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.

When I published the other womens’ stories, stories in my own voice, M was really disappointed not to have had the opportunity and said she would like to write something for you all to read. To impress upon you why the Refuge is so important, and to give voice to those you are all helping. 

She wrote it a while ago, and I only just read it this morning. Sitting next to her, at the dining table at the Refuge, I cried for her. And she cried for herself. “I know” she said to me. “It’s ugly”. We read it side by side, and hugged each other. This may not affect you as personally because you don’t know her, but I want you to hear her voice. It’s an important one.

So here it is. M’s story, or at least a small part of it. In her own words. (And I didn’t pay her to write the final paragraph…..).

 

It occurs to me that many of you are helping the women at the Refuge but you don’t really know much about who you’re helping. And the cast of characters changes with some regularity. So I thought I’d tell you a bit about some of the women in Refuge at the moment. I have their full permission (the phone was passed around to each one).
Four of the mothers originally gave permission for me to share some of their story, but one has decided she’d rather not – M was out this evening and H1’s story is not one that I can tell.

I honour their trust in me.

H2 has had problems with drugs and alcohol. She and her 3 kids left her partner a few months ago – she says they can’t seem to be in the same room as each other without fighting. (According to Chris, he is very violent, and H2 has gone back and forth in the past.) She takes the kids round there in the weekends, and he’s not violent to her at the moment (she gets in and out quickly) but she doesn’t let him know where the Refuge is. She’s getting her life back on track – she told me about a course she’s doing that is giving her strategies for staying sober – and I know that having such a great Xmas has buoyed her up. I have noticed that KA, her older daughter,  and her son L have gained a lot of confidence. When I first met them, they wouldn’t speak and were very shy. Now, they are full of chatter and laughter, like their younger sister TP.

C’s husband is in prison awaiting his trial. He stands accused of raping his daughter, K. C wanted to get out of the house while he was in prison, and get her 6 children to safety. She has a son in prison, and his girlfriend M is staying with them – M is K’s best friend; her major supporter; and stalwart companion. The girls stick together very closely. They both want to work in retail, and they both want to sit their drivers licences. At the moment, they rarely leave the Refuge.  C is adjusting to starting a new life, albeit a peaceful one. None of her family, apart from a nephew in Christchurch, know where they all are, including one of her daughters who chose not to go into refuge with them. C is a writer. Has, in fact, started writing about everything that has happened. She is a gentle woman and very confused about what has happened. I know it will take her a long time to understand everything.

 

A has lived in the Refuge for almost a year. She was pregnant with her youngest child when she arrived – I was first made aware of her in April and, in fact, A is where this all started. Because she arrived with nothing, and had no support, Christina was anxious to get her sorted before the baby came. J is now 6 months old. and A has two other small kids. B is 3, and a real character – addicted to shoes, and pretty things. W is almost 2, and a real charmer. He enjoys being naked. A awaits the Immigration Department’s ruling on whether she gets to stay in NZ – she’ll hear about that at the end of this month. Because she’s not a NZ resident, the Refuge has been emotionally and financially supporting her since she came to them.

All of these women have stories that need to be heard, and their voices are most often not. They are poor, brown, and women – three strikes against them – and are the object of much judgement and misunderstanding. I sit and talk with them at length, and understand that they are incredibly brave, and extraordinarily resourceful when given the chance. It’s just that no-one gives them the chance, until they get to Refuge.

I hope that you now understand why I do what I do. Working for these women, and advocating for them, is a natural extension of my teaching work, and it’s something I want to look into doing a bit more in the next few years.

I also hope that their stories inspire you to help them, to get amongst it. I find knowing them really rewarding, and I know you would, too.