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Slumlands — filthy secret of the modern mega-city

Across the world, slums are home to a billion people. The rich elite want the shanty towns cleared,

There is a long curve of water and, as far as the eye can see, there are shacks, garbage, washing, tin, bits of wood, scraps of cloth, rats and children. The water is grey, but at the edges there's a flotsam of multicoloured plastic rubbish. This is the Estero de San Miguel, the front line in an undeclared war between the rich and poor of Manila. Figures emerge from creaky doors to move along bits of walkway. In the deep distance is the dome of a mosque; beyond that are skyscrapers.

Mena Cinco, a community leader here, volunteers to take me in - but only about 50 yards. After that, she cannot guarantee my safety. At the bottom of a ladder, the central mystery of the Estero de San Miguel is revealed: a long tunnel, four feet wide, dark except for the occasional bare bulb. It's just like an old coal mine, with rickety joists, shafts of light and pools of what I'm hoping is water on the floor. All along the tunnel are doors into the homes of as many as 6,000 people.

We knock on the first one that's ajar. Oliver Baldera comes blinking to it, pulling on his shirt. On the floor behind him are his four kids, eating ice cream. His wife joins him.

The room is eight feet by eight and forms their entire dwelling space. It contains everything they own: a television, four bowls of ice cream, a light bulb, a mattress and the clothes they are wearing. "We've been here more than ten years," he says. "There's no choice. I'm a carpenter in the construction industry. We came from Mindanao."

Why did he move? "Because of poverty. It's easier to get a job here and I can earn 400 pesos a day. I can send the kids to school and they eat three times a day - but it's not enough. I need more space."

“But they're happy," Mena chips in.

Further along, there's a shaft of light and some kids are splashing about in a blow-up pool. Mena makes them sing. One of them comes up to me. "What's it like living here?" I ask. Mena mutters something to him in Filipino. "Happy," he says, and smiles.

This is a place where you cannot stride along without hitting your head or bruising your elbow, so people creep and shuffle. Here, you cannot go to the toilet without standing in a queue. Here, sex between a man and a woman has tohappen within breathing distance of their kids and earshot of 20 other families. This is the classic 21st-century slum. A billion people live in them, one in seven of the world's population. By 2050, according to the United Nations, there could be three billion. The slum is the filthy secret of the modern mega-city, the hidden achievement of 20 years ofuntrammelled market forces, greed, neglect and graft.

Yet Mena, at my elbow, is feeding me an incessant mantra: "We are happy; there is social cohesion here; we are organised; it is clean." The reason is this - the Estero de San Miguel has been condemned. The president of the Philippines, Benigno "Noynoy" Aquino, has decided to clear Manila's slums and send half a million people back to the countryside. That suits the business elite and the political clans that run the country fine. "Many of our people are no longer interested in agriculture, so we need to give them incentives to go back," says Cecilia Alba, head of the national Housing and Urban Development Co-ordinating Council. "If we had to rehouse the slum-dwellers inside Manila in medium-rise housing, it would cost a third of the national budget."

At the top of the list for relocation are the residents of the Estero de San Miguel. They will not go without a fight. "We will barricade and we will revolt if we have to," Mena says. "We will resist slum clearance and we will fight to defend our community. We are happy here."

This is not an idle threat. On 28 April, residents of the Laperal slum a few miles away engaged demolition teams with Molotov cocktails and guns in a riot that injured six policemen and numerous slum-dwellers. An arson attack had wiped out most of the area's dwellings ten days earlier.

Technically, global policy is on the side of the rioters. In 2003, an influential UN report, entitled The Challenge of Slums, signalled a shift away from the old slum-clearance policies and recognised that informal settlements make positive contributions to economic development. They house new migrants; because they are dense, they use land efficiently; they are culturally diverse; and they offer numerous opportunities for ragged-trousered entrepreneurs.

“Ten years ago, we used to dream that cities would become slum-free," says Muhammad Khadim of UN-Habitat. "The approach has changed. People see the positives. The approach now is not to clear them but to improve them gradually [and] regularise land tenure."

Cameron Sinclair, who runs the non-profit design firm Architecture for Humanity, goes further. "A slum is a resilient urban animal. You cannot pry it away," he tells me. "It's like a good parasite. There are some parasites that attack the body and you have to get rid of them but, within the city, the informal settlement is a parasite that acts in harmony with the city, keeps it in check."

Sinclair, whose organisation has upgraded slums in Brazil, Kenya and South Africa, believes that modern city design should not only tolerate slums but learn from them - and even emulate them. "To be honest, what we lack in a place like London is that the lower classes can't live in central London and have to commute for two and a half hours to do the jobs that keep people going."

What has driven the new thinking is ugly economic facts. After the 1970s, there was a sharp slowdown in the provision of social housing. The free-market revolution in the cities has led to the retreat of state provision, the rise of the informal economy and the rapid impoverishment of the rural poor. As a result, we are having to ask ourselves a question that would have made the 19th-century fathers of city planning shudder: do we have to learn to live with slums for ever?

It's a question to which the Filipino political elite have defiantly answered no.

“Should I buy them ice cream?" Regina "Gina" Lopez asks me, tilting her white Stetson as she leads me through what is left of a slum called the Estero de Paco. Teenage boys wearing hip-hop clothes and baseball hats are crowding, shirtless, around Gina. It's one of their birthdays, so should she buy them ice cream? Gina's trouser suit is the colour of ice cream. She is lithe, slinky and 61 years old. Among the 30 people with her are two cops, a media team of six, guys from the local community, her bodyguards, factotums and a man in dark glasses who is carrying her handbag.

Gina is a TV star, philanthropist, boss of the Pasig River Rehabilitation Commission and, most importantly, a member of the Lopez family. Lopez Inc owns much of downtown Manila - the energy company, a TV empire, a phone company - and has interests in all kinds of infrastructure, including water. Who better than Gina, in a country untroubled by worries about conflict of interest, to lead the forcible removal of slum-dwellers from the waterways?

The Estero de Paco used to have slums right down to the water's edge, just like the San Miguel. Now, instead of shacks, there is a neat border of agapanthus and rubber plants. State-of-the-art oxidation units are turning the brown sludge into something chemically close to H2O. Into the space that has been cleared, work gangs are laying a wide-bore sewage pipe.

As Gina approaches, a group of women from the slum falls into line and salutes. The women are middle-aged and poor; their T-shirts bear the words "River Warriors". They stand to attention and Gina, Prada-clad, goes into a drill routine: "River Warriors, atten . . . shun!" Then there are slogans about honour and playing for the team and some more of the drill, before they all fall about laughing. "I ordered them to dive into the water," she giggles.

The idea behind the River Warriors is serious. The clearance of the Estero de Paco was "non-negotiable". The Warriors' job is to make sure that those who have been cleared do not come back. "They will poo here! They will throw garbage," Gina says. "They would come back, if we didn't guard the place. So we work with the ones who are compliant. To make a change like this, you have to work with a chosen few, the vanguard."

The clearance programme works like a giant scalpel. Four metres of land is all that is needed to create the easement for the waste pipe, so a second, deeper layer of slums remains - you can see where something has sheared through walls, windows, dirt, alleyways. This is social engineering on a vast scale. It's what the government has decreed for half a million people. Like the slum-clearers of 19th-century London and New York, Gina has a missionary enthusiasm. "You can't live well if you're faced with the constant smell of faeces, right? You can't live a decent life on top of a sewer. Even if those people want to stay there, [they can't because] it has a wider impact on the city, the environment: we can't clean the water and bring the river back to life if they're there; the crime and sickness have a big impact on the environment."

With Gina out of earshot, two of the River Warrior women quietly tell me that they are secret returnees. They were moved on to a place called Calauan, four hours away by road, but have come back. I demand to see Calauan. "No problem," says Gina, flipping open her mobile phone. "Get me aviation."

The chopper skims low across Manila Bay. It's fringed with slums and, out in the bay, there are homes on stilts. "Even the sea is squatted," Monchet Olives, Gina's chief of staff, tells me. Soon, the skyscraper outline of downtown Manila disappears. We're above rice paddies; in the distance, there are mountains. Calauan comes into view - neat rows of single-storey housing, their tin roofs glinting. The whole complex houses about 6,000 families and there is room for many more.

On the streets, density is not a problem. The public space is deserted. There's a playground; there's a school with the name Oscar Lopez painted on the roof. The problem is - as Monchet concedes - there is no electricity, no running water and no prospect of ever getting any. And no jobs. "When it comes to electricity, we're between a rock and a hard place," he says. "Many of the new residents have never been used to paying bills, and the electricity company, to make the investment, needs an income stream that they just can't provide."

I notice that we're being shadowed by two soldiers, in camouflage and with assault rifles, on motorbikes. "That's because of the New People's Army. Guerrilla activity is what made them abandon this place for ten years."

Deep in the jungle? "No, just up there on the hill." Monchet waves his finger in the general direction of the landscape, which suddenly looks a lot like the treeline in the opening credits of Apocalypse Now.

Ruben Petrache was one of those who moved here from the Estero de Paco. He is in his fifties and has been seriously ill. His home is a spacious terraced hut. It has a tin roof, tinfoil in­sulation to keep the heat down, a pretty garden and a "mezzanine" arrangement that creates two bedrooms, such as you would see in a loft. Ruben's English is not so good, so Monchet translates: "What he's saying is that although the community is disrupted, he thinks it's better here. For him, at least. Once you get here, after a while, you realise that you'd become accustomed to conditions that were insanitary. You learn to move on, live in a new way."

For electricity, he points to the solar panel; for water, to the barrel collecting rainwater on his porch. Are there any downsides?

“It would be better if there was a factory here, because we need more jobs," Monchet summarises. Later, with a translator, I work out what Ruben, hand-picked by the camp's authorities, was trying to say: "What the people need is a job. We need a company nearby so that we don't have to go to Manila. Also, we need electricity. Many residents here know how to fix electric fans, radios, but the problem is, even if they have the skills, they cannot [use] it because there is no electricity here - so they are forced to go to Manila to find work and earn money to buy food.

“We are hard workers. If we don't do anything, we might die of hunger here. That's why many go back to Manila: to look for work and earn money."
In the covered market, the stalls are stocked with meat, rice and vegetables but there are more stallholders than shoppers. Gloria Cruz, a 38-year-old mother, is holding forth on a kara­oke machine to three toddlers, two other mums, the ArmaLite-toting soldiers and me. After a couple of verses, she hits the pause button. "My husband goes to Manila to work," she says. "He comes back at weekends. It's the same for everybody. There's nothing here."

Felino Palafox is an architect who specialises in the construction of vast, space-age projects in the Middle East and Asia - mosques, Buddhist temples, futuristic towers on the Persian Gulf - always for people with money to burn.

Now, however, he wants to save the Estero de San Miguel: to rebuild it, in situ, with new materials. The plan is to clear it bit by bit and put inmodular housing. Each plot will be ten square metres; the ground floor will be reserved for retail and tricycle parking, the floors above extending out above the walkway, just as slum-dwellers build their homes - "stealing the air from the planning authorities", Palafox calls it. "The slum-dwellers," he adds, "are experts at live-work space design. They spontaneously do mixed-use! We just have to learn from them."

From the roof of the tower block in Makati, the central business district, where his practice has its headquarters, he gives me a primer in what has gone wrong. He indicates the neighbouring tower blocks - "monuments to graft" - and the gated compounds downtown where the rich live. To the government, which says his design is too expensive, he says: "OK, the total cost of rehousing slum-dwellers in situ is 30 per cent of GDP [but] I calculate we lose about 30 per cent of the country's wealth through corruption. If we didn't have corruption, we wouldn't need to tolerate slums." He sees the Estero de San Miguel as a test case: if he can make it work there, it's scalable to each of the city's riverside slums. So the stakes are huge.

Father Norberto Carcellar, who has worked for much of his life with Manila's poor, thinks that the elite are engaged in a huge self-deception about the question of slum clearance: "We have to recognise the value of slum-dwellers to the city. These are the ones who drive your car, clean your house and run your store. If these people were cleared from the city, the city would die. Slum-dwellers add social, political and economic value to the city."

That sentiment would have seemed alien to our grandparents' generation: I can still hear mine, brought up in Edwardian poverty in a coal and cotton town in northern England, spitting out the word "slum" with disgust. For them, slums meant a dog-eat-dog, dirty world where solidarity could not flourish and people lived like animals and treated their kids worse. Thirty years of globalisation have produced something which defies that stereotype. With Mena at my side, I'm about to witness it.

As it is Saturday night, there is a full complement of beefy guys with sticks, rice flails and flashlights - the volunteer police force of the Estero de San Miguel. Mena and I turn off into an alleyway opposite a McDonald's. You would hardly know it's there. The passage narrows, jinks around, and suddenly it feels as if I am in a novel by Charles Dickens.

On a bridge that is less than a metre wide, a man is squatting beside a barbecue. Because of the smoke, I don't see that it is a bridge until
I'm on it, or that below us is the canal, which is about two metres wide here. The dwellings are built so close together that the mothers peering out of the upstairs bedrooms, made of wooden boxes, could shake their neighbours' hands. If you'd decided to remake Oliver Twist as an expressionist film and this was the proposed set design, you would probably sack the designer, saying: "It's too much, too grotesque."

We head down into the tunnel, stooping now, because it is less than five feet high. After passing a poker game and a stray chicken, I come to a store that is run by Agnes Cabagauan. It sells the same things as every slum store in the world: sachets of Silvikrin hair product, Cif, Head & Shoulders shampoo, the Filipino version of Marlboro cigarettes, lighters, tampons and chewing gum. "My parents helped me set up [the store] to pay for my education," Agnes tells me.

What are you studying?

“Business admin. I have a degree. I also have a day job in a large corporation - coding in a sales department."

And you live here? "Yes. I was born here." She is 22 years old.

Then we run into Mena's son; he's an engineering student. As we cross another bridge, the unmistakable whizz and pop of something digital come blasting across the stagnant water. It's an internet café. There are nine computers crammed into a plywood hut. A dog yaps and runs around; the light is harsh. Some kids are on Facebook. Others are playing online poker. One young woman is doing her CV, another is engrossed in a game called Audition. She, too, is at college, she tells me, multitasking between her BlackBerry and the game.

Business admin? Yup.

In the space of a hundred yards, I have encountered three graduates, a DIY police force and the social media revolution. As I become used to the smoke, the wail and chatter of children, the chickens and the confined space, I learn what a billion people have had to learn: it's not so bad. "Other places have prostitution. We don't," Mena says. "We get drunks and a bit of drug-taking but it's under control. We look out for each other. We can see everything that happens - it's one big family. The main job for the volunteer police force is to look out for arsonists. Settlements under threat of clearance have a habit of getting burned down." As she discourses on the fine details of social policy in the five-foot-high niche that is her living room and kitchen, I ask the question I should have posed when we first met. How did she become so politically literate?

“I majored in political science at the University of Manila."

What slum-dwellers have produced (and I've seen it not just here but in Cairo, Nairobi, Lima and La Paz) is something the slum clearance tsars of yesteryear would not recognise - the orderly, solidaristic slum, or what the UN calls the "slum of hope".

The debate, at the global level, is no longer about how fast to tear these places down but whether we can meet the rapidly developing aspirations of highly educated people in tin shacks. To those who dream that, as capitalism develops, it will eradicate slums, Sinclair of Architecture for Humanity says dream on. "You can't fight something that has a stronger model than you [do]. It's never going to happen again. The fact of it is that if you tried to do it in some of these informal settlements, they could take out the city . . . march on the central business district, and it's game over."

Paul Mason reports from Manila on Tuesday 16 August in "Slums 101" (Radio 4, 8pm) and on "Newsnight" (BBC2, 10.30pm).

This article first appeared in the 08 August 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Slum rule

Mike Lombardo via @moreMiLo
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“I was almost brainwashed by him”: How male YouTubers get away with preying on young fans

A multitude of YouTube stars have been accused of taking advantage of young fans, but little is being done to tackle the problem.

In June, a 24-year-old YouTuber named Austin Jones was charged with two counts of producing images of child abuse. Court documents allege that the internet personality – who has more than half a million subscribers to his YouTube channel – solicited explicit videos from two of his young female fans. According to the criminal complaint, Jones asked one of the teenage girls – known only as Victim B – to dance for him, and said: “Bounce again and smile at the camera while you bounce. And while you bounce, say ‘I’m only 14’ 3 times throughout the video.” Jones has been released on bail and is awaiting trial. Jones’ attorney Gerardo Solon Gutierrez points out that the singer is “innocent until proven guilty”.

A few weeks later, a YouTuber known as Durte Dom was accused of filming a 15-year-old girl from behind while she danced at a party, without her consent. “He filmed my ass dancing,” the girl wrote anonymously on Twitter. Dom responded to the allegations via the social network, writing: “the party was 18+, the girl snuck in. don't fool yourself.” He says he will now “start having people sign release forms” before he films them.

These allegations are not isolated. In 2014, a Tumblr user called Olga accused the YouTuber Tom Milsom of coercing her into sexual activities when she was 15 and he was 21. Milsom did not comment publicly on the accusations and was never charged. Only a month earlier, a YouTube musician, Mike Lombardo, was jailed for five years on child pornography charges after soliciting explicit photographs and videos from 11 of his underage fans. 

These events set off a series of other allegations. Vlogger Alex Day admitted to having “manipulative relationships with women” after 14 women and teenage girls accused him of manipulation and abuse. One anonymous 15-year-old wrote on Tumblr that Day had sex with her knowing she was underage and “didn’t listen to me when I asked to stop”. Day denied any sexual relations with underage girls, and none of his alleged victims pressed charges. Another YouTuber, Ed Blann, admitted in a now-deleted Tumblr post that he “manipulated” an of-age fan into sex even after he was “repeatedly told to stop”. Like Day, Blann never faced any charges, but, also like Day, he apologised for his actions.  

 In September 2014, a 19-year-old woman accused the YouTube prankster Sam Pepper of raping her, and another woman filed a police report accusing him of rape. Pepper denied the accusations, was never arrested and charges were never filed. He did, however, apologise for YouTube pranks that included pinching women’s behinds while wearing a fake hand.

A Tumblr post set up to track emotional and sexual abuse in the YouTube community to date features allegations against 43 YouTubers.

***

Social media revolutionised the concept of celebrity – and celebrity-fan interactions. YouTubers are both incredibly adored and incredibly accessible. Products they design sell out overnight and their live events fill arenas. At the same time, fans are often just a few clicks away from engaging in private, one-on-one conversations with their heroes.

“I feel like I was kind of blinded to the whole situation, like I was almost brainwashed by him,” says Ashley LaPrade, a 16-year-old who claims that when she was 15, Austin Jones coerced her into creating sexualised videos on the messaging app Kik. She posted screenshots of their conversations on social media after the news of Jones’s arrest broke.

“It was kind of casual at first and he asked me to model his merchandise for him... so I did. I took a couple pictures and I’m a gymnast so I was trying to like impress him and I did like splits and stuff,” she says. She alleges that Jones asked her to film herself from behind while bending down or dancing. “I didn't want to upset him and make him not like me,” she says.

LaPrade explains that as a young 15-year-old fan she “looked up” to Jones and was initially excited by his interest in her. After she began to feel uncomfortable with his requests, they stopped talking, but she continued to listen to his music and go to his concerts. She says that she only realised the severity of his actions after his arrest.

Many young fans like Ashley are initially unable to comprehend that anything wrong – legally or morally – has happened to them. Neesey Pathan is a 20-year-old student and YouTuber who claims she was sexually harassed by Sam Pepper when she was 15. In 2014, she posted a YouTube video of her allegations, showing screenshots of alleged conversations with Pepper in which he asks her to “do a naked a dance” and show him her cleavage.

“As a young naïve 15-year old girl, I just wanted to keep talking to him because I was a huge fan,” Neesey tells me. “When he started to get inappropriate with me, at the time that made me feel uncomfortable but I didn’t understand how serious that was, because of how young I was.

“I wanted him to stop being inappropriate with me but I didn't want him to stop speaking to me.”

***

Since the concept of celebrity was invented, nefarious individuals have used their fame to manipulate and take sexual advantage of young fans. In the 1970s, Lori Mattix was a “baby groupie” to musicians – alleging in a Thrillist article that she lost her virginity to David Bowie aged just 14. When the guitarist Ted Nugent couldn’t legally marry 17-year-old Pele Massa, he became her guardian instead. Anna Garcia met Prince aged 15 and began a relationship with him aged 17. “I guess it’s kind of a dream to a young girl of 17,” she said in the Nineties. “You can be influenced very easily and stuff like that because he’s 12-13 years older than me.”

It now seems as though a slew of YouTubers have taken advantage of this imbalanced fan-creator relationship, and have deliberately exploited the naivety of their young fans. Ashley and Neesey both claim they were emotionally manipulated.

“I think I put him on this pedestal, which put him in a position to very easily manipulate me and get what he wanted,” says Neesey. “I was just so excited to get to speak to someone who I had looked up to for a long time.”

Ashley claims that when she wouldn’t film increasingly explicit videos for Jones, he treated her coldly. “He went on about how he was in a bad mood now and he didn’t want to talk any more,” she says. “If I did something wrong to him, like if I didn’t blow a kiss or something, then he would make me redo [the video].”

In 2015, Jones was first accused of asking his underage fans to film themselves twerking. In a video entitled “Setting The Record Straight”, he admitted to asking for the twerking videos and said he became suicidal after this news became public. “I’m a pretty insecure person... I began researching different suicide methods. I started planning my suicide. It’s something I was very, very serious about,” he says in the video. 

“A lot of times when we were talking he was talking about how he was going to therapy so I kind of felt bad for him and that’s why I didn't really say anything [to the authorities],” says Ashley.

The American National Domestic Violence Hotline outlines on its website that threatening suicide can be a form of emotional abuse. “If your partner regularly threatens suicide, particularly whenever you’re not doing something he or she wants you to do, or when you’re trying to leave the relationship... this is a form of emotional abuse.”

According to Neesey’s screenshots, Pepper flippantly mentioned he was “suicidal” when she refused to show him her breasts. In Olga’s blogpost about Tom Milsom, she alleges: “he’d like sob and cut himself in front of me he threatened weird suicidal shit a lot”.

“Obviously, if someone is saying to you that they're suicidal, you want to help them, because obviously they don't mean it but as a young person you think they do,” explains Neesey. “And you don't want to be held responsible for them hurting themselves and you maybe care about this person because you’ve been watching them for so long. So you’re manipulated into carrying on contact with them because if you don’t, what will happen...” 

***

To date, Lombardo is the only YouTuber who has ever been jailed for sexually abusing his fans. There are a multitude of reasons for this. Some victims are too afraid to press charges, fearing backlash from a YouTuber’s fandom. Many victims are unable to see the severity of their abuse until they are older. More still are manipulated into silence. Parents can’t comprehend YouTube stardom, and fail to understand what is happening in their children’s lives. Some victims simply don’t know which authorities to turn to.

“I'm kind of steaming about this whole issue,” says Michelle LaPrade, Ashley’s mother. “I can’t even look at a picture of the guy. It makes me want to punch him.”

At the time, Ashley never told her mother about Jones’s behaviour, but Michelle overheard conversations about it between her daughter and her friends. “I feel like a bad mother. I never even really investigated it. Because I know girls and their drama and you know, [they] overreact sometimes.”

After Jones’s arrest, Michelle wanted to report his interactions with Ashley to the authorities, but she found her local police department unhelpful. “I don't know who to turn to,” she says.

Many more victims are unaware that a crime has even occurred. “When I was 15 I didn't see how problematic it was,” says Neesey. “I knew it was a bit strange, and I did feel uncomfortable, but I didn't realise that he was actually sort of committing a crime in terms of asking a minor, as an adult, to do these things...

“It wouldn't even have crossed my mind to go to the police.”

While the UK has the large-scale Operation Yewtree into sexual abuse by celebrities, there is no equivalent for YouTube. Despite the multitude of allegations spanning half a decade, there is no single helpline or dedicated investigation into YouTube abuse. When questioned on this, a Home Office spokesperson said:

“We cannot allow social media platforms to be looked upon as a safe space for predators to target our children and share indecent images. It is vital that communication service providers have easily identifiable reporting systems for people to flag inappropriate or illegal content – and that they are clear about what is and isn’t allowed on their sites.”

A YouTube spokesperson said: “We have clear policies against harassment and we enforce these policies by removing both flagged content and comments that break our rules as well as terminating the accounts of repeat offenders.”

Sam Pepper is still on YouTube, where his channel has over two million subscribers. Alex Day returned to YouTube in December 2015, and now has over 80,000 subscribers. Austin Jones’s YouTube channel remains live, though he is not allowed to use social media before his trial.

***

“I feel like it is really hard to be taken seriously,” says Ashley. On social media, people are prone to victim-blaming Ashley and other alleged victims, saying that they should have stopped replying to the YouTubers harassing them. “Yeah, we did send stuff back but it was... we were being pressured into it and we didn't want to upset him or anything like that,” Ashley says. Her mother tells me she is glad Ashley “took the high ground” in not sending overtly sexual videos to Jones.

Unsure which authorities to speak to, many victims turn to social media to discuss their abuse. Accusations play out on Tumblr, Twitter and YouTube itself. Ashley tweeted screenshots of her interactions with Jones, while Neesey created two videos about her conversations with Pepper. Although this is an effective, and unprecedented, way for victims to get their voices heard, many online are distrustful of complaints that didn’t go through the authorities. Many more leave misogynistic and hateful comments.

“People will just be absolutely horrible to you and call you demeaning things... I got called a flirt, I got told it was all my fault because I continued speaking to him...” says Neesey, of the reaction to her videos. “I think that's a lot of the reason why people sometimes don’t come forward, because they don't want to go through all that stress again. They’ve already dealt with the situation; why would they want to deal with the stress of people being horrible to them about it?”

Some commenters criticise Neesey and other victims who have made YouTube videos and claim they were doing so for attention. “No one in their right mind would do it for attention because the attention you get is negative,” Neesey says. “I honestly don’t believe that someone would sit down and accuse someone of doing something if they didn’t mean it. So I really think it should be taken seriously.”

Whether it makes sense to those outside of the community or not, many victims' first recourse is social media, not the police or authorities. The accusations about Durte Dom – the YouTuber who allegedly filmed a 15-year-old dancing – were publicised by another YouTuber, Elijah Daniel, on his Twitter page.

Damon Fizzy is a YouTuber who called out Austin Jones after the initial accusations in 2015, and continues to do so on Twitter now. Although he agreed to speak with me, he was unable to find time to do so over a series of weeks.

For many YouTubers and their victims, social media is more important that the traditional media. Perhaps this makes sense – when the Mail Online covered the arrest of Lombardo, the YouTuber who solicited child abuse images from 11 underage fans, they added inverted commas around the word “star” in their headline. If the media and the authorities can’t take YouTube seriously, how seriously will they take accusations of YouTuber abuse?

***

In the past, YouTubers have often been good at self-policing. Hank and John Green are American brothers who run the YouTube channel Vlogbrothers, which has over three million subscribers. They own a record label, DFTBA, and run the annual YouTube convention VidCon. Lombardo and Day were DFTBA artists, and were dropped from the label after the accusations emerged. The Green brothers also banned Pepper from VidCon.

After the storm of accusations in 2014, an enormous number of popular YouTubers made videos in response. Hank Green explained consent to his audience, while the comedy YouTuber TomSka created a guide to YouTube gatherings. The popular YouTube duo Jack and Dean even made a music video about consent. The community came together to exile those who weren’t being punished in other ways. The subscriber numbers on the accused’s channels dropped dramatically.

Yet within a few months, many disgraced YouTubers can return to the platform to harness a new generation of fans, many of whom might not be aware of the accusations.

“YouTube still allows them to create content and make money off it, and that to me is just communicating that the behaviour is just not that bad. It’s sort of equivalent to a slap on the wrist and it doesn't convey the extremity of the situation of what they’ve done,” says Neesey. “I think they should be completely ostracised from the community, and have their status stripped from them, and I think YouTube should support that. Because they’re criminals.”

On Twitter, YouTuber Damon Fizzy claims he received backlash from Jones’s fans when trying to speak out years ago. “It’s crazy the backlash I received versus now. I was literally treated worse than the person who uses his underage fans for sexual gain,” he wrote.

And it’s true that YouTubers’ leagues of adoring fans can make it difficult to speak out about abuse. It is hard for many adults to understand how consuming being a young fan can be, particularly when manipulation is involved. When I ask both Ashley and Neesey what they would say to young female fans who start talking to YouTubers, they both say this is fine. Neesey warns that when a youngster becomes uncomfortable, they should end communication, but both she and Ashley feel that safe, normal fan-creator interaction is fine, indeed desirable.  

Sapphire Putt is a 20-year-old who claims a YouTuber coerced her into filming videos of herself dancing when she was 16. When I ask if she thinks it would be OK for the YouTuber to return to YouTube, she says she would be “cautious” but “wouldn’t throw the possibility of maybe giving him a chance again”.

“If he actually shows that he’s learned, you know, I would give it a chance and if he would mess it up again then that’s it, you know.”

When I ask Ashley what she would say to people who remain fans of Austin Jones she says: “I’d say that I probably understand... but they also need to understand that what he’s doing isn’t right and no one should be treated the way he is treating people.”

***

The NSPCC is currently calling for an independent regulator to scrutinise internet companies and fine them if they fail to keep children safe.

“We want the government to draw up a list of minimum standards that internet companies must observe to protect children, and children should be automatically offered safer accounts that protect them from grooming and harmful content,” an NSPCC spokesperson says.

“We know from our Childline service that online sexual exploitation is increasing so it’s vital that more is done to protect young people from abusers who use social media to target and manipulate them.”

For now, Ashley is simply glad things didn’t go further. “It's scary not knowing what could've happened, knowing that I was brainwashed like to believe it was OK, and I'm just happy he's not able to message other girls at this point,” she says.

Neesey hopes that schools will get better at teaching consent. “As a young person, I knew I felt a bit uncomfortable but I just thought that I was being dramatic... so I think people need to be educated, for sure.”  She says education needs to be improved not just in schools, but in the media.

“Unfortunately, people are sort of used to it now, after quite a few YouTubers, so it’s sort of like, ‘Oh another one.' People aren’t talking about it as much – not that it’s old news, but it’s not as shocking. People aren’t giving it as much attention as it needs.”

The NSPCC advises that if a child is worried about an online situation they should talk to a trusted adult or contact Childline on 0800 1111. Parents can find out more about talking to their child about staying safe online by searching Share Aware or visiting www.nspcc.org.uk

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 August 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Slum rule