Why Words Matter

I love that I live in a community, where there are bright purple street signs in most of the towns that proclaim that we say 'No to Violence' (see link below).    I love that, when I was working at the Women's Resource Centre, a nomadic survivor of violence in her seventies was drawn to our cottage to share her story and to make a donation to help other survivors.  I love that I live in a rural community, where there are women, who I like to think of as friends, but are more like feminist mentors really.  I love that I live in a small community, where we are blessed with many committed women, who, sometimes, at great cost to themselves, are willing to fight the good fight as volunteers or for pitiful wages.

http://thebegavalley.org.au/19816.html

But I hate that, in our small community, we have one of the highest rates of homelessness per capita in NSW and that a leading cause of women's homelessness is domestic violence.  In a community  renowned rather uncontroversially for its cheese, I hate that we have become notorious for being home to the gynaecologist, who butchered countless women, whilst employed by a local health service and that, in a remote community in our Shire, a man, who had assaulted his partner, was released on bail by police and, shortly after, killed his children and himself.  And there was nothing our system could do to prevent his contact with those children overnight.

Domestic violence kills.  The Remembrance Quilt was composed to remember the murders of women and children.  Painstakingly sewn by sometimes amateur quilters, whose lives were affected by the domestic homicides of friends, sisters, mothers, daughters, it hung in the hallway of the Women's Resource Centre for almost a year and its vibrant colours belied the senseless tragedy that it represented.  Our community's quilt panel proclaimed that we say 'No to Violence.'

And sometimes I have to admit that 'No' seems like a whisper.  Because, as was recently noted in the media, an alarming number of people still find sexist jokes funny.  In post-modernist times, where truth is up for grabs, we do not contextualise gender inequality as one of the conditions that allows domestic violence to thrive (because that would be to take a stand on cause and effect and as any good post-modernist knows, there is no truth).

Whilst we declare (even in UN declarations!) that violence against women is an abuse of human rights and, although we know the casualties of the war on terror are a fraction of those women murdered by their partners every year, our governments spend a fraction of their GDP on domestic violence prevention and intervention when compared to military spending.  And, in my career, I have heard magistrates consider that assault was a reasonable way of calming a 'hysterical' woman down or that a woman's tolerance of domestic violence was an indication of her inability to parent her children.

It is why the stories of resistance never fail to move me.  So many women, whom the system fails to protect, survive, whilst making a personal commitment to making violence in their lives (which is not their fault!) stop.  If they could only be more understanding, say the right things, be better/ worse in bed, understand their partner's pain and help him heal, keep him out of gaol etc., ...  It is simultaneously heart-breaking and inspiring to listen to.  It is inspiring because she is alive.  It is heart-breaking because, if she goes back, a part of me wants him to change almost as much as she does, but the evidence-base is brutal... and, more than anything, I don't want her to be hurt or killed- because every time he hurts her, he kills a part of her, anyway...

Occasionally, there are moments, which resonate with victory.  The gorgeous Gabrielle (Women's Resource Centre Co-ordinator/ grant applicant extraordinaire) helped me apply for a grant.  A small group of women talked about abuse.  They explored it through art.  We found ways to depict healthy relationships.

The accidental therapy that happened was incredible.  As a 'so-called' facilitator, I played safe (I depicted my relationship with words- the words I have been called and how I found a way to turn those words into fuel for my advocacy-see below).

I can buy my won flowers thanks

How I made my peace with the words I am called, the words I read and the words I write.

So, although the 'No' is sometimes a whisper, many whispers make a scream.  And, although there are no truths any more (we are all post-modernists, after all!), it is never okay.  I don't care if she's a skank, slut, whore or a cunt . I don't care if she is messy, unfaithful, bad with money or a lousy cook.  It is never okay.

That's a truth.  Post-modernists be damned (although I love some of your work to bits!).  There are some things that are not negotiable.  Saying them (even when the clamour of alternative truths is a roar) is a worthwhile project.

That's why I love the purple signs.  I make a point of breathing them in and breathing them out.  Every day, I drive past them and in my mind I imagine a Shire (not even a world, just a little shire), where everyone says no to violence.