(Please continue with caution and note the trigger warning!)
It’s been a couple of weeks.
Starting with a gut-punch and ending with you wondering..
“I’m I still processing — or just running on fumes, instant coffee and autopiloting.”
Marjama Osman.
The 26-years-old woman, killed in Croydon.
Violently. Publicly. Left in the streets.
Our hearts goes out to her mother and other loved ones.
A man was finally charged.
“Still innocent until proven guilty” – the echo haunts.
But the air has resurfaced – giving just enough to breathe, again.
You see, when the news hit, for a moment, it’s like the world stopped.
Just long enough for the grief to crack the skin.
Just long enough for the tears to find their way in — in between the spreadsheets, the WhatsApp threads, and the same bowl of cereal my son likes to eat.
Was I the only one who felt it?
The rage. The fear. The exhaustion.
The “something has to change!”
The “not another one!”
The “how many more?”
The messages. The phone calls. The holding spaces.
The stairwell cries in between meetings.
“No – of course not!” they said back.
Some sat still in church halls, holding in the tears – silently praying “no more“.
Some walked barefoot in the park, hugging trees to feel something rooted.
Some planted seeds in her memory — because when another woman has lost her life, we plant it right back.
But then…
Everything moved on.
The jolt. The ache.
The sickening sense that something irreversible had happened — and yet the world kept spinning on.
Bins still needed collecting.
Emails still needed answering.
Meetings went on — lucky if you got “a moment of silence” before someone says “Thanks everyone, now onto the next one.”
But inside?
Some of us were not okay.
We were grieving.
We were triggered.
We were holding our own trauma while supporting others..
No. This isn’t about the legal case but collective grief and pain in this space.
And yes, there is the bigger picture..
The one we’ve had to explain, that too often, it’s not that random.
It’s a pattern. It’s male violence.
Predictable. Preventable. Persistently ignored.
These moments bring it all back.
The grief. The rage. The memories.
Every time you weren’t believed.
Every time you felt the danger no one else could.. or would.
Every time another man strikes again, and the room…
Just. Moved. On.
(Deep breath. Sigh.)
The sharp, gut-deep reminder that he is still out there.
Still moving freely, his mask intact, his violence unnamed.
He can. He will. And he just might again — because we keep treating these deaths like isolated incidents.
Instead of what they are:
The outcome of a system built to excuse, enable and erase – male violence.
No, not every man is like that, in fact, men can also be the victim.
But the stats shows – men are majority the perpetrators and women – the victim.
This isn’t just about “violence against women and girls (VAWG).”
NO. Let’s call it what it is:
Male violence against women and girls (MVAWG)
And it keeps happening — despite the reports, the panels, the action plans, the “lessons learned.”
Not enough for Marjama..
Not fast enough to save the two women killed by men.
In Croydon. In just the first half of 2025.
That’s the brutal truth.
And it sent shockwaves through and through.
Somewhere in midst of all that blur, I found myself in meetings.
Coordinating responses. Supporting survivors. Hold systems to account.
And then this one meeting…
Short notice.
“Hopeful?”
We showed up — because we always do.
Because maybe, just maybe — this may be the one.
The one where the real strategic conversations happen..
About abusive men:
About patriarchy.
About power and control.
About intimate terrorists..
Otherwise known as coercive control.
Instead, was it just another talk show?
With no real outcomes?
Was it performative?
Well-meaning but hollow?
Or was I just too tired to tell the difference?
Honestly? I don’t know.
All I know is I left more drained, more disheartened, and more empty than before I came.
And I know I wasn’t the only one.
But this isn’t about one meeting.
It’s about the wider system:
- Of being invited to the table, not to co-create, but to co-sign.
- Of being told to show up “strong,” even when you’re bruised.
- Of being asked to speak the truth, then politely told to whisper..
- Of watching survivor stories become PR liabilities the moment the real truth enters.
It’s about the exhausting cycle of male violence — not just on our bodies or lives, but also on our time, space and reality.
And how little room we’re given to pause before we’re called to re-engage, to fix and to champion the cause.
So… what do we do with all of this?
Some days, I. Don’t. know.
But today, I choose to write.
Not to wrap this in a neat ending or five-point plan.
Just a collective sigh and a simple call to action.
With maybe the comfort of knowing:
You’re not the only one who feels like the world moved too quickly on..
Here’s what I do know:
- You’re not wrong for still carrying it.
- You’re not broken. Or too emotional.
You’re responding normally to a violent, abnormal reality.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe it’s your mum, daughter, sister, auntie, or another loved-one.
For me? It’s — my grandmother Nella.
Gone but never forgotten.
Stolen by male violence.
Though her spirit always lives on.
Protecting her daughters and grand-daughters from the same finale.. (Deep breath)
So, if you’ve cried in a stairwell, locked yourself in a toilet, held a friend in silence, cancelled a meeting, or just needed to breathe —
You are not alone.
You are surviving.
And we need the truth.
We need accountability.
We need safe spaces. Safety that isn’t performative. Change that isn’t conditional.
Approaches that are systematically joined-up, consistent and led by those who really knows.
And most of all?
We need to protect our hope.
Not hand it out to every shiny “opportunity” that ends up being another cup of tea — politely distracting from the real work.
But we move.
Because “Who feels it knows.”
And because we care.
Because when our backs are against the wall..
Giving up is not an option.
Because if we don’t – who will?
But this time, let it be different.
Let it not cost us our entire peace and reality.
No. Not anymore.
✨ A space to grieve. A space to breathe. A space for us.
After the shock.
After the silence.
After being told, “it’s not that bad, carry on” — it’s time we move together.
And this year, we will march together.
But first, we’re creating a women-only safe space for those still carrying the weight.
A space to grieve. To be supported. To speak. To eat.
To light a candle – to remember Marjama Osman.
And our other loved ones.
To be heal. To feel. To begin again — together.
🗓 Saturday 5th July
🕙 11am – 3pm
📍 (Location shared upon booking)
It’s FREE. But spaces are limited —
So we can hold it with care..
Please reserve your place here
Come as you are.
Bring your whole self – or whatever piece is left.
We’ll hold each other together from here on.
Unapologetically,
Tamar
Tamar's Riddim 