In an abusive relationship, cultural expectations kept her silent

When I started seeing a therapist at 21, I didn’t tell my mother.

It would be another six years before I did. I didn’t know it then, but the shame and timidity I felt was unremarkable for someone like me. And by someone like me, I mean someone with an Asian ethnicity.

Writer and teacher, Jessie Tu, believes women from diverse backgrounds need to be supported to speak up about violence.

I’d grown up in modern Sydney, though at home, my parents espoused an ideology of silence, grace and forbearance in the face of adversity. To tell others of my weaknesses was verboten.

The attitude followed me to work. When a problem arose, I didn’t seek help, and then would eventually be chastised for not seeking help. At home, we were taught to wear a hard face — never let anyone suspect you are anything other than perfectly put together. Seeking help was weak. Seeking help was admitting emotional fragility, and admitting emotional fragility damages a family’s reputation.

It was not surprising then, that, when I found myself in an abusive relationship, nobody knew about it until I’d wrangled myself out.

Nobody knew, because I didn’t tell anyone. I wanted to be romantically accomplished, just like every other woman I knew. To share details felt like a reflection on myself — I’d failed to secure the affections of a sane, kind, human being. Was I someone who lacked sanity and kindness?

It took me a while to realise I was not alone.

There are many ways the closeted insularity of Asian families stops us from speaking out. As a woman who juggles two cultures, it was in the home I struggled to grasp my sense of self-worth and agency. I carried the burden of Asian cultural barriers and traditional attitudes that stop women like me from seeking help: filial honour to family, deference to authority, humility, hard work, non-combative, non-confrontational, non-complaining.

These were all good traits. These were collectivist ideologies, not individualistic ones. When my partner began exhibiting abusive behaviour, I receded into myself.

Often, the work of labelling is the first step. Supporting women to name the behaviour inflicted on us is paramount.

Mariam Mourad is the Chief Executive Officer of the Bankstown Women’s Health Centre, in an area of Sydney where up to 80 per cent of residents have both parents born overseas — a large portion are Chinese and Vietnamese. For these women, having a word to describe their abuse is important.

"Domestic violence includes belittling, demeaning, financial control, and manipulation," she says, detailing a definition which can help women who come from linguistically diverse backgrounds to recognise the behaviour they are experiencing as such.

I think of all the instances of viciousness I’d received in my own relationship and wondered how I had no language to describe it.

At a recent gathering of culturally diverse women in a community shelter in Redfern, in Sydney's inner city, I heard stories of emotional violence, gaslighting, coercive behaviour and shocking ultimatums. Resoundingly, most women said the psychological trauma is overwhelmingly more difficult to manage than the physical scars.

There is a phrase in Chinese —"ren-nai", the closest translation is "to endure", "to bear" or "to suffer through without sound": to be invisible. We’ve been taught to be agreeable, and silencing oneself was taught to my mother and my grandmother, and to all the women before her, as something to be proud of, something noble. To keep your trauma to yourself is a necessity for maintaining a particular social grace.

"[Domestic violence] is a gendered issue and it affects women disproportionately because of systemic gender inequalities and imbalances around power, economic status and access to resources," Mourad says.

I wonder whether I might change things if I ever have a daughter. I wonder if sharing stories is a form of empowerment, solidarity and strength. These stories, when shared, save us. Telling some, can literally, save our lives.

Feminist activist Rebecca Solnit once said silence is what allows people to suffer without recourse: "Silence separates us, leaves us bereft of the help or solidarity and communion that speech can solicit or elicit."

But I am also aware of my privilege; it is safe for me to speak out.

This privilege is disproportionately spread across society. The colour of your skin, how you came to this country, where your parents lived, where you live, what job you have— all of this effects the distribution of these privileges.

After one incident with my partner, I reached out to my brother. I knew that, if I didn’t tell him what was happening to me, I’d not have heard the words I needed to hear to save myself — You need to get out, now. Your life is actually in danger.

Sometimes, we need to break open our own silences. We need to do that so that someone else can tell us what we can’t hear ourselves.

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