A Peaceful Place

In a crazy, high paced world, filled with terrorism and war, poverty and hunger, ringing cell phones and fighting gangs, I close my eyes and think of home. A peaceful place. A place of support, of calmness, and of love.

Unfortunately, for so many, it is a place of cruelty, of violence, of brutality.

As we sit back this October and consider Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I hope that we will remember that domestic violence affects us all. It does not discriminate across class lines, income lines, or geographic lines. It affects every community in this state. And when one person if affected, every person is affected – every person in that house, in that community, and in our world.

One third of the women murdered in the United States are victims of domestic violence. This gets right at the heart of what it means to have a place to call home, a place where everyone can go and feel safe.

Almost six years ago, out of nowhere, I crossed paths with a family who had endured the most horrible thing anyone could imagine: daughter, mother, sister, friend, woman, and fellow human being Beth Kutz, had been killed by her husband. I spent three weeks as a juror, listening as attorneys, friends, and family members recounted stories of this person who was no more. By the time it was over, I knew her like a sister. I knew her likes, her dislikes, her passions, her promise. And then, when it was all over, I had to commit yet another unthinkable act: I had to sentence a man to life in prison.

I wrote a book about this experience, called Sequestered. I have been in touch with Beth’s family ever since, have stood by as an almost invisible observer, watching as Beth’s mom raised her two grandchildren, Jacob and Jennifer. Two children who, thanks to their grandmother, are flourishing. But two children who, because of this horrible scourge known as domestic violence, now have to grow up with neither parent.

I was proud, last week, to participate as a walker and speaker in DAIS' Purple Ribbon Walk. I was honored to look out among the crowd and see Beth's daughter, mother, uncle, and best friend, honoring her memory.

I have learned a lot in the last five years. As I sat in jury deliberations, I’d almost wished that Beth’s husband had hit her. It would have made my job easier. Because at the time, sitting in a tiny room deciding whether to send a man to prison for life, it was hard to make the leap. But I have learned that domestic violence is not always about escalation. Sometimes verbal and emotional abuse can lead directly to extreme violence or even murder.

I also got a tiny glimpse into what victims must feel, the choice they must make to endure the violence or to tear apart their family. This is not a choice that anyone should have to make. Ever. Finally, I learned that the choice to leave is often not enough. In my case, it was likely Beth’s decision to leave that led to her death. In fact, victims are seven times more likely to be killed when they leave abusive relationships.

This is not something that we as a community can tolerate for another year, another day, another minute. It is not sufficient to stand by, shake your head, and tell yourself it’s not that bad. It’s not sufficient to say: this is not my problem, I can’t get involved. And it’s not sufficient to believe that we aren’t affected.

We are all affected. And as we gathered around the Capitol last week, an amazing, living, breathing tapestry that stood, unified, in memory of those we have lost – our friends, our family, or even a stranger we met through the loving eyes of her family – I asked everyone who could hear my words to pledge to continue this fight, continue this work, and continue to educate survivors to come forward, family members to get involved, and perpetrators to understand that this is not okay and it will not be tolerated. If you are reading this, I ask you the same.

Let’s end domestic violence, and make sure every home is a place of shelter and support and, most importantly, a place where everyone can feel safe.