The stuff that dreams are made of

This morning I woke up at 6am, which is relatively unusual for me. I was woken up by the sound of a loud, dull thud emanating from the roof. Quite suddenly, the thud was accompanied by what can only be described as a dull swiping noise, followed by a stream of profanity from what unambiguously was an enraged male voice. It lasted for what felt like 30 minutes. It’s always a bit of a trip whenever you become aware of externalities whilst only partially awake. Somehow, those externalities work their way into your dreams. As I lay there half asleep, half awake, I began dreaming of what was happening upstairs. I began dreaming of this room. A room with this frightened, balled-up creature in one corner, hand crouched firmly in front of her face to deflect any possible hits to it, feet somewhat shivering. Standing above this form was another, more robust, anger-ridden thing. His contempt and hatred poured out into every facet of the room, punctuated, as it always is, by abrupt grooves running up and down his face the way only charged emotion can etch on a human face.

Once the noise died down, and I heard the front door slam, I considered going upstairs to see if everything was okay. Of course, I never did. Who am I to get involved in another’s troubles? As with most of the moral dilemmas I am confronted with, I decided not to respond. The images and emotions of that morning were soon distant memories as I ate my breakfast and read some headlines on Google News.

Something happened upstairs this morning. Exactly what, I do not know. My assessment of the situation might be inaccurate. But something did happen, whatever the precise details, causes and effects. Perhaps it had something to do with the isolation and heat over here? I’ve felt it ever so slightly myself. Alcohol abuse is high up here, as is the call over rate at the local women’s refuge centre. An acquaintance who has worked at the centre told me alcohol-related domestic violence rates in this region were indistinguishable between the black and white communities. It’s a common enemy that makes no bones about ethnic or socioeconomic distinctions. I have never been abused, but have witnessed physical abuse occasionally. It always shakes me up.

Violence is indeed a weapon of the weak. But it is particularly effective against the vulnerable.