CAIRO — The show had just started. It was one of those debates that the new private Egyptian channels love to produce: Viewers can call in to denounce a terrorist, live on air.
In front of his television, Yasser was listening to the host describe an “individual who seriously affects the image of the country.” The host repeated his name, again and again, so the audience wouldn’t forget. At that moment, on his couch, Yasser suddenly realized that this “terrorist” for whom the hunt was now on was him: a 40-year-old father of two who works at a conference center used by the Freedom and Justice Party, the Muslim Brotherhood’s political organization in Egypt.
His wife told him right away, “You have to leave.”
But he refused, saying he “hasn't done anything wrong.”
Last year, Yasser and his wife gave up a comfortable situation in Dubai to return to Cairo, filled with enthusiasm after then-President Mohamed Morsi’s election and the arrival of an Islamist government. Over the summer, the Egyptian Army violently removed the elected leaders, and these last few weeks, the repression has become more judicial than military, as it was at the outset. At least 1,700 people have been arrested and placed in 15 police precincts and four prisons of the capital, according to an investigation carried out by an association of lawyers.
On his couch, Yasser can hardly believe that the police will come to arrest him. “Why me? The police only target high-ranking members.” And his wife: “Your colleagues have already left, haven’t they?” Former prominent ministers or more obscure Muslim Brotherhood members have been forced by the hundreds into hiding.
In Cairo, life seems almost normal after a summer of riots and mourning. Security checkpoints have been eased, and hotels have been openly organizing “special curfew” nights. The atmosphere, however, remains electric. The Egyptian capital is still on high alert. News flashes appear hourly on mobile phones.
We learn that Morsi, the deposed president, will be tried for “incitement to murder,” though the date of the trial is unclear. The first pro-Morsi demonstrators’ trial just took place before a military court in Suez, and the sentences are breathtaking — 10 to 15 years’ imprisonment, and a life sentence for one.
“There’s clearly a particular hostility toward Islamists,” says Amr Hassan, a lawyer. He is 29 and looks nothing like what someone might imagine an Islamist sympathizer would.
In 2011, Hassan founded a legal collective for defending demonstrators arrested on Tahrir Square in the struggle against then-President Hosni Mubarak’s regime. This time, the ones calling him are families of those who were among the truckloads of Morsi supporters raided by the police during last summer’s sit-ins.
Hassan says that, on a legal level at least, the fight is at least as hard as in 2011. “Many are being sued for weapon possession or for murder, which was not the case for Tahrir Square,” he explains. “Do you know what the most surprising part is? The official reports accuse them of having not only fired shots against the police, but also ‘inadvertently’ against their own troops.”
Abdallah Fattif, vice president of the Egyptian Judges’ Club, defends the charges. “All the procedures are legal. There have maybe been excesses concerning the intensity of the use of force, but you have to understand, we had no choice.”
The club’s headquarters has been located in the same elegant building for decades. It is the only official federation for judicial authorities in Egypt. “The new authorities first planned on banning the Freedom and Justice Party, maybe even the Muslim Brotherhood,” Fattif says. “It finally preferred the criminal prosecutions to the political ones. We have now entered a context of war on terrorism.”
Some 150 judges — out of 50,000 — signed a manifesto supporting Morsi when he was in power. Since his destitution, their cases have been taken away from them, and investigations will decide about their professional suspension. At least a dozen of them are also on the run.
Sending a message
It was around 5 a.m. a few days earlier, when Yasser and his wife heard the police cars driving up the street, escorted by young informants from the area pointing out their house. The whole neighborhood had gotten out of their beds and assembled to see men in dark face masks banging on Yasser’s door, as if they were issuing a general warning: “This is what can happen to you.”
Yasser had stayed. He had no backup plan, and no one to call.
In the streets of Cairo, after each Friday prayer, the Morsi supporters try reassembling their numbers to demonstrate. Between 10,000 and 40,000 people — depending on the weeks — march in a capital, otherwise on lockdown. Still, it's nothing compared with last summer’s explosion of violence.
In this security-driven context, the tone has also changed. Foreign journalists are now welcomed into the country. Women shake hands without anybody making comments. People smile at them and look them straight in the eye, even if their arms are uncovered.
It is here, in the middle of this visible crowd, that Bachir risks going out. He introduces himself with a small, almost teasing smile. He is a pharmacy technician, a longstanding activist in Islamist politics and, since July, coordinator of the Youth Against Coup Movement. Convinced he is being followed, he has not returned to his house for a number of days.
“While the Muslim Brotherhood has spent the larger part of their history in secrecy, no strategy whatsoever had been prepared in the case of any problem,” Bachir says. “It shows the Brotherhood’s incompetence and the disaster that they created by taking power. What a mistake!”
Around him, he recognizes at least “200 people, some of them living in secret like I am.” That day, in the heat and swarm of the demonstration, meetings are arranged under cover. News travels fast. The spokesmen of the new Youth Against Coup Movement have also been rounded up. Since the arrests of Morsi’s assistants, the ministerial staff, chosen during the Brotherhood’s time in power, is currently fleeing en masse. “We no longer have a leader,” another member says. “We are poorly organized. Luckily, we still have Facebook.”
A military helicopter flies over the demonstration. The crowd breaks into applause, as if it were the last recognition of their strength, the proof that their history is not yet finished.
“The army has done good by wanting to do bad,” Bachir says. “A whole generation of Brotherhood members is about to retire, enabling young ones to take over.” That sly little smile is back: “Never mind the exorbitant price. I don’t think it is a problem if we have to pay it.”
A few members of the former government — such as the minister of youth — know that an arrest warrant hangs over them. Some find out by accident, while others are completely denied any due process. By now, most of them have vanished.
“In fact, nobody understands anything about the situation. This confusion maintains the state of panic,” another lawyer, also in charge of cases, explains. “Apart from the arrests at the top, such as the head of the government or the Brotherhood’s Supreme Leader, the new authorities are giving the impression that they are striking randomly anyone they can get their hands on, at the top or at the bottom, with a preference maybe for those who are closest to the media.”
The lawyer says he is deeply committed to the Islamist movement. Like all his fellow members, he refuses to consider that those on the run could turn to violence, “except of course those who are isolated.” And with so many hiding around town? He seems more and more distressed, not being able to answer. He starts asking himself questions: “What if the army had set up this operation to force us to take up arms and really turn us into terrorists?”
He gets up and comes back with a stack of paper. “Take them!” He speaks as if he had just been convicted, as if he were leaving his most precious belongings before the fatal moment. His lips tremble a bit under his trimmed moustache. The only sound left to be heard is Cairo’s deafening traffic against the office windows. “I’m expecting them too: They will come to arrest me.”
In the Cairo streets, portraits of Army General Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, the nation's new military strongman, are posted on every shop. Yasser eventually fled, at the last moment. He is sitting in a café near the Nile. His eyes glance in every direction without being able to settle on anything. “Everything will get back to normal, won’t it? Do you think we will get the government back?” His phone rings. It’s his mother. He immediately starts lying. “I’m staying with friends. I’m safe. Pray for us.”
Then a message appears on mobile phones all over the city: a car bomb has just exploded outside the Ministry of the Interior.
Early detection and accessible help are essential in the fight against domestic violence. Hairdressers in the Dutch province of North Brabant are now being trained to identify when their customers are facing abuse at home.
TILBURG — The three hairdressers in the bare training room of the hairdressing company John Beerens Hair Studio are absolutely sure: they have never seen signs of domestic violence among their customers in this city in the Netherlands. "Or is that naïve?"
When, a moment later, statistics appear on the screen — one in 20 adults deals with domestic violence, as well as one or two children per class — they realize: this happens so often, they must have victims in their chairs.
All three have been in the business for years and have a loyal clientele. Sometimes they have customers crying in the chair because of a divorce. According to Irma Geraerts, 45, who has her own salon in Reusel, a village in the North Brabant region, they're part-time psychologists. "A therapist whose hair I cut explained to me that we have an advantage because we touch people. We are literally close. The fact that we stand behind people and make eye contact via the mirror also helps."
That intimate contact is one of the reasons why The Netherland's Child Abuse Taskforce and the Sterk Huis (Strong Home) aid organization want to make use of hairdressers to detect domestic violence. People often go to the same hairdresser for years, exchange remarkably intimate stories, and feel a strong bond of trust. A lot of experience has already been gained in Anglo-Saxon countries and thousands of hairdressers have been trained.
In front of the room, today's trainer is moving restlessly, one hand hidden in her sleeve, the other rubbing a leg. She tries to teach the hairdressers to recognize signals and open up a discussion about them through role-playing. They find it difficult: someone with a bruise could have fallen, couldn't they? How do you start a conversation? The trainer helps them: "Don't start with your feelings or judgement. Emphasize what you hear or see."
On November 25, the United Nations campaign against violence against women started for the 21st time with its tagline "Orange the World" and buildings lit up in orange to draw attention to the issue. But despite years of awareness-raising campaigns, task forces and national programs such as 'Geweld hoort nergens thuis' (Violence has no place in the home), violence rates are hardly decreasing.
According to figures from The Netherland's Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS), 5.5% of adults have been victims of domestic violence at least once in the past five years. It happens to both women and men, but when it comes to structural partner violence, women are six times more likely to be victims than men. Women are also more likely to suffer serious injuries, sometimes fatally. Of all murdered women in the Netherlands, 80% are killed by their partner or by a family member. That is why it is called femicide. Reports from social workers show that 119,000 children (3% of the total number) have experienced child abuse. In reports that ask children directly, the figure goes up to 12%.
Why are domestic violence and child abuse (which often go hand in hand) so difficult to tackle? And are there new methods that do work?
An intimate relationship
Domestic violence is an immensely complex problem, according to researchers and social workers. It hardly ever involves a single blow being dealt. "It has so many forms," says Nelleke Westerveld of the Movisie center for social development. It ranges from physical violence to psychological violence, from intimate terrorism — in which the man usually exerts far-reaching control over the woman – to stalking, sexual or honor-related violence. "Some forms of violence are clearly based on stress and risk factors, such as poverty, addiction or psychological problems," says Westerveld. "But power also plays a role. Care workers must therefore properly map out the situation, because all these forms require a specific approach. At the same time, it is not written on someone's forehead what kind of violence they are dealing with."
"You often see that people have been in a situation of violence for years, on average seven years, before they finally decide to ask for help," says Teun Haans, cluster manager at Sterk Huis, which together with the Child Abuse Taskforce organizes the training courses for hairdressers. "We also know that the longer the violence lasts, the more difficult it is to change the situation. So you have to get to it much earlier. The environment, in particular, can play a crucial role."
Research also shows that people who are close to the victim have the biggest impact. "Neighbors, teachers, sports coaches or caretakers who replace a door for the third time. They should ask themselves: what is going on here?"
Too much respect for privacy
In the southern region of North Brabant they are aiming for a broad approach: domestic violence should not be an issue that only professionals deal with, but one for society as a whole. So far, the fire brigade and the housing association's caretakers have been trained, and this month is the turn of hairdressers. Whether this training leads to more reports is yet to be investigated.
But what Haans does know is that 'Veilig Thuis Midden-Brabant' (Safe Home Central Brabant), the regional department of the national organization that reports and advises on domestic violence and child abuse, is the only organization in the Netherlands that did not receive fewer reports during the lockdowns. In the rest of the country, that number did drop. Not because the violence decreased (there is every reason to assume that it actually increased because of being locked down together), but because the police, social workers and teachers no longer visited people.
We Dutch people have the thickest front doors in Europe.
The idea for the broad approach was developed together with Experts By Experience. For years, social workers spoke about the victims. But nowadays, those who have lived experience of abuse are the new experts who are sitting at the table and contributing. "They told us over and over again: the baker, the teacher, the neighbor, they all knew, but nobody ever asked if they could do anything," says Haans. "We Dutch people have the thickest front doors in Europe. We are terrified to interfere with someone's private life."
Hairdresser in Rotterdam, Netherlands
Daniëlle (34, a self-employed accountant) is an Expert By Experience. As a child, she was neglected by her mother, who suffered from mental health issues and locked her up out of powerlessness. When she was with her father, her stepmother would beat her and drag her down the stairs if she did something wrong. "The worst part was not the blows, because I knew: those will be over soon.
The permanent fear, that was the worst." She believes in the Brabant approach: "I had totally ruined teeth because nobody taught me how to brush them, yet the dentist never noticed something else was up." According to her, bystanders often think they must save you, that they have to solve the problem, which is why they prefer to look away. "But they don't have to. It would have helped me so much if someone had pointed out to me that this was not normal, and that I did not have to blame myself."
Daniëlle experienced the power of such a gesture once. Her internship supervisor at a travel agency had noticed that she did not offer clients coffee. "I said I couldn't do that because I was sure I would drop the cup. I didn't mention it was because, as a child, I got beaten up if I dropped anything. 'What if I drop the cup?' I said. 'Then we'll just get a new one,' she replied. She not only taught me that I could serve a cup of coffee, but — more importantly — that I could change something."
It's about opening the conversation, Haans explains. "That can be the start of a change." The hairdressers are also urged to do so. It is not the intention that they start calling Veilig Thuis hotline as soon as their customers have left. When Sterk Huis, the organization Haans works for, posted a call on Facebook for the hairdressers' training, it caused a commotion: were hairdressers going to 'report' their clients? Of course, that's not the intention, says Haans. "But you can let them know that they can chat and call Veilig Thuis for instance, and you can bring up the topic again the next time they get a haircut."
Fast help needed
Does this broad approach help to bring down the figures? Based on a 2020 report (The long-winded issue: can domestic violence and child abuse really be stopped?), one could make a cautiously optimistic prediction. Researcher Katinka Lünnemann and her colleagues at the Verwey-Jonker Institute followed over the course of three years 576 families who had been reported to Veilig Thuis. In one third of the families that received help, the violence eventually stopped. The violence also decreased in families that, for some reason, did not receive direct help (but were monitored), but to a lesser extent. According to Lünnemann, an explanation for the latter is that the report alone may have set something in motion: the silence is broken, "and we know that awareness is the first step towards change".
The Netherlands was shocked
At the same time, despite the help, serious and frequent violence still occurs in 50% of families: both partner violence and child abuse. And that is serious, because the longer the violence continues, the more harmful it is. Chronic stress causes changes in the brain, which makes it harder for children to learn and solve difficult problems. They are also more likely to become stressed even when performing normal tasks.
One of the problems is that, in the Netherlands, many institutions such as Veilig Thuis and the Jeugdbescherming youth protection agency do not provide any help themselves. "Victims are often directed to other organizations," says Lünnemann. "There is a lack of fast, concrete help."
This was also one of the conclusions of her research into the situation in Rotterdam. In 2018, the city was rocked by the murders of three young women, including 16-year-old Hümeyra, in close succession. The Netherlands was shocked. How could things have gone so wrong?
With the formation of Veilig Thuis in 2015 and the decentralization of youth care to the municipalities, it was precisely the intention to organize help that was closer to the people. But an extra layer was added. In Rotterdam, citizens cannot go directly to the community team; they need a referral form from, for example, Veilig Thuis. A lot of expertise was lost as a result of this organizational change," Lünnemann concluded.
The danger of the broad approach in North Brabant therefore lurks in the follow-up process, Lünnemann fears. "I hold Sterk Huis in high esteem, but we are already seeing a shortage of real assistance. So if you start training all kinds of groups in society to recognize domestic violence, there will be more reports and you have to make sure that the extra help is ready." That extra help is not there yet, confirms Haans of Sterk Huis.
The broad approach is good for raising awareness in society, that is indisputable according to Lünnemann. But the real solution lies in the recommendations she made for Rotterdam: there must be more actual help, real cooperation and, perhaps most important of all, accessible physical places where women at risk can go.
At the Schiedamsedijk in Rotterdam, such a place became available recently. Those who report to the municipal health services desk with the code phrase "I'm here for Filomena" are taken by hostess Gaby to a bright living room with pastel-colored furniture and a playpen with baby toys and plants. Only the large posters of the traveling photo exhibition on domestic violence give away that this is no ordinary living room.
Not only is this the only place in the Netherlands where victims can walk in without an appointment, but all parties — the police, a forensic doctor ("Many victims take photos of their bruises themselves, but these are not legally valid"), Veilig Thuis, a psychologist and a trauma specialist – are under one roof. This way, the case manager, together with the victim, can literally 'check all the boxes', and can complete the entire investigation in no more than seven days, instead of the usual months. "The victim does not have to tell her story over and over again," says care manager Christine Clement of Filomena, Centre for Domestic Violence and Child Abuse. "And there is no talking about the victim in her absence: she is always there."
A woman comes forward to make her first report in the presence of her friend: she tells her story for the first time. She has no injuries at the time, but her partner has attempted strangulation before. "That's when all the alarm bells go off, because that is often a signal that there is a risk of femicide," Clement says later. The woman faces intimate terrorism and reveals that she has a tracker on her phone: her partner keeps an eye on where she is. With an excuse that she had to be in this neighborhood, she got away.
there is no talking about the victim in her absence: she is always there.
The woman has an hour at most. Veilig Thuis makes a safety assessment on the spot and determines what needs to be done. "At a time like this, you can see why it's so important that everyone is here," says Clement. "Because sometimes you have to act quickly." It is decided that she will go home, as not to arouse suspicion. All contact will be through her friend because the partner checks the victim's phone. In the meantime, Filomena arranges for a place in a shelter.
Three days later, she is taken to that safe place "somewhere in the Netherlands," so that there is less chance of her partner finding her. She has a new mobile phone and gets help to cope with the effect the violence has had on her, Clements says. "And of course, she has the support of the other women in the shelter."
*With the cooperation of Monique van de Ven. For privacy reasons, some interviewees are only referred to by their first name. Their full names are known to the editors.
**This article was translated with permission of the author
If you are in an unsafe situation or are looking for help, here is an international directory with the names and links of organizations dealing with domestic abuse around the world.
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