I first heard about the murders while I was in China. My boyfriend’s demeanour told me something disturbing had occurred, hesitant, he told me that there was a stabbing in Southport, the victims children and the perpetrator that was in police custody was 17.
Although this was close to home, my mum lives in Southport, I was physically 6000 miles away from it. I do not read the news so my brain quickly digested what little information I was told: the unpaid taxi, the confrontation with men in a garage, the dance studio, and the speculated number of dead kids.
For a few minutes I tried hard to understand a motive, but extreme violence towards children never has a motive. I conjured up this image of an angry teenager, like the one you hear about in America that goes into a school and indiscriminately kills and maims. My thoughts hit a brick wall, my brain eager to blame just needed a foreign name, a justification, religious fundamentalism, something! I reasoned that unlike America, the assailant was not shot dead so in time we would learn why, which seemed to put my brain at ease. The buried voice of foreign media here in China, my restrictive internet and Shanghai’s 20 million people soon distracted my attention and I moved my thoughts onto something else.
That was Monday. Today, I learnt their names.
Bebe King, aged 6
The Post
Elsie Dot Stancombe, aged 7
Alice Dasilva Aguiar aged 9
I’m still in China, the article was read without the internet connection to load the images or follow any links. The article, from the only media outlet I have a monthly subscription to, was written by a local journalist who went to Southport and reported on the aftermath. Titled Southport mourns. Then burns. In the 14th paragraph wrote the names of the three little girls that were dead.
The fury swelled in me as I tried to internalise it by hurriedly getting dressed, pretending that meeting my tour guide in reception on time was more important than processing my emotions. I shared the sentiment of the people that gathered after a vigil to express anger. A reaction must happen. If a copper’s scratched face and the local mosques windows can help quell the grief, then sorry Muslims but we will help you sweep up tomorrow.
I know I’m on information rations here but the EDL seemed to be getting more word count than the tragic, sorrowful, senseless murder of three little girls.
I imagined my mum liking the “Rise Up English Lads”, racist call to arms Facebook post, because like them she has political frustrations, is lowly educated and whose only source of ‘news’ is their Facebook feed. Her no doubt genuine heart felt feelings of utter sadness expressed in the only way non creatives know how, misplaced visceral anger.
I felt envious that there was a group galvanising ‘the lads’ to do something because I wanted, as an angry woman, to do something with other angry women. After all, minus the ethnic background of the boy who did this, this was still and act of violence yet again towards women.
I empathised with my mum, our anger united us but if the murderer was confronted by men for not paying his taxi and chose not to harm them and then went into a fitness space mainly frequented by women to start stabbing, then isn’t this gender based violence, and can we take revenge on arbitrary white men too?
Then I cried, anger replaced by sadness, hearsay replaced by heartache.
In a patriarchal world of the lazy phone holding proletariat, I was secretly glad to see direct action taking place, even if it was galvanised by men and very much misplaced. But this was a false privilege I was feeling. That solitary women holding a sign in the face of screaming men, like the burning of a police van is powerfully symbolic for all the wrong reasons.
I am mad, but in this moment let us remember the names of the little innocent ones and have a cry, after all this is a tragedy.
majorloveme 