Monthly Archives: March 2014

Once upon a time…

Some years ago I began to write some ‘once upon a time’ stories. They were usually written for specific people, or to make a particular point. With permission I am sharing one I wrote for a young woman who used her own pain to fight for her sisters, but it is dedicated to all those women who find and use their voice.

The Tower:

Once upon a time in a faraway land a baby girl was born. She was small and perfect as all children are but when she was very young those who were supposed to care for her and nurture took her to a Tower that stood at edge of the City. Here she was imprisoned, alone, and the Keepers of the Tower used her at will. Her body and her life were theirs. For many years she lived in silence with pain and fear as her daily companions and her only comfort the bright and loving world she created within her own mind, and held dear through all that happened to her.

She was told that the Tower was a ‘normal part of growing up’, she was told that, as a girl, there were things she needed to learn that could only be learnt in the Tower, she was sometimes told it was punishment, and sometimes told it was love, and it seemed to the Girl that she must be a very bad child to suffer so. Over time, she came to believe that she deserved all that happened to her and her shame was deep.

When the Girl was grown she was allowed to leave the Tower but so great was her shame and fear that for some years she lived in the shadows at the bottom of the Tower and rarely ventured into the City. Over time however she became braver and began to venture forth in very small steps. The Tower cast its shadow over every part of the City – over the homes of families, over the workplaces and schools and even over the Palace where the Rulers of the City lived. Rarely was the Tower mentioned, although no-one could avoid seeing it, and those who spoke of it spoke in whispers. There were many who believed that the Tower was not really a bad place and who refused to listen to any truth about what happened within its walls. There were some who, despite the evidence of their eyes, refused to believe that the Tower existed. And there were some who used the fear and pain of the Tower to control those around them.

In corners of the City, in hidden lanes, and cottages and the back rooms of houses, there were places where women worked together to keep the shadows at bay and lit fires and beacons to hold back the darkness and it was to these places that the Girl finally found her way. Here she met women who spoke openly of the Tower and who talked together about destroying it, but it was strong and big and had stood for many years and it seemed that they would never be strong enough to bring it down. The girl was both fascinated and terrified by women who spoke thus, for whenever she thought of her time in the Tower she was filled with dark shame and it seemed that if she spoke all would see her darkness and turn from her in revulsion. When she tried to speak her voice was a whisper and she sometimes despaired of ever moving fully out of the shadows. However, over time, she began to listen and gather together the stories of women – and some men- who had grown up in the Tower. At first it seemed that the pain of others, on top of her own pain, would destroy her. Many times she doubted herself and many times the shame and the fear overwhelmed her. At such times she would try to numb her pain, or carve it into her body, or drown it in alcohol, but despite this she managed to gather together many stories and to be a witness to many women who had survived the Tower. For through all her suffering the Girl had retained a brave and valiant spirit and although she rarely saw her own injustices, she had a keen hatred of injustice when it touched others.

She hoped that if she gathered enough stories she might bring them to the Rulers of the City and ask that the Tower be pulled down, but shame still filled her and, when she tried to speak to others about what she was learning, sometimes they turned from her. Other survivors told her that this was because no-one really wanted to know for knowing would mean taking action and admitting that the Tower was evil. Many feared change and many feared acknowledging years of ignoring the pain that shadowed their City. The Girl felt that others turned from her because they could see her shame and the blackness she still believed dwelt within her, but despite her confusion and her fear, she continued to witness other’s stories and to try to speak out in her quiet voice in the defence of her sisters and brothers.

Deep within her, anger stirred, anger at injustice, anger at the misuses of power and anger at the lies that kept her and so many women – and men – living in the shadows. She became more aware every day of the shadow of the Tower and the many who still lived in fear, and she became more aware that other children were still growing up in the Tower. Some days she saw women hiding in the darkness, weeping, and some days she saw women who died by their own hand when the pain and shame were past bearing. Her anger grew and her pain grew until it seemed to her that they would destroy her.

One morning as she walked through the City the shadows appeared particularly dark, and she felt as if, under the hum of the day’s activities, she could hear the tears of imprisoned children, and of survivors who still struggled each day with the legacy of their torture.

Her anger and her pain welled up and she stood still in the street, in the midst of the day, and not far from the Palace of the Rulers, and a scream rose from her depths. She opened her mouth and at first only a faint cry emerged, but she breathed deeply through her pain and her fear and into her anger, and she screamed. She screamed a scream such as had never been heard in the City, a scream of outrage, of rage and of grief. At first those passing hurried away or gazed at her in shock before lowering their eyes, and some called out to her to shut up and talked of calling the Police, but the Girl had found her scream after years of silence, and she screamed on.

A strange thing happened. The Girl became aware of other screams joining hers – small screams and loud screams. Screams came from women working in the shops, mothers at home with their children, school girls on their way to school, elderly women making their slow way along the street, teachers in the school. All around the City women and men screamed – a scream of outrage and anger and refusal to be silenced. In the Palace where the highest in the Land met to make decisions there was, at first, a flurry and rush to find out what was happening – but after a short time, even there, some began to scream- at the very foot of the Ruler’s throne his aunt and her maids, his sister and her friends, some of his Knights, raised their voices and cried out for they too had suffered in the Tower and been silenced for many years and generations. From the whole of the City, from highest and lowest, a mighty scream rose.

And an amazing thing happened. The walls of the Tower began to shake and tremble and the stones at the gate tumbled down. The doors flew open and children streamed out, bruised and frightened and crying children, and they added their voices to the voices of the City as they were gathered into arms that welcomed them into the light. The Keepers of the Tower retreated deep within for they had too long lived in darkness and they feared the loss of their power. And some from the City fled to join them for they too feared the light and what it would bring. The Tower shook, and the walls began to fall down and the very foundations cracked and shattered. As the Tower fell, a silence fell too and the City watched in wonder as light filled all the darkest recesses and shone on the faces of those who had broken the silence and brought down the Tower. A shout of exultation rose from those who watched and with it a vow that the Tower would never rise again and that the heritage of the children of the City would be love and light, not fear and shame.

And the Girl smiled and lifted her face to the light and the last of her shame shattered around her like the walls of the tower that her refusal to be silent had brought down.

Predators Walk Among Us

Recently, after several high profile cases, one paper’s headlines screamed “Predators Walk Among Us’’ and there were calls for a sex offender register to protect our children. We are all justifiably and understandably appalled by these crimes. We would all like to know who the perpetrators are so that we can keep our children safe.
A sex offender’s registry would allow us to identify the KNOWN perpetrators, the ones who have been accused, charged or convicted. Most perpetrators have not been accused, charged or convicted. Most perpetrators are people we already know.
Predators DO walk among us and mostly they walk undetected within the walls of our homes.
The majority of child sexual abuse happens within the family, the majority of perpetrators are known to the child, frequently a close family member or friend.
We would all like to believe that perpetrators are easily identifiable. We would all like to believe that we would know, recognise, be able to tell if someone close to us was an abuser. Somewhere in our heads the picture of the ‘dirty old man’ in a trench coat persists.
Two years ago I had a conversation that haunts me with a man who I will call John. John and Bill had worked together for years. Their wives were friends, they had children of a similar age and the two families holidayed together, socialised and minded each other’s children for over ten years. When Bill’s 14 year old daughter ran away from home, went to a refuge and accused her father of sexual abuse, John and his wife Mary were horrified. Bill cried and told them he was hurt, devastated, totally innocent. They stood by him and supported him. After all, they had known him for years. One night John and Mary were discussing the matter, saying how terrible it was for Bill and saying how they could not believe his daughter could do something this bad. That night, on his way to bed, John heard his eleven year old daughter crying and went to see what was wrong. She told him she was a bad girl too. She told him that Bill had told her she was a bad girl and that if she ever told she would go to gaol. She told him Bill had been sexually touching her for two years. John will never stop blaming himself for not knowing.
Education programs that teach our kids about ‘good and bad touching’, about bodily autonomy, about speaking out and telling someone are great initiatives. They protect children from the unknown predator, the stranger, and sometimes, from the friend, carer or extended family member. When the abuser is father, stepfather, grandfather, uncle, brother, mother, close family friend, the situation is different.
Familial predators rarely kill their victims. They don’t have to. Victims are often killed to silence them. The child within the family is silenced enough.
It is difficult sometimes to realise the extent of a child’s powerlessness and lack of knowledge in the world of adults. A simple example I often use in groups is the situation of a child living in a safe and happy family. She is nine, loves her school, does ballet, has friends and family in her street. One day her parents tell her they are moving to a different city. She doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t want to leave her school, friends and family, but she has no choice BECAUSE she is a child. Children are dependent upon the adults around them, and if the parenting is reasonable and the child is safe, that is not a problem. If parents tell children about the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, or the giant frog that will eat them if they go near the pond, the child has no frame of reference to question this reality. Again, not necessarily dangerous.
If a father tells a child that all daddies do this, if a grandfather tells a child that her mother will die if she tells anyone, if a uncle tells a child it is a special secret, if a the child is too young to know that sexual touching is not just another strange thing that adults do, if a child is convinced that she is the bad one and she will be in trouble, the child has no frame of reference to question this reality either.
When sexual abuse occurs within the immediate family, most children do not disclose, or disclose and are not believed, or disclose and withdraw their disclosure.
Children are silenced by fear, by believing the perpetrator’s story, by love, by coercion, by being treated as special, by being lied to, by shame and by confusion.
Recently, The Royal Commission has shone a light onto institutional abuse and the long history of sexual, physical and emotional abuse of children by those in authority over them. What is emerging is a story of cover ups, disbelief, secrecy and silence.I think most of us following the Royal Commission have been appalled by the level of cover ups, the level of silencing, the number of people who knew and did not speak out. We have questioned the power of the Church, and other institutions, wondered why SOMEONE didn’t say something, take some action, why so many of these perpetrators were protected.
The same dynamics operate in families.
Mona was abused by her brother in law as a child. He was fifteen years older than her and the abuse went on from the age of seven until she was about 12. This happened in the 60’s. Later, she learnt that he had sexually abused his daughter for all of her childhood – most of the 1970’s. She also learnt he had sexually abused another child in the family. Mona disclosed to her family. They told her to let bygones be bygones. When she refused to attend family events where he was she was vilified by her family. Her mother did not understand why Mona would not let her little daughter visit her sister. This man went on to be the grandfather of several girl children. He was involved in local youth programs. Mona reported him to Community Services and to Operation Paradox. She made a Police statement. She tried to tell all the mothers of children within the family. A few heard her. Most abused her for saying it. She learnt there had been several allegations made against him but he had not been charged. She learnt of two other girls he had abused and she learnt her niece had also tried to tell the family. They either disbelieved or minimised. This was in the 90’s. After a family funeral in 2000, Mona was contacted by an extended family member to say that this man had touched her daughter (5). The Police were informed but he was not charged. He still continued to work with young people. He still is. Forty years of perpetrating and this man is still being protected by his family and the community.
Rhiannon disclosed to her mother that her grandfather was sexually touching her. Her mother stopped leaving her alone with her grandparents and told Rhiannon she had been right to tell her but she must not tell anyone else because it would ‘break her grandmother’s heart’. They still have Sunday lunch with the grandparents every week.
Mara did not believe her granddaughter when the little girl disclosed sexual abuse by her father. She believed her mother was ‘putting her up to it’ due to a bitter divorce. An investigation led to charges and conviction on both the abuse and the possession of child pornography. Mara still did not believe it and cut contact with the family. While in prison the perpetrator converted to Christianity and wrote a letter of confession which he sent to his mother in which he admitted to abusing girls and boys for a number of years. He identified 32 victims over a 16 year period. He had been perpetrating from the age of 15. None of the other victims had ever disclosed.
Families excuse, hide, refuse to acknowledge, blame, shame and deny the experience of those abused within the family. For survivors, the most common story is that the survivor is the one who is not welcome at family events, or expected to deny their experience, or pretend it didn’t happen, or minimise or shut up. To name it, to say it, to demand accountability frequently results in the victim being ostracised. I have worked with women from 16 – 70 plus with similar experiences. One young woman named it well ‘The price of being in my family is to deny my own experience and buy into the myth.’
Even when the abuse is acknowledged or believed there is often the expectation that it will then be forgotten, swept back under the carpet, ignored or denied. Most families seem to believe that once it is named the abuser will stop. Some families believe they can ‘keep an eye on him.’ Some families believe that the abuse is limited to one child, that, even if wrong, it is a dynamic between that child and her father/uncle/brother. Few report, confront or even ostracise the perpetrator.
Abuse is always the responsibility of the perpetrator. It is his responsibility to NOT abuse, not the child’s to stop him or tell, or the mother’s or the family’s. However, when families close ranks, deny, collude and support the abuser, it allows this abuse to continue unchecked, just as the Church and other institutions closed ranks and protected paedophile priests/ministers/workers.
Maria was sexually abused by her grandfather from the age of five. He told her she was special and he loved her and that this was their special secret. Then he told her she was a dirty girl and her mother would not love her if she found out. Maria didn’t tell. Ten years later, she saw her grandfather holding her little niece and tickling her. She told her brother (the child’s father) about the abuse and the brother accused her of lying and jealousy. However, the child’s mother asked her little girl some questions and the girl disclosed that ‘poppy’ was touching her sexually. In the resulting family flare up, three cousins also disclosed abuse. Maria’s mother then revealed that she had been his victim too. Maria reported him, against the wishes of her mother and grandmother, who did not want the ‘family shame’ revealed.
A woman who has been raped by a stranger would not be expected to sit at dinner with the rapist. Nor would she be expected to visit the rapist in prison or welcome him back home at the end of his sentence. A woman raped by a stranger would not be expected to spend time with that rapist’s family and never, ever mention the rape.
Of course, if the perpetrator dies, the myth building continues. One woman was asked to give the eulogy at her abusive father’s funeral. Another was expected to be her stepfather’s carer when he became ill. Another, who refused to attend her grandfather’s deathbed, was abused by her family, called cold hearted and uncaring and án unforgiving bitch’.
Wherever you sit on the subject of forgiveness, forgiveness does not mean denial. Wherever you sit on family, to be asked to minimise, deny, accept the lies, be part of the myth is soul destroying.
One of the reasons child sexual abuse continues to happen is this level of denial, this belief in the sacredness of family, this unwillingness to stand beside the victim. In the same way that religious institutions protected and supported abusers, the family protects and supports abusers. Perhaps the reasons are similar too. The Church was, by definition, blameless, holy and good. To acknowledge the abuse brought into question that whole concept. Acknowledging abuse in the family questions our whole concept of family and the sacredness we impose on the idea of family. Because the abuser was protected within the Church/institution he continued to perpetrate and the number of victims multiplied. Because we protect perpetrators within the family, the number of victims also multiplies and the most vulnerable among us – our children – are placed at risk.
Abusers rarely abuse only one child, abusers rarely change their ways, abusers who are abusing in their twenties continue to abuse into their fifties, sixties, seventies. One family predator frequently has multiple victims.
By all means name and shame predators, by all means publicise a sex offender’s register, by all means acknowledge, investigate and name institutional abuse of children and hold those institutions accountable.
The biggest risk to our children however, is within the family. Predators DO walk among us, and most of them are people we know.

I hoped things would be better by now

I hoped things would be better by now.

Many years ago in a country town a woman I worked with was the victim of a murder/suicide. She had tried to leave her partner numerous times after years of violence, had finally succeeded and begun to rebuild her life. He stalked her, harassed her, abused her when collecting his children for access visits, threatened her family, friends and workers and finally he shot her, and then himself. An awful tragedy the town said, a dreadful thing for the children to lose both their parents. How incredibly sad that he was so distraught that he could see no other way, what a pity no-one saw how desperate he was. The two families agreed that it was just that – a dreadful tragedy – and that for the sake of the children their parents would be buried together in the same grave. Even in death she did not escape him. Even in death her experience was negated.
That was over twenty years ago. I hoped that things would be better by now. I hoped we would have learnt more.

I read the news and see another woman dead, another child killed, another murder/suicide after separation and I wonder, between 1990 and now, has anything really changed?

When I was growing up in the 70’s in a small town, I remember conversations that went:
“He slaps her around when he’s drunk, but she asks for it..”
“He belted her up ..that’ll teach her to flirt with other men…”
“A man has to keep his woman in control…”
I remember my mother tending the bruised and battered face of a neighbour and shaking her head, but no-one suggested she leave, or get help, or call the police.
In 2014 there are STILL a percentage of Australians who believe that a level of violence against women is acceptable. We are still having the same conversations, making the same excuses, having the same arguments. Whenever I have given information sessions on domestic violence, there are some questions which come up again and again. Across fifteen years, a number of communities, and a range of ages and genders, socio-economic backgrounds, educational levels, I can be almost certain someone will ask:
‘Why doesn’t she just leave?”
“Aren’t there some women who like it?”
“If she didn’t like it why’s she still with him?
“What about the men, I know a man whose wife used to hit him…”
“Yeah, but sometimes women just push a guy over the edge”
“But what if she’s sleeping around?”

I really, really hoped that things would be better by now. I really hoped we would not be answering the same questions.

In recent years, I doubt there is anyone who has not seen the anti-smoking campaigns. We see adds on TV, on our bus shelters, in clubs, pubs and other venues, in our newspapers and magazines, our kids learn in school about the health issues of smoking. In the course of twenty years smoking has gone from an acceptable and accepted behaviour, something most people did at work, in trains, in restaurants, to an unacceptable and anti-social behaviour. Strangers often do not hesitate to tell someone to stop smoking, children can all tell you that smoking kills, smoking in a public place will earn you looks of contempt, disgust or pity. What do you think would happen if we addressed violence against women in the same way? I know we do have campaigns, slogans, posters and events, but have we ever, as a community, instigated the same level of campaign against violence? What if every child could tell you ‘violence is bad for us’ in the same way that most kids can and will tell you ‘smoking will kill you.’? What if a raised voice, a raised hand, an unwanted sexual touch, a sexist joke, a threat drew the same level of censure as lighting up a cigarette in a shopping centre?

I hoped that things would be better by now.

I have been privileged in my life to work with some amazing women, with women claiming their lives and their children’s lives back from abuse, violence and despair. I have seen women build meaningful lives on the ruins of their childhood, seen women leave violence after five, ten, twenty years and reclaim themselves, rebuild their lives make a loving and safe home for their children. I am continually awed by the resilience of women, their capacity to survive, but I keep arriving at one conclusion. THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE TO.
I have worked with, known, seen women of all ages – from 15 to 70 plus – who are fleeing, escaping, dealing with, hiding from, bleeding from, dying from violence. I had hoped that by now our younger women would not be dealing with this. I had hoped that my generation would be the last to live in fear.

We still do not have enough funding for refuges, enough workers on the ground, enough economic support, enough affordable housing, In some of these essential areas we have less than we did in the 90’s.We still do not have enough understanding of the dynamics of violence, particularly in our law enforcement agencies, our Court system, and our child protection system. We still do not have enough people willing to challenge sexism and misogyny, enough counsellors, enough support for children, enough effective education programs for young women and men, enough compassion and enough balls to lay responsibility, to take a stand, to speak out in our homes, communities, schools, workplaces, to hold abusers accountable, to stop victim blaming.

I admire and support recent campaigns; I stand beside my sisters to protest, to march, to rally, to educate and to speak up, speak out and work for change. I will keep fighting, challenging, marching, lobbying.

But, you see, I thought we had already broken the silence. I thought we had already shone the light on the reality of women’s lives.

I remember breaking the silence in the 80’s, in the 90’s, and in this century, again and again. I have tee shirts and posters from the 70’s on that proclaim ‘Break the Silence, End the Violence’.
I hoped things would be better by now.

What does it mean when the silence needs to be broken again and again? Could it be that, as a society, we don’t WANT to hear? Could it be that accepting that the greatest risk to women and children is at the hands of those who purport to ‘love’ them questions too many of our myths? Could it be that accepting that the family is the most dangerous place for women and children is just TOO FUCKING CONFRONTING. Could it be that acknowledging the reality of many women’s lives across the globe and in our own country might actually mean that we have to take real action, that we have to provide the services and support that women and children need to be safe, that we have to start asking the right questions, and questioning our own role in colluding, ignoring, pretending, that we have to take and continue to take a stand against every act of misogyny, rape culture, harassment, that we have to lay the blame solely and strongly with the abuser and with a society that still condones, supports, ignores, excuses violence against women?

You know, I really hoped that things would be better by now.