I Was Assaulted At An Australian Music Festival. It’s Time To Speak Out

I’ve come to think of this time of year as the ‘feminist Purge‘.

— Content Warning: This article contains discussion of sexual assault. — 

Unlike the 2013 movie (directed, written and produced by men), which imagined a 12-hour period of legalised violence as beneficial social catharsis, the International Women’s Day purge sees women share their stories of inequality in a rush from dawn to dusk, capitalising on the empathetic audience they are suddenly afforded. But much like the movie, the IWD purge does not seem to affect high-ranking officials; it becomes entertainment for annual tourists.

That being said, this year I am feeling the urge to purge.

My story is about an incident in 2017. It is not my whole story, nor does it define me, but now more than ever it feels raw and relevant.

It was Easter weekend, and we were gathered in an energetic mass in front of a glowing stage in the country. The annual attendance at Boogie Festival was one I and so many of my friends were devoted to — a joyous three-day release that would catapult us through the rest of the year with good memories and stronger friendships. On the stage in front of me, Jen Cloher was tight and fierce. I watched her every gesture, seeing in her my own defiance, my friends’ strength.

Unfortunately, there were two people in the crowd that night who were not part of the family: a man and woman whose eyes were not on Jen, but on me. It’s pretty normal to get bumped around a bit by a festival crowd, but during the set I started to feel like the person behind was deliberately bothering me. Turning to see, I met the piercing blue eyes of a face I recognised. He was a short man in his late 30s, with a hawkish nose and a thin mouth . We hadn’t met, but I have a good memory for faces and this was one I’d seen at the bar I worked at back in Melbourne. With him was a tall, older woman I did not know.

I turned back to my friends and the music, but over and over I was still being knocked from behind. As a small woman who despises confrontation, I have mastered the art of bending the fabric of time and space to accommodate physically and emotionally larger people. My shoulders can come in inches, my spine contorts, my feet squeeze together to altogether take up the tiniest footprint possible. And so I moved, bit by bit at their direction into whatever space I was allowed. Eventually I was on the fringe of the crowd, my friends only metres away but separated in the dark by so many bodies it could have been miles.

The rest was sudden and slick. The duo hugged me from either side and pulled my pants down far enough for both of them to shove their hands in. I’ll spare further details. The assault was brief, and after an initial paralytic shock I pushed them away and dove back into the crowd. Thinking back, the most disturbing part of the event was that the whole time they never said a word.

It is not my whole story, nor does it define me, but now more than ever it feels raw and relevant.

Later that night I told a friend what happened to me, playing it down to a bite-size sentence that wouldn’t make too much of a scene. She was deeply sympathetic, and we vowed to keep an eye out so we could warn other women of the danger. And so the event passed. But as often, this is only the beginning of the story.

Over the next couple of years I saw the man who had assaulted me at bars back in my neighbourhood. When he turned up alone at the bar I used to work at, I went straight into action. I warned the women working at the bar of a sexual predator, recounting what had happened to me that night. When this story got back to the bar owner, my former boss, he took me aside to have a chat.

“What have you been telling my staff?”

An oddly possessive way to talk about the women I had worked with for years, some of my closest friends. I gave him a brief recap.

“So it didn’t happen here? Not tonight?”

“No…”

“He comes here a lot with his friend. They spend good money over the bar. I don’t know what you think I’m going to do about this, but I’m not kicking him out.”

I hadn’t actually requested he be kicked out, but with such a flat refusal I was stunned. My friends were distressed and apologetic, knowing that that was in fact exactly what should be done. Eventually, one of them took the initiative to go against her boss and told my assailant he had to leave. There were no questions, no anger. He slunk out the door immediately, with a relieved air that he had perhaps gotten away lightly.

It’s 2019 and I am back playing at Boogie. The blue-eyed man is here. I have not seen the woman he was with since that first night in 2017, this year he is always alone. My safe space, my favourite weekend, is no longer what it was. He seems to pop up everywhere I am, but I see no recognition on his face. When he is not around, I am looking for him in crowds and talking about him. I’m becoming a bit of a bummer. So I post my frustration on Facebook, and toss my phone back in my tent.

The next morning I am inundated with concerned messages, including one from the festival itself, asking me to come and talk to them if I felt up to it. Tired and unsure, I did.

What happened in the site office is the rest of the story. I sat in the open shed trying to explain to a woman why I was there, trying not to cry. A handful of staff were joking around and interrupted with the occasional ball of paper thrown our way, at which she would laugh and return to my sad story with an apology. A folder of festival policies was retrieved, she couldn’t recall if they had one on sexual assault. Another woman joined the conversation — she had clocked off and was not pleased. Like my workplace, I was asked: “What exactly do you want us to do about this? He bought a ticket. We can’t exactly kick him out.”

Oh, and: “It didn’t happen this year? I think you need to be a bit more understanding. People can really change in two years.”

I got the message. Before I went to leave, they suggested I could stick around to file a police report. I did not. I needed to be somewhere I could scream, I needed to be with friends.

Boogie is looming again this year for its last hurrah. The festival’s end is bittersweet — I won’t be going, but I ache for the memories I used to have of its community and strength, warmth and release. There was nothing like it. But I can see now that it relied heavily on the goodwill of those who attended, the music lovers, artists, volunteers, the young people who donated their energy to make it the magical place it was.

There is a strong loyalty to my community which has kept me from going public with this story, worried I would ruin for others what was ruined for me.

There is a strong loyalty to my community which has kept me from going public with this story, worried I would ruin for others what was ruined for me. But we should feel no loyalty to institutions that brush aside sexual assault, that are more concerned with protecting themselves than the women within.

I’ve been watching in pain the evolving story of sexual misconduct in the Australian government this past month. I feel the anger of so many women around me recognising the same structural failures which rely on individuals to manage their own trauma, while the prevailing concern is avoiding blame, preserving men’s reputations.

Perhaps we are finally at the point where the Australian music industry can face its own shameful #MeToo reality. Last year, Brisbane musician Jaguar Jonze shared her experiences of sexual assault on social media, prompting many more stories of misconduct about the same man. Months later, a new Instagram account @BeneaththeGlassCeiling was created anonymously to give voice to stories of inequality and abuse in the industry.

In January this year New Zealand had its #MeToo moment when top female artists released an open letter calling for changes in the music industry, following allegations of sexual harassment by men in positions of power.

As COVID-19 continues to impact the music industry, it is more important than ever that we address the structures we are putting back in place. We find ourselves stripped of work as gigs are slow to restart, and the energy it takes to dive back into a scene that is rife with discrimination and assault is exhausting.

The incident I have described here was not my first experience of assault. It was not the worst, and it was unfortunately not the last.

All I can say to other women out there is seize these moments to share your stories. Purge. The more we know, the better armed we all are. To men, if you care at all then be proactive. Ask your female friends and colleagues how they are, what difficulties they face. Listen first. Then act. And if you are one of the lucky few who runs a venue or festival, look at the policies you have in place. How hard are you making it for women to feel heard, to feel safe?

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Kelly Day is a musician and designer, and one-half of Melbourne band Broads. 

Photo Credit: Giuseppe Manfra/Getty

If you or someone you know is impacted by sexual assault, domestic or family violence call 1800RESPECT on 1800 737 732 or visit 1800RESPECT.org.au. In an emergency, call 000.

Men can access anonymous confidential telephone counselling to help to stop using violent and controlling behaviour through the Men’s Referral Service on 1300 766 491.

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Statement from Boogie Festival:

We are devastated there was an alleged incident of sexual assault at our festival in 2017. We take this situation extremely seriously. Firstly, we acknowledge and appreciate the courage it has taken for Kelly to come forward.

We do not tolerate or condone any kind of harassment, assault, violence or aggressive behaviour at Boogie or beyond its fences. Such behaviour is totally unacceptable.

The safety and wellbeing of our patrons, volunteers, artists, staff, vendors and community is and always has been our number one priority. Our management staff are trained in sexual assault protocols and procedures. We have 24-hour medical staff support and facilities, site office and security guards from gates open to gates close. We also have a 24-hour Patron Safety Hotline. We work closely with police and ambulance and have a direct line to them during the event.

This year our staff will undergo further response disclosure training, we are bringing back the Boogie Angels crowd care team and working on more initiatives to be announced in the coming weeks. We will also continue to actively promote and encourage respect towards one another through all communications in the lead up and throughout the festival.

We work hard to create a fun, loving and safe space at Boogie and to provide a respectful and supportive environment where everyone can feel comfortable. If anyone sees or experiences any kind of anti-social behaviour at Boogie, we encourage them to report it via the Patron Safety Hotline or to a Boogie staff member or security.

Boogie was born out of love, respect, family and community, and any type of anti-social behaviour couldn’t be further from the true Boogie spirit in which the festival is intended.

If this has brought up any issues for you personally, here are some places you can get help:

1800 Respect
Sexual Assault Crisis Line
Beyond Blue
QLife
Minus18