I was unfortunate enough to witness a deeply disturbing incident on Thursday 30th April. Here's how it unfolded.
As I walked home from the gym, listening to music in my own little world, I noticed someone at my local bus stop trying to grab my attention. The lady was a mess. She was incoherent and she smelled of booze. I tried to ignore her, but then I noticed blood, and as I realised the severity of the situation I stopped and tried to listen to her.
From what I made out, she was assaulted by her partner. She sustained a broken nose, which troubled her breathing. Blood was on her face and her hands, and the clump of blood-soaked tissues in her hand did little to stem the bleeding. In the other hand was a large can of beer.
Distressed, she said that she needed to get to her mother's place. I initially thought that her mother's place was far away, as I thought she was catching a bus. But when I tried to reason with her I learned that her mother's place was not far from where I lived. Apparently she took the bus to her mother's place, but as she took a different numbered bus (bus number 111 instead of bus number 6), she got dropped off at a bus stop that was not the closest stop to her mother's place. Hence her current position and her current predicament.
She had a suitcase, and a carry bag. The suitcase wheels were unstable and stiff making it impossible for her in her state to drag it along. Plus it was heavy, and she kept telling me that she was going to collapse and die. I volunteered to carry the suitcase to her mother's place, knowing that when she got there she would be taken care of. An ambulance would be contacted to treat her injuries, and the police can be notified about the assault.
It only gets worse.
The suitcase was very hard to drag on the wheels, and the handle was about to break. So I carried it under my arm from the bus stop, past my house and into the little street where her mother lived. The suitcase contained pretty much all her possessions - clothes and a DVD player. As we walked, there were a few people that looked at her, but no one was interested, or showed any concern. It was as if she was the village idiot, always getting into trouble, and that no one wanted any involvement with her. Gently I suggested that she stop drinking the beer, but she replied that it helps kill the pain.
Finally we reached her mother's place. And even though I was only 100 metres away from my house, the street that we were on felt like another part of town. It was seedy and run down. I knocked on the door. There was a sound of a dog barking, but no one seemed to be at home. I knocked again, and the dog kept barking but still no one opened the door. I knocked a third time. The dog kept barking, and still no one opened the door. The dog kept barking, and the wait felt like ages. Finally a window opened from above, and a lady stuck her head out.
"What's that noise?", she sounded rather irritated. I didn't know who that lady was, and I presumed it wasn't the mother. When she looked at the lady I was helping, she got really angry and said "I don't want you in here!" It was the mother, and my heart sank when I realised that this was a case of a very dysfunctional family.
I tried to step in, and reasoned with her mother. "Please, she needs help". The mother immediately snapped back at me. "Don't tell me what to do, you don't even know half the story!" I was immediately taken aback, and pretty soon it was mother hurling insults and expletives, and daughter pleading to be let in. The argument soon got heard by the neighbours. A black woman stuck her head out from her front door of the adjoining house, wondering what the fuss was about. Pretty soon, she jumped in telling them to be quiet. The mother was a complete battle-axe, telling her to shut up. I just stood there shocked at the situation.
The mother demanded that the daughter cannot stay at her house, telling her that she has had enough of her. "I've got my own life to live! I don't want you ruining it for me! You drink too much and your friends are into drugs! I've had enough! You're 29 for god sake, Alison!" Alison pleaded that she won't stay, she just needs to come in and get cleaned up. She said that she had found a place to live, but the tenancy agreement did not start in another 2 weeks. The mother was still unsympathetic. I feared that she might just close the window and leave us out in the cold.
She did exactly just that.
But after a couple of minutes of standing outside, she opened the front door and started laying down more demands. She gestured at the beer that Alison was carrying and said, "You can't bring that in here. I don't drink! And I don't want you staying here, you leave by the end of today!"
I helped Alison bring the heavy suitcase inside her mother's house. The inside was a big mess. Inside the house, the mother told Alison to "take her shit of the table", probably demanding that her bag be dumped on the floor. This was a very bad relationship between mother and daughter. I've never seen anything like it before. It was as if I was in a bad episode of Coronation Street. They say that you shouldn't believe everything you see on TV, but when they portray an example of dysfunctional families and domestic violence, take note! It is very real and it exists in our society!
I waited outside, itching to get home, when Alison came outside to say thank you for helping. She asked me for money. I only had a 20 pound note on me, and I just couldn't give that to her. She might use it to buy booze, drugs, or some other illicit materials. She asked for my name, which I gave her, but in her unfit state she mistook it as Gary. I didn't correct her. I believe she asked me for my contact number, and I could've given her my business card, but I basically left her and rushed home as soon as I could.
As soon as I got home, I immediately took a shower. My body was in a sweat, both from the gym and from that experience, and my hands smelt of her blood. It was very unnerving and scary, not just for Alison who will probably sleep on the streets, but for me too. As I washed myself, I immediately thought of the parable of the Good Samaritan from the Bible.
A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead with no clothes..... But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and looked after him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
From this story, I was the part of the Good Samaritan, and Alison was the unfortunate victim. But regrettably, I fell far short of being a Good Samaritan. I couldn't take her to my house. I wasn't able to take her to the nearest A&E, or the nearest women's shelter. I didn't really say much to quell the hostile situation between Alison and her mother. In fact I was pretty useless. I thought that if I was in New Zealand, I could have done more to help her, just because I had a car, and a knowledge of the local facilities. But here in the UK, I have nothing, except the bare essentials.
The realisation, combined with the situation I experienced, distressed me greatly that evening. After a hard workout at the gym, I was looking forward to a big meal, but I had lost my appetite completely. Luckily I had a housemate to talk to about this.
That night, I lay on the couch in the lounge. And like a patient visiting a psychiatrist, I retold the story to Tina. We traded stories, exchanged experiences, and even shared a few laughs. It didn't make the situation right, but at least by talking about it I felt better afterwards, knowing that I did all I could to help Alison. Even now, as I draw on that particular disturbing experience to write this entry, I still can't help wondering what if.
I don't know what happened to Alison that night, and what has become of her now. The only thing I can do is to pray that she has the courage and strength to turn her life around, and that mother and daughter can reconcile on better terms.
For the full parable of the Good Samaritan, please read Luke Chapter 10 verses 25-37.
As I walked home from the gym, listening to music in my own little world, I noticed someone at my local bus stop trying to grab my attention. The lady was a mess. She was incoherent and she smelled of booze. I tried to ignore her, but then I noticed blood, and as I realised the severity of the situation I stopped and tried to listen to her.
From what I made out, she was assaulted by her partner. She sustained a broken nose, which troubled her breathing. Blood was on her face and her hands, and the clump of blood-soaked tissues in her hand did little to stem the bleeding. In the other hand was a large can of beer.
Distressed, she said that she needed to get to her mother's place. I initially thought that her mother's place was far away, as I thought she was catching a bus. But when I tried to reason with her I learned that her mother's place was not far from where I lived. Apparently she took the bus to her mother's place, but as she took a different numbered bus (bus number 111 instead of bus number 6), she got dropped off at a bus stop that was not the closest stop to her mother's place. Hence her current position and her current predicament.
She had a suitcase, and a carry bag. The suitcase wheels were unstable and stiff making it impossible for her in her state to drag it along. Plus it was heavy, and she kept telling me that she was going to collapse and die. I volunteered to carry the suitcase to her mother's place, knowing that when she got there she would be taken care of. An ambulance would be contacted to treat her injuries, and the police can be notified about the assault.
It only gets worse.
The suitcase was very hard to drag on the wheels, and the handle was about to break. So I carried it under my arm from the bus stop, past my house and into the little street where her mother lived. The suitcase contained pretty much all her possessions - clothes and a DVD player. As we walked, there were a few people that looked at her, but no one was interested, or showed any concern. It was as if she was the village idiot, always getting into trouble, and that no one wanted any involvement with her. Gently I suggested that she stop drinking the beer, but she replied that it helps kill the pain.
Finally we reached her mother's place. And even though I was only 100 metres away from my house, the street that we were on felt like another part of town. It was seedy and run down. I knocked on the door. There was a sound of a dog barking, but no one seemed to be at home. I knocked again, and the dog kept barking but still no one opened the door. I knocked a third time. The dog kept barking, and still no one opened the door. The dog kept barking, and the wait felt like ages. Finally a window opened from above, and a lady stuck her head out.
"What's that noise?", she sounded rather irritated. I didn't know who that lady was, and I presumed it wasn't the mother. When she looked at the lady I was helping, she got really angry and said "I don't want you in here!" It was the mother, and my heart sank when I realised that this was a case of a very dysfunctional family.
I tried to step in, and reasoned with her mother. "Please, she needs help". The mother immediately snapped back at me. "Don't tell me what to do, you don't even know half the story!" I was immediately taken aback, and pretty soon it was mother hurling insults and expletives, and daughter pleading to be let in. The argument soon got heard by the neighbours. A black woman stuck her head out from her front door of the adjoining house, wondering what the fuss was about. Pretty soon, she jumped in telling them to be quiet. The mother was a complete battle-axe, telling her to shut up. I just stood there shocked at the situation.
The mother demanded that the daughter cannot stay at her house, telling her that she has had enough of her. "I've got my own life to live! I don't want you ruining it for me! You drink too much and your friends are into drugs! I've had enough! You're 29 for god sake, Alison!" Alison pleaded that she won't stay, she just needs to come in and get cleaned up. She said that she had found a place to live, but the tenancy agreement did not start in another 2 weeks. The mother was still unsympathetic. I feared that she might just close the window and leave us out in the cold.
She did exactly just that.
But after a couple of minutes of standing outside, she opened the front door and started laying down more demands. She gestured at the beer that Alison was carrying and said, "You can't bring that in here. I don't drink! And I don't want you staying here, you leave by the end of today!"
I helped Alison bring the heavy suitcase inside her mother's house. The inside was a big mess. Inside the house, the mother told Alison to "take her shit of the table", probably demanding that her bag be dumped on the floor. This was a very bad relationship between mother and daughter. I've never seen anything like it before. It was as if I was in a bad episode of Coronation Street. They say that you shouldn't believe everything you see on TV, but when they portray an example of dysfunctional families and domestic violence, take note! It is very real and it exists in our society!
I waited outside, itching to get home, when Alison came outside to say thank you for helping. She asked me for money. I only had a 20 pound note on me, and I just couldn't give that to her. She might use it to buy booze, drugs, or some other illicit materials. She asked for my name, which I gave her, but in her unfit state she mistook it as Gary. I didn't correct her. I believe she asked me for my contact number, and I could've given her my business card, but I basically left her and rushed home as soon as I could.
As soon as I got home, I immediately took a shower. My body was in a sweat, both from the gym and from that experience, and my hands smelt of her blood. It was very unnerving and scary, not just for Alison who will probably sleep on the streets, but for me too. As I washed myself, I immediately thought of the parable of the Good Samaritan from the Bible.
A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead with no clothes..... But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and looked after him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
From this story, I was the part of the Good Samaritan, and Alison was the unfortunate victim. But regrettably, I fell far short of being a Good Samaritan. I couldn't take her to my house. I wasn't able to take her to the nearest A&E, or the nearest women's shelter. I didn't really say much to quell the hostile situation between Alison and her mother. In fact I was pretty useless. I thought that if I was in New Zealand, I could have done more to help her, just because I had a car, and a knowledge of the local facilities. But here in the UK, I have nothing, except the bare essentials.
The realisation, combined with the situation I experienced, distressed me greatly that evening. After a hard workout at the gym, I was looking forward to a big meal, but I had lost my appetite completely. Luckily I had a housemate to talk to about this.
That night, I lay on the couch in the lounge. And like a patient visiting a psychiatrist, I retold the story to Tina. We traded stories, exchanged experiences, and even shared a few laughs. It didn't make the situation right, but at least by talking about it I felt better afterwards, knowing that I did all I could to help Alison. Even now, as I draw on that particular disturbing experience to write this entry, I still can't help wondering what if.
I don't know what happened to Alison that night, and what has become of her now. The only thing I can do is to pray that she has the courage and strength to turn her life around, and that mother and daughter can reconcile on better terms.
For the full parable of the Good Samaritan, please read Luke Chapter 10 verses 25-37.
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