In the span of a single week this summer, Michigan absorbed two deeply disturbing news stories.
In Grand Haven Township, a mother and her six children were killed by the man who was supposed to love and protect them, before he set their home on fire and took his own life. Eight lives gone. In the days that followed, something surfaced that has stayed with many of us: before her death, the mother had reportedly written online about a marriage in crisis and about wanting out.
“We have six kids,” she wrote, “so the idea of leaving is insanely terrifying.” She was not describing a lack of love for her children. She was describing the absence of a way out. Days later, an independent investigation into Interlochen Center for the Arts revealed that more than 70 former students say they were groomed and sexually abused by nearly 50 adults over the course of decades. Much of this abuse was inflicted on children who had nowhere safe to turn, inside a culture that looked away.
Different tragedies. Same truth. Domestic and sexual violence are not rare events that happen to other people in other places. They happen in our neighborhoods, our schools and our most trusted institutions. And they persist when help is hard to find, hard to afford or simply unknown.
Consider the scale here at home. In a single recent year, Michigan law enforcement responded to close to 70,000 domestic violence incidents, according to the Michigan State Police’s Incident Crime Report. On average, according to state police statistics, a woman is killed by a current or former partner roughly every five days. Those are not distant numbers. They are our neighbors, coworkers and the parents standing beside us at school pickup. And they capture only what gets reported; the true toll is larger still.
Behind every story that makes the news are thousands that never will. Many survivors never reach out because they don’t know that help exists. They don’t know that confidential advocates, crisis lines, housing assistance and legal support are available in nearly every Michigan county, most of it free. Awareness itself is a lifeline. Knowing where to turn — and telling the people we love where to turn — can be the difference between a way out and a dead end.
But awareness only matters if the help is still there when someone finally calls. Right now, that is far from certain. Much of this lifesaving work is paid for through the federal Victims of Crime Act, or VOCA — dollars drawn not from taxpayers but from fines paid by corporate criminals. As those prosecutions have declined, so has the fund. Michigan’s share has been cut by roughly 42% from where it stood just a few years ago. Shelters are already turning families away for lack of beds. Advocates are being laid off. Programs are closing and rural communities are most at risk.
We know the need isn’t declining, even though the supports are. So we are asking two things of our leaders. In Washington, restore and stabilize the federal victim funding that is vanishing, as a survivor’s safety should never rise and fall with the pace of white-collar prosecutions. And in Lansing, step up with sustained state investment to close the gap, so that no one’s chance at safety depends on a budget cycle or a zip code. This is not charity. It is infrastructure, as essential as any road or bridge.
The mother in Grand Haven wrote that leaving felt terrifying. No one should ever feel that trapped, or alone. We cannot undo what happened to her family, or to the survivors of Interlochen. What we can still do is build a state and nation where the next person who wants out has somewhere to go, someone to call and a state determined to make sure the answer is yes.
Chéree Thomas is co-executive director of the Michigan Coalition to End Domestic and Sexual Violence.
This article originally appeared on The Detroit News: 2 Michigan tragedies show why domestic violence survivors need a way out | Opinion
Reporting by Chéree Thomas / The Detroit News
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
By Chéree Thomas | USA TODAY Network
