I’d set my sights on Newcastle aged 13, when pocket money and a little extra freedom meant I could catch the train to shop here, and I started getting tickets to go to gigs. In August 2023, when I opened my A-Level results and confirmed my place here, I was overjoyed. I was staying in the North East (but I was far enough to have complete autonomy) to study a subject I loved; I quickly made incredible friends, people I never would have met without coming here. I could go to the Baltic, the Cluny, the Theatre Royal, and be in my bed near the stadium 20 minutes later. I loved my life as a student, and I loved Newcastle.
I’d set my sights on Newcastle aged 13, when pocket money and a little extra freedom meant I could catch the train to shop here, and I started getting tickets to go to gigs.
But here I was, my second assignment season looming ahead, about to walk to work. A man, who’d been frantically shouting at me and following behind me, ran towards me and grabbed hold of me.
He had one arm around my body and the other hand in my hair, trying to wrestle my phone out of my hand. On the other end of the line, my dad was waking my mum up, asking her to call the police, and trying to work out what was happening. My umbrella was still in my left hand, my arm pinned to my side.
I was petrified, but felt a strange sense of calm as I looked around. I was wondering why my dad had gotten up at five in the morning to phone me, why I walked the route along a main road, why I’d chosen student accommodation in town with security, why I bothered to take any safety precautions at all, when this man still had the ability to overpower me.
I had no idea how long I’d been there, shouting at him in a hoarse voice, unable to hit or push him, stamping on his feet, when an unknown hero in a white car stopped and pulled him off me. I stood where I’d been, in absolute disbelief, watching through the now-pouring rain as the man hit the bonnet of the white car. My dad’s voice broke through the daze: “Run! You have to run!”
I didn’t want to run back past him to my flat, through the electric gate that took an age to close, so I ran to work instead; he followed me for a while, but I soon lost him. I made the fifteen-minute walk in five minutes, burst through the door, ran past customers, and into the office. A supervisor came and held me by the shoulders, trying to ask what was wrong, and through tears, I tried to explain what had just happened. I can’t imagine I was very clear. I wasn’t really sure.
I went to sit at one of the customer tables outside; my dad explained that he hadn’t been able to get through to Northumbria Police on 999, so he’d had to ring the non-emergency line, and I’d get a call from them soon. Was I okay? Will I come home? What did work say? Have I spoken to my boyfriend? I had not, so I rang him; he came to work, picked me up, and drove me to my parents’ house. The single most eventful day of my life, and it wasn’t even 7 am.
I got home, took phone calls, and made appointments with police officers. I travelled back to Newcastle, and over the next few days, I gave statements, took an officer to where it had happened, and went over special measures I’d get if it went to court. After the police left me (with a helpline number and promises they’d be in touch), I had to confront the reality of what had happened; I navigated the area immediately surrounding where I lived with a newfound fear that I was unsafe, and my parents had to leave me where I’d been attacked while they’d listened, helpless.
While I wasn’t exactly self-confident in before the attack, I certainly felt that I was taking appropriate measures to ensure my personal safety: I carried a rape alarm (even after it embarrassingly went off in my bag), shared my location, lived in a busy, student-dense area of town, and yes, spoke to my dad on the phone when I walked at unsociable hours.
I never fully anticipated that this could ever happen to me...
Violence against women and girls makes up almost 20% of all recorded crime in England and Wales, it’s been declared a national emergency, and I’ve spent the better part of a decade identifying as a feminist who researches and reads as much as she can about it. Still, I never fully anticipated that this could ever happen to me. It felt like a problem I was too aware of, a risk I carefully mitigated against, and so rather than distant, it felt too close to come true. This was an illusion, obviously, but I hate to think that the alternative is living in fear. There’s certainly a balance, though it’s almost impossible to explain it. This experience changed me; I learned so much about myself and about the world around me, the things I can control and the things I can’t.
After a month, the police contacted me, letting me know that the case would be closed without an arrest: “I have reviewed the footage from the council camera as discussed. Although it does cover the incident, the camera quality isn’t great due to the weather…”. Essentially, no one could be identified and nothing more could be done. It can’t be helped, of course, but it does absolutely nothing to help me. In fact, I even regretted police involvement: I’d dragged my parents up to Newcastle, had to revisit the scene, and went over what had happened again and again.
I had months left in that flat, months more of that walk to work, and no closure that the man who assaulted me had been caught or identified. What was I to do? I had two years left in Newcastle, a city I’d loved, but a city where this man could be anywhere, a city I was now afraid of. The police had adamantly questioned whether I’d seen him before and told me to phone 999, no one else, if I saw him ever again. Did they expect I would?
In all honesty, that summer was ruined. I had my accommodation until August, and I had big plans to stay, to go to Tynemouth, to find an internship in the city, and get overtime at work. I spent so much more time at home than I’d planned to, and I wasted so much money on renting a flat I barely spent time in. I dreaded going to Newcastle, and felt I’d never be the same again. I hated being alone, I hated walking anywhere quiet, I hated walking past men, I hated being there.
I’m in my third year, and it'll soon be two years since it happened. I’ve grown up so much since then, and it breaks my heart to think of the brave face I put on that summer; I went home and tried to convince myself I wasn’t scared. They say time is a great healer, and the ailing never believe them; I’m unfortunately here to say that time has healed me. Well, time, talking therapy, and an incredible city.
Don’t get the wrong impression, I’ve only been back to where it happened once since I moved; it was for an appointment, and it was very unnerving. I felt unsafe and out of place, but recognised that was because of what happened, not because I actually was unsafe at that moment. I certainly don't think I could ever live there again.
I regained my independence, got more comfortable in my own company, and fell back in love with Newcastle.
I moved across the city to the edge of Ouseburn, my favourite neighbourhood, to a house with three amazing girls. This fresh start was vital. Over time, I regained my independence, got more comfortable in my own company, and fell back in love with Newcastle. A year later, I had my summer swimming at Tynemouth, I applied for and completed an internship, I started writing, I went to work, and I got through uni. I’m not preoccupied on every walk, and I go into town without fearing someone dangerous is around every corner.