A year ago I wrote a visceral and angry post in response to the sexual exploitation of children in my home city.
Called 'Cherry trees and children', it included a reference to the blossom I saw falling from trees in the garden of a local guest house in which many children had been abused. The image seemed to speak at a deep level about the destruction of promise and innocence and all that should have been allowed to flower.
My friend Hattie is an artist. She felt moved to create a piece of art exploring this, and before beginning, researched the reason why the police investigation into the crimes was called 'Operation Bullfinch'.
What she discovered gave us pause.
Who knew that the police are poets?
Operation Bullfinch was named for the birds notorious for eating the buds on fruit trees before they have a chance to blossom.
Her response was this haunting triptych:
'Solitary bullfinch', Hattie Rutter
'In among the blossoms', Hattie Rutter
'Aftermath', Hattie Rutter
Some things demand our attention, our anger and our engagement. We can't stay silent.
We must raise our voices, speak out and speak up, whatever our chosen channel.
* * * *
Here is the original post, from March 2015:
I am an angry woman.
You wouldn’t necessarily know that if you met me. People tend to tell me I seem calm, even serene (not necessarily my favourite way to be thought of, but it is often said, just the same). In the normal day to day I’m a gentle person. I can go to a deep, quiet place. I did when I brought my children to birth, lost far away inside myself.
But something makes me so angry I could roar.
My home is a small and beautiful English city, known across the world for the learning that goes on beneath its famous spires. Thousands of people visit each year to trace the steps of scientists and inventors, presidents and poets. It is an apparently dignified and distinguished place.
But in the shadow of the spires and towers unspeakable crimes have been committed against children. And some of those whose job it is to protect them have looked away. And I am angry beyond words.
Hundreds of girls and a smaller number of boys have been targeted by networks of men intent on violent sexual gratification, sharing children for entertainment and profit. Some of the children have been in the care of the state; others live in families – some struggling, some apparently stable.
For years men lavished attention on these girls, using drugs and violence to enslave them, driving them to cities across the country to share with other men for money. They met the girls outside school, conducted their grooming on the day-lit streets of my city and used local guest houses to rape and torture their victims.
One of these guest houses, framed by cherry trees, is just a few hundred yards from where I work.
These events have only recently come to light. And in the lighting of these shadows more darkness has appeared.
It seems that in my city those who speak articulately and with the right accent are treated well and with respect. They can access justice and be taken seriously if they have a crime to report or a complaint to make. But for those who wear cheap clothes, are young and mouthy and sound wrong, come from the wrong address, things are very different.
A fourteen year old girl went to the city centre police station, her clothes covered in blood, to report a serious sexual assault. She was told she was a nuisance, and was made to leave.
And for that girl and for her peers, I am angry, blisteringly angry. Stolen childhoods, broken bodies, shattered futures. Behind closed doors, while guest house owners did what? Turned up the music? Put the TV on?
I follow the teachings of a Palestinian Jew who was anything but predictable. Authority figures who cared for no one but themselves he called ‘unmarked graves’. People focused only on profit saw their businesses sabotaged and their tables overturned. Love your enemies, he also said, pray for those who persecute you. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
I feel so powerless to change things. But I put my trust in a God who specialises in change, in revolution, and by his grace I will channel my anger into prayer and passion and care for the city in which I find myself, and its children.
And the guest house? It is still open for business, under the falling blossom.