‘Shame Keeps Women Silent’: Bay Area Advocates Rethink Help for Domestic Violence Survivors

Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of violent domestic abuse. 

It started subtly, with sharp words wrapped in irritation, jealousy cloaked as concern. He called her names when they argued, chipping away at her confidence. He slowly isolated her from friends and family — the people who loved her — until his voice was the only one she could hear.

Then it escalated — harsh words gave way to slaps across the face and punches. He apologized. She forgave him. Then it happened again. And again. And again.

Cat Brooks remembers the night her husband knocked her to the floor of their Las Vegas home, enraged that she had come home late from a rehearsal. Curled on the floor, blood streaming from her face, her body marked with bruises, she stayed hunched as she heard him call the police.

He told the officers that she had been the one to attack him, Brooks said. As he spoke on the phone, blood seeped into the fabric of her clothes.

When the officers arrived, they separated and interviewed both. He showed them scratches on his face, and she was labeled the “primary aggressor.” Despite her injuries, Brooks was arrested and taken into custody. She was only released when her husband arrived to take her home. She was a Black woman. He was a white man.

In Black and brown communities, survivors of domestic violence often face layered barriers to seeking help — from mistrust of law enforcement to fear of criminalization and cultural stigma. Across the Bay Area, advocates are offering non-carceral alternatives, meeting survivors where they are with trauma-informed care, culturally sensitive support and paths to healing that don’t rely on police or punitive systems.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month — a time to center survivors’ voices and highlight the advocates and organizations building safer, more responsive communities. Across the Bay Area, that work continues year-round, led by people who believe healing and accountability can exist outside punishment and shame.

According to the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey from 2016 and 2017, 53.6% of Black women and 57.6% of Black men in the state reported experiencing some form of violence or stalking by an intimate partner. The actual number may be much higher due to underreporting, organizers said.

When survivors feel unsafe reaching out to law enforcement or social workers, it often means choosing between the “lesser of two evils,” Brooks, a prominent community activist who was 18 at the time of her marriage, said.

“The stories are repeatedly the same,” she said. Survivors she’s spoken with say, “I don’t call the police, because I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t call the cops because I don’t want them to kill my partner. I don’t call the police, because I don’t want to lose my children.”

“We know we can’t rely on police or prisons to keep us safe,” Brooks continued, adding that most of the survivors she’s spoken with are just looking for ways to stop the violence.

Paméla Michelle Tate, executive director of the San Francisco nonprofit Black Women Revolt Against Domestic Violence, said many clients hesitate to share their experiences because their mistrust of the system is greater than their fear of the abuser.

Survivors fear that reporting partners or family members to police or social services could lead to their own arrest, Tate said, with some risking criminalization by the very systems meant to help them. They may also be concerned about what law enforcement could do to their partner.

The situation becomes more complicated when survivors rely on their abusers for financial support or when children are involved, she noted.

Lois Corrin was 36 and heavily pregnant with her daughter when her husband abandoned her. After going into preterm labor and enduring a difficult birth, she was bedridden for months in their Piedmont home, barely able to fend for herself. Her family and friends lived across the country, and she stayed silent, hoping her marriage would survive.

When her husband returned, the situation worsened. The house where Corrin was raising her daughter was in shambles — mold grew on the walls, the roof leaked — and he refused to help while she cared for their child. She had nowhere else to go.

Now 71, Corrin said it took her a long time to realize her husband’s behavior was abusive.

“I made a decision not to make it public because I was hoping that the relationship could continue and go back to what it originally was,” she said. “That’s not what happened. I just kept it to myself, and eventually people realized he wasn’t there.”

It was financial abuse, Corrin said, but she didn’t know whom she could trust without risking herself or her child. Economic abuse is a form of domestic violence.

Traditional social service providers are mandated reporters, legally obligated to report any child endangerment, Tate said. If a survivor reports domestic violence and children were present to witness the abuse, there’s a chance the children could be removed.

Instead of taking the risk, some survivors would choose to stay silent, hoping the abuse would stop or the person causing harm would leave, she said. Fear of social ostracization and judgment from the community also discourages survivors from seeking help, Tate said. Although awareness of domestic violence has grown, pressure remains for those living through abuse to keep their experiences quiet.

According to Tate, some survivors are discouraged from sharing what is considered a personal matter with neighbors and family outside the home, adhering to a “no snitch rule,” she said.

Tunisia Owens, a policy expert and organizer in Oakland, said it can be difficult for survivors to speak out if they feel their community won’t support them. She pointed to church leaders who encourage women to submit to their husbands or reject divorce, which can isolate survivors. Owens also noted that Black men experiencing domestic violence often stay silent out of fear and shame.

“People are oftentimes reluctant to get out of relationships that are abusive or violent because they have been conditioned to believe that you have to stay till death do us part,” she said.

An alternative approach

In the Bay Area, several nonprofit organizations are offering survivors non-carceral alternatives to address domestic violence.

Colzaria Henderson, executive director of the San José-based nonprofit Next Door Solutions to Domestic Violence, said the organization operates entirely outside of “the system.” Next Door Solutions does not provide information to law enforcement or child welfare agencies, and its staff are not mandated reporters, she said.

“Next Door Solutions is an option for folks that do not want to call law enforcement,” Henderson said. “Most of the survivors we serve are in Black and brown communities, communities of color. They can receive services and safety planning, and we can even help them get a restraining order outside of the criminal justice system.”

Without trusted organizations that engage in community outreach for people wary of involving police, immigration services or child welfare, more survivors may choose to stay with their abusers, she warned.

Henderson said the nonprofit provides wraparound services — from shelter and financial assistance to healing groups and childcare — and works with partners across Santa Clara County and the Bay Area to connect survivors with the support best suited to their needs.

“We’re an organization that is really community centered,” she added. “Systems aren’t always built for Black and brown folks. They’re not built specifically for them to succeed … Those pieces are incredibly important as we think about how people access resources and what that might look like with cultural responsiveness.”

At the Family Violence Law Center in Alameda County, survivors can access free legal services, divorce clinics and other programs. With employees serving as domestic violence counselors and lawyers, attorney-client privilege protects survivors’ privacy, barring the organization from disclosing information without their consent.

Owens, policy and advocacy manager at the Family Violence Law Center, said the center also works to educate young people on healthy relationships and the causes of domestic violence.

Research on adverse childhood experiences shows that children who face early trauma, such as abuse at home, are 80% more likely to experience future abuse and 60% more likely to cause harm, Owens said. Teaching young people to process emotions through open communication and healing is key to stopping cycles of violence.

“The importance of modeling appropriate behaviors and conflict resolution and healthy relationships for young people is so that they can replicate that and spread the word,” she said. “There are things that we have to normalize like consent, having conversations, asking for permission, seeing each other as equals.”

Jordan Thierry, a filmmaker and consultant for the Alliance for Boys and Men of Color, said entrenched patriarchal norms can also perpetuate violence in Black communities and homes.

“A lot of the messaging [young Black men and boys] are being fed is that you have to subjugate others,” Thierry said. “We’re really trying to broaden their perspective and their notion of what it means to be a man. You can still feel whole and powerful and confident and free and liberated while not having to cause harm or put yourself above anyone else.”

Thierry said much of the work he and his colleagues do centers on educating the public about cycles of harm. For people who have been incarcerated or endured state violence, he said, the trauma can often manifest in ways that cause harm to others.

After Brooks remarried in 2017, she said she also experienced abuse from her second husband.

Her partner was a Black man who immigrated from the Caribbean, and the violence emerged during times when he struggled with unemployment. Brooks said there is never justification for abuse, but she noted there should also be more avenues for people of color to process their pain.

“He’s not my enemy,” she said, referring to her second husband. “I’m talking to both survivors of harm and causers of harm. You have nothing to be ashamed of. The mandate is that you get help for yourself, that you interrupt the cycle of violence.”

Part of addressing the issue of domestic violence in Black communities and families, Thierry said, involves understanding the historical context and the specific traumas and systemic barriers that Black men, boys and women have faced — and continue to navigate today.

“For the last few generations of my family, there has been state violence, the violence of poverty,” he said. “Whenever we’re talking about intimate partner violence that is happening in Black communities, it’s important to acknowledge the historic role that our systems have had in perpetrating harm.”

Moving forward

While the domestic violence charges against Brooks were eventually dropped, the trauma and shame lingered for years. Brooks, whose mother was a frontline activist in the movement to end domestic violence, said she struggled in silence long after leaving her former husband.

“The fact that my mother was who she was almost made it worse,” she said. “I’m supposed to know better. I was supposed to leave. I was never supposed to be in that situation in the first place.”

After leaving Las Vegas, Brooks made her way to Oakland. In 2010, she co-founded the Anti Police-Terror Project to address police violence in Black communities. Through her advocacy work — and the support she found in the men and women around her — she began to heal from the trauma of her first marriage and the abuse that occurred in her second marriage.

Addressing domestic violence became a cornerstone of her organization’s on-the-ground work, Brooks said. Early outreach by the Anti Police-Terror Project focused on connecting with survivors in the community and offering safe, supportive spaces to speak openly about their trauma — without involving law enforcement or other agencies.

The most important part is making sure survivors have agency, Brooks added. Whether someone is ready to leave the person causing harm or just beginning to take the first steps toward healing, the priority is ensuring they feel safe, supported and in control of their choices.

“We shame women as if it’s their fault. We shame them as if they were stupid for staying or for not knowing that he was violent,” Brooks said. “I want to break the cycle, because shame kills women. Shame keeps women from talking. Shame prevents them from reaching out for help.”

Editor’s note: This is the second of a two-part series that is supported by the USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism’s California Health Equity Fellowship. Read part one here. If you or someone you love needs immediate assistance addressing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233.