White Ribbon Day 2014

A year ago, I wrote a piece called White Ribbon Day: A day I wish we didn’t need. It was the 10^th anniversary of the national movement in Australia. I cried writing it, just as I cry every time I re-read it, and just as I will cry writing this one, and will cry re-reading this piece.

You might think that I must have been a victim of domestic violence to be so affected simply writing a blog piece. You might think I must have some personal first hand knowledge to continue to be voice in the dark.

I am not a victim.

I have no first hand knowledge.

I am affected, however. Every single person you know is affected by domestic violence, either directly or indirectly. For those who suffer at the hands of their father, boyfriend, husband, partner or even a total stranger, it is easy to see the affect. For those who know a woman who has been the target of violence, either personally or professionally, the affect can be huge, especially for those working in counselling or health care setting, or who are close friends or relatives of victims.

However, I do not fall into either of those categories, so why am I so affected?

Because the violence against one is the violence against all. We are a society, a community, who must work together to stamp out this insidious act. We are the shopkeepers who see you flinch when someone brushes past you in the aisle. We are the friends who lend you a shoulder on which to cry. We are the boss’ who give you time off to recover from injuries. We are the sports instructors who wait with your children because you’re covering up the latest bruise. We are the teachers who see how broken your family is every time you come in for parent-teacher interviews.

 

There may not be much I can do to stop violence against women on my own; however, many hands make light work. Violence against women does not only affect women. We can do something to stop it if we work together. We cannot judge women who haven’t yet found their way out and we cannot apportion blame to these women for the violence they experience. Women do not ask for it or enjoy it.

There is no stereotypical perpetrator; they can be of any religion, any education level, any sexual orientation, any occupation, any strata of society and any cultural background. Abusers aren’t limited to alcoholics and drug abusers; they can be so-called respectable, contributing members of society.

Likewise, there is no stereotypical woman who suffers from violence, and the number of women who experience some for of violence is not small. In fact, it is large. Scarily large. Depending on the age group, it could be as high as 1 in 3 women. If that statistic alone doesn’t scare you, I don’t know what will.

If the thought of violence against women scares you, take the oath. It doesn't take long. Actually, you can do it right now:

 



If the thought of that not being enough weighs upon you, be proactive: financially support the White Ribbon campaign, volunteer your time or spread the word.

If you are struggling to find a way out of a situation, know someone who is in a violent relationship they can't get out of, or want more information, please check out the following information -

 



Maybe next year, I won't need to write one of these ...

Dear Santa ... from my 34 year old self

It's about this time of year that many people start thinking about Christmas. Little children get excited about the thought of Santa visiting, carols start being heard more often and decorations begin to deck the halls of shopping centres ...

This year, my son decided that he wanted to do a list for Santa. He's at the age where I'm not sure if he still believes in Santa or whether he's just playing along for more presents. Either way, his list is pretty much the standard for a child of 9. It's toys and DVDs and games. It's what he wants. He hasn't developed a sense of social want or need just yet. Don't get me wrong, he's a caring, compassionate child but things like world peace and starving children in Africa don't cross his mind on a day-to-day basis, only when he's confronted with it.

So here's my letter to Santa, with 25 extra years of knowledge and experience behind it ...

Dear Santa,

I don't need anything from you for Christmas this year. I have everything material I could ever want that would fit in that sack of yours. I somehow don't think that the house of my dreams and enough money to keep it running is really something you do.

So instead of material possessions, I'd like to ask for a little Christmas magic, something you can't buy in stores or make in a factory staffed by elves.

I'd like to ask for patience, compassion and understanding.

I'd like to ask for serenity and peace.

I'd like to ask for love.

I'm sure you could package up just a little of each for every man, woman and child on earth, and fill their hearts with joy. If everyone could see how it is for others, if they could extend a hand in assistance instead of throwing a fist in anger, if they could open their hearts and minds to all that is wonderful and beautiful in this world, the world might be a happier, more peaceful place and a greater world for our children to grow up in.

While you're delivering the presents to the girls and boys around the world, don't forget the little bag of magic. It's the most important present of all.

Yours sincerely,

A mother wanting a better future for her child

Missing the war

I don't want to talk about war. I don't want to talk about its hardships or its atrocities. I don't want to talk about the fit, healthy men and women who come home with broken minds and bodies, or the ones who never come home at all.

I do want to talk about my Grandfather. His memory weighs heavily upon me on days such as ANZAC Day and Remembrance Day. I want to talk about him. I want to regale you all with stories of his service to his country. I want to, but I can't.

The memories I have of him are patchy. Calling him for dinner. Showing him pictures of my life. Happy memories but never memories of his life. Never memories of him as a young man, memories painted through stories told with old lips and tired eyes.

I was 9 years old when he died. Two and a half decades later, if I could go back and talk to any of my grandparents, it would be him. It has always been him. I want to fill in the blanks of his life. I want to know the answers to all the questions I was too young to ask.

I think, having read many an account of war from other veterans, I'm not sure I would have been ready to hear his stories when I knew him. I don't know if the reason he never talked about was that it was too upsetting for him or if no-one really asked. Whatever the reason, his stories are now lost to the winds and my heart aches for him and for his story.

Maybe that's why I write. Maybe I don't want my story to be lost. Maybe I'll never go to war, or become famous, or do something of note, but I will have a story to tell. It will be my little story, and it will be a story my grandfather would be proud of.

Lest we forget.

R.I.P. Richard Arrowsmith 1903-1989