Time for gratitude

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It’s almost February, so I’m a bit late with this post.

#refugexmas is done and dusted , the new year has started,  life has returned to some sort of routine.

But I wanted to tell you all a little about what a difference you made to the women and kids this year. 25 women, and approximately 70 kids, to be more accurate.

You need to know that for many of the kids present at the refuge xmas party, the gifts you sent for them are the only gifts they got this Xmas.

You need to know that last year, two young women arrived at refuge, terrified and withdrawn, and at #refugexmas they laughed and played like the kids  they were never able to be.

You need to know that two of the women are doing social work degrees, and that they take great heart from all the support they are given, to the extent that they have chosen a career path that will enable them to give back.

You need to know that for many of the women, the money you gave to our givealittle fund for food has enabled them to breathe a little easier.

You need to know that a woman who arrived at refuge two days before the party was overwhelmed that her children should be getting presents for xmas, when she had expected that there would be none.

And you need to know that laughter – the predominant sound at the refuge – is the language of freedom.

There are many uncertainties in my line of voluntary work. The women come and go,  I never know what’s coming and when. But there is one constant. My gratitude to all of you -strangers and friends alike, who rally around me and help me to do this.

I tried to name all of you and ended up naming none. Perhaps that is what we prefer? I’m your face, your voice, I guess. It’s why it works, all of this, and I’m okay with that.

But don’t think I could do it ever without you. Because I used to and it was unsustainable, and now here we are.

Thank you.

Imbalance

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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.

 

 

Kindness

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Today was the National Day of Random Acts of Kindness. I’m not really about having a day especially for kindness, but I am aware that many people need a focus for random acts of kindness, and that’s okay.

Let me tell you, though, about what kindness looked like, in my life, today. Many days are full of kindness towards the women at Refuge – most days consist of emails offering me stuff, or money, or kind words.

Today though was something a bit special. It started, unbeknownst to me, with a call by the ASB on Twitter for nominees for a $250 one-off gift. Some very kind people nominated the #twitteraunties, and towards the end of the day, we recieved a tweet to say that we were the recipients of said $250. How wonderful!

And then, in the middle of a meeting at work , a soft knock on the door. It was my H. My H is one of the pieces of my heart. She is a woman who’s been knocked around by life, a lot. I met her in refuge, I’ve held her in my arms when life has taken a tragic turn, and then she went on to a new life, we thought. Kris and I were so happy for her. Twitter Aunties in Christchurch took her under their wings. She was finding some light again. And then, again, she was knocked down. She has come back to Auckland, and here she was. I took her in my arms – “you should never have shown me where you worked” – and I held on to her. She’s staying with another ex refuge mum, just for the moment, neither of them with any money, and then I suddenly remembered that I had been given $50 worth of Countdown vouchers which I was able to give to her.

I left work, and went to ring the woman who had helped H in Christchurch to let her know that she was safe, and instead got her business partner on the phone. A beautiful woman, a woman with heart and compassion, who listened as I sobbed on the phone, and reassured me that if there was anything the group of women could do down there, they would.

I ended the phone call and went to the fruit and vege shop to get some stuff for dinner. While there, Paul the shop owner asked me how I was. When I told him about H and what the situation was, he immediately went to fill a bag with fruit and vege for the two women.

When I got home, I recieved a call from a friend about a situation that required immediate attention, someone who needed rescuing. I, in turn, rang another friend to ask advice. And she and her partner leapt to help.

This is a day of kindnesses to strangers. This is a day, a day like most others, a day given a name to promote kindness. But the kindnesses I experienced today weren’t random. They fell into place, one after the other.

This is what kindness looks like, in my life.

The price of being a young woman – TW Rape

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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.