Some of you who know me well will know that one of the women I have met and come to love in the last two years has a large part of my heart.  CYFS have uplifted her children twice now, and you will have to believe me when I say that she was not with him at either time, that both times he enacted violence she was not in a relationship with him. And yet. He walks free because the very act of taking away her children has rendered her incapable of action. It has broken her down, emptied her of love, filled her with sadness and endless tears.

“I should have just taken the bash, kept my mouth shut like my uncles told us to”.

She distrusts the police – every time she has called the police on him, her children have been uplifted.

She was raised in a family of violence, where suicide was the only way out.  Her father, her brother, her cousins. Life was too hard. Death was peace.

“Every morning, I wish I wouldn’t wake up”.

I want you to put my friend’s pain, and what is happening to her right now, in the larger context of domestic violence in this country.

Under law, if it is feared that children are at risk of harm from domestic violence, they can be uplifted. What a great law! Protect the children! But it’s not used to do that, in some cases. And I would warrant that in many other cases, it’s not doing that at all.

You have women, and this is not uncommon, who do not call the police when violence is enacted on them, because they know what can happen when CYFS get involved. And they stay in violent and abusive relationships because they have been taught to keep their mouths shut.

On the other hand, you have men – violent and abusive people – who get away with this for years and years. Who manipulate the system, who call CYFS and complain about their partners, who use their power and their privilege, to control other peoples’ lives. Who’s protecting the women from them? And the children who are removed – how is that protecting them?

We can think of so many tragic cases – Delcelia Witika comes to mind. Neglectful abusive parents. Parents who deliberately harm their children.

The women I am talking about here are not those parents. Their only mistake has been to fall in love with, or have children with,  men who are violent, in any or all of the forms that takes,  or have their own issues and act out on their families.

What happens then to their partners, and/or the fathers of the children? Where are they in this picture?

They are going on about their lives, with no repercussions. They don’t lose their children. In many cases, they get to see their children, even when their ex partners are in refuge.

It’s not fair. It’s not right.

The system is broken.

And the only way we can fix it, that I can see, is to love these woman when we have the opportunity. To show them a way out. To give them a glimpse of hope, show them that it doesn’t have to be like that. To get out, to get their children out, before they lose that ability.

Tonight, a friend of mine contacted me privately. She wanted to tell me her story of rape. She, like me, is middle-aged. She, like me, has made a life for herself with a good man. But we all carry our secrets, we middle-aged women. And the shame of it is that, although this happened over 35 years ago, this could still happen today, and does. Because this is the culture of our country. Our national shame. The blot on our copybook. Young women have always been made to feel it was their fault. They asked for it.
But we didn’t. We never asked for it. We believed we were silly for getting into certain situations, and it’s only as we age, and reflect, and have love for the young women we were, that we know how very wrong we were to blame ourselves. This is her story, as told to me. I wept when she was sharing this, as I recognised a version of my own story.

Ok. This is hard. But here’s a tale about what rape is. I don’t go public with it. Ever. But I’m happy for you to retell to let others know. I was 16. I got my first real boyfriend. We went out one night. I drank, not too much but illegally. My parents didn’t know. I got drunk .. all drunk. We got in the car and went. When we got there were a group — three of the coolest guys from school. Me and bf went walking.
We started making out — sort of, but not all the way. My jeans were off. So were his. Then voices. “Go on mate. then we’ll have our turn”.. all drunk. Nah she’s all mine he said. And he had sex with me. My first time. They watched. Hooted. Jeered and yelled. I was too drunk to leave. But I remember. Every fucking detail. Then a another car arrived. They left, taking my jeans with them. We left too. Driving home, no pants. Sneaking in the house so Mum and Dad didn’t see me. Covering it up. Because I shouldn’t have gone out and done that and got drunk. All my fault! Sick eh. The whole scene. But it wasn’t really rape, was it? He was “saving” me. And you know I saw him a couple of years ago I was behind him in a supermarket in a strange town. He turned around: looked me in the eyes, dropped his beer and ran. The fear in his eyes made me realise after decades that it it was not my fucking fault. That if my parents had been in the slightest aware or engaged, they would have loved me, not blamed. (I told no-one until I was 30!) I don’t know what you could do with this. But I know that somewhere, someone needs to know that. He is scared that one day I will come after him. But what a cross to bear. I hope he making amends in his own way.