It was so quiet. Thousands of people rugged up against the damp and the cold, standing on all sides of a circle of flowers. A lone figure would break from the crowd and place more flowers, then walk back to the group and another person would take their place.



Young women, old men, a pre-teenage girl with a single carnation. Public figures, too, like Premier Daniel Andrews and his wife, Catherine. There was barely a sound – just a rustle of a puffer jacket, a distant car engine, a baby crying. Behind them, the grey Melbourne sky faded to black.

They had come for the most personal of reasons, and for the most political. Phoebe Montague placed geraniums she and her young daughter had picked from their garden. Almost every day, she takes her child to play in Princes Park in North Carlton. It’s their local park in the inner city, adjacent to the University of Melbourne, with tennis courts, AFL and soccer grounds and a well-used running track.

The alleged rape and murder of Eurydice Dixon when she was doing something so everyday – walking home through the park after a comedy gig in the city – was wrenching. “It’s really important to share the grief,” Montague said, “but we really need to say clearly that’s it’s not acceptable for this to happen.” She had never thought much about her own behaviour, but since Dixon’s death, it dawned on her that she adjusts all the time. She holds her keys in case of attack, she calls her girlfriends when out at night. “It’s part of my life. I didn’t realise it before, but I do it all the time.”

Murder is rare in Australia, and murder by strangers rarer still. But the death of Dixon has become a symbolic moment, a flashpoint for anger at violence against women. It has added to #metoo’s exposure of women as fair game for harassment, the gendered nature of domestic violence, and spurred a conversation about the hyper-awareness women practice to be safe.

Organisers stood on top of a Ute and said there would be time for political action about violence against women; this was no time for speeches. The vigil was a moment to show love for Dixon, the shy, gutsy comedian, the daughter and friend who had barely entered adulthood.

There were those holding candles in Dixon’s honour who knew her as a person, and not as a symbol of anything. “She was a mighty woman,” said Nicky Barry, who came with a group from the Comedy Women’s Association. “She was smart and articulate with a black sense of humour.”

There were schoolchildren from the same school as Dixon, whose death was too close to home. Thea Jones, 16, said she had friends who were in the park on the same night Dixon was killed. Somehow, she hoped the vigil could reclaim the park for everyone. “I don’t want the murder to be what it’s remembered by. I want it to be remembered for this,” she said, of the estimated 5,000 to 10,000 people, standing together, candles lighting up their faces.

The “debate” following Dixon’s alleged murder made this vigil a mix of the personal and the political, although a low-key one. Becky Schrederis, 38, takes her cocker spaniel Angus walking in Princes Park almost every night after work. “I’ve never felt unsafe before.” The suggestion that women needed to be vigilant was frustrating when women are vigilant instinctively. “You do all these things and you’re told it’s not enough. Women always take responsibility, and someone else needs to take responsibility.”

Women, especially young women, dominated this group. Just after 6pm, the floodlights were dimmed for 20 minutes, and faces were soft lit by candlelight. Everyone quiet with their own thoughts, their own feelings, before a choir sang Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.

Toby Gooley, 32, stood to the side contemplating how he and his male friends go out at night and rarely contemplate their safety. He knows violence is possible – his boyfriend has been sexually assaulted – but for women, there’s a heightened sense of personal danger. He wanted to be here, among the community. “It’s hard to figure out what your place is, here,” he said. “Just being respectful and standing back.”

A vigil is a silent memorial, a gathering of strangers to bear witness, and to stand for something. This one was to remember Dixon, and to stand for women’s safety in public places.

While the lights were dimmed, and the candles flickered, outside on Princes Park Road, a young woman, ponytail flying, was running, alone. She was fit and strong and living her life. Somehow, she stood for something, too.