The refuge itself houses eight families, with up to 21 children; most residents are mother-children pairings, although some women arrive alone, too. They are not legally bound to stay in the premises, and it is not an institution. Men are not allowed to enter the premises. The refuge gives the feel of a large, well-kept student home rather than that of a place for escapees. The rooms are warm and clean, and a few toys are scattered on the floor in a living space that leads on to a garden where a rainbow-coloured apparatus is played on by the children. The women cook for themselves in the shared kitchen, and the staff – dressed in normal clothes so as to give the feel of a more "relaxed" environment – are friendly. Recently a disabled-access lift and easy-access bathroom were built to accommodate disabled domestic violence survivors.



Women arrive to the refuge, from across the UK, in a state of shock. They have left their partners after months or years of emotional and physical abuse. Often, they have had little time to collect personal items before fleeing, and arrive with almost no possessions.

The women all share stories of survival, and the pattern of events that led them to the refuge are the same: She noticed her ex-partner became increasingly controlling; he moved closer to their home; he would comment on her appearance and weight, wearing down any self-esteem they once had; he pestered her to quit her job so he could provide for her, forcing her to rely on him with no financial independence. Little by little, the behaviour would escalate into severe forms of financial, physical, and mental abuse.

They also all had a “last straw” moment: when the abuse was directed at their child, or when the child was kidnapped and wasn't returned to her until she obtained a court order. One woman couldn’t report her abusive partner to the police because she was warned that if she alerted the authorities of the abuse but didn't have the correct Home Office forms, she’d be deported.

Inside, a collective of women – many of whom are often survivors of domestic violence themselves – run the day-to-day operation: They apply for funding, organise the children's schooling, and provide emotional and practical support.



“It’s very difficult to explain refuge life,” Hannah, who has worked at the refuge for three years, tells BuzzFeed News. “I don’t think you’d ever understand the extent of it unless you worked here every day. A lot of women arrive with just the clothes on their back – no clothing for the children, no nappies, no belongings. They often have anxiety, or are extremely fearful. They essentially have to start their lives again.”



Day-to-day, Hannah, a qualified therapist specialising in bonding and group therapy, serves as a point of call for the survivors. Her work starts “as soon as they step through the door". The immediate task is to make the house "feel like their home", so the women are given cutlery, pots, toys, bedding, and toiletries, paid for by the "transition fund" that the staff raise money for every year.

Her work, Hannah says, is rewarding. “We get to see a family come in completely broken, and then leave happy and safe.”

Beyond the emotional support and offer of a safe new home, the domestic violence survivors also look to Hannah and the other staff to help them regain control of their lives. The staff perform a multitude of roles that spill outside their initial remit as employees of the refuge: One colleague files the school applications for the children, another seeks funding for child minders, another introduces the women to local charities and welfare.



The refuge staff are also pushing the women’s cases forward to police authorities and the Crown Prosecution Service in an attempt to secure stronger conviction rates of domestic violence. Where police and court efforts fall short, refuges like this one fill in the gaps and become the only viable option for women who want to keep themselves and their children alive. Despite facing severe financial cuts and uncertainty, it is the refuge employees fighting for justice for the women, many of whom have lost hope in the authorities ability to convict the abusive partners.



The task is far from easy.

“Sometimes we have a police officer who is brilliant, who support the client fully and give us more we can ask for and more,” Hannah says. “But we also have to often deal with police who do not realise the extent of domestic violence, the patterns, and face trouble getting rid of the stigma that comes with it.”

Hannah and the other employees serve as the intermediary point of call between the women and authorities, a buffer to put in calls to police to chase up court documents and complaints. A “large chunk of time” is spent chasing police reports and talking through cases and complaints with police officers over the phone – time she and the other staff wish they could spend with the women and their children.

“Just recently I had to go above a police officer to their sergeant because I felt a response he gave to one of our clients was disgusting," she says. "There’s no safeguarding in place for the women, and her safety was not paramount, nor were her family’s, so we have to protect them.”



The refuge staff say they are constantly in talks with police and the CPS for the sake of women who “don’t have the confidence to fight” their cases against abusive partners. They find it difficult to encourage the women to pursue cases when prosecution rates are so low, inspiring little hope in the survivors of abuse.

“I sometimes think police expect that when they tell the women no further action will be taken, that they will accept it," Hannah says. "What they don’t realise is that there are people like us who are there with the women to step in and say, ‘No, hold on a minute, you have enough evidence, you should be using this law, or that law, this is clearly what’s been going on.’ I feel like I’m constantly learning and searching for facts on the internet that says this law means this and this law stands for that, and then I quote it to them."

Hannah and the team are self-taught "experts" in the laws surrounding domestic violence: She says that when she and her team quote back to police officers the law they’ve researched – “the other day I told an officer about the coercive control law and that it was introduced last December, and he realised I knew what I was talking about” – officers listen and often “rethink” their response.



"It’s likely they just don’t have full understanding or training," she says.