I grew up in the Weoley Castle suburb of Birmingham. It was a rough area. In the first year of senior school (year 7 in today’s money) I was threatened with masonry while walking to school with my brother.
We were crossing the recreation ground known colloquially as “the green hill”. About 50 yards ahead were two lads coming our way. One left the path and went into the hedge. I thought it was an unusual place to take a leak - in bushes at the back of someone’s house! - but if you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.
As we approached he emerged from the hedge holding a piece of masonry above his head. It was two bricks stuck together with some concrete. He held it aloft, with the back of his hand pointing towards the sky. He was ready to bring it down on mine or my brother’s head.
It sums up Weoley Castle: “I want to violently assault you but I can’t afford a knife … this bit of masonry will do!”
I was a rabbit in headlights; staring wide eyed at my brother and thinking “is this really happening?” The attacker didn’t say anything but my brother reacted immediately, saying, “Hey man, come on, let’s not do this.”
“Come on, let it go.” repeated my brother, before giving a glance at the second guy, in a plea for sanity. We shuffled sideways in an arc around the two lads, always keeping eye contact, and backed off in the direction of school.
I do believe that if the second guy had lost his cool we would have had our heads bashed open but his lack of action gave us time to move away.
Continuing our walk to school my brother explained he’d met the two lads outside a shop a few days earlier. He didn’t say why, but ultimately my brother had ran for his life through the streets away from the same two guys. We were unlucky to meet them so soon afterwards and be recognised.
It was a couple of years later that I was threatened with a knife.
It was the last lesson of the day and the teacher asked a small group of us to run an errand before assembly. By the time we’d finished it was only a few minutes before the bell rang before the end of the day so we headed out the gates. We dispersed in different directions and, by the time I had crossed the dual carriageway and turned towards home, I was walking alone.
The streets were eerily quiet - the calm before the storm - as behind me, in the school’s main hall, 1000 kids were shuffling in their seats, expectantly waiting for the bell that signalled freedom.
On the corner opposite my school was The Castle pub. Two lads were sitting on the wall of the car park. I remember deliberately not making eye contact with them but I do remember noticing they were a few years older than me but still of school age and probably playing truant.
I had gone no more than 20 yards beyond them when a knife flew past my shoulder and skidded along the pavement, making a metallic noise as it skimmed the tarmac.
I didn’t know what had been thrown at me until I reached the object. Once I had seen the knife on the ground I had just a second to react. I knew if I left the knife lying there they would retrieve it and throw it at me again. Without giving any thought beyond the here-and-now I found myself picking it up.
I now had the knife in my hands and didn’t know what to do with it. I had no intention of starting a knife fight on two kids who were both bigger than me, so I simply started walking.
It was a solid, heavy knife, the word “Ottawa” was engraved on the handle with a city skyline which I presumed represented said city.
I didn’t get far when an arm came over my shoulder and I felt a hand around my neck. I was pulled round to face them.
“Give me the knife,” he said.
“Oh, is this your knife?” I asked sarcastically (I was genuinely angry).
“Give me the fucking knife,” he repeated.
“What’s the capital of Canada?” I asked.
It was a deliberately facetious question brought about by the rage that was clouding my judgement.
There was no reply. It wasn’t his knife; it was almost certainly stolen or found.
I realised the end of this bizarre conversation meant I had run out of options. If I didn’t return the knife the two lads, who were both bigger than me, would easily overpower me and then stab me. If I gave the knife back they may do the same. There was no good outcome but I thought my chances were better if I handed the knife back. I did so respectfully - holding the blade and presenting it handle first.
We all paused to see what would happen next.
It was the other lad - the one who wasn’t holding the knife - who said, in a low voice, “Stab him.” Then in a more assertive tone, “Stab him!”
I looked at the lad holding the knife straight in the eyes. It was all up to him, and him alone, if I was going to be stabbed. He could stab me if he wanted but he would not be walking away uninjured. I would defend myself to the last breath, turning the knife on either of them if I could.
Whether he sensed that in my body language or whether he simply didn’t share his friend’s desire to see blood, I don’t know. I do believe that if I had turned and run I would have been chased and stabbed. By holding my ground I forced the attacker to make a choice.
There were no words as we looked at each other. He blinked first. He looked at his mate, then turned and walked away.
I never reported the incident to the police. It wasn’t something you did in my neighbourhood. Phoning the police and saying, “Hello, I live in Weoley Castle and I’ve been threatened with a knife,” is a tautology. What are the police going to say? “Yes, we are aware that Weoley Castle is a rough area.” File a statement? It’s not that the police would refuse to help, it's that you have low expectations of the police and, more importantly, of the area you live in.
When you live in a rough area these kinds of incidents are a part of life. The fact they happen so frequently shows that society doesn’t care about your run down neighbourhood, so you don’t expect anyone to be interested if you report a minor skirmish.
Now I live in a world where being threatened with a knife is rare and I understand that you would report such incidents to the police. You might even expect the assailant to be arrested and charged. There is a tendency for people in this peaceful world to look down in bewilderment over how people in poor areas behave.
There is an ongoing disconnect between these two worlds. The reduction of front-line police officers is only increasing this disconnect. The very people who can see, understand and advise how to tackle the problem are being removed from the civil service, leaving only those who condemn.
People carry knives to feel safe - those who haven’t lived surrounded by violence don’t understand this logic. They see a knife on the streets as a potential weapon and a potential stabbing. That’s true, but if you’re going to get stabbed by someone else’s knife it’s perfectly reasonable to feel protected by carrying your own. It’s flawed logic of course - look at my encounter: how would carrying a knife have helped me? I was outnumbered and would have easily been overpowered. My knife would have just become an extra weapon for my attackers.
Choosing to carry a knife leads to an arms race which no one can win, but let’s not pass judgement on those who choose to, because it requires us to presume their reasons.
We need to encourage people to hand in their knives. Knife amnesties help but there should be more incentive and less punishment for those who carry a knife. We need to understand these people’s fears and encourage them to hand in weapons without condemnation from society.
We need to be honest and admit that some neighbourhoods can’t be policed perfectly - places where we need to be satisfied with preventing future stabbings over treating anyone carrying a knife as a criminal. This lowering of expectations isn’t a “point of no return” or even a “step in the wrong direction”; on the contrary, prioritising effort is the first step to returning the rule of law in these areas.
We need to draw a clear line between those who carry a knife and those who have used a knife. In doing so we can remove knives from our streets more effectively.