Blog: Caron’s Story

Content note: domestic abuse, immigration control, bereavement.

This is Caron’s story, told by her friend Max. Caron was gentle and kind, a migrant woman working hard to build a life. At home she faced abuse. Afraid that seeking help would risk her job, papers and right to stay, she was left without safety. Caron should have been protected, whatever her immigration status. This Black History Month we share her story with care to honour her life and to call for change, so every woman gets the right support, at the right time.

I still have her voice messages on my phone. Sometimes, I play them. Her voice was soft and gentle, that was Caron. Always gentle. Always kind.

We met on the bus, heading in the same direction, going to work, both of us migrant women, both survivors. Caron clung to me. From the moment she arrived in the UK she was told she was not allowed friends. Thank God for that bus joining us together.

During these bus rides we shared so much, because we understood each other. You do not even need to explain the kind of silence we lived in. We both came here to build a life, to work hard, to belong. We helped each other outside of those bus rides, including supporting her family back home in Jamaica with a barrel filled with items like clothes.

She worked at the local factory, long hours, never complaining. She just wanted to make her way. But home was not safe. She was so scared of her husband, who was subjecting her to so much abuse, including intimidating her family back home if she reported anything in the UK.

Later, when she was in end-of-life care with stage 4 cancer, she realised that in order to live she must fight, but it was too late.

We both knew what it was to be scared not just of a man, but of a system.

Sometimes we would sit and talk quietly, pray together, comfort each other. We both knew what it was to be scared not just of a man, but of a system. You think, if I leave, will I lose my job. My papers. My right to stay. That fear keeps you trapped.

One day we escaped, just for a day. She needed to go to Birmingham to sort out some immigration papers. She told him she had a cleaning job. We laughed about it. That little story felt like a whole lot of escape.

On the train, she smiled a real smile. We took pictures, sent them home to Jamaica. This was one of the only times she left the city, got to spend the whole day outside, walk around the town.

But he never stopped calling. The phone rang again and again. She would say, “Yes, I am just cleaning.” His family called too. It was non-stop. I watched her panic, wrapped in fear but also happy to be away. Even on our day of freedom, she was not free.

That is what this country does to women like us, makes us choose between safety and survival.

When she got sick, she still went to work. She said, “If I stop, I cannot pay the fees.” Cancer spreading, and she was worrying about immigration papers. It was accelerating faster than the process. That is what this country does to women like us, makes us choose between safety and survival.

She tried to reach out. Domestic abuse services were tied up and said funding rules meant they could not help with refuge. She had been attacked with a machete and during an argument he would use everyday objects and turn them into weapons to cause horrible injuries.

In her last moments on this earth we spent time praying that her daughter could come to the hospital and visit from Jamaica. The last attempt was met with a no. She died a few days later. The medics say it was the cancer, but I think it was also the brokenness she carried.

When she passed, all of us and her friends came together. The same ones she was not allowed to see. The same ones who were stopped by him from visiting her before and when she was sick, not even to drop off shopping or get-well gifts. The same ones who supported her when he threw her out of the home she was forced to pay all the bills for. The same ones who watched her beg him to let her back in the house, only for him to allow her to stay in the dampest and dullest of rooms despite being so sick.

Caron gave everything. Her work, her care, her heart. She should have been safe. She should have been protected, no matter what her immigration status was.

Now, when I hear her voice, I remember her strength, and I remind myself why we keep fighting. For women like Caron. She was quiet. But if we listen, we can hear her loud and clear.

*Names and details may be changed for safety.

With special thanks to Max for sharing Caron’s story and to by-and-for service Bambuuu CIC.

If you need support: In an emergency call 999. For specialist support and information visit safelives.org.uk/gethelp

Listen to Caron’s story, narrated by her friend Max.

SafeLives · Caron's Story

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