Three years on
Despair, frustration, anger and hope since the deaths of Hannah Clarke and her children
The morning of February 19, 2020 was not unlike other ones that had preceded it. A few months into becoming a mother, my infant and I had gotten into a daily routine which revolved around sleep, feeds, and getting to various activities and appointments for us both. Living on a relatively busy street in our suburb of Camp Hill, loud noises were not uncommon in the peak morning time with the car horn a familiar sound for my son already. The loud “bang” that occurred that morning was not, at that point, cause for concern - I put it down to a car possibly backfiring, buckled my son into his car seat, and went about our day.
It was later that day that I had found out the cause for the said “bang”. My interstate-based mother, panicking when she read the suburb name “Camp Hill”, called me to find out if we were okay. Confused, I went onto a news site while waiting for a takeaway at the cafe across the road. While scrolling, I overheard the conversations among the locals going about their business - “the police and ambulance were there… we haven’t been told what’s happened”, “I could hear screaming”. Reading the breaking news - that Aaliyah, Laianah and Trey had been killed by their father Rowan Baxter, and their mother Hannah was in a critical condition, had sent the feeling of dread to the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t immediately linked the earlier “bang” to the reality of Baxter’s actions, which killed his children immediately (and subsequently took the life of Hannah). I picked up my son and held him as close as I could, cradling tightly while crying - it was all I could do as my mind went blank, feeling only a sense of disbelief.
The next day, I joined other locals in walking around the corner to the Clarke’s house, across the road from where Hannah and the children were killed. Hundreds of bunches of flowers, kids’ toys and cards were laying against the fence, with mourning families standing by. Counsellors and local representatives were on stand-by to support the community, still in complete shock that this horrific act had taken place on our streets. Having worked in the Domestic, Family and Sexual Violence sector for a number of years, I was not new to the feelings of despair and rage that come with each life taken by abuse. The death of a woman or child at the hands of a male close to them is a regular occurrence in Australia - 7 weeks into 2023, 9 women and 1 child have been killed through domestic violence - and despite prior and ongoing efforts at a national, state and local level, the rate of death does not yet seem to be decreasing.
In the weeks, months and years that followed this time, DFSV was regularly at the forefront of social and political discourse. The pattern of abusive behaviour known as Coercive Control had become broader public knowledge, with calls to enact legislation criminalising instances of said behaviour (to date, legislation is not complete, with Queensland currently going through reform processes recommended in the 2021 Women’s Safety and Justice Taskforce report). The nuances of public representations of men who use lethal violence against women and children were challenged. Thousands of people gathered at the inaugural March 4 Justice after it became unquestioningly clear that sexual harassment and abuse were a part of the cultural fabric in the nation’s Parliament House. The reality of the vastly disproportionate rate of violence towards First Nations women and children was fully realised and identified. And while there has been genuine investment in some measures for providing support to those who have experienced DFSV, these measures are somewhat retrospective - the socio-economic and cultural landscape of 2021 is vastly different to that of 2023.
While global efforts to address the individual and public health risk of COVID-19 took precedence in early 2020, the risk factors for interpersonal violence (particularly DFV) intensified - namely isolation and economic insecurity. And while we are removed from the extreme lockdown measures of 2020/2021, the socio-economic repercussions of the pandemic (and associated restrictions) continue to impact families, women and children, driving many further into the higher-risk category. So when we say that DFSV is a whole-of-society issue, we are not simply talking about gender or generation - rather the way that social, economic, environmental and political domains are interconnected to increase or reduce a person’s risk.
Reflecting on the non-linear progress of the last three years is overwhelming - as I type, the news of another violent death of a woman in Queensland appears on my news feed. As in any movement for radical social reform, progress can feel (or be) stifled, and motivation can wane when change happens at a snail’s pace. I am not immune to this, even with a lived experience of family violence and working in the DFSV field - it can even feel overwhelming, the enormity of the gendered violence epidemic. But the memory of every life taken by DFSV, and hope to prevent even one more death, keep that work happening.