Domestic abuse rarely happens out of nowhere

It’s with trepidation and a touch of shame that I admit this: despite working in gender policy and women’s media for more than a decade, the brutal reality of violence against women has only just made itself clear to me. There can be a difference, you see, between writing about something and truly appreciating it. With a bit of practice, one can turn a phrase or spin a soulful lament without feeling too deeply, without allowing your mind to consider the guts of what’s being said.

I’ve quoted figures so many times in the media that they flow off my tongue now. That, on average, one woman a week is killed by a current or former partner. That one in six women and one in 16 men have experienced violence from their intimate partner. That family violence and domestic abuse costs our country $21.7 billion every year and that it’s the leading driver of homelessness for women.

The same is true with so many large problems. When the figures become so big, the possibilities and costs so great, they begin to blur. We lose the heart of what the data represents. Hundreds of lives lost. Thousands of families forever changed. A country where leaders speak in platitudes, failing to make meaningful inroads to end preventable deaths and preventable pain.

I’ve spent the past eight months working on a new podcast called There’s No Place Like Home. It shares the real-life experiences of 10 incredible individuals who have been victims of family violence and domestic abuse. For many of them, this is the first time they’ve talked publicly about what was done to them. Their stories are as diverse as they are. Their common goal is to help our community understand.

There is Laura*, who says that when she first became involved with her perpetrator, she was intoxicated by him. She describes the early stages of their relationship as “very teenage ’90s romantic comedy”. Then, ever so slowly, the nature and tenor of their love story changed. Eventually Laura would move into a women’s refuge in fear of her life.

Family violence is the main reason that women seek the support of shelters and it’s the primary cause of homelessness among kids. May* says she felt safer sleeping in a car with her newborn baby girl than she did in her own home, and spoke to me about the absurdity of needing to provide a home address to access the support services that might end her homelessness.

Khadija and her family are refugees from Sierra Leone. She says she was trapped when her marriage became violent. Khadija knew that if she spoke about her violent husband, she risked confirming negative stereotypes about African migrants. Her own community would prefer she stayed silent. But if Khadija said nothing? She knew the violence would continue.

Amani was pregnant with her first baby when she got a panicked call from her cousin, asking her to go to the hospital. It was there that Amani learnt her father had murdered her mother, Salwa, killing his wife of 28 years by stabbing her repeatedly. Amani and her husband became carers for her younger sisters, bringing up teenagers before their own babies had even been born.

That I have been allowed inside these people’s worlds to hear their stories is a privilege. It means I cannot participate in the empty refrain of “she could have been your sister, your mother, your aunty or your friend” when yet another woman has her life stolen from her. There are no “could have beens”. Because for Laura, for May, for Khadija, for Salwa and so many others, it’s already been.