Andrew Wicks is a country boy with a penchant for movies and sport. After a few years working in health, he decided he'd rather work with today's youth and studied arts and education in rural NSW. His main interests are religion, health and lairy shirts.

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After witnessing domestic violence against a man, and the limp reaction to it, I found that my definition of DV is biased, and archaic.

Domestic violence has a face. It is my mother’s. Whenever DV entered the general conversation, I would think of her, and that afternoon we spent at a local police station. While the edges blur, the moment remains sharp.

DV is the face of my mother, stoically nodding when she was asked to reiterate her request by the desk constable, to dry the ink on her decision. The same voice that uttered the letters “AVO” was the one which vibrantly asked me what primary school I went to, allowing me to discuss the problems I had with dripping wax onto a beer bottle for art, saving me from the realities of the situation.

Now as far as I was concerned, that’s what DV was, the pale face of mothers, and primary school. A long-held theory, concreted by the governmental mantra of “Australia says no” and the life rule of “real men don’t hit women” – something that I agree with, with every last resolute corpuscle I can muster.

But, last week, I discovered that I have been ignorant and biased.

Last week, the face of domestic violence viscerally shifted. It was no longer the calm but resolute face I knew, but rather an unfamiliar one of a man; his face electrified by shock, his voice cutting thick staccato, defending his attacker to innocents whilst grasping for the remnants of his broken sunglasses, splayed on the marble floor of a regional governmental hub.

In the seconds previous, his partner had approached him, choosing to continue an argument, before choosing violence. His face now spoke trauma from her decision, with his eye-socket speaking loudest as a blackened rim bordered his betrayed, frightened eyes.

“I’m a first aider,” someone spoke, before leaving to source a cup of water. The security guard offered callous relationship advice, as I mumbled promises of appearing as a witness when the time came. He had no use for any of those. He required comfort, or platitude, and we had none to give.

As the shock shuddered it was out of his system, again he defended her. He claimed that she had done this before, many times, including in front of his closest friends. It didn’t seem like a cry for help, but rather a statement for our benefit – that he could handle it.

But as the attacker returned, to re-iterate her side of the argument, something struck me: I felt no avarice toward this woman. I had seen what she had done and I knew her backstory. I wanted to hate her, but I didn’t. Bitterly, the scene reflected what I desperately wanted to externalise. The scene was almost casual. It wasn’t as glib as “Oh, you kids,” but it wasn’t far off. There was almost tangible disrespect toward the victim. Personal space was respected, the security guard had his hands on his hips, not her, and there was nobody between attacker and victim. The caustic guttural feeling of fear of future violence was absent. She was politely asked to leave and did so under her own volition, and the victim returned to the library to seek sanctuary from his attacker. But no-one followed him, and no-one followed her. The police were not present, medical treatment was not requested, and the crowd dispersed wit.

The end.

But as I left the building, my stomach lurched with a dire realisation. What would have happened if the situation were reversed? If it was domestic violence – according to the accepted definition – what would have happened? My mind swam with logical possibilities. I figured that those in the foyer would have pinned him down until the constabulary arrived, and/or the first responder to the scene would have responded with outright violence, instead of the teachings of St John. Vigilante justice would be entirely justified, due to the situation. The dirtbag would have deserved what he got. Because you don’t hit women.

But that machismo that abhors domestic violence also marginalises it. In the previous sentence, I almost typed “…the machismo that abhors domestic violence also marginalises another type of it,” but that in itself proves the injustice, even by someone who freshly witnessed it. Is domestic violence not domestic violence? Why do I still feel conflict as I type this? He was violently wronged, and entirely innocent. So, what made this situation different from my original definition, that of my mother? In that situation I never saw the act nor result of it, just that afternoon when the papers were signed. There was only the implication of violence, and I figured that out a decade later. But this, however…I had the context, the act and the result. But still, I couldn’t marry that violence with domestic violence.

In the days since, the subtle castigation of his trauma has stuck with me.

Hopefully, next time it reveals itself, I’ll remember his face, and not what I think I know.