Walking into London Fashion Week for the first time, back in September 2015, felt like a defining moment. But I could never have imagined why that day would end up being so significant.
Throughout college and university, I’d always dreamed of a career in fashion. After hustling and firing off endless emails, I landed an internship with a jewellery brand. I found it easy to talk to people and was focused on trying to impress my new boss by making connections.
At Fashion Week, a friend introduced me to a well-dressed man in his late forties, named Kin Hung. He was a ‘big deal in the Asian fashion market’. He was charismatic, funny and soon emailed to ask if I wanted to sit front row with him at a Giles Deacon fashion show. I accepted, thinking we were building a platonic relationship.
Invites to other events and dinners quickly followed. Sometimes I’d receive emails from his ‘assistant’, Claire. If I rejected the invites, mindful I didn’t want to just be take-take-taking from this new friend, Kin would suddenly appear on the chain, trying to persuade me otherwise. He began to feel claustrophobic, but still kind.
When I moved into a new flat, Kin offered me some of his old furniture. I tried to reciprocate as much as I could, by giving him tips for places to visit that I’d cribbed from friends or researched for him.
But within weeks, Kin’s messages ramped up to daily texts and emails. I debated cutting him out but, worried about seeming rude, I’d meet with him occasionally to discuss the fashion business. I dismissed the red flags of his intensity, thinking it would be okay to keep him at arm’s length.
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Then, eight months into our friendship, I received a message from someone claiming to be Kin’s girlfriend. I nervously replied, saying it was great to connect. Then another message hit my inbox: This is Kin’s boyfriend. Followed by another: This is Kin’s ladyboy, he has ruined my life.
When I asked Kin about it, he told me he was being hacked and to ignore it. At that point, I believed him and felt genuinely sorry for him – then the messages from his ‘partners’ stopped. Until they didn’t.
LOSING CONTROL
Two years later, in 2017, I agreed to join Kin at Art Basel, a prestigious art event in Miami. I knew others who were going and was excited to have an adventure after a pretty quiet year of staying home, dealing with some health issues (throughout which Kin had been supportive, bringing me soup and watching films with me).
But from the moment we arrived in Miami, Kin became controlling, refusing to let me out of his sight and over dinner one night, he showed me a string of messages from his ‘hackers’, demanding he pay ransom money immediately.
He claimed a group of scammers had invaded his email accounts, firing off random messages and were trying to take over his life. Then the ‘hackers’ started messaging me too, calling Kin my ‘boyfriend’ and asking for money.
At the house Kin had arranged for us to stay in, his behaviour became erratic and frightening. Terrified and isolated, I spoke to my brother and he encouraged me to leave which I did. Once I felt I was safely away, I asked Kin not to contact me again.
Back in the UK, what began as apology messages from Kin morphed into demands that I return the furniture he’d given me. Of course, I’d reply, Please tell me the address to send it to? But I’d get nothing in return. More messages about the furniture landed the next day. Then a letter threatening legal action. I started to panic.
A whole new cast of characters reached me via texts, WhatsApps, phonecalls and emails. I’d be added into group chats with friends where someone was claiming to be me, ‘confessing’ to having committed tax fraud. Kin would often be in these chats, telling the hackers to leave me alone, acting like some kind of hero.
Then came emailed threats of violence. Of rape. Demands for money from an ‘online reputation management company’. Messages from email addresses set up in my name, promising to ruin my life. Calls came every five minutes.
I began to receive reviews purporting to be from an escort profile called ‘hooker Hani’, set up in my name. Vulgar emails about my appearance and lewd sexual acts quickly became an everyday occurrence. It felt like my digital life was snowballing out of control.
ALONE, AFRAID
But I kept most of the weird messages to myself. I was embarrassed and conscious of not wanting to drag anyone down with me. Then one WhatsApp group shared a photo of my sister’s front door, which left me sick with dread.
It felt suffocating. My mental health plummeted. I could barely focus at work. My friendships and relationship with my then-boyfriend all suffered. A former employer reached out about messages “I” had sent, falsely threatening to report them for fraud.
Messages from Kin continued: I can help make it stop, I know how to fix this. Call me. Changing phone numbers and email addresses didn’t work. Somehow, the ‘hackers’ knew. I suspected Kin was behind it but had no solid evidence.
Then, my phones began being disconnected. I’d be out, trying to call a taxi and my SIM was suddenly no longer valid, leaving me stranded. In a couple of years, I burnt through seven or eight phones, jumping from number to number. My bank account would freeze. My social media passwords changed. Emails from ‘hackers’ and ‘hooker Hani’s clients’ were relentless.
I moved back in with my dad and refused to even walk short distances alone, afraid I’d be attacked. Weird parcels, containing sweets or menu print outs, arrived daily and I was terrified they were laced with poison.
NO JUSTICE
The police were little to no help. The first officer I met, in 2018, told me how “surprised” he was at how “normal” I am, given the emails I was reporting. Kin was given a ‘harassment warning’ but it held no legal weight. It was a caution, essentially. The messages resumed.
It was always male officers. I remember sitting alone in my dad’s kitchen, with these two big policemen, intimidated as I told them of the sexual messages, degrading my body and positioning me as a sex worker online.
Nothing ever came from me making those reports. I’d be told “we’ll look into it” or to just delete the emails and block the account(s) – essentially, getting rid of evidence. The worst advice. My case was closed more than 10 times and the police were unable to locate Kin, because he was wealthy and kept himself on the move. One report specifically states the case was closed due to the suspect’s “transient, international lifestyle”.
For nearly four years, I received daily messages from Kin and the terrifying accounts I believe are associated with him. My twenties oscillated between hiding indoors from the relentless barrage and job-hopping between foreign countries, trying to escape.
The emails, calls and parcels followed me wherever I went. One message even detailed the manicure I had while I was in Sri Lanka and knew the beach I’d visited. Kin has never once admitted being involved and denies any allegations of wrongdoing.
At home during the pandemic lockdown I told my family friend, the journalist Carole Cadwalladr, about the full extent of the stalking and harassment. Before then, I’d just let people know the odd thing, talking about my ‘stalker’ in air quotes, still trying to laugh it off.
As we began discussing the idea of making a podcast with the BBC about it, the messages from Kin and the many characters that entered my life after meeting him just… stopped. Our series, Stalked, trying to unravel what happened, is out now.
COMING TO TERMS
I’m only just beginning to feel anger about everything. I believe I was groomed: Kin bombarded me with invites to exciting, fancy things which as a twenty-something intern were hard to turn down.
Data suggests one in five women experience stalking. I am one of the lucky ones. It breaks my heart to think about other women, like Alice Ruggles– who was tragically murdered at 24 by an ex-partner, who stalked her in the months leading up to her death.
Like me, Alice reported being harassed and didn’t receive the help she needed. You can hear how conscious she is of not wanting to inconvenience the police when filing her last complaint, the voice recording of which features in the podcast. Days later, her ex broke into her flat and killed her.
Stalking simply isn’t taken seriously enough, despite stalking behaviours being identified in the run up to 94% of murder cases. The Metropolitan Police have since apologised to me, admitting their service fell short between 2018 and 2020; saying that their approach has since vastly improved.
I would still encourage anyone to report an incident of stalking, no matter how small, not least because almost 1 in 3 stalkers have done it before.
Tech platforms, too, must be held accountable for enabling digital stalking and harassment. Spyware tools can be easily accessed by anyone. I’m still trying to work out exactly how Kin or these many other characters always seemed to know where I was or who I was with. I suspect my phones were bugged.
Realising that I was the victim of a crime, of stalking and harassment, has been complex.
Perhaps I made a mistake by continuing to stay friends with Kin. I'm trying to own some of the bad decisions I made that might have partly contributed to what happened – but without blaming myself at the same time.
What I’ve come to understand since talking to other women who’ve experienced stalking is this: you don't have to be a “perfect victim” to be deserving of support, safety and justice.
Stalked is available to listen to on BBC Sounds
Jennifer Savin is Cosmopolitan UK's multiple award-winning Features Editor, who was crowned Digital Journalist of the Year for her work tackling the issues most important to young women. She regularly covers breaking news, cultural trends, health, the royals and more, using her esteemed connections to access the best experts along the way. She's grilled everyone from high-profile politicians to A-list celebrities, and has sensitively interviewed hundreds of people about their real life stories. In addition to this, Jennifer is widely known for her own undercover investigations and campaign work, which includes successfully petitioning the government for change around topics like abortion rights and image-based sexual abuse. Jennifer is also a published author, documentary consultant (helping to create BBC’s Deepfake Porn: Could You Be Next?) and a patron for Y.E.S. (a youth services charity). Alongside Cosmopolitan, Jennifer has written for The Times, Women’s Health, ELLE and numerous other publications, appeared on podcasts, and spoken on (and hosted) panels for the Women of the World Festival, the University of Manchester and more. In her spare time, Jennifer is a big fan of lipstick, leopard print and over-ordering at dinner. Follow Jennifer on Instagram, X or LinkedIn.
