My first death threat came just months into public office

The green ink caused much merriment among my Labour colleagues, but it had been chosen for its symbolism rather than because my correspondent was mad – though he was certainly angry.

He was a Hibs supporter, irate because I had publicly backed the team’s offer to their city rivals to share a new stadium at Straiton. He was against the idea – as were Hearts as it turned out – and suggested I should be murdered for backing such a crazy idea.

“You better report it,” said one colleague. “There are some weird people out there, you can never be too sure.” Welcome to the crazy world of being a councillor,” said another. “You will get a few more of those,” he added.

As it turned out, that missive remained my one and only death threat during my seven-year stint as a councillor.

But that was in the days before social media. I dread to think what abuse I would have suffered on X or Facebook. As a young female councillor during the 1990s, I was ‘fair game’.

One senior politician would occasionally stroke my neck as a rather irritating form of greeting. “He’s just a creep,” I was told when I mentioned it. And the local radio station mocked my appearance, particularly my choice of earrings. But it was my personal safety that was my biggest concern.

In the days before email and WhatsApp, councillors were expected to do at least one open surgery a week so that constituents had easy access to air their complaints.

For a while, I held mine on a midweek early evening in an otherwise empty community building. For three weeks in a row, an intense man in his thirties turned up to berate me about a relatively minor housing problem. As the weeks went by, he became more and more angry and I started to get scared.

On his fourth visit he turned up with a packed holdall, which he laid at his feet between us, before beginning his by now predictable rant.

“What if there is a baseball bat or a knife in there?” was all I could think, as his voice got more shrill. I almost cried with relief when he left, threatening to be back next week.

The next day I contacted the local housing office to alert them to my fears. “Oh, we know Mr X,” I was told. “We are only allowed to see him in pairs, just in case. It’s the rules.” A sensible precaution, but it turned out the rules did not cover elected members. We were on our own.

I was reminded of that episode when I read a report about women councillors and violence, published earlier this week.

The survey, carried out by Dr Leah McCabe and Prof. Meryl Kenny of Edinburgh University for the women’s rights organisation Engender, interviewed 59 female councillors, past and present, from across Scotland.

Almost three-quarters (72 per cent) had experienced at least three different forms of violence, with 11 per cent enduring physical attacks. And while many suffered sexual harassment (40 per cent), most did not report it.

Women councillors also described cancelling constituency surgeries because of concerns for their personal safety and withdrawing from social media.

Worryingly, three respondents had already quit their posts due to the abuse they had experienced, and several more had decided not to stand for office again in 2027. One respondent spoke for many when she said: “I think every woman I know has experienced some form of violence...So I think that every woman councillor in Scotland has experienced it. I really do...But I think it’s just part of the job. It is part of the job.”

Engender has called for a range of measures, from an independent review into the safety of women councillors in Scotland to mandatory training on violence against women for all elected members.

The group has also asked for better security provisions, similar to those afforded to MPs and MSPs. I would add another demand: more women councillors.

There are far too few of them – only 35 per cent of Scotland’s 1,226 councillors are female, with the proportion dropping below 30 per cent in some areas, including South Ayrshire, Perth and Kinross and Stirling. For as long as women remain a minority in local government, sexual harassment, misogyny and violence will persist.

The focus over recent years has been to get more women into parliament, whether at Holyrood or Westminster, with councils seen as a consolation prize. But all politics are local. Day-to-day decisions about schools, social care, local transport and planning are all taken by councillors, not parliamentarians.

It was Edinburgh councillors who recently decided to ban mobile phones in the city’s classrooms, not Mairi McAllan, the education minister. Glasgow’s elected members are largely responsible for hosting next month’s Commonwealth Games. Maree Todd, the sports minister, may turn up for the opening ceremony, but Bailie Annette Christie, Glasgow’s convenor of culture and sport, is the one who will deserve the plaudits for a successful programme. Local government is where the power to change communities lies, and it needs more women.

But there is something rotten in our council chambers when a woman councillor tells researchers that while she publicly advocates for more women to be councillors, privately she urges caution. She says about standing for election: “…hand on heart, if [it was] a close friend or someone I truly cared about, I think I would just tell them not to run unless I knew they were very strong indeed.”

I fear it is not only women councillors who need protection from Scotland’s toxic political culture. The future of local democracy needs safeguarding too.