Behind Closed Doors: When Home Becomes a Place of Fear

A Wander and Weave Reflection on Domestic Violence, the Lives We Lose, and the World We Must Change

October is one of those months that gently, and sometimes painfully, reminds us of the many things happening around us that deserve our attention. It is a month in which conversations about health, social issues, and human experiences are brought into the light. From Breast Cancer Awareness to ADHD Awareness, from Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness to the many other causes that call for our compassion, October invites us to pause, learn, reflect, and become more conscious of the lives and struggles that exist beyond our immediate surroundings. Yet, among the many conversations taking place this month, there is one that has been sitting particularly heavily on my heart and mind: domestic violence awareness. It is a subject I wish I did not have to write about, a conversation I wish our world had outgrown, and a reality I wish no woman, man, or child ever had to experience. But here we are, living in a world where the very people who promise to love us sometimes become the people we fear the most, where homes that should be places of refuge become scenes of unimaginable tragedy, and where another innocent life can be lost before we have even finished mourning the last. Today, on Wander and Weave, I want us to have an honest conversation. Not merely to acknowledge domestic violence because October gives us a reason to, but to ask ourselves some difficult questions about love, humanity, the value we place on life, and what we are becoming as a society.

Lately, I have found myself reading the news with a heaviness I cannot quite explain. Story after story, headline after headline, there seems to be another family shattered by violence, another woman whose life has been taken by someone who once claimed to love her, another child whose future has been stolen before it has had the chance to unfold. I read these stories and find myself asking, what is happening to us? What has happened to the sanctity of human life? When did love become something so dangerous that a person could lose their life simply because a relationship ended, an argument escalated, or someone refused to accept that they could no longer control another human being? How did we arrive at a place where the word partner can sometimes carry the possibility of danger, where a woman can lie beside the man she loves and have no idea whether she will wake up to see another morning, and where children can go to sleep in what they believe is the safety of their family home, never knowing that the people entrusted with their protection may become the source of their greatest tragedy? I ask these questions not because I believe there is one simple answer, but because I am genuinely troubled by the frequency with which we are confronted with such devastating stories. Somewhere along the way, we must have failed to protect something precious in our humanity, and I cannot help wondering how many more lives must be lost before we take a collective stand.

One particular story that has shaken many people in the Zimbabwean community and beyond is the heartbreaking case of Nothabo Zandile Tshuma, affectionately known as Zandile, and her two daughters, Natalie, aged fifteen, and Nala, aged five. In July 2026, the three were found dead in their home in Great Denham, near Bedford in the United Kingdom. Their deaths sent shockwaves across communities in the UK, Zimbabwe, and South Africa. The man charged in connection with their deaths, Ndodana Mkhanyisi Tshuma, who is also known as Mark, was arrested in Johannesburg after an international search. He faces three murder charges, and the criminal proceedings must be allowed to follow their proper course. Yet, even as we acknowledge the legal process, there is a human tragedy here that no court proceeding can ever fully undo. A mother is gone. Two daughters are gone. Three lives that should have had so many more chapters have become the subject of headlines, public mourning, and unanswered questions.

I keep thinking about those three lives, about the ordinary moments that must have filled their days before tragedy entered their story. Zandile was more than a name in a newspaper report. She was a woman with a history, dreams, relationships, and a future that should have continued to unfold. Natalie was a fifteen-year-old girl standing at the threshold of adulthood, an age when the world should be opening up with possibilities, when friendships deepen, dreams begin to take shape, and the future seems full of things waiting to be discovered. Nala was only five. Five years old! At five, a child should be concerned about toys, cartoons, bedtime stories, school, and whether there will be something delicious waiting for her at the dinner table. At five, the world should be a place where grown-ups make you feel safe, where you can run into your mother's arms without fear, and where the biggest worry in your little life might be a scraped knee or a broken toy. Yet these three lives were cut short, leaving behind a grief that words can barely hold. Somewhere, there are people who will never again hear their voices, receive their messages, celebrate their birthdays, or create new memories with them. Somewhere, a family must now learn how to live with an absence that cannot be filled. And somewhere, a community is left trying to understand how a family can be lost in such devastating circumstances. When I think about this, I struggle to comprehend the cruelty of it all. How do we make sense of a world in which the home, the very place where a child should feel safest, can become the setting of such a tragedy?

And this is where the conversation becomes deeply personal, because domestic violence is not simply a news story that happens to other people in other countries. It is not something we should discuss only when a case becomes so horrific that it dominates our timelines, fills our WhatsApp groups, and leaves everyone searching for answers. It is happening in our communities, among people we know, behind doors we walk past every day, and sometimes within families that appear perfectly happy to the outside world. We see photographs of smiling couples, family holidays, birthday celebrations, wedding anniversaries, and beautifully dressed children, and we assume that all is well. We see a man holding his wife's hand in public and have no reason to imagine that she might be frightened of him in private. We greet our neighbours, laugh with colleagues, and exchange pleasantries with acquaintances without knowing the battles they may be fighting once they return home. Domestic violence often thrives in the space between what a family presents to the world and what its members experience behind closed doors. This is why we must stop assuming that a beautiful home, financial stability, social status, religious affiliation, or a seemingly respectable family means that violence cannot exist there. Abuse does not always announce itself to the world. Sometimes, it hides behind a smile, a carefully worded explanation, an apology, or a promise that things will be different tomorrow.

When we talk about domestic violence, we must also understand that it is much bigger than physical assault. We often picture a bruised face, a broken arm, a woman running from her home, or a police car parked outside a house. These are devastating realities, but violence can begin long before a physical injury appears. It can begin with the gradual erosion of a person's freedom, when a partner starts deciding who they can speak to, what they can wear, where they can go, and whether they are allowed to maintain relationships with friends and family. It can look like a phone that is constantly monitored, money that is deliberately withheld, threats disguised as jokes, insults presented as honesty, and jealousy mistaken for proof of love. It can be a person being made to feel worthless, being blamed for every disagreement, or being told repeatedly that nobody else would ever want them. It can be sexual coercion within a marriage, because marriage does not remove a person's right to bodily autonomy and consent. It can be financial abuse that makes leaving seem impossible, intimidation that makes speaking out feel dangerous, and isolation that gradually convinces a survivor that they have nowhere to turn. Sometimes, the person experiencing the abuse cannot even identify what is happening at first because the behaviour develops so gradually that each new boundary crossed begins to feel like the new normal. They may find themselves making excuses for the person hurting them, apologising for things they did not do, or working tirelessly to restore the peace in a home where peace depends entirely on their silence. We must learn to recognise these warning signs because abuse does not have to leave a visible scar to cause profound harm.

And yet, one of the most painful questions we must confront is this: why? Why would someone deliberately hurt the person they claim to love? Why does the end of a relationship sometimes become the beginning of a campaign of intimidation, threats, stalking, or violence? Why does a partner sometimes see another person's independence as an insult, their boundaries as a challenge, or their decision to leave as an offence that must be punished? I wish I could offer one straightforward answer, but domestic violence is complex, and there is no single explanation that accounts for every case. Factors such as learned patterns of violence, harmful beliefs about gender and ownership, a desire for power and control, and an inability or unwillingness to manage conflict without intimidation can all play a role. Alcohol or other substances may contribute to some incidents, but they do not excuse abuse, and violence must never be dismissed as something a person simply did because they were drunk or angry. Mental health struggles, where present, should be addressed with compassion and appropriate support, but mental illness must not be casually blamed for domestic violence. Millions of people experience emotional distress without abusing anyone. Ultimately, the responsibility for violence belongs to the person who chooses to perpetrate it. Anger is an emotion; abuse is a behaviour. Heartbreak is painful, rejection can be devastating, and the end of a relationship can leave a person grieving, but none of these experiences gives anyone the right to destroy another person's life. We must learn to distinguish between loving someone and believing we own them. Love does not grant us authority over another person's body, choices, friendships, dreams, or future. The moment we begin to believe that someone belongs to us so completely that we can punish them for choosing differently, we have abandoned the very principles that make love worth having.

I also find myself wondering whether we have become so accustomed to violence that we no longer recognise how deeply disturbing it is. We scroll through our phones and encounter stories of murder, assault, abuse, and family tragedies alongside advertisements, fashion inspiration, holiday photographs, and funny videos. We pause for a moment, express our shock, type a few words of sympathy, perhaps share the story with a friend, and then continue scrolling. Before long, another tragedy arrives, and the previous one begins to fade into the background. I understand that we cannot carry the full weight of every tragedy in the world every single day, but I worry about what happens when repeated exposure to suffering begins to numb us. What happens when another woman's death becomes just another headline? What happens when children being killed by the very people responsible for their protection becomes something we discuss briefly before moving on to the next trending topic? We should never have to become accustomed to this. We should never reach a point where the death of a woman at the hands of her partner feels unsurprising, or where we speak of femicide as though it were simply an unfortunate but inevitable part of life. Behind every statistic is a person. Behind every headline is a life that mattered. Behind every photograph shared online is a human being who had plans, relationships, responsibilities, hopes, and people who expected to see them again. We owe these people more than temporary outrage. We owe them the willingness to ask difficult questions, challenge the attitudes that excuse violence, and do the work required to prevent another family from experiencing the same devastating loss.

Sometimes, in my frustration and heartbreak, I find myself asking what we have become. Are we losing our humanity? Have we forgotten how precious another person's life is? I even find myself thinking that animals do not deserve to be compared with the cruelty human beings can inflict on one another, although nature itself can be harsh and animals can also harm members of their own species. What troubles me is not the comparison itself, but the contradiction it exposes. We call ourselves civilised. We speak about love, family, faith, respect, education, and progress. We celebrate weddings, raise children, build homes, and make promises about forever. Yet, in some households, the language of love exists alongside fear, threats, humiliation, and violence. How can we speak so beautifully about protecting our families while ignoring the behaviours that make family members feel unsafe? How can we teach children to respect others while allowing them to witness one parent degrading or threatening the other? How can we tell our daughters that they deserve love while teaching them, through our silence, that enduring cruelty is simply part of being a woman? How can we raise our sons to become responsible men if we never teach them that strength is not measured by how much fear they can inspire in another person? These are uncomfortable questions, but perhaps discomfort is precisely what this conversation requires. We cannot change what we refuse to examine, and we cannot build safer homes while pretending that everything is fine.

For women, in particular, there is another painful dimension to this conversation. From a young age, many of us are taught to be patient, understanding, forgiving, and accommodating. We are reminded that relationships require work, that marriage is a commitment, that families must be protected, and that love sometimes demands sacrifice. There is wisdom in patience, commitment, forgiveness, and working through difficulties with a partner who treats us with respect. But these values can become dangerous when they are used to convince a woman that she must endure abuse to prove that she is a good wife, a loyal partner, or a strong woman. We must be careful about the messages we pass on to one another. A woman who leaves an abusive relationship has not necessarily failed at marriage. A woman who seeks help has not betrayed her family. A woman who refuses to tolerate humiliation, threats, or physical violence is not being disrespectful. And a woman who stays in an abusive relationship is not necessarily weak, foolish, or blind to what is happening. She may be frightened of what her partner will do if she leaves. She may have children to protect, no independent income, nowhere safe to go, immigration or residency concerns, or family members who insist that she must keep the marriage together. She may have been threatened with death, blackmail, or the loss of her children. She may have tried to leave before and discovered that the danger increased when she did. She may still love the person who is hurting her and desperately hope that the person she first fell in love with will return. These circumstances are far more complicated than outsiders sometimes understand. Instead of asking a survivor, "Why don't you just leave?" we should ask, "What would you need to be safe?" We must replace judgement with compassion and make it easier for people to seek help without fear of humiliation or blame.

My dear sisters, if there is one thing I would like us to carry from this conversation, it is that your life is worth more than the appearance of a perfect relationship. Your safety matters. Your dignity matters. Your peace matters. Your dreams matter. You do not have to wait until your injuries become visible to acknowledge that something is wrong, and you do not need to experience the worst possible outcome before your pain deserves to be taken seriously. A partner who constantly monitors your movements, isolates you from loved ones, threatens you, humiliates you, controls your money, or makes you afraid to disagree with them is displaying behaviours that deserve serious attention. Please do not dismiss repeated threats as harmless words simply because no physical violence has occurred yet. If you are worried about your safety, consider speaking confidentially with a trusted person or a domestic violence support service that can help you understand your options. If you believe your partner may become violent when you try to leave, seek specialist safety-planning advice rather than confronting them alone or announcing your plans without considering the risks. Leaving can be a particularly dangerous period in an abusive relationship, so any decision to leave should be supported by a plan suited to your circumstances. If you are in immediate danger, contact local emergency services when it is safe to do so. If your phone or online activity is monitored, remember that seeking help digitally may also carry risks, and use a safer device or method if possible. You do not have to figure everything out in one day, and you do not have to walk this journey alone. There are people and organisations whose work is dedicated to helping survivors find safety, support, and a way forward.

We must also talk about the children who live in homes affected by domestic violence, because their suffering is too often overlooked. Sometimes, when a violent incident occurs between adults, the conversation focuses exclusively on the couple, as though the children standing in the next room are somehow untouched by what is happening. But children hear raised voices. They recognise the sound of fear in a parent's voice. They notice when a mother suddenly becomes quiet, when a father walks into a room and everyone changes their behaviour, or when the atmosphere in the house becomes tense for reasons nobody is willing to explain. Even when they are not physically attacked, witnessing or living with domestic abuse can affect their emotional wellbeing, sense of security, relationships, and understanding of what love looks like. Some children grow up believing that shouting, intimidation, and controlling behaviour are ordinary features of a relationship because that is what they have seen modelled throughout their childhood. Others become frightened of conflict, struggle to trust people, or feel responsible for protecting a parent they love. And in the most devastating cases, children lose their lives alongside a parent. When I think of Natalie and little Nala, I cannot help thinking about all the children whose childhoods are shaped by fear in ways the outside world may never fully understand. A child should not have to become an expert at reading a parent's mood to know whether the evening will be peaceful. A child should not have to learn when to remain silent to avoid provoking an adult. A child should never have to carry the burden of keeping a family together. We have a responsibility to create homes where children learn that love is safe, disagreements can be handled without violence, and every human being deserves respect.

This responsibility does not belong to women alone. It belongs to men, women, parents, relatives, friends, religious leaders, teachers, community leaders, employers, policymakers, and every person who wants to live in a safer society. We cannot keep presenting domestic violence as a problem that women must solve by being more careful about whom they marry, how they behave, or when they decide to leave. Women deserve practical safety advice, certainly, but the responsibility for preventing violence must not be shifted onto those who are most at risk of experiencing it. We need to raise boys who understand that masculinity is not about domination, entitlement, or having the final word in every disagreement. We need to teach them that rejection is not humiliation, that a woman is not a possession, and that walking away from a relationship is not an invitation to threaten or punish someone. We need to raise girls who know their worth, recognise unhealthy patterns, and understand that respect should not be something they have to earn by making themselves smaller. And we need to remember that these lessons are not taught through words alone. Children watch how adults treat one another. They notice who is allowed to express anger, who is expected to remain silent, whose dreams are supported, and whose freedom is restricted. If we tell our sons to respect women but allow them to watch us excuse the mistreatment of women, our lessons will be weakened by our example. If we tell our daughters that they deserve better but repeatedly tell them to endure harmful relationships for the sake of family reputation, we risk teaching them the opposite. Change begins in our homes, in the language we use, in the behaviour we tolerate, and in the courage we demonstrate when we challenge harmful attitudes.

Our communities must also learn to respond differently when someone reaches out for help. Too often, domestic violence is treated as a private family matter that outsiders should not interfere with. We hear things like, "That is between husband and wife," "Every marriage has problems," "They will sort it out," or "We do not know what happens behind closed doors." While it is true that we may not know every detail of another person's relationship, we do not need to know every detail to take threats, injuries, intimidation, or credible expressions of fear seriously. Privacy should never become an excuse for ignoring danger. A person who is being abused may already feel ashamed, isolated, or frightened that nobody will believe them. If they finally gather the courage to tell someone what is happening and are met with disbelief, ridicule, or a lecture about being a better partner, they may retreat into silence. We must become the kind of communities where survivors are heard without being interrogated as though they are the ones on trial. We must learn to offer practical help rather than empty promises, whether that means accompanying someone to a support service, helping them access safe accommodation, connecting them with legal advice, or simply listening without pressuring them to make decisions before they are ready. At the same time, we must be careful not to confront an alleged abuser recklessly if doing so could place the survivor in greater danger. Supporting someone means respecting their circumstances, understanding that safety planning is important, and helping them access appropriate professional assistance. Compassion must be accompanied by wisdom and action.

There is also a conversation we need to have about the way we respond to perpetrators of violence. We cannot continue to wait until a woman has been killed before we acknowledge that the warning signs deserved attention. Threats to kill a partner, stalking, escalating intimidation, strangulation, forced sex, destruction of property, and extreme controlling behaviour are not ordinary relationship disagreements. They can indicate serious danger and should never be dismissed as dramatic expressions of love. When someone repeatedly threatens another person, we should not laugh it off or romanticise the behaviour by saying that the person is simply jealous because they care too much. Jealousy is not proof of love, and control is not protection. We need effective systems that respond seriously to reports of abuse, accessible services for survivors, appropriate accountability for perpetrators, and prevention programmes that address the beliefs and behaviours that allow violence to continue. We need professionals who understand the dynamics of domestic abuse, institutions that do not dismiss survivors, and communities willing to challenge harmful behaviour before it escalates into tragedy. Where a person recognises that they are behaving abusively, they must take responsibility and seek appropriate specialist intervention rather than expecting the person they have hurt to heal them through patience and forgiveness. Apologies can be meaningful, but they cannot substitute for sustained behavioural change, accountability, and safety. Love should never be used as a shield against consequences. 

And because this is Wander and Weave, a space where we explore the experiences that shape our understanding of the world, I want us to look beyond the heartbreak and consider what we can actually do. Awareness is important, but awareness without action can become another conversation that fades when the month ends. We can begin by educating ourselves about the different forms of domestic abuse and learning to recognise warning signs. We can challenge the jokes, stereotypes, and cultural expectations that portray controlling men as desirable or suggest that women must tolerate mistreatment to preserve a relationship. We can teach our children about consent, emotional regulation, healthy communication, and respect for personal boundaries. We can encourage men to speak openly with one another about harmful behaviour rather than leaving these conversations entirely to women. We can support organisations providing counselling, emergency accommodation, legal assistance, and other services to survivors. We can learn how to respond when a friend or relative discloses abuse, and we can resist the temptation to turn someone's suffering into gossip. We can also advocate for stronger prevention programmes, accessible support services, and systems that protect survivors while holding perpetrators accountable. Most importantly, we can remember that the work of preventing domestic violence does not end on the thirty-first of October. It must continue in November, in December, and throughout every year of our lives. We cannot afford to make compassion seasonal when the danger itself does not operate according to a calendar.

For anyone reading this who is currently experiencing domestic violence, I want to speak to you with particular tenderness. I do not know your name, your circumstances, or what it has taken for you to make it through each day, but I want you to know that your life matters. You are not responsible for another person's decision to abuse you. You do not deserve to be frightened in your own home. You do not have to justify your pain by proving that you have suffered enough. And you do not have to make your situation understandable to everyone before you are worthy of help. Perhaps you have been trying to hold your family together for years. Perhaps you are worried about your children, your finances, your immigration status, or what your community will say if you leave. Perhaps you are still hoping that the person you love will change. Whatever your circumstances, please know that you deserve support that takes your safety seriously. Reach out to a trusted person or a specialist service when it is safe to do so, and allow yourself to explore the options available to you. If you have tried to leave before and returned, that does not mean you have failed. If you are not ready to make a decision today, you still deserve to be heard and supported. There is no shame in needing help, and asking for help does not make you weak. You are a human being deserving of dignity, safety, and the opportunity to live without fear.

To those who know someone experiencing domestic violence, I hope we learn to become safer people to confide in. Let us listen before we advise, support before we criticise, and ask what someone needs before deciding what we think they should do. Let us stop asking survivors why they stayed and start asking why someone felt entitled to hurt them. Let us stop scrutinising the choices of women who have experienced abuse while giving perpetrators the benefit of every possible excuse. Let us stop measuring the success of a relationship by how long a couple remains together and begin paying attention to whether the people in that relationship are safe, respected, and free to be themselves. And let us remember that a person can be intelligent, educated, financially independent, successful, and surrounded by people who care about them and still experience abuse. There is no single type of person who becomes a victim, just as there is no single background that guarantees someone will never perpetrate violence. We must move beyond assumptions and create a culture in which people can seek help without having their intelligence, character, or judgement questioned. 

As I bring this reflection to a close, my heart returns to the women and children whose names have become part of these painful conversations. I think of Zandile, Natalie, and Nala, and of the many other people around the world whose lives have been lost to domestic violence. I think of the families who must now celebrate birthdays without their loved ones, parents who must somehow learn to live after burying their children, and friends who will forever remember the last conversation they had with someone they never imagined they would lose so soon. I think of the women who are reading this article quietly, perhaps from a room where they do not feel safe enough to speak, and of the people who have spent years carrying wounds that no one around them can see. I think of the children who have learned to associate love with fear and the young people who deserve to grow up believing that relationships can be places of kindness, respect, and mutual understanding. And I find myself asking God to help us, because the world can sometimes feel unbearably cruel. I pray for the strength to do more than mourn, the courage to speak when silence would be easier, and the wisdom to recognise danger before another life is lost. I pray for the families grieving today, for the survivors finding the courage to begin again, and for the people who are working tirelessly to protect those at risk. But I also pray that we stop treating prayer as a substitute for responsibility. We can pray for safer homes and still challenge the attitudes that make homes dangerous. We can pray for women and children and still support the organisations protecting them. We can pray for healing and still hold perpetrators accountable. Faith and action need not stand apart; they can work together to create the change we so desperately need.

Perhaps the question we should leave ourselves with this October is not simply, "What is happening to our world?" but rather, "What are we willing to do to change it?" We may not be able to prevent every tragedy, and no single person can dismantle every system that allows violence to continue. But we can refuse to normalise abuse. We can teach respect. We can challenge dangerous beliefs. We can listen when someone says they are afraid. We can make room for survivors to speak without shame. We can raise children who understand that love is never ownership and that no disagreement justifies violence. We can support the people doing the difficult work of prevention, protection, and healing. And we can hold on to the belief that a safer world is possible, even when the headlines make that belief difficult to sustain.

I want a world where a woman can end a relationship without fearing that her life will be taken. I want a world where a child never has to wonder whether home is safe. I want a world where men are taught that vulnerability is not weakness, rejection is not humiliation, and love is not something that can be demanded through fear. I want a world where families do not have to gather at funerals to speak about the lives of women and children who should still be here. I want a world where a woman's decision to leave is respected, where a survivor's voice is heard, and where every person understands that another human being's life is not theirs to control. Is that too much to ask? I do not believe it is.

Love should never be a death sentence. Home should never be a place of terror. And no one should have to lose their life to prove that they deserved to be treated with love.

This October, let us do more than wear a ribbon, share a post, or express our heartbreak over another tragic headline. Let us become part of the change. Let us speak, listen, learn, support, intervene safely, and hold one another accountable. Let us make our homes, our relationships, and our communities places where life is protected and dignity is respected.

And above all, let us keep praying for a safer world while doing the work required to build one.

Until next time, let us continue to wander through the stories that shape us and weave together a world with a little more compassion, courage, and humanity.

With love,

Wander and Weave.