Just take a seat....
........innocent words, one can almost imagine it to be welcoming,......but alas, NO.
I had to go to the Domestic Violence Court. First time in my life. I have been very blessed, I have never been beaten or assaulted by a demented spouse or lover, unlike thousands others. It took me almost ten years to take a stand in this particular case. The words: 'cease and dessist' have been bandied about.
The rest of the sordid details will remain buried in a lonely, sad little closet..
.....BUT
..and here's the
thing..
You have to go to a Building, to an Office, and Fill out Forms, and Sacrifice Precious Emotional
Energy in the process. Thus, you need to pace yourself....focussed and professional. You must cling to
every shred of dignity you can muster, as this encounter is not for the faint- hearted.
ENTER OFFICES OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE:
When I managed to locate the hallowed office, I was directed to a rickety lift,sagging with sad looking women clutching files. It was most interesting that the biggest and angriest woman in the group clutched a Winnie the Poo folder. Yet here she was, scowling fiercely and shouting in Xhosa into her cell phone. The word 'Stressa' was screamed repeatedly down her victim's ear .
We entered the Office and was met by an excited guard with a clicking baton in his hand. He was clearly in love with his noisy appendage, and he reveled in the power of sliding it across the various bodies in front of him. One young woman told him to stop waving his little wand and that she was really uncomfortable about being prodded by it. He found that hilarious. The young woman shook her weave and dared him to touch her.....things were getting slightly out of hand and his female assistant came to the rescue, by grabbing our bags and rummaging in it as if it was her own bag, which caused the weaved beauty to click her tongue loudly while she wiggled off in her tight jeans. The wand-waving guard's eyes literally misted over as he watched her retreat, and I felt a frisson of sympathy for the poor thing. Conversation was limited as a couple of women sat around, clutching their handbags and picking at their nails or working their cell phones.
One rail thin and deceptively timid woman started telling me some of her story, clutching an ominously thick folder.
The sadness in her eyes was eclipsed only by disillusionment and exhaustion and her long, tapered fingers never stopped tapping against the faded leather folder in her hands.
She carried the folder like a shield.
The main reason that we had time to chat about her x-husband terrorizing everybody he comes into contact with, was the fact that the statuesque clerk was sitting on a chair, removing her slippers and squeezing her feet into a pair of extremely high-heeled, beige shoes. This took about a half an hour, ( a full thirty minutes after they opened, I might add).
She then trawled around the dreariest office on this earth, looking for a place to store her slippers. Black and pink slippers.... She found her little spot in a filing drawer,there was also a feather duster in the drawer. The window was streaked in thick, very old, grey pigeon poop, providing a dramatic back drop for the collapsed air conditioner hanging half off its hinges, with strangely enough another feather duster stuck behind it.
A torn piece of paper bore the legend: LUNCH FROM 1 - 2
This earth shattering announcement was stuck next to a peeling poster, illustrating the different kind of abuses one can be subjected to and how to recognize the signs.......... I tried very hard not to see the beige atrocities as a sign of impending doom.( Beige is not a colour anyway, its a state of mind. A really dreary and bleak state of mind, in this case.)
The rest of this hovel had the same poop- streaked and broken equipment backdrop for an old wooden counter, where you stand and fill out various forms.
I completed mine as best I could and presented it to the stony faced clerk. She glanced at it, paged through it roughly and said: 'You didn't do it right'
'Oh, I said, and smiled as best I could,' Shall I re-do it?'
She shook her head and literally rolled her eyes.......
I bravely forged on, having come thus far, trying to ignore the exasperation in her eyes.
Me:' Should I re-do it? Should I be more specific?'(Didn't quite know how much more specific I could be as I had evidence and everything....)
Clerk: 'I know the Magistrate, and you don't want to listen to me.'
Okaaaayyyyyyy.........my palms were beginning to sweat and I wasn't sure if this place was regressing me to hot menopausal flushes or if I was attacked by a swarm of airborne germs from the filthiest carpet I have ever seen.
'Wearing really ugly shoes that are to small for you will do this to you', I wanted to caution her, but I restrained myself.
She pointed at the name of my tormentor and asked : 'Who is this? It's not a man?'
'No,' I said, and I think I made a pathetic attempt at giggling, which was wildly inappropriate at that moment.
She gave me a suspicious look and made a funny sound in her throat, which made me feel slightly better over my sad attempt.
She shoved the offending document at me and said: 'Do what you want'
I looked at her rather pointedly.....'Don't tempt me dear......' ( Once again I was composed...)
I returned to the horrible counter, trying to ignore the fact that my hand was sticking to the toxic surface and scratched off some incoherent account of my dilemma.
I once again approached the Oracle and she shrugged and took the pieces of paper.
This depressing bomb shelter made the Traffic Department look like a Carnival.
There was nothing in it, or about it, that in any way conveys empathy, or God forbid, sensitivity.
If I was a freshly traumatized woman who had suffered greatly, and I had to walk in there, I would have been crushed to a pulp.
It felt like a set out of a Quentin Tarantino Movie where the victim sits bound to a chair whilst staring into a bright light while his toenails are being pulled out and rats are gnawing at his remaining limbs.....
Not a glass of water,not a box of tissues, and it hasn't been cleaned since it was built obviously.
In a country where abuse is a National Sport, (with a whole month devoted to Abuse against Women and Children), I find this utterly unacceptable and quite frankly, I don't understand it. The place itself is abusive!! It is an insult to the clients walking in there. What about all the hours devoted to Therapy and Counselling that so many people participate in to improve this situation? What does it help and what does this all mean?
And WHY?????
It is demeaning to say the least, and I will write a vitriolic missive to the people concerned.
Oh, and by the way, I was granted an Interdict........
Put that in you horrible beige shoes and smoke it YO!
Spread the Love**
