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Peace on the streets? How two gangs in Birmingham found common ground	Peace on the streets? How two gangs in Birmingham found common ground
2013-02-24 00:35:09 UTC	2013-03-01 17:15:12 UTC (6 days later)
Ashley "Woody" Woodcock was 15 and hanging clothes on a washing line in his back garden when a bullet came whistling towards him. At first, he didn't understand what was happening but when he looked at his hand, he saw it was bleeding. The edge of his palm had been skimmed by the shot, a wound that would leave a burned-out blackened scar that is still visible now, 10 years later.	Ashley "Woody" Woodcock was 15 and hanging clothes on a washing line in his back garden when a bullet came whistling towards him. At first, he didn't understand what was happening but when he looked at his hand, he saw it was bleeding. The edge of his palm had been skimmed by the shot, a wound that would leave a burned-out blackened scar that is still visible now, 10 years later.
Matthias "Shabba" Thompson is 33. He was shot in the leg a few years back. He was in such a state of shock that he didn't even notice until he jumped in a car to escape and tried to press the accelerator. His leg wouldn't move. When he glanced down, he saw swollen flesh and a thin stream of blood trickling from two small holes.	Matthias "Shabba" Thompson is 33. He was shot in the leg a few years back. He was in such a state of shock that he didn't even notice until he jumped in a car to escape and tried to press the accelerator. His leg wouldn't move. When he glanced down, he saw swollen flesh and a thin stream of blood trickling from two small holes.
Joel "YT" Ecclestone is 21, and says he has seen so many people get shot he's lost count. Once, he witnessed someone felled by a hail of fire from an AK47. Another time, he watched a man's hand "open like a flower" from a bullet wound.	Joel "YT" Ecclestone is 21, and says he has seen so many people get shot he's lost count. Once, he witnessed someone felled by a hail of fire from an AK47. Another time, he watched a man's hand "open like a flower" from a bullet wound.
Daniel Davidson is 25 and has violent dreams. Sometimes he dreams that he's doing the shooting. Sometimes he's being shot at. He has these dreams "all the time. It's just normal."	Daniel Davidson is 25 and has violent dreams. Sometimes he dreams that he's doing the shooting. Sometimes he's being shot at. He has these dreams "all the time. It's just normal."
These young men are not living in a war zone. Nor are they growing up in a far-flung country, riven by poverty or civil unrest. They live in Birmingham, and are divided by little more than a postcode.	These young men are not living in a war zone. Nor are they growing up in a far-flung country, riven by poverty or civil unrest. They live in Birmingham, and are divided by little more than a postcode.
Until recently, these men had been involved in one of the most vicious gangland feuds in the UK, in the city with the highest concentration of gun crime in the country. They had been stabbed and shot at and had retaliated in kind. They existed on the streets, caught up in a criminal network of drugs and guns. They had seen their friends killed and their relatives go to prison.	Until recently, these men had been involved in one of the most vicious gangland feuds in the UK, in the city with the highest concentration of gun crime in the country. They had been stabbed and shot at and had retaliated in kind. They existed on the streets, caught up in a criminal network of drugs and guns. They had seen their friends killed and their relatives go to prison.
"I've been stabbed, I've been shot twice," says Thompson. "I've felt the wrath of this thing."	"I've been stabbed, I've been shot twice," says Thompson. "I've felt the wrath of this thing."
For years, this wrathful thing raged on – between the "Johnsons" from the B6 postcode and the "Burgers" from B21. Police intervention foundered. Government initiatives fell by the wayside. Community groups failed to implement any kind of reconciliation. At its height, the internecine feud claimed the lives of two women caught in the crossfire: Letisha Shakespeare, 17, and Charlene Ellis, 18, who were shot outside a hair salon in Aston at a New Year's party in January 2003. The double murder garnered extensive media coverage. After that, rival gang members continued to kill one another with startling regularity, but their deaths were deemed less newsworthy. It seemed everyone just got used to it.	For years, this wrathful thing raged on – between the "Johnsons" from the B6 postcode and the "Burgers" from B21. Police intervention foundered. Government initiatives fell by the wayside. Community groups failed to implement any kind of reconciliation. At its height, the internecine feud claimed the lives of two women caught in the crossfire: Letisha Shakespeare, 17, and Charlene Ellis, 18, who were shot outside a hair salon in Aston at a New Year's party in January 2003. The double murder garnered extensive media coverage. After that, rival gang members continued to kill one another with startling regularity, but their deaths were deemed less newsworthy. It seemed everyone just got used to it.
But now, thanks to the intervention of a documentary-maker, a former cabinet minister and one of the architects of the Northern Ireland peace process, the two warring sides have done what once seemed not merely impossible but unthinkable: they have reached a truce. As a result, incidents of violent crime in the two postcodes have halved.	But now, thanks to the intervention of a documentary-maker, a former cabinet minister and one of the architects of the Northern Ireland peace process, the two warring sides have done what once seemed not merely impossible but unthinkable: they have reached a truce. As a result, incidents of violent crime in the two postcodes have halved.
Today, a handful of former gang members are sitting around a table in a community centre in Aston. A year ago, they would have been more likely to try to kill one another than share the same room. And yet here they are: working together to run a social enterprise that provides school workshops and mentoring schemes for teenagers with the aim of keeping impressionable young boys out of gang culture. These days, they have exchanged weapons for laptop computers and whiteboards. Their modest offices are littered with workshop packs and to-do lists. They are keen to get into several local schools before the Easter break because there is a higher prevalence of adolescents joining gangs over the holidays.	Today, a handful of former gang members are sitting around a table in a community centre in Aston. A year ago, they would have been more likely to try to kill one another than share the same room. And yet here they are: working together to run a social enterprise that provides school workshops and mentoring schemes for teenagers with the aim of keeping impressionable young boys out of gang culture. These days, they have exchanged weapons for laptop computers and whiteboards. Their modest offices are littered with workshop packs and to-do lists. They are keen to get into several local schools before the Easter break because there is a higher prevalence of adolescents joining gangs over the holidays.
"A lot of people want to make the change but they don't know how," says Simeon "Zimbo" Moore, 36, who runs the social enterprise scheme and was once affiliated with the Johnsons. "There's only one way [to live] we've been brought up to know… You have to make the youths understand what work is, you have to give them a vision of what it is because they think work is just a hustle, a grind.	"A lot of people want to make the change but they don't know how," says Simeon "Zimbo" Moore, 36, who runs the social enterprise scheme and was once affiliated with the Johnsons. "There's only one way [to live] we've been brought up to know… You have to make the youths understand what work is, you have to give them a vision of what it is because they think work is just a hustle, a grind.
"The only images they see are the chains, the cars, half-naked girls – this is what they're aspiring to. But they should be aspiring to be running businesses, to ownership of property. We should be building skills, offering an alternative."	"The only images they see are the chains, the cars, half-naked girls – this is what they're aspiring to. But they should be aspiring to be running businesses, to ownership of property. We should be building skills, offering an alternative."
Moore is spry, sharp and clever. Unlike many gang members who find themselves excluded from school as teenagers, he did well in his exams and was a straight-A student. But being in the gang was what the smart kids did. It seemed better than working for a living.	Moore is spry, sharp and clever. Unlike many gang members who find themselves excluded from school as teenagers, he did well in his exams and was a straight-A student. But being in the gang was what the smart kids did. It seemed better than working for a living.
The lure of the gang lifestyle for young men such as Moore is a real and current problem – a 2004 Home Office survey found that up to 6% of 10- to 19-year-olds in England and Wales belong to a gang. In London, according to the Metropolitan Police, gang crime is responsible for 22% of serious violence, 17% of robbery and half of all shootings. Outside the capital, Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool gangs account for 65% of all firearm homicides in the UK.	The lure of the gang lifestyle for young men such as Moore is a real and current problem – a 2004 Home Office survey found that up to 6% of 10- to 19-year-olds in England and Wales belong to a gang. In London, according to the Metropolitan Police, gang crime is responsible for 22% of serious violence, 17% of robbery and half of all shootings. Outside the capital, Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool gangs account for 65% of all firearm homicides in the UK.
But in Birmingham, at least, there is cause for optimism. "Now there are no sides," Moore says. "I don't see borders or divisions. I deal with everyone on an individual level."	But in Birmingham, at least, there is cause for optimism. "Now there are no sides," Moore says. "I don't see borders or divisions. I deal with everyone on an individual level."
Sitting next to him, plugged into an Apple Mac, is Tobeijah Atkinson, 27, a Burger Boy who used to be Moore's sworn enemy. He takes out his earphones and nods, his eyes half-obscured by the pushed-down peak of his baseball cap.	Sitting next to him, plugged into an Apple Mac, is Tobeijah Atkinson, 27, a Burger Boy who used to be Moore's sworn enemy. He takes out his earphones and nods, his eyes half-obscured by the pushed-down peak of his baseball cap.
"There's a Johnson and a Burger and they're carbon copies of each other," Atkinson says. "How can I hate someone in the exact same predicament as me?"	"There's a Johnson and a Burger and they're carbon copies of each other," Atkinson says. "How can I hate someone in the exact same predicament as me?"
"We come from the same background," Moore agrees. "Totally."	"We come from the same background," Moore agrees. "Totally."
The extraordinary story of how two bitterly divided gangland factions come to be sitting together at the same table is told in a forthcoming film. One Mile Away – so-called because one mile is all that divides the two postcodes – was made by acclaimed documentary-maker Penny Woolcock and won the prestigious Michael Powell award for best feature film at the Edinburgh film festival last year. Woolcock was already well-known in Birmingham because of her groundbreaking work on 1 Day, a 2009 hip-hop musical set against the backdrop of gun crime in the city and starring Dylan Duffus, an untrained actor plucked from the streets and affiliated with the Burgers.	The extraordinary story of how two bitterly divided gangland factions come to be sitting together at the same table is told in a forthcoming film. One Mile Away – so-called because one mile is all that divides the two postcodes – was made by acclaimed documentary-maker Penny Woolcock and won the prestigious Michael Powell award for best feature film at the Edinburgh film festival last year. Woolcock was already well-known in Birmingham because of her groundbreaking work on 1 Day, a 2009 hip-hop musical set against the backdrop of gun crime in the city and starring Dylan Duffus, an untrained actor plucked from the streets and affiliated with the Burgers.
In the summer of 2010, Woolcock got a phone call out of the blue from Matthias Thompson, a Johnson, who wanted her to act as a neutral go-between for the two sides to explore the idea of a truce.	In the summer of 2010, Woolcock got a phone call out of the blue from Matthias Thompson, a Johnson, who wanted her to act as a neutral go-between for the two sides to explore the idea of a truce.
"I wanted to be able to look back when I was older and say I'd made history," Thompson says now of that initial phone call. "I wanted to stop the violence rather than waste our energy running each other down."	"I wanted to be able to look back when I was older and say I'd made history," Thompson says now of that initial phone call. "I wanted to stop the violence rather than waste our energy running each other down."
Woolcock agreed to help. She set up a meeting between Thompson and Duffus.	Woolcock agreed to help. She set up a meeting between Thompson and Duffus.
"I was sick of seeing people get killed," Duffus explains. "When people in this community get murdered, it doesn't make the news. You're just dead."	"I was sick of seeing people get killed," Duffus explains. "When people in this community get murdered, it doesn't make the news. You're just dead."
The gangland battle in inner-city Birmingham had been raging for the best part of 20 years. In the 1990s, an altercation over a woman escalated and ended in murder. The Aston crew took their name from a local fish bar – Johnsons. The other faction, who used to congregate at a burger bar near the Sikh temple, called themselves the Burger Boys. The split divided families and friendship groups. Many of the gang members were related. Their parents went to church together.	The gangland battle in inner-city Birmingham had been raging for the best part of 20 years. In the 1990s, an altercation over a woman escalated and ended in murder. The Aston crew took their name from a local fish bar – Johnsons. The other faction, who used to congregate at a burger bar near the Sikh temple, called themselves the Burger Boys. The split divided families and friendship groups. Many of the gang members were related. Their parents went to church together.
The rival gangs evolved in an era of heightened racial tension: there had been race riots in 1981 and again in 1985 and the West Midlands police were accused of heavy-handedness in their tactics. Even now, hatred of the police runs deep. According to Duffus: "If you're born black, [the police think] you're born a criminal."	The rival gangs evolved in an era of heightened racial tension: there had been race riots in 1981 and again in 1985 and the West Midlands police were accused of heavy-handedness in their tactics. Even now, hatred of the police runs deep. According to Duffus: "If you're born black, [the police think] you're born a criminal."
With unemployment always high, working for a gang, with its complex web of loyalty, peer pressure and family ties, became the normal way for a certain type of young boy to make a living. Often these boys had absent fathers, as was the case with Joel Ecclestone.	With unemployment always high, working for a gang, with its complex web of loyalty, peer pressure and family ties, became the normal way for a certain type of young boy to make a living. Often these boys had absent fathers, as was the case with Joel Ecclestone.
"My dad is a big anger source," Ecclestone says. "If there was an argument on the street, there was no dad to stop and say, 'Don't do that.' My role models were gangbangers."	"My dad is a big anger source," Ecclestone says. "If there was an argument on the street, there was no dad to stop and say, 'Don't do that.' My role models were gangbangers."
For kids such as Ecclestone, the gang became a new, male family. Hanging out on the streets, dabbling in illegal activity, was how they kept themselves occupied. It's what their friends were doing. They felt ignored by the system and unfairly targeted by police. A generation of young men got drawn into drugs, guns and other criminality.	For kids such as Ecclestone, the gang became a new, male family. Hanging out on the streets, dabbling in illegal activity, was how they kept themselves occupied. It's what their friends were doing. They felt ignored by the system and unfairly targeted by police. A generation of young men got drawn into drugs, guns and other criminality.
"It's what you grow up with," says Moore. "It's normality. It's not hard, it's not easy, it's just life." He believes that adolescents join gangs because of four main factors: low aspirations, low self-worth, an absence of law-abiding male role models and peer pressure. Between the ages of 13 and 17, he says, there doesn't seem to be any viable alternative: "It's self-hatred. This is why he [a Burger] don't like me [a Johnson]: because I see myself in him."	"It's what you grow up with," says Moore. "It's normality. It's not hard, it's not easy, it's just life." He believes that adolescents join gangs because of four main factors: low aspirations, low self-worth, an absence of law-abiding male role models and peer pressure. Between the ages of 13 and 17, he says, there doesn't seem to be any viable alternative: "It's self-hatred. This is why he [a Burger] don't like me [a Johnson]: because I see myself in him."
As a gang member, you get used to living your life on the road, looking over your shoulder, constantly on the brink of paranoia in case you unwittingly venture into enemy territory. There are certain unspoken rules you live by. When you drive a car, it has to be a rental so that you can look flash and keep up appearances, but also so that you can change it regularly and the police can't trace you. When you're at the wheel, you sit leaning back, low down in your seat so that your face is hidden. You always make sure you can reverse out of a situation. You never drive down a dead-end. You should preferably travel with at least two other people.	As a gang member, you get used to living your life on the road, looking over your shoulder, constantly on the brink of paranoia in case you unwittingly venture into enemy territory. There are certain unspoken rules you live by. When you drive a car, it has to be a rental so that you can look flash and keep up appearances, but also so that you can change it regularly and the police can't trace you. When you're at the wheel, you sit leaning back, low down in your seat so that your face is hidden. You always make sure you can reverse out of a situation. You never drive down a dead-end. You should preferably travel with at least two other people.
"Trust is a luxury," Duffus says. "You have to stay on point."	"Trust is a luxury," Duffus says. "You have to stay on point."
Atkinson likens daily life as a gang member to depression. "If you wake up every morning and you've got to fear for your life and you're being stereotyped by people, you become numb to life and situations. I'd wake up and think: 'I'm supposed to get shot at.'"	Atkinson likens daily life as a gang member to depression. "If you wake up every morning and you've got to fear for your life and you're being stereotyped by people, you become numb to life and situations. I'd wake up and think: 'I'm supposed to get shot at.'"
And all too often, these young men will see their friends die. They get used to it. A necessary detachment seeps in. Time and again, they tell me that they felt "cold" when they saw someone killed.	And all too often, these young men will see their friends die. They get used to it. A necessary detachment seeps in. Time and again, they tell me that they felt "cold" when they saw someone killed.
"At one stage, I was going to funerals regular," says Ashley Woodcock. Many of them will go to prison. Most of the men I speak to have done time, for crimes ranging from gun possession to attempted murder.	"At one stage, I was going to funerals regular," says Ashley Woodcock. Many of them will go to prison. Most of the men I speak to have done time, for crimes ranging from gun possession to attempted murder.
What keeps a gang together in this chaotic environment? Pride and tribal loyalty. A distrust of outside authority. A belief that the police are out to get you because of your colour or your background. In a gang, your peers will stand up for you. Battles will be fought in other people's names and unity is forged in opposition. If someone shows disrespect, however trivial, there will be retribution. Like the mafia or the mob, this is a criminal fraternity based on blood.	What keeps a gang together in this chaotic environment? Pride and tribal loyalty. A distrust of outside authority. A belief that the police are out to get you because of your colour or your background. In a gang, your peers will stand up for you. Battles will be fought in other people's names and unity is forged in opposition. If someone shows disrespect, however trivial, there will be retribution. Like the mafia or the mob, this is a criminal fraternity based on blood.
At first, Woolcock had little idea what she was getting herself into. "It took up all of my life," she says. "It was 18 months full-time from that phone call with Shabba [Thompson] and I was completely out of my depth. You talk to the individuals and everybody knows that it's wrong. I had this idea that they'd all come together and I'd film them all becoming friends. Of course, it wasn't like that. I realised I was being completely naive."	At first, Woolcock had little idea what she was getting herself into. "It took up all of my life," she says. "It was 18 months full-time from that phone call with Shabba [Thompson] and I was completely out of my depth. You talk to the individuals and everybody knows that it's wrong. I had this idea that they'd all come together and I'd film them all becoming friends. Of course, it wasn't like that. I realised I was being completely naive."
The problem was that while Duffus and Thompson agreed the violence should end, the "gang-bangers" on both sides took a lot of persuading. Neither of them could get any traction within their communities. Initially, there was a total lack of trust. Several times during filming, Woolcock feared for her life and the lives of her two protagonists. There were false rumours that she was working for the police or that money was involved or that the whole film was a set-up.	The problem was that while Duffus and Thompson agreed the violence should end, the "gang-bangers" on both sides took a lot of persuading. Neither of them could get any traction within their communities. Initially, there was a total lack of trust. Several times during filming, Woolcock feared for her life and the lives of her two protagonists. There were false rumours that she was working for the police or that money was involved or that the whole film was a set-up.
"Sometimes I was threatened with guns, which was not very nice," Woolcock says, calmly running a hand through cropped, dyed red hair. She is a softly spoken woman, powered by a kind of frenetic energy. Physically, she resembles Helen Mirren, for whom she is often mistaken. She is quite possibly the last person you would expect to see caught up in the criminal underworld.	"Sometimes I was threatened with guns, which was not very nice," Woolcock says, calmly running a hand through cropped, dyed red hair. She is a softly spoken woman, powered by a kind of frenetic energy. Physically, she resembles Helen Mirren, for whom she is often mistaken. She is quite possibly the last person you would expect to see caught up in the criminal underworld.