Domestic Violence: The Silent Crime

Written by Melinda Ennis-Roughton Tuesday, October 26 2010

The Clothesline Project

Walking up to the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic site entrance on an October early-evening in Atlanta, the shadowy hues of autumn seemed to create a ghostly illusion. Stark white objects surrounding the King center appeared luminescent in the dimming light.

Getting closer, one could see that the “ghosts” were T-shirts hung on a clothesline all around the front foyer. Each T-shirt had a message, often scrawled in childlike writing across the front. The bright bold colors stood out against the bleak white of the shirts, like a burst of sunlight in a desolate sky. The messages spoke of isolation turned to solidarity, of despair turned to hope: “Silence is not Golden; Silence is Death,” “No More Egg Shells,” “You Don’t Have to Cry Alone.”

Gathered around the entrance of the King Historic site that October evening, there were teenagers in jeans and a few distinguished-looking men in ties. But the crowd was mostly feminine, from middle-aged matrons in business suits to many younger women with strollers and kids in tow. The children ran and played, blessedly oblivious to the solemn occasion.

They were black and white, Hispanic-American, and Asian-American. They came together as victims and supporters of victims of domestic violence – often called the “silent crime” because those who fall prey are too terrified to speak, or can no longer speak at all.

Then they all sat in folding chairs facing a podium, with the mural behind depicting great moments from King’s peaceful movement. One sign in the painting seemed to fittingly echo the night’s business. It said simply, “Freedom.”

At this 10th annual Candlelight Vigil for Victims of Domestic Violence, sponsored by Atlanta’s Partnership Against Domestic Violence (PADV), one mission of the gathering was to gain freedom from the fear that silences victims. And the Clothesline Project, designed by victims and their loved ones, was a shout-out against the silence that protects the perpetrators of this often deadly crime.

The shirts on the clothesline told the stories of many of the women assembled that night.

In Georgia last year, more than 65 people died at the hand of someone they had once loved and trusted. Overwhelmingly the victims were women; and, heartbreakingly, some were children. If the veil of secrecy that often accompanies this crime were removed, the reported death numbers would surely be much greater.

The silence is from shame. The silence is from terror. Their stories are shockingly similar.

The man you fell in love with, bore children with, and who promised to be your partner and protector in life is now a frightening predator. You don’t want to believe it. You think it’s just temporary – because of his drinking or the stress he’s under. He swears it will never be repeated, and then he gets drunk and beats you again.

Candlelight vigil for victims

Where can you go? You’re ashamed to tell friends and family that this person you chose and were once so proud of is making your life a living hell. He has imprisoned and controlled you with his rage, which you fear will burst forth with the least provocation, raining down on you with a vengeance, or, worse, turning on your children.

Laura (a pseudonym used for her protection), a lovely, auburn-haired Hispanic-American young woman struggled to control her quivering voice as she began to speak from the podium that night. Although 30ish, you could easily see the enraptured young girl of 18 as she told about falling profoundly in love with the man of her dreams – the same man who later tortured her mentally, and, eventually, physically for more than 15 years.

Who would not want to believe that the man who once took your breath away and called you the most beautiful woman in the world was still in there somewhere – even as he now called you disgusting and lunged to hit you?

Laura forgave him a hundred times, until she couldn’t anymore, and left. But her love for him never really departed. Or, at least the dream of what their love was.

Years passed, and he found her on a dating website. He promised he was a new man. She wanted to believe it so much that she did. She left her Miami home once more for their new life, this time in Atlanta. But it soon became a repeat of the old one – and now he was much more violent.

PADV sheltered Laura. With the partnership’s help and her own resilience, she regained strength, returned to school for her master’s degree, and even began working with other victims from the Hispanic community.

But the fear is always with her. Even now, when this vibrant, accomplished young woman speaks about her incredible survival and remarkable tenacity, she can’t use her real name. He may be out there – waiting.

Next was Barbara (a pseudonym used for her protection), an attractive middle-aged grandmother with short, slightly graying brown hair. In her fashionably jewel-toned magenta outfit she looked confident and calm. It was hard to reconcile this person with the woman who was terrorized and terrified, cowed, and ashamed as her husband of 25 years beat her in front of one of her young grandchildren. When her last grown child left home, she finally left, too. But as a departing gesture, her husband knocked out her front teeth.