“WHEN something like this happens you kinda go into yourself and think you’re the only one in the world experiencing it” Andrea, now in her mid-30s told me over a cup of tea one dark winter night. She was speaking publicly for the first time about being raped at just twelve-years-old.
“I won’t lie I struggle and I’m sure it’s the same for those of us who haven’t come out publicly” she said. “This happened to me in the 90’s to see it going back even further is utterly heartbreaking to read.”
“I grew up in a very typical household. One younger sister. Both parents working. My dad was a soldier. He was in NI during the conflict and then later worked as an engineer. My mum worked full time also. We lived on a street – a quiet one really – where everyone was friendly and spoke to each other, did favors for each other. Just your normal area really.”
Andrea then took me back to the turning-point in her young life.
“My Muslim neighbour on the right side had two children. One boy, the eldest, and a daughter two or three years younger.. I used to baby sit them on my own regularly for a few hours a night or after school or weekends. I made quite a bit of money out of babysitting for my neighbours.”
“Their Dad was quiet. Didn’t really speak much. His wife was the chatty one as she was friends with my neighbour, and he’d only really see me in the morning going to school and would be there when we came home most days.”
“The day it happened was just an ordinary Saturday. I was next door playing with the kids and talking to their mum. She was a single mum to 2 kids and she asked if I could look after them for a few hours.”
“Everything was fine. The kids were being good; all playing together. A while later the door went. I went to answer it and it was the girl’s father. He asked if they were being good and asked whether I could look after them for just a bit longer as he had something to do. So I said yes that was OK as I was still looking after the other two, and they were never any trouble so he thanked me and left. Then about maybe half an hour later the phone rings. It’s one of those old ones that was attached to the wall with no caller Id. I thought it might be their mum ringing to check up on them so I answered. It wasn’t their mum. It was him. He asked me if I could do him a favor and help him put some shelves up as a surprise for his wife. So I went into my house and asked my sister if she could look after the kids and I went back next door.”
“He locked the front door and led me into the dining room. I was in elasticated jeans, baggy as hell, with my granny slippers on and my favourite football shirt. I was looking around for the shelves or tools. I’d helped my dad do lots of things in our house. But I couldn’t see any tools; no screwdriver or spirit level. I couldn’t even see any shelves. It was then after I asked him where everything was that he put his hand over my mouth and told me to be very very quiet and that no one would get hurt.”
“So I stayed quiet but I was so so scared. I just froze. He took my jeans and knickers and pulled them down, turned me over and then next thing I remember is this wetness and him whispering in my ear ‘is this OK is this OK’. I didn’t even understand what he meant.”
“I don’t know how long it lasted. I was frozen. All I remember is looking at pink flowers on the wall and smelling curry cooking. I’ll never ever forget that for as long as I live.”
Time has clearly helped push-back some of Andrea’s most hurtful memories. As she recalled the rape to me for the first time in over two decades however, certain recollections came flooding back to her in vivid detail.
“The one prevailing memory is his clamminess” she said. “His hands and stomach were wet. I remember feeling sticky on my back. My football shirt was kinda put over the top of my head behind me. I kept getting the shirt in my mouth every time he pressed his hand over it to keep me quiet. He smelt so bad. So so bad. The body odour was almost unbearable. He felt like the sweatiest, dirtiest person in the world to me at that moment.”
“His noises also haunt me; that sniveling nasal noise as he kept trying to clear his throat or nose. It was absolutely disgusting. His mumbling into my ear. The way he kept asking the same thing over and over: ‘Is this OK, is this OK?’
“I remember that he suddenly made a sound I’ll never unhear; a guttural nasal gasp.”
Andrea begins to cry as she relives that horrific moment of stolen childhood. I suggest that we take some time-out, but she bravely insists on continuing.
“To me, it was inhuman. I didn’t understand what was happening. He stopped pushing on my lower back and pulled himself out of me. Then the relief; oh God that sensation of my downstairs not being pulled-apart was such a relief but also left me in a silent daze. He left the room, I don’t know how long he was out of the dining room, but while I was just standing there shaking he popped his head around the door, offered me a pack of pink baby wipes, told me to clean myself up and not leave a mess. Then, as if it was the most casual thing ever, he strolled back in and started to put pound coins in my hand. He was asking me if that was enough. Every time he put a coin in my hand I’d look at my hand in confusion, then at him, then he would put another and ask the same question. I had five pound coins in my hand before I came to my senses and it was then I threw the money on the floor and managed to unlock the door and I ran out.”
“He was as calm as a silent sea. I don’t think he thought he’d done anything that wrong.”
“Before I left, he’d told me that if I told anyone he knew where I lived and that he’d get me. I was crying my eyes out at this point still unsure what had just happened.”
“When I finally got to my friends house I knocked on the door. I don’t know why I went there or what I was going to say. Her mum answered the door and said she wasn’t in. But she knew something wasn’t right so she told me to come inside. I then broke down sobbing to her while my jeans were ruined and saying I was going to get in trouble because my jeans were full of white stuff and blood. She held me for a while and begged me to let her phone my mum. But my mum was working so it would have been my dad who would answer. And there was no way he could know. He would kill him. I know he would have. And it would be all my fault. I’d lose my dad and my sister wouldn’t have a dad and my mum would be alone. So I begged her not to. I begged her to just help me make it better.”
“She ran a bath for me and helped clean me up. We were both crying and all I could think of was how much I’d hurt her by coming here.”
Eventually, Andrea told her mother what had happened. Her mother confronted the nieghbour, who refuted it fiercely. Tragically, Andrea was branded a liar, even by her own family.
“From that point on my whole life changed” she told me. “People from my street who I had known for years and played with their kids would see me and walk onto the other side of the street to avoid walking past me. I was spat on by an elderly Asian lady who only a few weeks prior had given me a pound to buy the kids some sweets. She called me a ‘gora’ [a derogatory word used to describe white people].”
“When I went back to school I was made to sit alone and none of my friends would talk to me or look at me. I asked what I’d done wrong and was sent to the head teachers office and told that a number of parents had called them and they had made a complaint against me and they didn’t want their children to be sat with me because I was a troublemaker.”
“Growing up was silent. Everything stopped. In the years following I developed an eating disorder going down to 5 and a half stone at my lowest weight, and had bad depression and anxiety. I felt alone and couldn’t talk about what had happened to anyone. I was failing in school and lessons. I was getting far behind on course work and couldn’t concentrate on exams. I just felt utterly lost.”
“I tried to kill myself again at 20. I had wrote out my will and notes saying sorry to my family and I tied a bag over my head and taped round my neck and I must have passed out because I remember coming to and desperately pushing a hole into the bag round my mouth.”
Luckily, Andrea survived the suicide attempt and tried to rebuild her life the best she could.
“All of that shaped me into who I am today” she says. “But I don’t leave my home. I don’t trust people. I’m depressed most of the time, have ptsd, and when I’m feeling particularly down I tend to go run a bath drink a lot of cider and cut myself until I feel pain on the outside it gets it out of me. Unhealthy I know but it’s just something I do.”
Andrea is just one of many victims of Muslim grooming and rape from across the country who continue to suffer in silence.
Politicalite will continue to act as their voice and to expose the vile CSE epidemic sweeping Britain; an epidemic that the establishment haven’t only just ignored, but are actively seeking to silence.