FROM THE DESK OF ROLAND ROCCHICCIOLI – October 04, 2018

Retiring Family Court Justice, Stephen Thakray, said in Perth: “We should be wary of law reform being driven by statistics produced by fi rms of accountants, in the guise of measuring and quantifying the productivity of courts.”

RETIRING Family Court Justice, Stephen Thakray, said in Perth: “We should be wary of law reform being driven by statistics produced by firms of accountants, in the guise of measuring and quantifying the productivity of courts.”

His leave-taking comments set me to pondering the Family Court; its importance; and how, too often, it betrays those whom it was established to protect, particularly women and children from dangerous and violent men.

My mother late mother, Beria, was the victim of recidivistic domestic violence; the constant threat of her demise; and, for many years, daily sexual coercion. Her torment – common assault, repeated aggravated violence occasioning grievous bodily harm, coupled with rape, and physical and mental abuse – should have been brought before the courts. Beria’s third husband – and not my father – was a functioning illiterate; a Yugoslav immigrant who should have been incarcerated for his flagrant breaches of the law.

On the several occasions Beria attempted to report him to the Kalgoorlie police she was patronised and disregarded. Even reporting the numerous threats to ‘cut her throat’ – and there were several occasions when she thought he was actually going to do it – were not enough to galvanise the macho Kalgoorlie police station into any sort of consequential or remedial action. In those days domestic violence was seen as a bloke ‘giving the Missus a bit of a clip under the ear’ – which she probably deserved. In his early morning sobriety, the Slav justified his violence with the risible argument: “She make me wild. She argues with me all the time!”

A truly despicable person; a sadistic alcoholic of diminished responsibility, he died in the Claremont Mental Hospital, Western Australia. He was born in the Croatian mountains outside of Split where the industrial and agrarian clocksof- progress had stop ticking 150 years previous.

His mother, also a victim of sustained domestic violence, refused to immigrate to Australia with her husband, Mirko. His departure was her opportunity to exodus a lifetime of constant beating, servility, and servitude. He delivered her a thrashing on their wedding night and disappeared for threedays.

Mirko lived in the Western Australian northeastern goldfields for 55 years, and never once did he send a remittance to help support his children he had left behind.

Paradoxically, when I broke a wooden kitchen chair over the back of the Slav he took-off like a hairy-arsed mountain goat to report the incident to the local police. The constabulary duly arrived, with him in-tow, to investigate the complaint.

The irony of the situation was not lost on either my mother, or me. She followed my lead and we stonewalled their questions, laying the complaint at the feet of his alcoholism. Neither of us lied but we certainly played fast and loose with fact. Here was the man who robbed me of my childhood, made my mother’s life with him an absolute misery, daring to bring a complaint when delivered a modicum of his own medicine. For me, it rankles, still, that the police chose to ignore my mother’s plight and did not take the same hasty action when she came seeking their protection.

Domestic violence leaves an indelible mark. Sixty-five-years down the track I still have a recurring nightmare. The horror blights not only the life of the child victim, but also their off-spring. Repairing the dysfunctional is a complicated, some-times impossible, task.

My late mother was a determined and feisty woman. She grew-up in the draconian Salvation Army Girls’ Home in Cottesloe. At age 16 she was put into service – indentured labour – until she was 18, and free to escape the uncaring clutches of her indifferent custodians.

Beria broke her cycle of domestic violence in a moment of exceptional courage. When the Slav attempted, once again, to foist his attentions on her something snapped. She let-fly with a connecting kick to his gonads which left him limping in pain for almost a week: “You hurt me. You really hurt me,” he had the temerity to whimper. “I meant too,” she said. “I should’ve done it a long time ago to make-up for some of the times you hurt me.” He never touched her again.

He was too scared.

It is time for the good men of Australia to unite with women of this nation and eradicate domestic violence. It is a scourge.

Roland can be heard each MONDAY morning on 3BA at 10.30. Contact [email protected].