a white man trying to get access to his kids and an ‘angry Black female’ who was ‘exploiting’ the court process.
According to Refuge, Black women are 14% less likely to be referred for support by police than white survivors of domestic abuse.
What this means is that the very systems that are meant to protect us are routinely failing. That has to change.
When Simon began pursuing me on social media some 15 years ago, he seemed charming.
This Is Not Right
On November 25, 2024 Metro launched This Is Not Right, a year-long campaign to address the relentless epidemic of violence against women.
With the help of our partners at Women’s Aid, This Is Not Right aims to shine a light on the sheer scale of this national emergency.
You can find more articles here, and if you want to share your story with us, you can send us an email at vaw@metro.co.uk.
Read more:
It all started innocently enough with daily messages asking about me or what I was up to at the weekend. And while I didn’t have an instant attraction to him, I was open to seeing how things may progress with us.
Slowly, we developed a friendship. Messages turned into video calls and, after a number of months, we finally met face-to-face.
On our first date though, he blew hot and cold. One minaute he’d be showering me with attention, and the next he’d be mocking me.
When I raised how that behaviour had made me feel at the end of the night, he basically swept it under the rug. I didn’t want to seem naggy so I left it.
Simon made our relationship official shortly after, but things weren’t exactly perfect.
He’d say racist things towards me and make a mockery of my physical appearance
Whenever we were around his friends or family, they’d often speak in a different language.
While I had no idea exactly what was being said, their sideways glances and sniggers in my direction made it fairly obvious that I was the butt of the joke.
It made me feel insecure, isolated and ridiculed. Yet when I asked Simon why he felt it was okay to treat and talk about me in that way, he’d just tell me to ‘stop being so sensitive’.
Soon, he actually began to verbally abuse me in other ways. He’d say racist things towards me, make a mockery of my physical appearance and imitate my posture.
I only put up with it because he always promised he’d change and I was determined to make our relationship work.
Then, a few years into our relationship, I fell pregnant. I was sure Simon would be thrilled, but it only made things worse.
The more my body changed, the more verbally abusive he became. Not only would he complain that I was ‘moody’, but he’d say I was fat and would laugh at me. Even after having our child, he’d say I still looked pregnant.
If I wanted to wear something nice, even just put on make-up or perfume to give myself a confidence boost, he’d question what I was doing it for.
And then he started to get physical.
Sometimes he’d do that by pinning me down on the bed and flicking my face. On other occasions, he’d push his forehead against mine while clenching his hand into a fist as if he was going to punch me.
When I’d flinch, cry or scream for him to get off me he’d say he was ‘only playing’, but it was never just a game. It was intimidating, scary and I was never sure what he was going to do.
This Is Not Right
On November 25, 2024 Metro launched This Is Not Right, a year-long campaign to address the relentless epidemic of violence against women.
With the help of our partners at Women’s Aid, This Is Not Right aims to shine a light on the sheer scale of this national emergency.
You can find more articles here, and if you want to share your story with us, you can send us an email at vaw@metro.co.uk.
Read more:
After having further children together, his controlling behaviour and verbal abuse towards all of us came thick and fast.
He’d use the ‘n’ word when speaking to the kids, and even though he had final say over what music we listened to and what we watched on TV, he would emphasise derogatory words in songs or perpetuate negative stereotypes about Black people.
Behind closed doors he would constantly say I was ‘angry’ and ‘aggressive’ and that I ‘should be in a mental facility’.
Eventually, after another physical attack – which left visible injuries and mental scars – I decided enough was enough. None of us were safe and I didn’t want my children to continue to grow up in a physically and mentally abusive household. We had to leave.
So, after confiding in an independent domestic violence advisor (IDVA), I was put in touch with Refuge, who helped me to flee to safety with my children. However, I was reluctant to speak to the police.
When I finally did report Simon, they were anything but understanding.
They told me it was his word against mine which made me feel completely helpless. I received no care, support or compassion and felt, at times, totally alone.
Despite this substandard treatment, a non-molestation order was granted – meaning that Simon could not contact the children or I – and for a moment I thought the worst was behind us.
However, when Simon petitioned the family court to gain contact with the children, our battles started all over again.
Instead of fulfilling her primary duty to remain impartial and fairly apply the Law, it seemed to me that the judge made Simon out to be a ‘hero’ for trying to pursue contact with his children all while degrading me, being dismissive towards me, and subjecting me to a host of micro-aggressions.
Even if I had made the mistake of forgetting that I was the only Black person present, to me, the experience with this judge was an explicit reminder of the ingrained institutionalised bias, stereotypes, and racism that still exists within society today – even in the very organisations that have a duty to care and protect.
To this day I am still trying to tie up loose ends so that we can finally be free of his control. But the police and court system do not seem to see Simon, or others like him, for the manipulative perpetrators that they are.
Certainly in my case, and many other cases like mine, I feel this ill-treatment is all as a result of the colour of our skin.
Since fleeing my situation I have met plenty of other survivors of domestic violence, but I have never encountered any who look like me.
That’s not to say Black women aren’t victims – according to Met Police figures from last year 43% of femicide victims were Black.
Nor does it mean that Black women aren’t reporting the abuse – apparently, we are 3% more likely to report the abuse to the police than white survivors of domestic abuse.
So where are the survivors that look like me? What help are we receiving?
The answer, in my opinion, is that we are suffering in silence or we become victims for a second time because of ingrained, underlying bias.
I’d like to see a huge reform in how the police and courts deal with victims of domestic abuse who are Black. I want them to receive more education on how best to support survivors and not allow prejudice to succeed.
Because fleeing domestic abuse is one of the hardest things for someone to do, particularly when there are children involved. It shouldn’t be harder for 4% of the population, just because we are Black.
*Name has been changed
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