Disclaimer: This piece deals with domestic violence.
I bolt awake and into a seated position. My stuffed toys are lined up strategically just beyond my outstretched toes, the small ones at the front, the large ones at the back. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… I count until I am sure they are all still there.
Outside, the wind howls at the night sky, but it is not loud enough to silence her muffled screams. I reluctantly shift my attention to what awoke me. I am not one to cower from trouble, yet I shiver.
I gently touch the ground, one toe at a time. I’m in no hurry.
My body feels heavy, too heavy for a child who has barely lived until her sixth birthday. With what feels like an achor’s weight, I tiptoe towards my door. Before turning the knob, I remove the hanger I placed against it to keep the strangers I live with out of my headquarters. Or, at the very least, to alert me to their intrusions.
I take a deep breath, turn the knob, open the door ajar, and peep through.
“You’re good for nothing!” he yells as his hand eagerly comes down with a metal rod.
If not for the squirms escaping her tiny 4’11” frame, which quiet with each blow, mum’s motionless body would look like a cadaver, slowly rotting away. Swollen. Bloated. Coated in colors I once thought were reserved for white people only. Colors like blue and purple and red and grey.
I force myself to watch. It’ll end soon. I can tell by the shallow breathing that I hope is part of one of her many talents, improv.
I pray for the final blow, so I can hold her.
After what feels like an eternity, it finally comes. The monster official documents say is my biological dad retires to his bedroom, leaving her for dead.
I don’t waste a second. I rush to mum, careless about the noise I make to get to her. I bend over her body and whisper “Are you alive?”
Blinking several times with apparent strain, she reminds me of a cocoon I once saw that tried and failed to break free. At last, her eyes steadily adjust to the darkness. I feel relieved and am not shocked by what I see in them, yet my heart cries for her.
See, unlike me, she doesn’t cry. Not anymore. Too many tears have dropped from her eyelids in vain. In secret. Behind closed doors. Underneath blankets or tables or chairs or encyclopedias.
“It’ll be okay,” I say reassuringly, despite knowing the bulk of the pain is yet to come. I tighten my grip around her, and lie there. Seconds, minutes, or hours pass. I don’t know. I don’t care.
I listen to her breathing, still shallow, still just barely on the brink, surviving.
I think of tomorrow. Will it be worse? Will dad leave her alone? Will the bruises, which will be more colourful in the morning, stop him? Will he show remorse? Will he buy her flowers?
I sigh.
Once upon a time, this was my daily life. But life can be full of surprises, and this story is a puzzle I am tired of piecing together. See, I used to believe it was my job to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart. But that meant reliving over and over the cruel deeds of a man I will never know or understand, and giving into his power every time.
No human, who is able to unreservedly violate another, deserves the time it takes to even think a single thought for, despite, or because of them. I was, but aren’t now a victim.
It took eight years’ worth of horror stories before I became the sole intervener in the life of a criminal, while our neighbours idly stood by, dad’s parents kept telling mum how much he loved her, and the doctors, who examined her wounds (and mine), told her “not to make him mad.”
You see, I am writing this to tell you that many people were accomplices in these crimes. Myself included.
I was an idle witness, waiting for something to happen. Just like everybody else. It took time for me to understand no one was coming. There was no one, but me, to confront dad, fight him, call the cops on him, and tell mum it was time to leave him.
You might be thinking, “but you were only a child.” While this is true, I don’t believe it’s an excuse. In the end, I was a child that gathered the courage to do what I should have done much earlier.
But should haves, could haves and what ifs are a waste of time. Just like blame, they help no one.
When I started telling this story to doctors, psychologists, friends, peers, teachers, social workers, and judges, I did so hoping that mum would gain full custody over me in a rigorous Dutch court system so fixed on gender equity that 99 per cent of cases end in shared custody. 50-50 was not an acceptable outcome for me, or mum, who was scared to death dad would do something impulsive to me to get at her.
Today, I tell this story in the name of the millions of children suffering at the hands of abusive guardians; in the name of millions of mothers too scarred, broken or exhausted to cry out for help. But, most importantly, I tell this story hoping that it will encourage other witnesses of ongoing violence to act.
You are the gatekeepers of change, of possibilities, or of continued suffering.
You are the gatekeepers of change, of possibilities, or of continued suffering. You hold their keys to a better future, just as the doctors, psychologists, friends, peers, teachers, social workers and judges once held mine. Many threw those keys in the sewers to rot, and I’m glad I found the courage within me to turn it and open a door I then did not know held more possibilities than I could ever imagine.
I want every victim of violence to open that door of possibilities. I want every victim of violence to feel beautiful and worthy and deserving of love and joy and kindness, like I do now.
But, mostly, I want every victim of violence that frees themselves from the chains of their perpetrators to look in the mirror and see not a victim, but a survivor. A survivor with battle scars, invisible or otherwise. A survivor forever healing from trauma, but a survivor nonetheless.
As I walk down sidewalks through different cities across the planet or through hallways at my local college, most people don’t see past the laughter that so often escapes my lips. Beneath my confident stride, my candid giggles, and unwavering determination, I snicker.
I know I am a survivor, and I know you can be too.