This week, the BBC have a series of programmes called Hear Her, of which I am proud to have contributed towards. My programme brief was tight, and I had more to say on this theme, so wrote this post.
Please note that the following contains descriptions of violence against women.
She doesn’t know why they locked eyes and she held his gaze. She refused to look away or lower her eyes. The camera sought her out. A good-looking, young woman. Probably a third-generation immigrant. Student, most likely.
He caught her expression at the exact point between curiosity, defiance and contempt: the man’s words spitting venom full on in her face. A second later, the moment had gone. The next pictures were of the man punching her once in the side of her head. Her body recoiled. Face contorted in horror. Immediately, two police officers pushed past her and grabbed the frenzied man.
But people didn’t need to see those pictures. He had his money shot. It doesn’t really matter who she was, why she was there or what happened to her. Tomorrow, his name would be known for taking the defining picture of the march.
Mum and I were sat sipping tea in the conservatory of my parent’s house. I spotted a pile of newspapers in the corner, ready for the recycling bin. I picked up the latest issue of the local paper and scanned the front page.
“Oh my god, I went to school with her.” My heart started to race. “I can’t believe it.”
As the story unfolded, it transpired that the girl I knew at school had her father’s child, and continued to live with him on the family farm. Once she found out he was abusing her daughter, she killed him. She’d served her sentence and was out on parole. The abuse only ever came to light when one of the grandchildren died and the DNA tests showed some unusual and disturbing results. My old school friend and her daughter waived their right to anonymity to finally speak out.
“And she never said anything? That whole time she was in prison?” For all of those years as a child, she was brave enough to take the beatings and repeated assaults but never found the courage to ask for help.
My friend is a seriously talented musician. I remember once she told me it took her only four hours to learn to play the mandolin. She found it difficult to get a record deal – not because her music is bad. Far from it. It’s because she doesn’t play the game. She won’t lose the extra 10lb for the photos, show off her assets and court the media. She’s got a ‘bad attitude’ because she’s been known to pour a drink over a music journalist’s head for assuming that she had help with writing her songs. There is only one name on the album’s credits for songwriting. Hers. She composed the music and played all of the instruments bar one. The only musician she employed for the recordings was a drummer. She’s been very vocal about how, at 26, her music career is considered over before it has barely begun, but older, baldy, fat, beardy men can get still record contracts. No-one cares what they look like, how they behave, what they say or ask if anyone wrote their songs for them. It’s only about the music.
“All that work I did and he took the credit! He could have at least said it was a team effort. I can’t fucking believe it. It was my idea in the first place. I was the one who suggested it in the meeting, but no-one heard me, and then he repeated what I’d just said, then made out it that he’d thought of it! The bloody cheek. Well It’s too late to do anything about it now, but I tell you what. The next time one of my female colleagues comes up with an idea, I am gonna repeat what she just said loudly, and make sure everyone knows what a great idea she just had, so there’s no mistaking it in future.”
Women deserve to be listened to, their voices amplified and messages heard.