All Those Children...

All those children… because obviously behind every shocking tabloid story about what this or that parent has done is the sorry tale of sad, neglected, abused children. We were living in North London when the Baby Peter story broke and with a baby son myself of the same age and colouring I found the whole sad affair incredibly distressing, as did everyone. In fact I think it nearly broke me. I could look at my own precious baby and see his scared response to any minor pain or upset, then times it by a million and then get a picture of what that tiny child went through. It didn’t bear thinking about, but for a long time it was all I could think about. Baby got a lot of kisses and cuddles during that time, half of which were meant for one who was dead.

Seeing that I had a similar aged baby people came up to talk to me in the road about it, rather like this old gentleman this week. For a while there was anger and hatred and misery on all of our streets, even to point you couldn’t turn a corner without seeing another homemade poster pinned to the wall encouraging people to seek revenge against the perpetrators. I am now unable to read anything about the case, see his picture or those of his abusers, and I’ve been the same with all similar stories since. I have considered counselling to discuss why I have been so affected. Its like I have this horrific knowledge and I don’t know what to do with it or where to put it?

This knowledge of child abuse is a weight, an impotent weight that we carry around, we know it happens, but what can we do about it? If Social Services can be so deceived in such cases what hope is there? There are many who continue to campaign and charities who work tirelessly to ease the burden and thank goodness for them, I do take comfort in this.

I first started donating to the NSPCC about ten years ago after I had laughed at a TV ad depicting a cartoon boy being beaten up – the violence was almost comedic – but when it cut to the boy becoming real and I understood this was happening in real life and maybe even to the child next door I was nearly sick. I continue to donate and I feel like I am doing something. But its small. I also try to smile at as many children and babies I can in the street and shops, I think you just don’t know what life is like for them at home and maybe a smile is a flash of comfort and understanding? Probably silly.

I’m not the best parent in the world by any means. I shout, I get frustrated, but since becoming a parent I understand violence towards children even less, I just can’t make the jump from exasperation to raising my hand to him. Like most parents my instinct is to protect and not harm. Sadly it seems that instinct is missing in some. Reasons why parents or carers abuse children are many and varied I imagine? And the levels and types of abuse of course are all different. Some would probably consider me raising my voice abuse?

Obviously I have a media tainted view and no knowledge of the Social Services and the complexity of reporting cases but sometimes it seems simple to me: Social Workers should have real status, be feared as well as respected. When I was younger I remember a visit from ‘the Social’ was viewed with derision and not much to worry about. If they had the power and pay befitting the work they did maybe more would be drawn to the career and less would escape them.

Plus, surely departments should work better together? If a known violent offender joins a new family they should be told (even if its cruelty to animals because as we all know this is a huge indicator of a progression to abuse of minors) sorry but I don’t care about their right to anonymity – let the new family decide. If a family or child is considered at risk they should be checking benefit and postal records too to see who is claiming from or using that address, who else is hiding in the house?

And in communities, should we all be doing more? Not just doctors, health visitors and social workers but shopkeepers, bus-drivers and neighbours. Imagine how Peter’s neighbours must feel knowing that one night they might have turned the TV up to drown out the crying instead of calling someone to help? But its hard, who wants to get involved? I’m as guilty as everyone who ignores what might be a cry for help. I saw a toddler in a pushchair a few months ago shopping in Churchill Square, he had a black eye. I was so conflicted, part of me wanted to follow the family home and make a note of their address to let the authorities know what I had seen, part of me reasoned he had probably got it from knocking about with his brother or from a simple accident. Of course I did nothing. But it’s haunted me for a while now, what if the next big child abuse story is once again just up the road from me? What if this time I had seen it and had a chance to do something about it – but didn’t? What on earth am I going to do with that knowledge?