"As a trans person living in the UK, I do not feel safe" – a personal account
by Anonymous (they/them)
Content warnings:
Transphobia; Violence; Sexual Assault; Rape; Hate Crime; Drug Use; PTSD
“When I was little, I was told that if I was lost, scared, hurt, or in danger I should always look for the nearest woman or mum and run to her for help.
This is my cry for help — and it’s aimed at cisgender people, and mums, and anyone who will listen.”
As a trans person living in the UK, I do not feel safe. In fact, I feel unsafe emotionally, physically, and politically. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to take politics out of the equation for a minute. I don’t want to argue my case, I’m not a particularly political person and I think we’re becoming more polarised, emotionally removed, and divided by repeatedly butting heads on the same conversations. I just want to share a snippet of my reality — human to human. Rest assured that I will speak only for me and of my experience.
I’ve spent the last few years becoming more myself, settling into a queer identity and living a quiet and peaceful yet colourful life wherever possible. I’ve kept my social circle small; I’ve prioritised my own mental health over the pressure to educate the world and get involved in activism. I don’t have Twitter, I don’t read the comments, I don’t go clubbing. And that’s not to say there’s anything noble about avoiding these spaces or anything wrong with being more active and vocal. I just think it’s useful context — I’ve just been getting on with my life, trying to build my confidence and carve out a life that feels authentic and fulfilling.
But as the world opened up post-pandemic, I felt confident enough to go to a party — ONE NIGHT OUT IN OVER TWO YEARS — where there were a mix of people I knew and people I didn’t. I felt confident enough to explain myself, correct people on my pronouns, and come out (over and over again).
And of course, I was interrogated. Of course, my identity was erased and debated. This felt inevitable. I was asked all the usual questions about the grammatical correctness of they/them pronouns, about the ‘newness’ of non-binary identities and the growing number of children identifying as transgender. But I was assertive — because, again, what I was asking for was not political. I wasn’t there for a debate. I was just there to have a nice time. I just wanted to be present and feel seen.
But one woman (who I had never previously met or spoken to in my life) took offence to me correcting a man when I pointed out, for the 5th time, that I wasn’t a ‘dude.’ She informed me that my generation were determined to be victims of imagined ‘oppression’, that I hate men — but this man was one of the good guys — and that she couldn’t see what was wrong with calling me ‘what I am’. And of course, I stood my ground. I told her that I had no issue with the man, who stared back at me with pure rage. That I was simply correcting him, and that I would continue to correct people until they got it right or at least acknowledged their errors. I informed her that she had made an assumption about my gender, and it was my right to call her out on that. And finally, when she told me that there were plenty of other gay men there who weren’t making a fuss, I reminded her that I’m not a gay man and that none of them were being misgendered, forced to debate their existence or, indeed, shouted at. I also asked her what right she had to speak to me like that.
And some of you may be thinking ‘well that’s not an attack, that’s just a disagreement.’ But this type of disagreement is why I no longer spend any time around strangers or let my hair down with more than a couple of drinks in public or unfamiliar settings. It’s why I traded clubs and parties in for board game cafés at a relatively young age. It doesn’t bring out a nice, happy side in me either. I probably wasn’t particularly agreeable after being accosted and insulted, and I took up a lot of emotional space crying and panicking shortly after. And I felt terrible about that.
Anyway, you’re right. This wasn’t an attack, but it did lead to one. And then another. And another. Yep, that’s right. Because of the way I had stood up to this woman, her male friends took it upon themselves to drug me, physically assault me, threaten me, and attempt to humiliate me.
And later, when I was at my most vulnerable, drugged off my face and as good as blacked out, I was raped.
Left in a heap, discarded and half naked, I was thankfully found by a couple of women. As we know, women stereotypically are caregivers and nurturers. And, from experience, they’re who you go to in a crisis — and I mean that sincerely. I really do.
But unfortunately, these women were political. By which I mean, their biases clouded their judgement. They didn’t believe the person in front of them — slurring and just barely able to wriggle their own underwear back on when encouraged. It was as though the ambiguity of my gender erased the clarity of evidence and the entire meaning of the word ‘consent’. After helping me to my feet, they chose to believe that I had cheated on my other half rather than seeing that I had been sexually assaulted and discarded. My emotionally numb, dissociative state was apparently ‘not how someone acts after being raped.’ And that was that.
Anyway, I know this isn’t nice to hear. I’m sure many of you are thinking ‘my friends would never!’ or ‘that would never happen to me.’ I’m also aware that lots of people will choose to believe it didn’t happen at all. At this point, thanks to the UK media at large, we’re much more used to seeing transgender people as an evil plague on society than real human beings. I also know my story would hold more weight if I put my name to it, but I’m terrified. The threats were very real, and I don’t remember who these people were or what personal information I told them. There’s a lot I don’t remember and the detail I’m giving here is as unbelievable to me as it is to you. I so wish it wasn’t true.
And for those of you who are politically inclined: no, I didn’t report it to the police, and I didn’t make use of a rape crisis service. As a trans person in the UK, I did not, and do not, feel safe to do so. And that is political.
But kindness isn’t political. Respect isn’t political. It isn’t political to believe victims of violence and sexual assault, or to keep them safe in the first place.
If we can’t put our humanity before academic exercise, intellectual debates and politics, we will forever remain divided. And I don’t want to make this about gender, but I do want to appeal to women for support. Because while I’ve never been physically attacked by a woman, I have been mistreated. I have been made to feel unwelcome, shouted at, and discriminated against by women.
What you might not realise is that it doesn’t always end there. Because the boys and men in your life listen to you and they internalise your fears and concerns. And they do occasionally manifest them into violence and hate crime. The same types of crime ALL women are terrified of.
As I wrestle with very real PTSD symptoms — flashbacks, depression, insomnia, nightmares, dissociation, panic, and anxiety — all while trying to keep my job and struggling to leave the house, this is all I ask:
Please put the same energy into protecting trans people in dangerous, scary, or violent situations as you would cis women. Let us run to you when we’re scared. Believe us when we tell you we’ve been attacked. Do not instantly doubt our integrity because of the way we look or something you read online. And please remember that just because you feel comfortable or safe somewhere doesn’t mean that your trans friend is safe or welcome. We are under attack, quite literally. Seems less dramatic in the context, doesn’t it?
So yes, this is a cry for help. This is an appeal to everyone and anyone who will listen, but most of all I want to speak to the mothers out there.
I’m telling you what happened to me because I can’t tell my mum. It would break her heart to know that her child had been treated like this. It breaks my heart to know that people all over the world are experiencing the same violence as me — and much worse — many of whom won’t have the resilience, support, and privilege to survive it.
Thanks for reading.