Where racism and misogyny meet: a Black survivor’s story

As a woman, you are already seen as lesser. As a Black woman, that’s a double minus.  

Society already places Black women at the bottom of the scale. Everything associated with “black” is derogatory – think blacklist, blackmail, blackballed.   

To be a Black survivor of domestic abuse is to be forced directly into the intersection of racism and misogyny. 

As survivors, our experiences are already trivialised. But as a Black survivor, I know all too well how the compounded trauma of abuse and racism are completely unrecognised.   

I have lived through around 15 years of domestic abuse, which continued even after separation. The perpetrator – a white former partner – subjected me to relentless coercive control and emotional abuse, as well as sexual and financial abuse.  

From being constantly belittled to being the target of baseless smear campaigns, I was trapped in a cycle of fear and control. I was also tracked and secretly recorded, with the perpetrator installing cameras in the house. 

The abuse intensified when I became pregnant. He was racist towards me and our children, assaulting us both verbally and physically.   

Any time I reacted, or tried to protect myself and my children, he would secretly record me. After everything we were forced to endure, he would twist it all and accuse me of being the abuser, playing into racist stereotypes by portraying me as difficult or angry.  

After living with him for around 13 years, my children and I were finally able to flee to a refuge. It wasn’t our first attempt to escape – a previous plan fell through when he attacked one of my children.   

Determined to keep my children safe, I applied for a non-molestation order. 

Once served with the order, my perpetrator knew he was losing control. So, he exploited the family courts, using our children as pawns in an attempt to regain power and control. 

I was not naive to the systemic racism and misogyny ingrained within the justice system. But nothing could have prepared me for how re-traumatising the process would be.  

To enter a court with a prejudiced white judge, to be the only Black person in the courtroom, and to openly recount my horrific ordeal of abuse was terrifying. I relived my trauma, only to be criticised, disbelieved, and accused of exaggerating my experience.  

I vividly remember the judge’s constant micro-aggressions. On multiple occasions, she said: “I would like to remind you that you are under oath and to tell the truth.” Not once was my perpetrator given this same ‘reminder’.   

Despite disclosing the abuse my children and I had endured, the police and the judiciary often referred to the case as a ‘normal family break-up’. Black women are undermined in every aspect of society, but it felt like the courts, the police and my perpetrator were all working cohesively to take away my power.  

Domestic abuse is severely misunderstood, particularly within the police, family courts and judicial systems. The perpetrator manipulated this, using loopholes to exert dominance through contact with the children.   

Fearing for myself and my children, I made the courts aware of this. But again, my efforts to protect my children were dismissed.  

Each time I asserted myself or spoke candidly about the dangers facing my children, I was misconstrued as angry – yet another racist micro-aggression weaponised against me, while the perpetrator freely continued his campaign of abuse.  

Survivors are often silenced, but there is an additional layer of shame that comes with being a Black survivor.   

I am not ashamed of being Black, in any way. However, to be racially profiled, targeted and abused – not only by a white perpetrator but also by the systems that are supposed to protect me – has been harrowing, to say the least. 

As a mother of mixed-race children who identify as Black, I cannot put into words the immense grievance I feel, when I think about both the abuse and racism they’ve experienced.  

To this day, my children and I still experience abuse. Before we can even begin to speak about our experiences of domestic abuse or racism, we face barriers. Before I open my mouth, racist preconceptions and biases intend to silence me. 

The resources available for Black survivors are nearly non-existent. Even within domestic abuse accommodation services, my children and I experienced racism from another resident. After fleeing, we were moved to a predominately white area – and who do you turn to about racism when you’re surrounded by people who may not understand, or worse, may not believe you?  

When a Black survivor speaks up, the joint forces of racism and misogyny suppress us, diminish our experiences and reinforce the silence that Black women have fought so hard to break.  

Black women’s enormous contribution to history remains overlooked and unrecognised. Our achievements are discredited, our voices ignored.   

Like many Black survivors, I am still fighting for myself and my children. We deserve to be heard and seen, and my campaign in support of this will live on until this is so. 

It is crucial to listen to Black survivors, not only during the designated month of October, but every day, of every month, of every year. There must be a greater societal shift towards a culture where Black voices are consistently and permanently valued, uplifted, and included within the educational curriculum – places where our truth has long been omitted. 

We all matter, although it is the Black community that is most often disregarded, targeted and treated as if we do not. 

Brooke* 

*Name has been changed for anonymity