At 15, I had never been to the cinema, or even watched a movie. I grew up in a strictly Orthodox Charedi Jewish household, the daughter of a rabbi, in Glasgow, where we had next to no exposure to cultural influences beyond our religious world. The bookshelves were stacked with biblical texts and teachings, we sang in Yiddish and I only saw TV at my less religious grandparents’ house, where we could watch the end of the tennis if it was finishing as we arrived.
By my mid-teens, my parents had moved to Jerusalem and sent me to live in Manchester, with a scholar who would later abuse me. The abuse went on for six months while his family slept or when they were out. I had no one to turn to or tell; even if I had, no one had taught me the words for what was happening to me. It was a complicated, lonely time without adults to rely on.
