A London Attack of Old

The events of last Sunday have brought on a lot of self-reflection and discussion about male/female roles.  My initial reaction that night was anger towards men; for not being there, for sleeping on the job, for being indifferent, for being the perpetrators. I simultaneously craved and resented them. But really, wasn't it kind of unfair? I was walking home alone, from dinner with girls. What was I expecting? Superman?

So, I thought a little more and realized it really tapped into a different event. An event from years ago in London – another attack, another intervention. That’s what I was truly reacting to....

It was a late Sunday afternoon in the summer and I was returning home after a weekend visiting my aunt and uncle. I was walking out of Ealing Broadway tube when I heard loud, angry voices – a man and woman.  There was something in the tone that made me hesitate. Something that said, don’t walk home, stick around.   

Even though they were on the same side of the street as me, I crossed the road to get a better view.  The man was stocky, tattooed, 5’10, dark hair. The woman with him was slight in build and backed into a corner. Their argument had already escalated. She had growing panic in her voice -  it echoed off the buildings. 

I stood beneath a bus shelter looking at all the other people, half waiting, half calculating. It was a gorgeous evening and there must have been dozens, if not a hundred or more people walking around. The common was nearby, along with 2 or 3 pubs and a number of shops. Plenty of people, plenty of potential rescuers.

Now there was terror in her voice. He had both her arms in his grip. She was screaming at him to let her go. I felt a charge. Time was up. I did not think. I just reacted. I marched off the curb and aimed for the man. I am only 5’6”. I was always scrawny. I was always weak. Skinny Lynnie. Thin Lynn. (Today maybe not so much.)  

There was a fair distance between us. I kept thinking -  Someone else will get there first. Some guy will get there first.

No one did.

I remember grabbing the man’s arm and digging my fingernails into his flesh. “Is there a problem here?” He just stared at me with the same anger he’d been pushing on her. “She asked you to let go of her.” There was an intensity, an uncertainty, and suddenly, another presence.  

A woman.

A woman had come and stood next to me. I never saw her, but I sensed she was plump and middle-aged, maybe a Sunday school teacher or mother. Frumpy. A brown jumper. The man looked from me to her. His eyes were hard, but then they changed. Her presence diffused him.

He let go. 

As the first woman ran off, I turned and looked back at the street. All the Sunday evening pedestrians were stopped in their places watching. Men, women, lads from the pub with their pints half raised. Dozens, if not a hundred or more people dotted the area surrounding us.  All of them watching, just me and another woman acting.

That night I cursed them all. I shamed them.  The adrenalin was gone and the fear and anger had set in. I shook. I cried. I blamed them. I blamed them all for forcing me to be the person to step in.  Where were the men? Where were the men?? I screamed it in my head – dozens, if not a hundred or more times. I threw a fist at my pillow. Where were the men??? I’m only small, I can’t defend myself. Why did they make me have to do that?

I never found out who the assisting woman was.  I never really saw her, I never ever thanked her. But to this day I am still so grateful. And to this day, I have never forgiven the men.

Women Are the Weaker Sex

Last night I was mugged. They didn’t get my bag, but they took my sense of safety and calm. While some may say I won, I'd say it was draw - what they did get was far more valuable.

It happened two doors down from the gates to my building. It was 9.45pm on a Sunday. The street leafy and residential with security men at the end of every driveway. I was walking home alone after dinner with girlfriends thinking about our discussion of current events – Israel/Palestine, Russia/Ukraine, the doomed jetliner. We ate fried morning glory and commented on how lucky we are to live where we do. From consulates to tour books, all rate Bangkok as safe as London or NYC.

I didn’t see the motorcycle or the passenger jumping off. I only heard the heavy running steps and then saw feet. I knew. I clutched my bag tight. I screamed – a voice I didn’t recognize, a voice that sounded foreign.  He tugged. I tugged. There was something long and white in his hand – a baton?  A rolled up piece of paper? I wondered if he’d hit me. I froze. Then he let go and disappeared off on the back of the bike. 20 feet away a security guard sat in a folding chair. He slept through it all.

Women are easy targets. We are weaker. We are more vulnerable. I know this.

 Shaken, but unhurt, I posted news of it on Facebook. My female friends responded immediately, along with one Irish guy from my days at Guinness. Some women called, some emailed, some IM’d, some facetimed. I needed them. I needed their comfort, their words, their understanding.  I felt less isolated and more stable with each voice of concern.  They understood the fear of men - the fear of being attacked and the horror when it happens. 16 women reached out - some I haven’t talked to in years. And only one man.

Violence against women is real; whether it’s the Gaza Strip, Crimea, Indian rapes, Nigerian kidnappings or just a mugging on a pretty street in Bangkok. Women understand the fear. Men don’t.

Last night I thought of male friends and ex-boyfriends. I wished one of them had been there to walk me home or give me a hug and promise me he’d look out for me. In those first moments, I craved a man’s comfort, their protective strength- the feeling of security that comes from having a guy beside me. While the female voices rolled in I wondered, where were the men? I wanted their words, their understanding and reassurance. I wanted a man to stand up for me. To be angry on my behalf. To don his cape and rescue me. I wished for a man who'd insist on walking me home and who wouldn't believe me when I say I can take care of myself. I wished for a man who'd do it out of genuine concern and not some vague sense of duty. I wished for a man who wouldn’t let me feel guilty for recognizing my vulnerability, for asking him to go out of his way. I wished for protection in the old-fashioned damsel-in-distress kind of way. I wished for a guy to ask if I was ok.

Today’s women are supposed to be strong and proud - "We don't need men!"  I feel pressure to live up to that. To not cry. To say it doesn’t bother me. To say it won’t beat me down.  Some say I am bold and independent. I say bullshit. Inside there’s a fearful little girl ashamed to show her weakness. Ashamed to admit her dependency. Ashamed to admit she doesn't want to do it by herself. Ashamed to admit these things that are right here on this page. All I really want is to curl up and let someone take care of me.  I am weak. I will lose a cat fight to a cat. I am tired of pretending.

Last night, I went back down to the street. I spoke to my building security guard. Yes, yes he told me with the famous Thai smile and nodding head. It happens all the time – his face lit up as if we were talking about the frequency of rainbows on the horizon. He pointed out all the security cameras. The owner’s son was translating and delivered the news like a pot of gold.  Neither was alarmed, concerned or in any way consoling. I felt betrayed.

I was mugged once before, 2.5 hrs in to a 3-month backpacking trip through Central America. That time it was two men in a car. That time was more violent. That time I didn’t tell anyone until after I came home. Except one friend knew - a guy - he never followed up. I lost friends and made enemies that summer. I was diagnosed with PTSD. My mom was concerned. My dad didn’t want to know.  

I have talked to male friends about my worries before. They dismiss it and tell me not to live my life in fear. I don’t. I live it in a perpetual state of risk assessment and avoidance. Personal safety crosses my mind of a daily basis. For men I wonder if it even happens monthly? They say goodbye to female friends at the bar and their thoughts turn to… hot dogs? Porn? Game of Thrones? The hot Thai chick across the street? I say goodbye and immediately enter into navigational assessment. How dark are the streets? How populated is the sidewalk? Should I step aside to let the lone guy behind me pass? Does the resident homeless guy look high tonight?  How rowdy are the boys? Will a moto rob me if I walk?  Will a taxi car-jack me if I drive? Does the driver look too drunk?  Why does he keep staring at me in the rearview?  Is he turning where he should turn? Dammit, what’s the safest way outta here??  Then there's the real question  - where exactly does pro-activeness turn to paranoia? After last night I’m really not sure.

Women have tactics and plan Bs and safety networks. Mostly they work. Mostly men are unaware. A few months ago a friend in another ‘safe’ Asian city helped a guy home who was too drunk to make it alone. She carefully put him to bed, turned to walk home and was attacked on the way. Another found herself in a dodgy Bangkok taxi with a young driver who wielded a crowbar and enough English to demand all her money. These are the stories women live and men dismiss.

Today, I feel angry. I want a man to listen. I want a man to feel my insecurity. I want a man to have instincts for a woman’s safety. Most of all, I want a man to walk me home.