It wasn't my child

In 1993, when I was 19 with a two year old niece, another two year old was the victim of a particularly horrifying murder.  The vileness of the case wasn't just because a life was taken.  It was because it was such a young life, that such a level of violence had been endured by the baby before his death (which was nothing short of horrific); and that the perpetrators were mere children themselves.

Our reaction as a society should cause us shame.  We railed on these children, and they were only children, called for their lives in exchange, threatened them, banged on the sides of the vans that transported them to and from their trials, persecuted their families, and became obsessive with seeing "justice be done."  It was a damnation of us that they had been allowed to live in the shocking conditions that they both did; that they had "fallen down the cracks"; that nobody cared what had prompted their disengagement from the societal norm.

It has been interesting (if, by interesting, you mean utterly abhorrent) to read the differing interpretations of the reasons for Venables' behaviour that led to his recall under licence.

Whereas some areas of the media have seen his revelations of his actual identity as part of a breakdown, symptomatic of a person who cannot reconcile who they are and what they have done other, more sickening, areas have postulated him as revealing his identity due to a messiah complex, that he is revelling in his notoriety.

I have no idea which of these is true.  It would give me comfort, as I imagine it would most of us, to think it is the former; comfort because it would mean that he did care about what he did, that he was feeling an inordinate amount of remorse for his actions.  The idea that he would be lauding his crime does not ring true when, as a 10 year old, he sought and was denied the comfort of his mother whilst at trial.

What I am very aware of is that we do not know what happened for him to be recalled.  The number of crimes for which you can be recalled under licence are wide.  Their description of "serious allegations" is one to be determined on investigation, and we should all remember that, at this point, they are allegations.

It is wrong, both morally and legally, for the media to speculate on what has occurred.  The witch hunters should bear in mind that any information that is revealed will ensure that not only Venables' trial will go awry but others will also.  If a male of 27 years with dark hair is set before a jury, it will not take long for them to add 2 + 2 to make 5.  It seems odd that a nation, so suddenly obsessed with "seeing justice done", would want this to occur.

I did not know who Venables or Thompson were then, what sort of children they were.  We do not know how they have adjusted to who they were, if they understand what they did, if they can comprehend the devastation their actions caused.  We do not know them as adults, we do not know if the horror of their past has made them spiral into mental disintegration, or whether they have evolved into serial abusers.  We do not know, and to pretend otherwise is supposition based on minimal information, information that is potentially damaging and harmful to all involved.

We do not know who James Bulger would have been either, and the tragedy is that his family never knew what sort of child he would have been, or teenager.  They suffered a brutal loss, and one that is unimaginable to any who have not lived through it.  They did not just lose a child, one was taken from them; subjected to torture, and whose hours on the earth were filled with terror, pain, and upset. 

At the time that it happened, I was working as a press reader, reading the stories and the material daily until I couldn't ingest any more.  Every night I went to see my niece, I held her close, and was grateful that it hadn't been her.  Every night, I would scrub my skin in the bath, because I couldn't reconcile how two babies could have done this to another baby, I couldn't comprehend how we, allegedly cogent and evolved, could bay for their blood.

Now, as it re-enters our hive consciousness in a way that, for some, it has never left, I am a parent.  When I look at my children, the idea that anyone would hurt them causes me physical pain.  To think any further past that leaves me inconsolable.  I couldn't conceive what my feelings would be were I in Bulgers' parents position.  I suspect I would act with substantially less dignity than they have.

I like to think that, regardless of what my children do, I will always love and support them.  I don't know what sort of adults they will become; I can speculate on it, but that doesn't mean that it will come true. We like to think that our offspring will reflect us in all our glory; we never think that they may not. 

According to stereotype, there is strong evidence that my children will commit crime (single parent family, different fathers, living in a "socially deprived" area as per OfSted, lack of money, they have learning difficulties etc).  So did my own childhood, yet the worst I have done thus far is to absent mindedly stick a pen in my pony tail before leaving the office for the day.

I suppose what I have taken many rambling paragraphs to say is that I am a hypocrite. 

I want for this boy, this victim in his own right, unequivocal justice.  I want for him, should it be warranted, to have a fair trial.  I want for him not to be hounded.  I want him, should he be suffering psychologically, to receive treatment.  I want for him to be afforded the same rights as anyone else who is accused.

I also want for James Bulger to still be alive.

We can all sit; make judgements, decisions, based on minimal information and poor journalism.  We can scream liberally or illiberally, but the only fact that we have at our disposal is this.

It wasn't our child.  It wasn't our children.  We do not know.  And how can we ever even pretend to?