T

o this day, I remember the 

photos.

I was 12 years old when Robyn 

“Rihanna” Fenty, a 20-going-

on-21-year-old pop artist from Barbados, 

suddenly canceled her performance for the 

51st annual Grammy Awards. Despite the 

fact that I was hardly a Rihanna fan at the 

time, I found myself intrigued by the news. 

I remained concerned as the story unfolded 

rapidly, bursting forth like a phoenix from 

a fire. But my curiosity quickly changed to 

disgust when from these sensationalized 

flames emerged a disturbing account of 

intimate partner violence.

Suddenly, photos of Rihanna — her face 

bruised and contorted at the hands of then-

boyfriend Chris Brown — were blasted across 

newspapers, websites and television screens 

across the country in what I cannot help 

but see as a grotesque invasion of privacy. 

Through it all, I could not help but wonder: 

How did a “verbal dispute” escalate to the 

point that bodies were battered? How could 

Brown, a rising musician from a small town 

in Virginia with so much “potential” commit 

such a horrible act? What man is capable of 

procuring so much rage, fury and coldness 

that he can, with a flash of his fist, induce so 

much suffering in a woman he is supposed to 

“love?”

I did not feel any sense of resolution or 

justice — and I certainly do not feel these 

things when I think of the incident now — 

when Chris Brown was sentenced to five 

years of probation, one year of domestic 

violence counseling and 1,400 hours of 

“labor-oriented service.” My disappointment 

stemmed from the realization that no amount 

of “restorative” measures could compensate 

for the wounds Rihanna sustained. As both a 

public figure and survivor, her entire personal 

life and social network was dissected by the 

jaws of an entertainment-thirsty public, most 

of whom could only imagine the way the 

incident affected her.

But even then, she would be expected to 

maintain the trajectory of her career while 

Brown was allowed to retain his. I could not 

— still cannot — fathom how some can idolize 

a man capable of such 

violence and even refer 

to him as an “artist.” 

There is nothing artistic 

about domestic violence 

in the slightest, and 

nothing 
compensatory 

about 
a 
two-minute 

YouTube apology.

Eight 
years 
later, 

I 
continue 
to 
think 

about Rihanna’s story 

as a symbol of a more 

widespread 
issue. 

At its core, domestic 

violence 
is 
based 

on 
skewed 
power 

dynamics, intimidation 

and 
coercion, 
and 

affects 
individuals 
of 

all 
gender 
identities, 

socioeconomic 

backgrounds, 
sexual 

orientations, age ranges 

and ability statuses.

Domestic 
violence 

remains 
one 
of 
the 

most 
misunderstood 

forces in our society. 

Both in high school 

and at the University of 

Michigan, I have heard 

my peers argue against 

a survivor’s credibility 

based on “what she was 

wearing,” “how much 

she was drinking” and 

even her inability to “read cues.” These 

statements contribute to a culture of blame 

that both silences survivors and overlooks 

the accountability of perpetrators.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline 

estimates that one in four women and one 

in seven men over the age of 18 have faced 

severe physical violence from a partner at 

some point in their lives. However, domestic 

violence can also manifest itself in other ways 

— including economic abuse, threatening 

relationships between a survivors and their 

children, forcefully isolating a partner and 

using coercion to manipulate a partner’s 

emotions. Yet, I know from my own personal 

experiences that these forms of violence are 

rarely shown in media.

During my first semester at the University, 

I enrolled in a women’s health class 

that challenged me to look beyond this 

dramaticized lens. I was touched by the 

words of Heidi Sproull, a clinical social 

worker whose experiences involved working 

with survivors and perpetrators of sexual 

violence. Through a narrative that was both 

vulnerable and powerful, Sproull reminded 

us that the body is not an open book, but a 

sacred space that can be vandalized by forces 

of coercion and control.

To this day, I reflect on this course and 

the way that it further inspired me to learn 

more about domestic violence. Since then, 

I have pursued more coursework in gender 

and health and volunteered for our campus’s 

Sexual Assault Prevention and Awareness 

Center. I have learned from fellow students 

and volunteers that domestic violence is 

hardly a “one-size-fits-all” crime; rather, 

one that is influenced by race, class, sexual 

orientation, tribal affiliation, citizenship 

and ability status. I have come to see that we 

cannot understand the gravity of domestic 

violence without considering the unique 

backgrounds and experiences of the survivor.

As students at the University, we must 

consider our campus’s culture surrounding 

domestic and sexual violence. While as many 

as 20 percent of female undergraduates have 

experienced some form of “unwanted kissing, 

groping, digital penetration, or oral, vaginal, 

or anal sex” according to the 2015 Campus 

Climate Survey, less than 4 percent of cases 

will be reported. We have to ask ourselves: 

What does it mean to truly be the Leaders 

and the Best? As our University approaches 

its 200th birthday, we still have a long way 

to go before our campus community is active 

in the fight against intimate partner violence 

and rape culture.

As someone who has neither experienced 

nor directly witnessed domestic violence, 

I write this piece from a place of immense 

privilege, and perhaps one of some distance. 

But nonetheless, I am driven to write about 

this issue because I dream of living in a 

violence-free world. I aspire to live and 

participate in a community where domestic 

violence is regarded not as a “woman’s issue,” 

but as a human rights concern. I recognize 

that eradicating this issue — given President 

Donald Trump’s attitude toward the Violence 

Against Women Act — mandates that we 

question deeply rooted social doctrines 

regarding consent, masculinity, gender and 

sexuality.

But perhaps most importantly, I ask that 

we — as a campus community, rather than 

individuals — challenge our discomfort 

rather than abandoning it. When we 

recognize that domestic violence is anything 

but a “private” matter to be isolated behind 

closed doors, we can take a step forward 

in promoting a space that is safe for all. 

I am steadfast in my belief that no college 

campus, city, state or nation can consider 

itself fully developed as long as domestic 

violence persists. 

Wednesday, February 22, 2017 // The Statement
6B

by Neel Swamy, Michigan in Color Senior Editor

Personal Statement: 
Not an open book, but a sacred space

ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS

