The abuse I experienced as a child has reverberated throughout my life. I didn’t allow anybody to touch me, beyond a handshake or a peck on the cheek, for 15 years. It planted in me the sense that everything to do with sex or my body was wrong. I was an aberration, not a proper man. I put off speaking openly about the abuse because I was paralysed by this shame. But then, five years ago, something remarkable happened.
The abuse started when I was nine, at a state primary school in Gravesend, Kent, in the 1960s. My teacher asked me to stand beside him behind his desk and read aloud to the class, while he secretly pushed his hand up my shorts and tried to masturbate me. He then asked me to stay behind at playtime and help tidy up the nature study table. We did not do tidying. The abuse lasted intermittently for the whole school year. He groomed me by praising me and regularly placing me top of the class. He also groomed my mother by telling her how clever I was. In so doing he effectively silenced me. Abuse is always secret. Shh! Don’t tell anyone.
I know I was not the only one. In the playground I heard a girl from my class say to her friend: “If our teacher puts his hand up my skirt again, my dad says he’ll come and bash him.” Terrified and embarrassed, I fled. I do not remember this girl’s name. She must be in her late 60s now or early 70s. Oh, how I would love to talk to her.
I was terrified that whoever I spoke to about the abuse might think that I was myself an abuser. The appalling “vampire” myth that a child who is abused will go on to abuse is a surefire way of silencing the truth. I eventually had long correspondence with the county council. Some of it has been frankly dismissive, some more sympathetic. The abuse had stopped for a while after a different male teacher entered the classroom and saw what was going on. I do not remember the name of this teacher, and the county council has declined to show me the names of the other teachers working at the school at the time, on the grounds of data protection. Data was protected; the child was not. Nobody has actually apologised for the abuse that was done to me. Nobody has actually asked what was done to me. Nobody has actually asked about the psychological effects. Shh … you get the message.
And then, suddenly, I found the independent inquiry into child sexual abuse and its Truth Project. I was astonished. This was a statutory, independent inquiry asking people to come forward and speak about their abuse in private to a trained facilitator. I was eager and terrified at the same time. It took me two years to pluck up the courage (no wonder the inquiry took seven years to complete). I booked an appointment, fretted over the advance support materials, and went.
My facilitator had the same name as a princess in a lesser-known Shakespeare play. She and her companion, the note-taker, were extraordinarily skilled. These people were clearly trained in how to listen meticulously, patiently, with no hint of patronising or false pity. Only impeccably pitched kindness and attention. The interview lasted for well over two hours, and later I was able to send them additional material that I had overlooked.
Two things stand out. First, quite simply, they took the subject seriously. They listened, without interruption or objection, occasionally asking for clarification. Second, I knew the results would be anonymised, so this was not preparation for a potential legal case.
This was about me speaking the truth, getting it all out there, being heard. Not being silenced. No “Shh!”
And second, the one thing they didn’t say: “But this all happened such a long time ago. Surely you must have got over it by now?” Sexual abuse is not a broken ankle. It is damage to the core identity of a young person that will stay with them for life, if not properly addressed. A major step in addressing it is being listened to, non-judgmentally. The Truth Project did that. I have had psychotherapy (which I paid for myself), but the Truth Project allowed me to speak to a public body – one with the power to change things. It was life-changing.
Inevitably there will be some who say the inquiry’s recommendations didn’t go far enough, but it would be extraordinarily difficult to address and remedy all the myriad ways in which abuse can occur. And if you question the money or time that it took, I would counter by saying the dignity, comfort and respect that the Truth Project afforded to more than 6,200 victims and survivors was worth it.
It has undoubtedly empowered me. This June I went with the Brave Movement – perhaps the natural successor to the inquiry – as one of an international group of survivors addressing the media outside the G7 summit in Bavaria. I stood at a microphone and asked three questions. What is more important – protecting the reputation of the church, of local authorities, of the police, or protecting the children? What is more important – protecting the comfort levels of politicians at all levels, or protecting the children? And finally to the world’s finance ministers: funding the prevention of abuse, plus healing and justice for survivors, can save billions of pounds, dollars, euros, rupees, yen, in the costs of psychiatric and social services, prisons, unemployment offices and so on – what are you waiting for?
Speaking the truth will not only set us free; it will empower us as healthy, functioning, happy human beings. I want that, not just for myself, but for the billions of children across the world currently at risk of sexual violation. The world needs more Truth Projects.
Patrick Sandford is a playwright and the writer of Groomed, a play about his experiences
The NSPCC offers support to children on 0800 1111, and adults concerned about a child on 0808 800 5000. The National Association for People Abused in Childhood (Napac) offers support for adult survivors on 0808 801 0331. Other sources of help can be found at Child Helplines International
Information and support for anyone affected by rape or sexual abuse issues is available from the following organisations. In the UK, Rape Crisis offers support on 0808 802 9999 in England and Wales, 0808 801 0302 in Scotland, or 0800 0246 991 in Northern Ireland. Other international helplines can be found at ibiblio.org/rcip/internl.html
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