Whit(ie) Flight…

As a journalist, I’d devoted years to infiltrating London’s violent teenage gangs, and filmed two TV documentaries on the subject. Slowly gaining their confidence, I got close to several of the hardest gang members, entering drug dealer-controlled ‘no-go’ zones where even the police wouldn’t venture.

I’d wanted to understand what triggered their anti-social behaviour and to help them articulate their feelings without resorting to violence.

Well, that sounds very progressive of you, sweetie. Tell me something, though? How do you feel about them now?

We’d just left our local newsagent’s, magazine firmly in my little son’s hand, when we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a 12-strong gang of hooded youths who were chasing a girl who looked no older than 14.

One grabbed her and started battering her with an umbrella, but she managed to get away. Then the youths gave chase, throwing bottles and shouting obscenities. It looked as though they meant to kill her.

As members of a rival gang appeared from nowhere, bottles rained down all around us. When one ricocheted off the pram canopy — waking my one-year-old with a start — I froze.

Gosh, how awful! Someone needs to try to understand these ‘youths’, clearly…

Grabbing my sons and frantically pushing the pram with one hand, I rushed to get them home as quickly as possible. Then to my horror, Zach broke free of my grip and blindly ran back into what was now a full-on turf war.

He’d dropped his magazine, which had been trampled underfoot, its pages scattered across the pavement. Oblivious to the mayhem, he attempted to gather it up as tears rolled down his cheeks. Terrified for him, I pulled the pram and my five-year-old back towards where Zach now stood rooted to the spot as more gang members came tearing up a side street.

I heard myself scream as a bottle skimmed Zach’s head, missing him by millimetres, glass smashing around his feet — later I found shards in his shoes. Then I did something I never thought I’d do: I ran, clutching my terrified children. In my panic, I lost control of the pram which swerved precariously and almost overturned twice.

So, any description of these ‘gang members’?

It was the wrong thing to do, of course. I’d drawn attention to my fleeing family, and a splinter group gave chase after us, calling out ‘get the whities’.

Ah. Thanks. That’ll do.

I called the police, but other than recalling the fear etched in the features of the young girl who was being hunted down like a dog — her repeated, helpless yells of ‘I don’t have it, I don’t have it’, echoing round my head — I realised that I was a useless witness.

I was unable to give a description of any one of the perpetrators.

Probably wise, in the circumstances. After all, they probably got a very good description of you...

Ironically, we moved to this area six years ago because it seemed safer than our previous address in West London where my husband was knocked unconscious and had his jaw shattered in a vicious, unprovoked assault by youths.

Ah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? While you’ve got people who make a tidy living by excusing and understanding these feral youths, they are spreading. Why not? Who's to stop them?

There’s more and more of them every year, making it harder and harder to find ‘safe zones’:

But now it seems nowhere in our cities is immune to the gang rivalry spilling over from neighbouring districts.

It’s not just an isolated example either, is it?

Our street no longer feels safe — groups of hooded, spliff-smoking youths patrol the pavements as though they own them. Just weeks ago, when late for school pick-up, I challenged a group of teenagers to make way for my pram, asking them if they really expected me to push my child into the busy road.

They turned on me, becoming verbally abusive and threatening. Determined not to be a victim for a second time, I pushed my way through them. And then a bottle was thrown in my direction — it smashed into a parked car nearby.

Gosh. They need to be understood. Have you tried to gain their trust? Perhaps you can help them to articulate their feelings in a different way?

There is not a night that I don’t hear a siren close by.

More than once I have awoken to see the end of our road cordoned off by police after yet another gang-related crime.

And so….you’re doing what all the craven progressives do when the vibrant diversity gets a little too close to home; cut and run:

We’ve now decided to move out to the countryside, albeit close enough to the city so that the boys can still go to the same excellent schools. But thousands of other families don’t have that choice. I just hope the police crackdown will enable them to finally sleep soundly in their beds.

But you don’t really care if it doesn’t, do you?

After all, as you point out, having used these ‘youths’ to springboard your career, you can now afford to do a Billy Bragg and move somewhere less vibrant and diverse. The rest of us aren't so lucky.

And I don't expect I'll see any articles or films from you in the future, pointing out how these feral animals don't need to be understood, they need to be stamped on hard. You'll just forget it all, like some bad dream.

But you know what? These kids are your kids, in a way, every bit as much as little Zach, Mallick and Rocco, aren't they? You helped to create them, after all...