Shadows Behind Closed Doors: Domestic Violence in Our Neighborhoods
“Alalla! Amaaa! Huunuuuu…”
I sit bolt upright in bed. It is one o'clock in the morning. I hold my breath, trying to decode the agonizing cries echoing through the darkness. It is the unmistakable sound of human pain under a whip—and the horrific, terrified screams of a child no older than five.
The cries are coming from the house right next to mine. One voice clearly belongs to a mother; the other to a young boy.
“Ama! Ala! Amamaahuuuuunu…”
Shattering glass and crashing porcelain accompany the ongoing abuse. I find myself torn between trying to go back to sleep and stepping outside to prevent violence against a woman and a child. In the end, I hesitate, staying within the quiet safety of my home.
The last time I tried to play the role of a responsible citizen in my previous neighborhood, it backfired completely. I was accused of having an affair with the woman being abused. The husband turned his anger on me, questioning my motives for stepping in.
Yet tonight’s fight isn’t between equal opponents, nor is it like any ordinary altercation. It is the all-too-familiar story: a drunk or possessive man beating the life out of his family. The mother and child continue to cry, carrying physical and psychological scars that will likely last a lifetime—especially for the child.
Having witnessed similar unpleasant scenes as a child myself, I constantly worry about when it will ever stop. So many children grow up exposed to domestic violence in its many brutal forms.
Through the Eyes of Children
A five-year-old girl in my neighborhood recently shared a story with me:
“Uncle, you know that Didi who works upstairs? She has marks all over her body—she has deep bruises on her waist,” she said. “She was whipped for a minor reason.”
I had already heard about the incident. A domestic worker who had lived and worked with that family for seventeen years was severely beaten simply because a curry didn't turn out well. I listened quietly as the little girl continued.
“We all make mistakes, but she made a small mistake and was punished so badly,” she concluded thoughtfully. “That uncle is worse than I thought. It is so bad of him to beat someone who cooks his food, looks after his baby, and cleans his house and clothes.”
I couldn't agree more. It wasn't fair.
Nor was it fair for the woman who was screaming for help when I lived in my previous apartment. She had run up and down the staircase crying out for assistance. Her husband had beaten her and stolen her mobile phone to prevent her from calling for help. Hearing her cries, I stepped out, and she begged me to call the police. I went inside and dialed 113.
“Hello, Police la?”
“Yes, this is the police.”
“There is a woman in my building who desperately needs help.”
“Could you give me your name, address, and phone number, please?”
I diligently gave all the requested information. Fifteen minutes passed, and no one arrived. The woman pleaded with me to call again, terrified her husband would return to attack her. I pushed the call button a second time.
The second conversation started tense, but the officer explained why they hadn't dispatched a team immediately: they receive countless prank calls every day. After verifying my number again, he promised a patrol unit would arrive in five minutes.
The Cost of Intervening
While waiting outside for the police, I noticed a man walking toward the building. I asked if he had seen the police officers who were supposed to be responding to a call. He pointed toward a group of officers standing at a nearby junction.
“They are right there,” he said politely, looking genuinely curious. “Who called them?”
“I called them because the woman upstairs asked for help,” I replied. “She was crying and begging for assistance.”
He said nothing, looked at me silently for a moment, and walked away.
When the police approached, I went forward to introduce myself. One officer stayed to speak with me while the others headed upstairs. Once the officer was satisfied with my explanation, we went inside the apartment.
Inside, the husband was already building a defense, interrogating his bruised wife:
“Who is this guy who called the police? You need to tell me and the police right now—what do you have going on with him?”
To my shock, the husband was the very man I had spoken to on the street just minutes earlier.
Infuriated as I was, the police ignored his accusations, handcuffed him, and took him away. I was told he would be detained for a few days.
The Unbroken Cycle
The story of abuse continues across far too many households. In a primary school essay on happiness, a young student wrote:
“I am happy. But I am not happy when my father and mother fight.”
The statistics reflect this tragic reality. In Bhutan, reported cases of assault, battery, and related offenses rose from 440 cases in 2008 to 565 cases in 2009—representing the highest category among all recorded crimes.
Domestic violence isn't a private family matter; it is a community crisis. Until we address the silence, the stigma, and the systemic delays that keep victims trapped, the midnight cries of women and children will continue to echo through our walls.
