A story of a Migrant woman escaping domestic violence.

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲. 

I finally had the courage to call for help one night…
I knew from the moment he came home from work that it would be a difficult evening. I made sure the children were ‘well behaved’ and tried to comply with all of his expectations; however, it didn’t take long for him to get angry and start shouting… one more time I was afraid for what would happen to me and the kids. 

When he left the house to get some beers, I gained the courage to call for help.
I was so nervous that I started to forget the words in English even though I am fluent in it. I also felt a lot of shame and guilt because I had come to believe him every time he blamed me for his actions. 

I was asked if he was at home with us and if we were safe. As I told the lady on the phone that he had left, she started to ask questions that I felt were very intrusive; she then spoke about confusing stuff that at the time made no sense to me so all I responded with was “Okay”. I now know that she was safety planning, had she taken the time to explain it better, perhaps it would have helped.

The lady then proceeded to ask me to write down some numbers to call the following morning, but I could not bear the thought of having to tell my story to another stranger… again.
So, when my husband returned home and apologised, promising that this would be the last time, I convinced myself that he was telling the truth. What else was I supposed to do?

It took many more months of having to spend my days feeling scared by all of his threats, feeling lonely and ashamed at what my life had become, and crying on the floor trying to understand what I was doing so wrong (because yes, part of the abuse is the conviction that what is happening to you is your fault) before I gained the courage to reach out for help again. This time the person at the help line was much kinder, she heard me and took the time to help me understand that what I was experiencing was called domestic violence. She reminded me that it was my right and the right of my children to live in a home where we felt safe. So, I made a plan and when he went to work the next day, I grabbed my children, the little belongings we could take with us, and left. We walked away from our house, our memories and most of our belongings. My children kept asking when we could go home so they could play with their toys, I kept lying to them, “soon my dears, we will be back soon.”

We were provided with emergency accommodation, I was grateful for having a place to sleep in, but I was also afraid of what would happen to us, of being kicked out if we didn’t comply with their rules (and there were many!), and was afraid of the loud noises we could hear at night.
At the place where we stayed there were other women with their children; some from here, others were migrants like me. Some spoke English and others could not, I thought of how much more scared and lonely they must have felt. Something that has always been important to me as a mother, and that connects me to my culture, is cooking, but we were not allowed to cook. All we could do was eat out or use the microwave. I cried so much at the feeling that I was failing my children with this as well. Because of our situation, I was not able to go to work. My boss was understanding and gave me some time off, but as the days went by and I could not return to work, I felt more and more afraid of losing my job. 
“Don’t you have someone that can help you look after your children?” One of the workers asked
“No,” I said, “all of my family live overseas.”
“Well, you could look into sending your children back to school”
“Believe me, I have thought of that many times, but I have also thought of what would happen if he were to show up at school and take them. I would not be there to protect my children, and I am afraid of what could happen.”
“What about another school?”
“Please stop,” I responded, “my children have already lost so much, don’t make them lose their teachers and friends too. Please give me some time to gain the strength to speak to the school and work out how I can safely send them back. I am trying to keep us all safe.”
I told the worker how much I loved my children and the many times my husband used to threaten that he would report me to the authorities for being emotionally unstable and the children would be taken away from me. “I am afraid of losing them, I know how manipulative and charming he can be to convince others that I am the bad person in this story, he even convinced me.” I have lost count of how many people I had to repeat my story to, each time it hurt as if it was the first time. I was sharing something so intimate of myself, each time I had to relive what I was trying to forget. Sometimes I felt understood and supported, other times I felt completely judged. I still think of those women who did not speak English, they had to tell their story to two people at the same time: the worker and the interpreter. What if that interpreter was from the same community and knew her? How could she be certain that her story wouldn’t be spread like the stories of many other women she had heard in the past? I also think of those women who did not have their residency yet… how much did they have to endure for fear of losing their visa? How many times are they asked ‘wouldn’t it be best to return to their countries’? Do the people asking know that many migrants sell everything they have so they can afford to come here? Do they know that for some women returning to their country is simply not safe? Do they know that her family might not support her decision to leave the relationship and turn their backs on her and her children? Do they know that the partner might have more leniency to abuse them if they were overseas because of the corruption and patriarchal laws? I remember one of the things that impacted me the most was when I attended an organisation that offered assistance for people struggling financially. I was asked to explain what had happened and write down all of my debts so they could work out how to best support me. I felt so ashamed writing down what I owed, I had come to this country for a better life and instead I was homeless and drowning in debt. The fact that the worker spoke to me V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W and VERY LOUD because I spoke English with an accent did not help.

One more time I had to open up about my life and I ended up sobbing… I was sooo tired of having to do this. The person left the room and came back with vouchers for a food place and a gift card that I did not know how to use. I was also told about a payment for people escaping their homes due to domestic violence, knowing about this was a relief, however, it was not enough to help with the debts and to recover everything we had to leave behind. I now understand that getting loans and credit cards under your name and using them for their own benefit is called financial abuse. At the time, I simply took all the blame and responsibility for it. I know that organisations and workers do the best they can with the resources they have; I just wish that this worker understood that speaking in such a loud and exaggerated tone made me feel like I was seen as not being very smart for having an accent, and it made me feel like I was being treated with no dignity. It was because of experiences like these that I questioned if perhaps it would be better to return home and put up with the abuse. At least we had certainty about the roof over our heads and I could buy food and cook for my children. I am glad I did not return, but it certainly became a possibility when I was being treated in that way. Another difficult thing was having to share what my children and I were experiencing with family and friends. Most of them meant well, but some of the things they said made me feel even more guilty about our situation and I ended up isolating myself more than my husband had isolated me by getting angry after I had invited friends over, or by controlling who I was allowed to talk to. As much as some of these responses hurt, I understood them because I used to do the same to others before I experienced domestic violence first hand. It seems that we have been conditioned to always blame the woman, for it is her duty to keep the family together no matter what. I wish we had been taught instead that by walking away from an abusive relationship you are not ‘breaking up your family’, your family was broken the day he chose control and abuse over respect and love, and he broke it a little bit more every time he chose to behave that way. I wish we had been taught that the consequences that arise from asking for help, such as your abuser being arrested or having an intervention order in place, were not caused by you calling the police, they were 100% caused by him putting your safety and that of your children at risk. 
I wish we had been taught that as a society we have the responsibility to recognise, stand up against abuse and hold the person choosing to use violence accountable for their actions; and I wish we had learnt that the person experiencing the abuse and the children are never to blame, they are to be believed and supported for as long as it takes them to recover. Luckily, some of my family and friends did understand and held me and my children through that challenging time. For them and the workers that treated us with respect and dignity, and took the time to listen to and honour our story, I am eternally grateful.

Walking away is not the answer for every person experiencing domestic violence, especially people from minority groups such as the LGBTIQ+ community who may fear being outed and still face discrimination by the community and many services; or people with disabilities who might depend  from the care of the abuser. It is also challenging for migrant women to leave if they don’t have family support here. Migrant women have already lost so much during migration and might feel afraid of losing what is left of their home or their connection with their community, religion and culture. 
Some stay because they have heard that their abuser can take them to family court and not only will it be expensive and emotionally draining, it might mean that their children will now have to cope with the abuse without having her to protect them. Some other women stay because they have been made to believe that ‘the woman has to carry the cross’. Others might decide to stay because despite the abuse, they still love their abuser. I decided to share this story in the hope that one day we are able to support every person experiencing domestic violence, no matter what decision they make. I especially hope that this violence is stopped before it even starts, that abuse is called abuse and no excuses are made for it. I hope that women don’t have to choose between staying in an abusive relationship or facing 
homelessness, judgement and loss. Perhaps it is time to force the perpetrator to leave the house and let them navigate this complex and sometimes uncompassionate system. I also hope that people understand that walking away from your relationship and your home is not an easy decision, for many this could mean risking being killed, we see it happening in Australia every week. Even for those who manage to escape, it can take years for a person and their children to recover from all of the abuse and the psychological and physical wounds caused by that experience, some 
are never able to fully recover from it. From my experience, I have come to understand that we are still not ready as a society or systemically to properly support families impacted by domestic violence. We still expect so much from them, and forget that a person escaping abuse needs to be believed and validated, to be offered a safe space where they can have a break to process what has happened, regain their strength, and to be allowed to guide their own pathway to recovery while being offered the right assistance and being treated with respect and dignity. 
Perhaps the day that we manage to do this, we will stop throwing out statistics about how it takes a woman 7 to 9 times to leave an abusive relationship and we will start acknowledging that it took us (as a society and systemically) 7 to 9 times to get it right and properly support that family.
Until then, I will continue to share this story in the hope that women from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds are counted and seen, and that the support provided to us acknowledges how much more complex our experiences of domestic violence as migrant women in Australia may be. Important Note: This story is not based on any individual, it is based on the conversations I have had with workers, Culturally and Linguistically Diverse community leaders and community members with lived experience who work tirelessly to put a stop to family and domestic violence, as well as being informed by my own lived experience. 
 

Written by Etty Garabelli, She is also part of the Adelaide PHN Community Advisory Committee.

If you're seeking domestic violence support, 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732).

For support in other languages, head to https://iwss.org.au/information-in-your-language-dv/