“The Power of Being Nice”
Would you describe the scenes of my arrest to constitute that description? Being nice? Even so, those were the words that were said to me by a police liaison officer as the power under which I was being asked to move from my position, sat on the tracks beside platform D of St Peter’s Square Metrolink stop. Does that sound like a description of the storm of trampling boots that followed? Does that sound like policing by consent? Does that sound like the public humiliation of being stripped to my underwear and dragged across the floor?
On Saturday the 27th March, I attended a protest for the Kill The Bill movement. It was two weeks since the Metropolitan Police had broken up a peaceful vigil for Sarah Everard, arresting several attendees, and less than a week since Avon and Somerset Police had masqueraded as postal workers to enter protesters homes. I, like many others, was there to show solidarity because I’ve experienced the firm hand of the patriarchy and the violence it produces. Unfortunately, that day only added to those experiences.
Kill The Bill is the the slogan attached to opposing the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill which had just had its first and second readings in parliament. This is a bill which has a very broad scope, this includes: increased stop and search powers; criminalizing “reasonable suspicion” that someone has, or will, trespass; a duty for health, educational and social care workers to violate confidentiality to report people “at risk of violence” to the police; and longer sentences for non-violent protest than rape. Overall, this means primarily effecting marginalized groups. The policing at the vigil and in Bristol demonstrated why this bill is such a risk.
For the most part, the first few hours of the march were pleasant. I had plans later in the day that I was looking forward to. There was an atmosphere of togetherness and hope. People gained a platform to be heard and understood when they spoke about their own experiences of misogynistic, racist, homophobic, and transphobic violence and the failure of society and the police to address it. At one point a man spoke about how he didn’t think all men should be held responsible and the crowd quickly shut him down. Women spoke about how it felt like the first time that their experiences were recognised and not being looked at through a critical and victim-blaming lens. Students staying in the University of Manchester accommodation spoke about their rent strike and how aggressive policing led to that outcome. I considered speaking myself about one of my own recent experiences too but that didn’t happen, in the end, because I was still processing it.
The point when the protest began to take a turn for the worst was shortly after we returned to St Peter’s Square. Part of the crowd sat to listen on the tram tracks and the trams stopped, initially sounding their horns, because sadly if there isn’t disruption nobody with power really cares, no matter how important the cause. In the following minutes, police liaison officers began to gather around the group, and some Metrolink staff followed along. The trams remained stationary for a few minutes and speakers continued talking about their experiences before a sharp tooting was let out from the closest tram. Beside the tram, it appeared the Metrolink staff member was gesturing to the driver to begin once again moving down the track, where people were still sat. A few of the people on the tracks rushed away, likely in fear of being hurt. There wasn’t really an opportunity to think, in what, upon reflection, feels like a threat of violence towards a protest opposing that very thing. Shaking, I stood my ground and braced myself, in the fear of the possibility of the tram hitting me.
I’m not sure if any others initially stayed in position because things were happening so fast but, again, when I called for help, I was met with open solidarity and more people rushed to sit by my side. Chants from the crowd echoed, “Shame on you! Shame on you!”
As scary is it was, I actually felt proud at that point.
Very shortly after, a group of police liaison officers seemed to move behind myself and the others and began to ask me to move. I asked under what law I was being told to move and I wasn’t given an answer except, “The power of being nice.”
Though I’m not a lawyer, it was immediately evident to me that that isn’t a law so I remained in position, trying to maintain some vigilance for the next ten minutes or so.
Then came the boots. The barking. The stamping. I buckled myself in and pretty much curled into a ball, trying to still have some vision but also protect my body from the inevitable impact. Through the corner of my eye, I opened a friends contact on my phone and shared my location, with no time to say what was happening. People in front of me, were being ploughed through, being kicked. The police walking through as if nobody were in front of them. I saw the people lay beside me, dragged by their ankles. “Move.” continued to chant the police — as if I could. Every impulse in my body was telling me to hold as close to myself as I could. I felt trapped. This was a crowd of victims, many of violence, domestic and otherwise. I was already at the point where I couldn’t even speak.
Someone on each side grabbed my shoulders and began to drag me across the floor. They seemed to give up for a moment, then two more rushed in front, grabbing me by my fairly tight denim jeggings. Unsurprisingly, the jeggings started to give way, and I felt the skin at the top of my thighs make contact with the cold paved floor. It was then that I think I completely lost all remaining control over my body outside of my one focus to grasp my phone and bag as tightly as I could. The jeggings were still fairly high up as they started to carry me by my clothes, and it felt as though I was moving quite quickly. I felt completely unaware of where I was, only seeing parts of the floor pass me by. My coat then ripped at the base of the arm, and once again, I fell to the floor. This time being picked up, once again by my clothes, felt much more brutal. My ripped coat and t-shirt began to move over my head, obscuring my vision even more, and my leggings were round my ankles, only holding on by the lip of my boots. I was exposed and I could do absolutely nothing about it.
Once again, chants of, “Shame on you!” echoed through the crowd. It was clear that people could see what was happening; people could see my body. People in the crowd yelled at the police to cover me up, who went on to quietly argue between each other as to if they even should. Eventually as more people seemed to move in, the police began to start covering me up, simultaneously bending by fabric wrapped shoulders back to place me in handcuffs.
I let out a scream of pain as a camera flashed in my eyes, my cheek to the ground. “You’re gonna break my fucking arm!” I yelled as I began to gain the slightest amount of control. One of the police asked me if I could walk, and exhaustedly I shuffled my head on the ground into as much of a nod as I could manage. It really is true when they say that everything just becomes a blur. Those five minutes felt like five hours.
Dazed, I was guided over to a police van, where I sat with my teeth chattering, still shaking. A first aider came over and pointed out that I was visibly experiencing at least a panic attack. The police responded by debating between each other once again and concluded that he could ask me if I was okay but nothing more. I remember a feeling of complete disgust as the female police officer, who had earlier been arguing against covering me up, said, “It’s just adrenaline.” almost as if she thought I was enjoying such a traumatising experience.
They then asked me my name. The closest I could produce to a sentence was a single consonant after maybe 5 seconds. The police did recognize that I was capable of nodding so they continued by asking if I could walk. I reluctantly nodded and with a lot of difficulty was guided over to a second, much older police van. They took me to a tiny cell at the back. It must have been only 1m by 1m or less which I doubt anyone would be comfortable with, even not having a panic attack.
One of the police officers began listing all of protesters in the van, possibly into his radio. I suspect this was so that we could be assigned a police station to be taken to. He said something resembling, “We have a female in cell 1 at the front. Cell 2 at the front’s empty. A male in cell 3 at the back. A male in cell 4 at the back. And another female in cell 3 at the back too.”
The person in the cell at the front interrupted by saying, “I’m non-binary.”
The police officer replied and asked, “What?”
So again, they repeated, “I’m non-binary.”
To which, the police officer responded with, “Your name is non-binary?”
If that happened in any other situation, I would have probably found it absolutely hilarious to the point that I’d burst out laughing but I couldn’t even pay attention.
The van set out driving fairly soon after and I continued trying and failing to ground myself in the little space I had. One of the other protesters, on the opposite side of the police van, must have heard me crying or hyperventilating and shouted to the sergeant to respond, who did so by opening the door and asking if I was okay. I shook my head as I still couldn’t speak. He again attempted to prompt me for my name, before asking if I was claustrophobic and I nodded because the small space was one of the reasons that I was struggling to process everything that had happened earlier — even if it wasn’t just claustrophobia. With some encouragement from the other protestors, the police officer eventually kept the cell door slightly open.
Though I didn’t really know much of what was happening until the day after when I read the messages from the friend that I had sent my location to, the van then parked up on a car park somewhere in the northern quarter. I hoped that then would be my opportunity to move out of the cell but instead I heard vague mutters from the sergeant, the driver, and their radio, of phrases such as “This is a joke, this.”
This continued for twenty minutes more. During this time, I was able to get the odd word out and managed to mention that I needed to use the toilet and a drink of water. I was informed that I would be able to have both shortly before the police officer said to the driver, “Right. We’re going to Wigan.”
A twenty mile journey which ended up taking two hours.
We set off driving again and after some time, the sergeant said that the door needed to be closed again because we were going onto the motorway. I managed to hold myself together for some time but soon enough I began to struggle with the weight of what had just happened to me and became overwhelmed with panic but with a little more control this time.
It was around quarter to nine when the van eventually parked up again. The police officer opened the cell door and asked if I would try to run away if he allowed me to sit in the more open part of the van. I shook my head; even if I wanted to, I don’t think I had the fight left in me. He opened the door and I shuffled over. It wasn’t comfortable. It was still quite claustrophobic, but it was better. Even the police officer in the van with me commented on how wrecklessly the driver drove the van. I once again mentioned that I needed the toilet and a drink and was told that I needed to wait until after I’d been signed in and registered. Slowly, each occupant of the van was taken into the station and after a further hour, it was my turn.
Once inside, I couldn’t wait anymore so as soon as I was at the registration desk I asked to use the toilet. A female officer then accompanied me to a cell and monitored me as I urinated. This was a fairly difficult process for me, even more so than it already is, because after seeing the other police officer’s confusion over the non-binary protestor’s gender, I didn’t feel comfortable in mentioning my own trans status. I recognize that I’m putting myself at even more scrutiny by writing that here, however my transness plays a number of roles in defining elements of what made the whole day so difficult to experience and why I was protesting in the first place.
I then signed in, giving my name, address, emergency contact, and lawyer. I was read my rights and taken to another cell, where there was thankfully also a sink and toilet. A few different faces appeared to give me information or ask me for information. I also learnt that the non-binary protestor had been placed in the cell next to me through background noise, once again misgendering them, as it was the female corridor.
Eventually, a police nurse came to attend to me. She asked me a number of medical questions with regards to my physical and mental health. Most of these were what you would expect until she asked, “Do you have any thoughts of gender?”
This confused me and I asked her what she meant by it. She followed on by saying a few different things before landing on, “Do you have any plans to transition your gender?”
I struggled to answer because technically the answer would be not as I began presenting as female years ago but saying that would also likely imply to her that I’m cis. I tried to answer as best as I could and said, “No because I already have.”
To which she responded with, “When I look at you, I see someone who was born a woman. Do you mean you transitioned to being a man or transitioning from being a man?”
I said, “I’m a woman and I transitioned to be a woman.”
The nurse made a surprised looking face and said, “Oh. I’d have never have known. How long ago because you do seem very young?”
“Probably about four/five years ago, around when I was 18.” I responded.
Then she asked a variation of a question that every trans person has heard enough times that they have lost count, “So is that when you had the surgery?”
I then gave a brief description of how transitioning works and access to trans healthcare in the UK before the conversation moved on to asking about injuries.
My solicitor called twice during my stay, the first time to get information about the events of the protest, and the second after the police decided what I was being charged with. I received very different answers from them both times. Looking back, this change in answer was the first clue that my arrest had started getting some media attention because they mentioned that there was clear evidence. I went on to accept the charge because I was much more comfortable with a fine than over criminal charges.
My mum was waiting in the car park and drove me back to her house, which by some stroke of luck isn’t too far away from where I was taken. The other protestors and I were released from the station just past midnight, after all public transport had finished, 20 miles from where we started. I hugged the other protestors, wished them luck getting home, walked over to my mum’s car, and left — feeling drained. I’m not going to go into detail about the impact of the event on my family life because I respect their privacy, but it wasn’t positive either.
I turned on my phone to find streams of frantic messages from various people and it was in one of those that I read, “Is this you?”
This had a news article attached with one of the less exposed photos of me. It was at the point when I was being pressed to the ground and put in handcuffs. I didn’t sleep much that night; I spent it replying to people with assurances that I was safe and okay. A few people on social media identified me and tagged me, strangers commented asking if I was okay. It made me feel like people did care about me and that it was okay for me to be upset. Seeing the videos of the event really made me understand the gravity of it all and that what I had been through was real.
The morning came and I tried to return to normalcy as much as possible. I felt more at a loss for words than I usually do. I just wanted recognition towards my emotions, but I found that quite difficult when some people I knew and others that I didn’t made excuses for how the police had acted. I genuinely considered completely cutting off contact from a number of people who play a big part in my life. The attention did still feel manageable at that point, though.
It was the evening of the next day when it became more unmanageable and when came the second serious violation of my consent in a period of only a few days. A major international media organization made one of the most revealing photos of me their Top Photo of the Day, completely uncensored. When it was posted, I quickly realized that the scale of the situation had begun to get even bigger. I didn’t know exactly how to react, and I decided that the best I could do at the time was stand up, say “I was the woman in the photograph. I’m safe now.” And be as honest as I could. Obviously, I’d rather those photos not be circulating without my knowledge, control, or consent but if I can’t realistically control their circulation, I’d rather at least give my consent and say a few words, which I initially did did in the form of an improvised tweet before I went to bed.
I woke to see that tweet had got far more attention than I expected. Not all of it was positive either. One man thought he was being absolutely hilarious when he commented, “They could have pulled a bit further and got her tits out.”
One other replied, “They should have at least picked a hotter one.”
There were tonnes of variations of those responses, but the worst weren’t those objectifying me, they were the ones justifying what happened to me, saying I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, or even saying that I deserved much worse.
Now that I had identified myself, it was surreal to see that some people’s attitudes had changed after actually seeing who I was. Most bazaar were the Gender Critical “feminists” who went from calling me a hero to claims that I somehow did it for attention and that I should have worn different clothes — using the exact same arguments that misogynists always use to justify when a woman is sexually assaulted. Again, I point to the fact that my jeggings were quite tight fitting.
In a similar vein, a name that was mentioned quite a few times during the aftermath was Emmeline Pankhurst, a suffragist and early feminist, whose statue is a stone’s throw away from where the whole evet took place. I understand why people were quick to make that comparison, but I feel quite uncomfortable with it, because she was quite problematic for a number of reasons. These include unwillingness to involve and support working class women, explicit support of fascism, exclusion of women of colour, and her feminism being all-round single-issue. I do respect, however, that Emmeline stood her ground, and that is what she was remembered for.
A hundred years later, people don’t talk about her making “essential workers” late getting to and from work. As someone who travels to work on the tram, the average football match is far more of a disruption than any of the multiple protests that I’ve been stuck behind. I spent my own summer having to leave the house before 5am because of engineering works on the tram network. When it comes down to it, isn’t this also the patriarchy rearing its ugly head? The male-dominated sphere of football fans enjoying themselves are considered more important than women speaking about rape-culture traumatizing us.
As I write this, the Conservative Party Conference has closed Deansgate-Castlefield tram stop and most roads around it.It is the very next stop up the line from where the other protestors and I sat in front of the tram. The area is filled with hundreds of police and the busses are being diverted onto Mancunian Way. This shows how much of a complete double standard is being imposed. They continue to discuss the laws that we were there to fight in the first place, ironically adding clauses that mean unlimited fines and prison for blocking roads as a member of the public, just as they do it themselves.
Many of the worst comments, by quite a significant margin, were made by Twitter accounts with “Cop”, “Bobby”, and “Greater Manchester Police” in their bio or username. I didn’t see a single tweet from any of those accounts that even said, “Sorry you had to go through that.”
All the more displaying the institutional problem, just as Metropolitan Police officers who joked in a private group chat about the murder of Sarah Everard did.
A number of politicians responded including, Mayor of GM, Andy Burnham. He stated that he would immediately begin an investigation. I did not receive any communication from Andy Burnham or his office however Mr Burnham did briefly block me after deleting one of the tweets that he made on the subject. I suspect that a phone call that I received from a police officer the next day was at least related to the investigation.
In the phone call, the police officer claimed that the police believed that their response had been “proportional”. Later on, the police then released a public statement claiming that the phone call was an apology. I considered making a formal complaint, but this made me feel that the police are entirely opposed to accountability. I even considered legal action, but never made the steps to pursue it because it still would have meant having to go through the court system and have every moment of that day picked apart with a toothpick when I had already been traumatized by it. I don’t want a flashback in a courtroom, watching half-naked bodycam footage.
I had quite a number of requests for an interview. I always said that I planned to get back to them but that never happened. I made a few attempts to write about my experience: first, less than a week after the event itself; the second time, towards the end of June. Neither of those were even halfway done. It’s taken me six months to finally be in a place where I am ready to write about it, but I’m still not healed. I don’t know if I ever will completely heal. I shouldn’t have to justify my own emotions but my earlier attempts to have some control meant that I had to do it in public, just as my body had been paraded without my consent. As horrific as I found the experience, I still think it is important to highlight that people of colour are much more likely to have similar experiences to what I had; the only difference is that their experiences aren’t seen.
