To my children, I may not have been a perfect father but my love for you is immeasurable. Equally the pain i feel is unbearable. This fight is for everyone's children and only time will tell how many children did I save from the horrors bestowed on all who are abused.
My story is meant for every victim of abuse, and I truly empathise with your pain. Let's step into the light together and help society understand that we will no longer remain silent. This is always about the children
Love Dad xxxx
I was never meant to survive !
When a child is thrown into the depths of cruelty, when their screams go unanswered, the world tells them - without words - that they are disposable. That no one will come and that no one cares.
I learned that lesson early. I learned that the hands of so-called men could tear apart innocence with laughter, that survival meant keeping quiet, staying invisible, staying obedient. That if you fought back, there would be consequences.
I spent years moving in the shadows, hiding from the monsters that walked freely, breathing the same air as the people who pretended not to see. I slept where I could, I worked until exhaustion numbed the pain and all the while, I carried the weight of silence, the burden of knowing that justice wasn’t coming - not for me, not for anyone like me.
But silence was never meant for me.
I burned with something no one could strip away, the refusal to be erased, the refusal to let them win and when I finally stood up and I faced the truth head-on, I knew they could take everything, but they would never take my voice.
This is what drives me, this is why I refuse to turn away when I see injustice because I know what it feels like to be invisible and I will never let another child feel that way again.
I was eleven years old the first time I thought I was going to die!
The Barracks
The tower loomed above me - 120 feet of cold brick - surrounded by men who laughed as they dangled me over the edge. My body trembled, my mind screamed for mercy, but I knew better, there was no mercy here. No one coming to save me.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I knew that would only make it worse, instead, I focused on the sheer terror in my chest, the way my small hands clung to the edge for survival, the feeling of gravity pulling me downward like it had already decided my fate.
They played with me. A game, like I was nothing more than entertainment. My life, my fear - it was sport to them.
Eventually, they pulled me back. Not because they had any shred of humanity, but because they weren’t done with me yet.
That day, I learned that survival wasn’t about strength. It was about endurance.
The Hall
I lay still. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.
The absinthe burned in my throat, the Valium turned my limbs into lead. My mind fought to resist the fog, to hold on to something real - but all that remained was sensation. Sweat. Cigars. Alcohol soaked breath. The sound of laughter - hyenas circling their prey.
I was the prey.
The woods
The blue BMW passed by, headlights cutting through the dark. St John’s Ambulance. Dogs sniffing the air. Searching. But they never found me. And even if they had, would it have mattered? Would anyone have cared?
A warm house stood nearby, walls filled with life. Food, safety, warmth - the things I was forced to watch from the outside. But the door was locked, and inside sat the man who was supposed to protect me. My father.
I was thirteen. Cold. Hungry. Stripped of dignity, stripped of choice, stripped of any illusion that this world had mercy.
And all I could do was think of her. My mother. The only person who could have fought for me. But she was gone. She left our world when I was eleven by her own hand - why? - a question I will never have an answer to until 40 years later. And I was here, alone.
And I wanted - more than anything - to understand why.
The home a trap!
For a brief moment, I thought I was safe.
It had been a rare gesture - my father telling me I could stay for tea, an invitation that felt almost like mercy. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally seeing me. Maybe the door wouldn’t lock behind me tonight.
But then he arrived.
The perpetrator, stepping in like he belonged there, like this was already decided. A casual ask - could I help collect waste paper? My father didn’t hesitate, didn’t look at me, didn’t consider the weight in my stomach as I realised what was happening. He simply ushered me out the door, eager to return to his life, unaware - or unwilling to see - that he was delivering me straight into hell.
I climbed into the Luton van, surrounded by stacks of discarded paper, knowing exactly what was coming. This wasn’t just waste collection. This wasn’t just a favour. This was my fate, and my father had sent me into it without a second thought.
Later, they would tell him I could stay the night - with his son, they claimed. But there was no bedroom waiting for me. Only a barn. Cold, filthy, empty except for the monsters who held me there.
When morning came, I wasn’t rescued. I wasn’t saved. I was simply released, expected to carry on like nothing had happened.
So I did. Delivering on my first of four jobs I had on the co-op milk truck starting at 5.30am, then stepping into a classroom as if the night before hadn’t stolen another piece of me.
No one asked. No one saw.
And so the cycle continued.
The Tunnels
Darkness pressed against my skin, thick and suffocating, broken only by the dull flicker of burning torches. Heavy smoke. The scent of something acrid, something sickly sweet - the kind of smell that clung to me long after it was over.
I was weightless, but not free. Strapped into a crude pulley system, dragged through the tunnel like cargo, limp from whatever they had given me. My body existed, but I couldn’t command it - not my legs, not my arms, not even my eyes. My vision narrowed to a tunnel of its own, trapping me within a reality I had no power to escape.
And then, the sounds.
**Chatter. Low voices moving through the space like whispers through stone. The rustling of unseen figures. Animals? People? I didn’t know. I only felt ** - the presence of something beyond me, something I wasn’t supposed to understand.
The alter stood at the centre of it all, significant to them - but to me, it was a grave. A place where reality twisted, where time lost its meaning. And when it was over, when they finally released me, I emerged coated in something - a dye, staining my clothes, the same kind used for marking sheep. As if I was nothing more than livestock.
The cold settled deep inside me, never fully leaving. And even now, my body remembers. It shudders, it recoils. The fear never died - it only waits, buried beneath layers of survival.
Sergeants Mess
I learned not to flinch.
Not when the belt landed against my bottom, always in the same place, always measured, always controlled. Not when the sting settled into my skin, deep enough to ache but never enough to show to the world. That was the point - to leave the marks where no one would see, where no one could ask.
I limped between tables, serving men who found amusement in my pain, who decided when I was allowed to walk and when I wasn’t. Until one day, I could no longer move, my body refusing to obey - so they found another way to break me.
The indoor firing range.
They tied me at different lengths, laughing as they forced me to hobble between targets. The shots rang out, slicing through the air, whistling past me with sickening speed. Were the rounds real? It didn’t matter. The terror was.
And when they tired of their game, they took the rest.
I shut my eyes, but the smells remained. The damp stench of army gear, sweat and dirt from the training ground. The sharp bite of discharged rounds, the bitter taste of fear lodged in my throat. These things don’t fade. They cling to you, sink into your skin, wrap themselves around the darkest corners of memory.
They never leave.
The Diary
I was never supposed to remember.
They counted on fear to keep me quiet. On exhaustion to wear me down. On isolation to make me doubt myself. But I refused.
Instead, I wrote.
Every attack. Every vehicle. Registration numbers. Colours. The smells, the places, the dates. I captured it all, 287 entries of undeniable truth, a ledger of their crimes that they could never rewrite.
And later, when the world tried to question, when justice wavered, that diary stood firm. Because I was not the only one. Others had been trapped in the same nightmare, and my pages - my proof - became theirs, too.
They thought they had won. They thought they had buried the truth beneath years of silence, shame, and fear.
But they were wrong.
Because the truth was written. And I never let it go.
This is just a snippet of my life as a child and it is traumatic to recount the horrors I went through and no one will ever understand the impact it had on me which I relive every day. We - all child victims - are prisoners in our minds for the rest of our lives and there is no escape but occasionally temporary relief until you close your eyes again. Do not ever believe or tell yourself that counselling and therapy will help, it wont! The damage is done, the trust is gone, difficulty in forming relationships is always there and NO YOU DONT BECOME AN OFFENDER that is just an excuse by people who are simply looking for an excuse to carry out sickening depraved sexual urges. I am not looking for sympathy and my story is no worse that any child who has been subjected to grooming and sexual abuse, what I want is for people to wake up and help form a bond that cannot be broken and stand together to stop this trade.
If you think this isn’t your fight, you are wrong. If you turn away because it’s uncomfortable, you are complicit. If you stay silent, you are part of the problem.
Do you know what it means to wake up screaming, trapped in the memories of a childhood stolen? Do you know what it means to feel filth clinging to your skin, to hear laughter as you are stripped of your dignity, your safety, your humanity?
No, you don’t. Because you are comfortable. Because you get to choose whether to care. But children do not get to choose. Survivors do not get to forget. We live with it. Every day. Every night.
And the people who do this? They walk free.
They reoffend. They laugh at lenient sentences. They know the system protects them more than it protects their victims.
When YOU refuse to look away.
When YOU speak out.
When YOU hold the system accountable.
When YOU stop pretending this is someone else’s problem.
Because the next child screaming in the dark could be yours.
Do something. Or accept that your silence makes you no better than the monsters who did this.
Welcome to the JAOC Community
The **JAOC (Just an Ordinary Citizen) Community** is a collective of individuals dedicated to promoting truth, justice, and freedom. Our mission is to empower ordinary citizens with the knowledge and resources they need to stand up for their rights and make a positive impact in their communities. We believe that every person has the potential to be a catalyst for change, and we are committed to providing a platform for sharing information, supporting one another, and advocating for a fairer, more transparent society.
At the heart of the JAOC Community lies a deep commitment to three core values: freedom, empowerment, and truth.
Freedom is the cornerstone of our community. We believe in the fundamental right of every individual to live their lives without unjust constraints, to speak their minds, and to pursue their dreams. We strive to protect and promote civil liberties, ensuring that everyone can enjoy the benefits of a free and open society.
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Truth is the foundation of our mission. In a world where misinformation and deception can easily spread, we are dedicated to uncovering and sharing the facts. We hold ourselves to the highest standards of integrity and transparency, believing that an informed public is essential for a healthy democracy. By championing truth, we build trust and foster a more just and equitable world.
Together, these principles guide our actions and shape our vision for the future. The JAOC Community is more than just a group of individuals; it is a movement dedicated to making the world a better place, one step at a time.
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Million Women March: A Stand Against Child Abuse
Denmark's strict immigration policies have recently made headlines with the implementation of a "zero refugee" policy. Since Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen came to power in 2019, Denmark has taken a firm stance on immigration, resulting in a significant decline in asylum admissions.
The UK government has announced a new initiative aimed at educating potential migrants. This initiative, unveiled by Foreign Secretary David Lammy during his visit to Tunisia, involves up to £5 million in extra funding for education programs in countries across the region. The goal is to make would-be migrants more employable in their home countries, thereby reducing the likelihood of them making the perilous journey across the Channel.
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