Child protection is high on my agenda, as it should be for every parent. But why is it that one
in three girls are subject to sexual abuse, and one in five boys. The statistics in Australia
alone has shown an alarming increase in reported cases of child sexual abuse, doubling from
2000 to 2008. Although reports did decrease substantially over the following two years, from
2010 they are back on the increase. [1]
I grew up in a family where all the children were subjected to verbal abuse of one kind or
another, while the older children also became subjected to sexual and physical abuse. When
my sisters reached about the age of eight or so, the father daughter relationship changed,
since, in the eyes of my drunken father, he believed he had the right to do whatever he
wanted to his children.
Sadly, my father got away with incestuous crimes. Even when he died at the age of seventy-
two, he had never been convicted for the trauma and damage that he contributed to his
children’s dysfunction. It was years after the kids had all left home and his wife had divorced
him before his deeds became common knowledge throughout the extended family. Even then
no-one believed they had the power to persecute him. The only consolation was that he lived
a lonely and isolated life. The fact that he got away without a criminal conviction has also
influenced the next generation of abusers within my family. I don’t believe abuse is
hereditary, but the parental influence in my family had bread disrespect towards women, plus
children learn more from what they see, rather than what their told. You know the old cliché,
‘monkey see, monkey do!’
By the time I was thirty, I had decided to trace my family history, as I wanted to find out who
I was and where I had come from. It wasn’t long before my research revealed that my father
was not the first of his kind.
I found some interesting facts from both sides of the family that played a role in who I am
today! On my mother side there was one couple who had twenty-two children, with only one
set of twins among them. It was no wonder that a photo of their fiftieth wedding anniversary
showed a very hard faced mother. It was sad to see that less than half the children celebrated
this special day with their parents, but I can understand it if they’re anything like my family.
There was also my great-grand father who at thirty married a sixteen year-old girl. They went
on to have sixteen children before his wife died of a sexually transmitted disease thirty years
later. There is evidence to prove she had the disease all he married life, suggesting she
contracted it from her husband and his promiscuous lifestyle before they met. According to
acquaintances, he was well known throughout the town in which they lived for flirting with
the ladies. With so many observers, it’s a wonder she never knew, or did she? If she if like
my mother, then I believe she did know, but their culture dictated that they turn a blind eye.
But there’s more. On my father’s side, I met a great-auntie. I caught her at a bad time because
her husband had recently died. Nevertheless, she was still quite informative. After she had
exhausted her story about receiving a letter from the queen of England to commend them on
their wedding anniversary, I asked her a lot of questions about her parents. I first asked her
how her mother had died. Probably not the most appropriate of question under the
circumstances, but she was willing to tell me. She told me the story as to how her mother had
died while my great-auntie and her father were fishing on the beach. Her mother knocked
over a candle after falling asleep in their makeshift beach tent. The tent caught fire, but no-
1 [www.aif.gov.au]
one could get to her in time to save her from the flames. My great-auntie was only fourteen at
the time, and although she tried, there was little she could do to save her mother. It was an
horrific memory for her to recall, yet, not as horrific as recalling the memories of her father. I
was under the assumption that her father was in the fire brigade, but when I asked, she went
off on a tangent as to how much she hated her father. She told me how she couldn’t wait to
leave the family home; she’ll go anywhere and marry anyone, to get away from that man. I
remember those exact same words used by two of my sisters when they became old enough
to marry. My sisters were desperate to leave home and change their name so that they didn’t
have to associate with my father or his name. To them, getting married was like a second
chance at life. Up until then, their life was far from normal.
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