Religion, Gender, and Family Violence : When Prayers Are Not Enough [1 ed.] 9789004372399, 9789004372092

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Religion, Gender, and Family Violence

International Studies in Religion and Society Editors-in-Chief Lori G. Beaman (University of Ottawa) Peter Beyer (University of Ottawa) Advisory Board Afe Adogame (University of Edinburgh) Elizabeth Coleman (Monash University) Lene Kühle (Aarhus University) Mary Jo Neitz (University of Missouri) Linda Woodhead (University of Lancaster)

volume 31

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/isrs

Religion, Gender, and Family Violence When Prayers are Not Enough Edited by

Catherine Holtmann Nancy Nason-Clark

leiden | boston

Cover illustration: “On the Outside: When a Church Fails to Respond to Family Violence” Model: Barbara Fisher-Townsend. Photographer: Denise Rowe Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Holtmann, Catherine, editor. Title: Religion, gender, and family violence : when prayers are not enough / edited by Catherine Holtmann, Nancy Nason-Clark. Description: Boston : Brill, 2018. | Series: International studies in religion and society, ISSN 1573-4293 ; volume 31 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018020526 (print) | LCCN 2018021401 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004372399 (e-book) | ISBN 9789004372092 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Families--Religious aspects. | Families--Religious life. | Family violence--Religious aspects. Classification: LCC BL625.6 (ebook) | LCC BL625.6 .R465 2018 (print) | DDC 201/.7628292--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018020526

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1573-4293 isbn 978-90-04-37209-2 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-37239-9 (e-book) Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Acknowledgements vii Notes on Contributors viii Introduction 1 Catherine Holtmann

Part 1 Issues in the Research on Religion and Family Violence 1 Clergy, Congregations, and the Response to Domestic Violence in Families 21 Steve McMullin 2 Who Cares? Religious Immigrant Women, Social Networks, and Family Violence 38 Catherine Holtmann 3 “The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these”: Corporal Punishment and the Move Towards Non-violent Discipline in Christian Parenting 60 Susan Nunn and Emma Robinson 4 Responding to Unique Lived Realities: The Role of Intersectional Complexities in Shelter Experiences 84 Jolyne H. Roy

Part 2 Religious Perpetrators of Family Violence 5 Portraying the Violence of Men through the Beauty of Stained Glass 109 Nancy Nason-Clark

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Aboriginal Men, Violence, and Spirituality: “A big part of who we are is the spiritual part” 125 Barbara Fisher-Townsend

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“Guru Pedophiles”, Neo-Polygamists, and Predatory Prophets: Exploring the Sex Scandals and Abuse Allegations Concerning “Cults”/nrms, 1993–2017 146 Susan J. Palmer

Part 3 Family Violence, Religion, and Legal Pluralism 8

The Legal Status of Muslim Women in Israel Undergoing the Experience of Divorce : Static or Dynamic? 165 Pascale Fournier and Victoria Snyers

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The State, the Household, and Religious Divorce in Lebanon: Women’s Everyday Struggles 188 Pascale Fournier, Farah Malek-Bakouche, Eve Laoun

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In the Name of God? ‘Get’ Refusal as Domestic Abuse 209 Yael Machtinger

Conclusion 235 Nancy Nason-Clark Index 247

Acknowledgements This book is the result of a workshop, “When Prayers are Not Enough: Religion, Gender, and Family Violence” which took place at the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research at the University of New Brunswick in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada in September 2016. We thank the following organizations for their financial contributions towards the workshop: The Religion and Diversity Project, University of Ottawa The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada The Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research St. Dunstan’s Roman Catholic Church Faculty of Arts, unb Sociology Department, unb Thanks to Kim Wade, the Administrative Assistant at the mmfc, who made sure that all of the nuts and bolts associated with the workshop (publicity, booking rooms, arranging for meals and accommodations, and travel details) were looked after so that we could focus on our work together. We are grateful to the Faculty of Arts at unb for the Busteed Publication Grant which was used in putting together this edited collection. The grant enabled us, in part, to hire Emma Robinson to help out with the organizational details of the manuscript, communication with the contributors, copy editing, and formatting. Emma’s attention to detail and sunny disposition helped keep us all on track and make the work go smoothly. We acknowledge the expert contribution of Joanne Elder of Transfiction Translation Services, who translated Chapter 8 from French to English. Many thanks to the reviewers whose comments helped to improve this publication. And finally, thanks to the staff at Brill, especially Tessa Schild, for their support in making this important scholarship available to the public. Catherine Holtmann Nancy Nason-Clark

Notes on Contributors Pascale Fournier is Professor and Research Chair in Legal Pluralism and Comparative Law at the Faculty of Law, Civil Law Section, at the University of Ottawa. Her publications appear in leading law and social sciences journals in English, French, and German. Her book Muslim Marriage in Western Courts: Lost in Transplantation was published by Ashgate Publishing in 2010. Pascale’s current research projects investigate the migration of religious divorce laws in Canada, France, Britain, Germany, Israel, Lebanon, and Palestine, and explore through field interviews the effects of such migration on religious women. Barbara Fisher-Townsend obtained her PhD in Sociology from the University of New Brunswick and is a member of the Religion and Violence research team at the Muriel McQueen ­Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research (mmfc). Barbara’s research expertise is on intervention and treatment programs for men who have had contact with the criminal justice system as a result of domestic violence. She co-authored Men Who Batter (oup, 2015) and has extensive experience teaching both online and classroom-based undergraduate courses in sociology and criminology. Catherine Holtmann is an Associate Professor in the Sociology Department at the University of New Brunswick and the Director of the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research (mmfc). She has been a member of the Religion and Violence research team at the mmfc since 2007 and is also a member of the V ­ iolence against Immigrant and Visible Minority Women research team. Her research focuses on religion, gender, domestic violence, and immigrant women. Eve Laoun is an engaged jurist and researcher who graduated from Université de Montréal Faculty of Law. She is currently enrolled as a graduate student at the University of Ottawa Faculty of Law where she is pursing a Masters degree in Aboriginal Law based on fieldwork observations and interviews. Over the past few years, she has been involved in many legal clinics in Canada and abroad dedicated to upholding vulnerable populations’ rights, such as those of ­migrants and asylum seekers, in addition to being an active member of the Association

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des Juristes Progressistes du Québec. Having a strong interest in Lebanon and its multiple cultural and religious communities, she studied civil and international law at Université Saint-Joseph, Beirut, in 2014, which made her acquire a strong knowledge of the Lebanese legal and socio-cultural context. She works as a research assistant for the University of Ottawa Research Chair in Legal ­Pluralism and Comparative Law held by Professor Pascale Fournier, and more specifically on her Gender and Divorce in Lebanon sshrc-funded project through the Religion and Diversity Project. Yael Machtinger recently obtained her PhD in Socio-Legal Studies at York University. Applying social theory, religious feminism, and legal pluralism, Yael’s Doctorate exploring religion and law compares legal regulation and social norms regarding Jewish divorce (get) refusal in Toronto and New York, places women’s narratives at the centre for the first time. Yael’s recent publication, Socio-Legal Gendered Remedies to Get refusal: Top-Down, Bottom-Up in Women’s Rights and Religious Law, was published by Routledge. Her research was funded by OGS, SSHRC, the Religion and Diversity Project, and the Dr. Percy and Bernice Singer Award. Yael is also an award-winning teacher having won both the President’s University-Wide Teaching Award and the Dean’s Award for Excellence in Teaching at York University’s Law and Society Program. Farah Malek-Bakouche (bcl/ll.b, ll.m) has been a member of the Barreau du Quebec since 2010. She specializes in human rights protection and promotion. She has an understanding of international child protection principles, having advocated for the rights of child victims and witnesses of crime in Canada. She has years of experience overseas in humanitarian and legal assistance to refugees fleeing the conflict from Syria, as well as in evidence-based advocacy. She has also worked in capacity development projects for the improvement of the application of human rights law before the Arab Courts of the mena region. Building upon this experience, and her acquired competencies in collecting data with vulnerable populations, she worked in 2014 for the University of Ottawa Research Chair in Legal Pluralism and Comparative Law held by Professor Pascale Fournier, and more specifically on her Gender and Divorce in Lebanon sshrc-funded project through the Religion and Diversity Project. In this context, Farah MalekBakouche carried out a fieldwork with Lebanese women she interviewed and who had experienced a religious divorce to analyze the impact religious Lebanese laws had on their households and on their bargaining power during marriage and after its dissolution.

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Steve McMullin is the Academic Dean and Associate Professor at Acadia Divinity College at Acadia University in Wolfville, ns. His research interests focus on ways to bring renewal and meaningful change to Christian congregations, ways to present the gospel in culturally informed and effective ways in an increasingly secular social environment, and ways that congregations can address and respond to domestic violence. He has been a member of the Religion and Violence ­research team at the mmfc at the University of New Brunswick since 2007. Nancy Nason-Clark is a Professor in the Sociology Department at the University of New Brunswick and is the academic leader of the Religion and Family Violence research team at the mmfc. For 25 years she has been writing about what happens when abuse strikes families of faith. She is the principal investigator of the rave Project , a research initiative funded by the Lilly Endowment. Nancy received her Ph.D. in Sociology from the London School of Economics and Political Science in England. She is the author or editor of ten books, including Men Who Batter (oup, 2015) which she co-authored with Barbara Fisher-Townsend. Susan Nunn is a PhD candidate in sociology at the University of New Brunswick. Ms. Nunn comes from an Italian-American family from western Pennsylvania. She has a ba in Political Science from Wheaton College in Massachusetts, and an m.a. in Social Science from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. Her research interests include eating disorders, family violence, personality theory, and criminology. She has a background in research on childhood discipline. Susan J. Palmer is a researcher and author in the field of New Religious Studies. She teaches at Concordia University where she is an Affiliate Professor in the Religion Department, and she is also a Member of the Religious Studies Faculty at McGill University in Montreal, Quebec. Her most recent book (supported by the Social Sciences and the Humanities Research Council) is Storming Zion: Government Raids on Religious Communities, co-authored with Stuart Wright and published by Oxford University Press (2015). Emma Robinson is a Masters student in Sociology at the University of New Brunswick under the supervision of Catherine Holtmann. Her research centres on c­ onservative

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Protestant communities, gender, and violence, with a particular interest in exploring attitudes towards sexual assault in evangelical campus ministry groups. Jolyne Roy is a PhD student in Sociology at the University of New Brunswick. Her research areas include domestic violence and family violence, social movements, sociology of health, rural sociology, and population studies. She has worked as a research assistant in both quantitative and qualitative capacities on many national and international projects. Victoria Snyers holds a law degree from St. Louis University of Brussels. She is pursuing a Masters in Criminal and Civil Law at the Free University of Brussels with a specialization in family law. As part of this program, she attended a University of Ottawa exchange program during the 2015 autumn semester. Since then, under the supervision of Professor Fournier, she has become interested in contemporary problems of secularism and the dialectical relationship between law and religion. Specifically, her research focuses on how women define themselves and their possibilities of emancipation as part of the divorce experience through the question of the role and impact of religious norms in civil society.

Introduction Catherine Holtmann The family is considered sacred in most religious traditions. It is the earthly model of ideal social relationships which reflects a divine order. For example, the first commandment in the Torah is “to be fruitful and multiply,” indicating to Jewish believers that families are an integral part of divine creation. The Genesis story is also a foundational biblical text for Christianity. While the Christian scriptures (New Testament) are somewhat ambivalent about marriage as an ideal religious way of life, for hundreds of years the family has been promoted as the foundational model for the Christian church. The Catholic church, for example, declares that the family is a school of humanity, the essence of which is love (Synod of rc Bishops, 2015). The third of the Abrahamic religious traditions, Islam, also derives its understanding of families from the story of Adam and Eve. The Qurʾan includes, O Humankind! Fear (and respect) your (Guardian) Lord, Who created you from a single person (Adam) and from him, He (Allah) created his mate of similar nature, and from both (the two of them) spread (like seeds) countless men and women -And fear Allah, through Whom you demand your mutual (rights), and revere (and respect) the wombs (that bore you): For Allah always watches over you. Surah An-Nisa: 1

Muslim leaders teach that the Prophet Muhammed set the example for family life, treating women and children with kindness and respect (Global Muslim Women’s Shura Council, 2009, p. 5). Similar to Christianity, Hindu attitudes towards the family can be interpreted as ambivalent, yet in practice the extended family has been the backbone of Hindu society. Spiritual merit for Hindus can be attained through responsibly exercising the duties associated with family life. Thus, responsibility, respect, kindness, love, learning, and creativity are characteristics that the world’s religious traditions use to describe and promote the sacredness of relationships within the family. Older adults are expected to be models of religious attitudes and behaviours for children and youth. For many religious groups, beliefs and practices are passed down through the generations in the day-to-day practices of family life. Parents and grandparents introduce prayer, rituals, music, religious narratives, modes of

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_002

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dress, symbols, icons, the celebration of feasts and festivals, dietary observances, fasting, acts of charity, and faith-based social engagement to children and grandchildren in their families. For example, Aboriginal children traditionally have learned about spiritual teachings through story-telling, participation in ceremonies, and working beside the elders in their communities (trc, 2012). And although new religious movements often eschew blood ties in favour of a chosen spiritual community, many describe the relationships between seekers using familial terminology. The religious ideals for family relationships are however, in sharp contrast to social scientific evidence of the violent and abusive behaviours that take place in many families. Gelles and Straus, among the first to draw attention to this widespread social problem, argued that violence is so prevalent in families it may actually be more common than the experience of love (1979). For many, acts of love and violence are intertwined in the experiences of family life. This makes it difficult to identify abuse because it is normalized. Family violence includes a range of behaviours including physical and sexual assault, emotional abuse and intimidation, deprivation, and financial exploitation as well as the threat of these actions. Family violence takes place between heterosexual and same-sex spouses and common law partners, between parents and children, between siblings, between adults and elderly family members, and between mothers- and daughters-in-law. The different forms of family violence are referred to as domestic or intimate partner violence, child abuse, sibling abuse, elder abuse, the abuse and neglect of older adults, gender-based violence, and honour violence. Violence occurs in families of all socio-economic backgrounds, ethnicities, and religions. Despite the high value that religious groups place on families, there is no evidence that rates of family violence differ between religious and non-religious families (Cunradi, Caetano, & Schafer, 2002). There are internal and external factors that contribute to family violence. Aspects of the internal structuring of the family make it prone to violence including the extensive amount of time that family members spend together; the intensity of emotional involvement that family members have with one another; the lack of privacy for individuals within families; the power differences between family members; the pressure to conform to ascribed roles within the family; and the extensive knowledge that family members have of one another’s vulnerabilities (Gelles, 1997). External factors often put stress on families that can exacerbate violence such as unemployment, social unrest, racism, legacies of colonialism, unstable economic conditions, political turmoil, and climate change. The prevalence of violence which regularly appears in all forms of public media such as movies, television shows, streaming

Introduction

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v­ ideos, newscasts, and video games sends a message to individuals that acts of abuse and violence are normative for interpersonal relationships. In terms of religious families of all class and ethnic backgrounds, the lack of acknowledgement of the problem of family violence and abuse by religious leaders does not help the situation. Nason-Clark refers to this as a “holy hush” (1999). This leads religious people who are experiencing abuse to feel alone, ashamed and that, somehow, they are failing to live up to the ideals of their religious tradition. However, the reality is that the suffering that they are trying to hide is part of a widespread social problem that has serious implications for their spiritual well-being. Religious beliefs and practices can be both part of the problem and part of the solution to family violence. As the chapters in this volume will illustrate, particular religious scriptures, teachings and practices can contribute to the violence that occurs within families. Perpetrators can use lines from sacred texts to justify their abusive actions or use religious practices to control others in ways for which they were not intended. Religious victims interpret some religious beliefs, such as the value of self-sacrifice, to justify their suffering. But there are a plethora of spiritual resources within every religious tradition that can be harnessed in denouncing family violence, helping victims to recognize abuse and begin the healing journey, and in calling perpetrators to account for their actions. As mentioned at the outset of this introduction, fundamentally, all religious traditions promote relationships based respect, kindness, learning, and love. However, it is not always clear to believers what those values should actually look like in the daily lives of families. Research at the intersection of religion and family violence is relatively new. The Religion and Violence research team under the direction of Nancy NasonClark at the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research at the University of New Brunswick is among the forerunners in research on the topic. Family violence research is conducted from multiple disciplinary perspectives, providing insights into the problem through particular disciplinary lenses yet also crossing boundaries between academic fields. For almost twenty-five years, Nason-Clark and her colleagues have conducted qualitative and quantitative sociological studies primarily with Christian victims, perpetrators, leaders, congregations, seminaries, as well as with domestic violence service providers including criminal justice workers, therapeutic professionals, shelter workers, and advocates. The high profile of the Shafia murder trial1 and the public rhetoric concerning “barbaric cultural practices” in Canada (Holtmann, 2018) prompted the leader of the Religion and Diversity Project, Lori Beaman at the University of Ottawa, to encourage Nason-Clark and Catherine

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Holtmann to organize a workshop on religion and family violence with a focus on religious diversity. Financial support from the Religion and Diversity Project, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and the University of New Brunswick enabled us to bring together scholars of religion from a variety of academic disciplines who have made substantial contributions to the understanding of family violence as it relates to religious teachings, religious leaders, individuals, and ethnic groups in particular faith traditions. It was also an opportunity for graduate students to begin to contribute to these scholarly conversations. This book is the fruit of that workshop which took place on September 13–14, 2016 in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. It was our hope that the workshop presentations and discussions would facilitate the cross-fertilization of knowledge and research strategies and provide an opportunity for discussing creative solutions as to how to engage communities of faith and public service providers more fully in the struggle to reduce, and ultimately end, abuse in religious families. We were not disappointed. The workshop participants highlighted three themes that characterize the study of religion and family violence: the primacy of the intersection of religion and gender in studies of family violence; the impact of the “shadows of history” on contemporary contexts in which research on religion and family violence is situated; and the importance of considering both religious and secular resources when it comes to intervention strategies. The first theme emphasized in this collection is the importance of considering gender when addressing violence in families of faith. Best practices amongst researchers and service providers include an intersectional approach to the problem of family violence (Crenshaw, 1994; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2005). This entails a consideration of the multiple intersecting structures that shape the social context in which family violence takes place. The intersection of ethnicity, class, and gender can amplify or change the impacts of any particular structural barrier (Walby, 2007). The structuring of gender, ethnicity, and class are also context-specific (McCall, 2005). Normally at the outset of a research project undertaken with an intersectional lens, no particular structure is privileged but rather the context determines which structure requires particular attention. In the cases of religion and family violence highlighted in this book, 1 In Ontario in 2012, Mohammed Shafia and his son Hamed were convicted of murdering Zainab, Sahar, and Geeti Shafia and Rona Amir Mohammed. After delivering the jury’s verdict, Justice Maranger said, “The apparent reasons behind these cold-blooded, shameful murders was that the four completely innocent victims offended your twisted notion of honour—a notion that is founded on domination and control of women, a sick notion that has absolutely no place in any civilized society” (Appleby, 2012).

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the consideration of the social structuring of gender is at the forefront of the research. All of the religions and spiritual traditions considered by the contributors are patriarchal—that means that historically Judaism, Christianity, and Islam were structured and governed by men. The texts, symbols, and rituals privilege male perspectives. These religions are characterized by male leadership and decision-making. It is only within the last century that the female perspectives within these ancient traditions have been brought to light by feminist scholars of religion, women adherents, and faith-based activists. Likewise, scholarship on religion and family violence has been led by researchers working from feminist theoretical perspectives. Those who use a feminist theoretical framework argue that family violence is rooted in issues of power and control. Given the patriarchal structuring of religious families, women, young or old, are most likely to be victims of violence perpetrated by men. This is also the case for non-religious women. The United Nations indicates that women are more likely to experience physical or sexual violence in intimate relationships with men they know than any other form of violence including war or state repression (un, 2013). Religion is not the source of family violence, but patriarchal understandings of religious texts, teachings, and practices can be used to justify and perpetuate the abuse of women by men. Religious feminists contend that patriarchy is not synonymous with religion. They argue that religious teachings and practices at their core are concerned with justice for all people, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation (Chaudry, 2013; Gross, 2009; Radford Ruether, 1986; Schüssler Fiorenza, 1993). For example, the Circle of African Women Theologians is breaking the silence concerning sexual violence and hiv/aids based on readings and interpretations of the bible by African women (ccawt, 2017). Ensuring peace and safety for the vulnerable are core values of the world’s faith traditions. Feminist and justiceoriented believers utilize these core elements of religion in their work for gender equality. As several of the chapters in this book illustrate, patriarchal interpretations of religious texts and practices also contribute to the suffering of men, whether they have perpetrated family violence or face allegations of abuse in their role as religious leaders. Some argue that violence is a tool of patriarchy—it is used to maintain power and control. Sylvia Walby suggests that violence is an institution: “Violence needs to be added to the conventional set of institutional domains of economy, polity, and civil society, since it is so important in the structuring of gender, ethnic, national, and religious inequalities” (2009, p. 20). Violent acts of religious extremism are a daily news feature and this can give the impression that violence perpetrated in the name of religion is on the rise in contemporary society. This rise in exposure to religiously-justified

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violence has been accompanied by a portrayal of religion in the media in its most conservative forms—a caricature of religion—particularly in regards to gender norms. Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend (2005) refer to this as “gender inerrancy”—an understanding of religion that essentializes all religious men as dominant and religious women as submissive. This has contributed to the stereotype, for example, that within Muslim families men are inherently violent and women are perpetual victims. The research featured in this book challenges these stereotypes and persuades readers to consider the dynamic nature of gender as it is lived everyday by religious people. Tightly controlled gender roles and norms, ideologically and in practice, are frequently sources of abuse and marginalization. Nevertheless, empirical studies reveal that religious gender roles are being lived in dynamic ways that heighten women’s agency (Gallagher, 2003; Holtmann, 2016; Mahmood, 2001; Rinaldo, 2013). Men also exercise agency in making choices about how to act in relationships with the women they claim to love. Considerations of the dynamic nature of religious gender roles and responsibilities in family life also prompts thinking about the rights of gendered religious people. Systems of religious law were developed in order to articulate the rights, roles, and responsibilities within and beyond religious institutions. Several chapters in this collection address the intersection between systems of religious and civil law as they relate to marriage and divorce. In Canadian society, marriage according to civil law is the norm however, religious women and men also choose to get married according to the precepts of religious law because of the importance of their religious beliefs and identities and their desire to raise children in the faith. They therefore utilize both of these legal systems when seeking a divorce. In some countries, religious laws are normative when it comes to marriage, divorce and child custody, while in other countries, religious and civil legal systems are intertwined. Religious legal systems are patriarchal and, like religious traditions of which they are a part, are being challenged by those working for gender equality (Holtmann, 2013). This is also the case with civil law, which is continually being reformed. Religious and civil legal systems can be used to hinder or enhance the rights of women and men in the process of divorce. In cases of family violence where these systems intersect, civil law can be used to protect the rights of women but, as in some of the examples in this collection, religious divorce laws can also play a strategic role in the exercise of women’s rights. Fournier suggests that researchers focus on parallel social and cultural norms that are used by religious women during marriage and divorce procedures. The second theme that permeates the research in this book is the significance of histories of violence which provide a background to particular social

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contexts. The “shadows of history” is a phrase used by Lois Mitchell, from the Convention of Atlantic Baptist Churches, one of three academic/community respondents who participated in the workshop. In using it, she refers to the histories of colonization, slavery, and anti-Semitism that continue to cast a shadow on families of faith dealing with violence in contemporary society. As mentioned, context is a very important consideration in cases of family violence. In Canada, violence within Aboriginal families must be understood in the shadow of the colonial legacy. This legacy includes the introduction of foreign diseases that decimated Aboriginal populations, the theft of traditional lands and livelihoods, the destruction of languages and spiritual practices, the surveillance and bureaucratization of daily life, and the abuse of children and youth in residential schools and public institutions (Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2003; trc, 2012). Understanding the impacts of the history of colonization on Aboriginal peoples can assist in further understanding the socially constructed nature of family violence within Aboriginal communities. This does not excuse those who act violently, but a sensitivity to the ongoing impacts of colonialism must inform those who conduct research with Aboriginal survivors and perpetrators of family violence. Likewise, the legacy of slavery in the us continues to cast a shadow over the lives of African American families struggling with interpersonal violence and abuse. Traci West, Professor of Ethics and African American Studies at Drew University Theological School, attended the workshop and spoke about the responsibility that African American religious leaders have in drawing attention to Black women’s experiences of family violence in the midst of contemporary struggles against anti-Black racism. In both of these examples, healing from family violence must necessarily be accompanied by apologies from the state for its role in perpetuating the structural racism that is a product of colonial histories, as well as action for systemic change. Anti-Semitism is another long shadow of history that is raised by several authors in this collection. For centuries Jews have suffered violence at the hands of Christians, Muslims, peoples of other religious faiths, and non-religious people. Hatred of the Jews is attributed to their religion and/or culture. Quoting the us Department of State’s “Report on Global Anti-Semitism” Satzewich and Liodakis (2013) indicate that anti-Semitism is on the rise today throughout countries in Europe. According to Statistics Canada (2017), the highest proportion of police reported hate crimes motivated by religion in 2015 were committed against Jews. This has implications for the consideration of violence within Jewish families. As members of a long-persecuted, minority religious and cultural group in every country outside of Israel, Jews feel pressure not to disclose situations of family violence so as not to confirm the misconceptions of them

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by the majority. This may be one reason why many rabbis continue to deny that family violence exists in their communities (Cares & Cusik, 2012). The Pew Research Centre on Religion and Public Life reports that while all Israeli Jews believe that anti-Semitism is common or very common in the world, “[r]elatively few Jews, however, see evidence of widespread discrimination in their own society based on gender, religion, ethnicity or sexual orientation” (2016, p. 221). This finding suggests that perhaps the shadow of anti-Semitism is dimmed for Jews living in Israel. During the workshop however, Fournier drew attention to the ways in which Jewish identity is privileged by the state of Israel in its project of nation-building and the implications that this has for members of minority religious groups such as Muslims. Religious pluralism has become a reality of contemporary social life and the management of religious diversity is an important concern for democratic governments. Policies intended to ensure the rights and well-being of survivors of family violence who identify with the religious characteristics of the majority may unintentionally (or intentionally) make members of religious minorities more vulnerable. Finally, the third theme addressed by the contributors to this volume is the need for religious and secular leaders to work together to end family violence. Canada prizes and promotes its multicultural policy and while there is plenty of room for improvement in the actualization of its ideals, multiculturalism holds tremendous promise. The management of religious diversity within a multicultural framework must involve equity for the religious, the nonreligious, and individuals in new religious groups. In situations of family violence this means equal access to resources to ensure the safety and healing of survivors as well as resources for holding perpetrators accountable to act non-violently. Ensuring equity of access to services for family violence requires a collaborative response between secular and religious institutions and groups (Nason-Clark & Holtmann, 2013). This is easier said than done given the differences in some of the fundamental assumptions from which these sectors operate. Bramadat (2008) has convincingly argued that liberal elites in Canada naively assume that public life is secular when in fact it features a mix of religious and secular elements. The assumption of secularity operates within the delivery of public services and is apparent amongst those who intervene in situations of family violence. The primary modes of responding to family violence in Canada have consisted of the shelter movement and the criminal justice system. Research amongst shelter workers and advocates has shown that many of them do not understand the unique needs of religious survivors (Holtmann & Ganong, 2016). Their training has not sensitized them to the religious and cultural diversity of the population and the ways in which religious beliefs and practices can

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be harnessed in supporting women’s agency in situations of family violence (Nason-Clark & Holtmann, 2015). The response of secular shelter workers to a religious survivor can have a significant impact on how her journey towards safety unfolds. One of the assumptions of the shelter model of family violence intervention is the individual autonomy of women—a woman can choose to access safe shelter when she flees a violent marriage. This assumption of unfettered, individual choice is unrealistic and is not the reality for certain groups of women, including religious women for whom their identities as part of a collective are stronger than their identities as individuals. This also applies to Aboriginal women, many religious immigrant women, and those who live in rural areas (Doherty, 2017). Many women understand themselves as embedded in networks of familial and extra-familial relationships. For these women, safety planning and risk assessment guides can be important tools which take into account their deep ties to collective networks. They also have communal spiritual and religious beliefs and practices that must be examined, renegotiated, and/or reinterpreted in the aftermath of family violence. In terms of the criminal justice response to family violence, there are multiple ways in which men who act violently are held to account for their crimes: arrest and charging by police, incarceration, the court process, sentencing, probation and parole, and therapeutic rehabilitation. A key component in criminal justice interventions is assisting men in taking responsibility for their actions, developing empathy for those they have harmed, and learning to act nonviolently in relationships. Along with these important secular responses, religious and spiritual resources can help those who have perpetrated family violence to change their attitudes and behaviours. Research has shown that religious leaders can play an important role in holding religious perpetrators accountable when they are mandated by the courts to attend a batterer intervention or treatment program (Fisher-Townsend, Nason-Clark, Ruff, & Murphy, 2008). Religion can provide the language of change, hope for a better future, and a community of accountability and support (Nason-Clark & Fisher-Townsend, 2015). The intersection between religious and civil legal systems in cases of marriage and divorce has already been mentioned, but as several chapters in this volume emphasize, Muslim and Jewish husbands hold more power and have more formal rights than their wives in situations of religious divorce. Imams and rabbis have important roles to play in ensuring that religious divorce processes are not used by husbands to further control and abuse their wives and children. The themes of religion and gender, the histories of violence, and a sacred/ secular collaboration to address violence in religious families are interwoven throughout the chapters of this book. The first section provides a broad

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­overview of particular areas of interest in research on family violence and religion, especially when it comes to responding to victims. Together, the four chapters in this section emphasize that the religious family is a collective and how understanding the complex dynamics of violence in families requires multiple perspectives. These include the perspectives of religious leaders and congregations, networks of women, children, and shelter workers. Each perspective holds a partial understanding that becomes more complete when combined. The chapters address the response of religious leaders and congregations to family violence, the role of women’s social networks in caring for victims of family violence, the problem of child abuse in Christian families, and an application of intersectional theorizing to the family violence services offered by women’s shelters. In Chapter 1, Steve McMullin highlights the barriers between Christian leaders and their congregations and secular service providers in responding collaboratively to domestic violence. Based on qualitative research conducted with clergy, seminarians, and congregations, McMullin explains the barriers largely from the perspective of those active in Christian churches. He offers suggestions as to how the barriers can be overcome through improved collaboration—understanding religion as one of the many resources that survivors and perpetrators can access, emphasizing domestic violence training for religious leaders, and calling for further research on the spiritual care of religious victims. Holtmann explores the value of care for those assisting victims of domestic violence from either religious or secular perspectives in Chapter 2. Her qualitative research with Muslim and Christian immigrant women in Canada shows how the women care for one another through formal and informal social networks. She suggests that conversations about care can be a useful starting point when responding to situations of abuse. It appeals to religious immigrant women’s identities as mothers and it draws attention to how violence hinders them in caring for their families. The value of care is a relatively simple starting point for secular service providers who may be hesitant to initiate conversations about religious beliefs and practices with immigrant clients. Susan Nunn and Emma Robinson expose the incongruence of conservative Christian claims that physical violence is a caring means of discipline in parenting children in Chapter 3. They outline the sociological and psychological research which draws attention to the negative and long-lasting impacts of corporal punishment on children, regardless of the good intentions of their parents. The chapter includes suggestions for the reinterpretation of Christian scriptures that support non-violent approaches to the discipline of children. Jolyne Roy’s work on intersectional theory in Chapter 4 rounds out this first section of the book. As mentioned earlier, intersectional theory takes into

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a­ ccount multiple structural barriers that have an impact on the lives of family members, especially the structures of gender, ethnicity, and class. Roy supplements intersectional theory with elements of complexity theory and advocates for an ecological approach to the consideration of structural intersections by shelter workers. Such an approach considers the different levels at which domestic violence can be addressed—the individual (micro), situational (meso), and social-cultural (macro) levels. She applies this approach to the literature documenting the experiences of women who experience barriers in accessing shelters when fleeing from domestic violence. Roy’s work strengthens calls for culturally competent domestic violence provision by including an appreciation for and understanding of religious factors. The second section of the book focuses on studies concerning perpetrators (or alleged perpetrators) of family violence and the role of spirituality and religion in their lives. Chapter 5, by Nancy Nason-Clark, is based on research with men in batterer intervention programs in the us. She highlights the strategy of using stained glass imagery to depict how violence is manifested in the stories of Christian men who batter their wives. The stained glass portrait of a tree can assist religious leaders and secular service providers in understanding religious men who have acted violently in the past and better assist them in their efforts to live non-violently in the present and future. The imagery is both arresting and disturbing in that a violent past (as victims and perpetrators) is ever-present as it starts in the roots of the tree, winds its way through the branches, and infects the leaves. It is a reminder that religious people, as well as their traditions, possess a mix of liberative and destructive potential. FisherTownsend’s research on the power of Aboriginal spiritual traditions in the process of change for men who have acted violently is presented in Chapter 6. Fisher-Townsend interviewed the leaders of a Canadian batterer intervention program which incorporates Aboriginal spiritual practices. The number of Aboriginal men charged for family violence- related offences is disproportionately higher than that of non-Aboriginal men in Canada (Ursel, 2006). The interviews used for this chapter show that the incorporation of Aboriginal worldviews and spiritual practices by therapists can better address the underlying trauma caused by the legacy of colonization and ground Aboriginal men who have acted violently in more holistic identities. These identities include the principles of trust, sharing, respect, honour, and acceptance which can help Aboriginal men in overcoming disconnection and despair in order to act non-violently. Susan Palmer’s research on new religious movements is featured in the last chapter in this section. Chapter 7 focuses on allegations of sexual abuse against male religious leaders by their followers. Palmer’s typology assists in

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bringing order to the diverse allegations against leaders of a variety of new religious movements. Palmer argues that the perpetrators of proven cases of abuse should be held accountable like others who commit such crimes. However, she also points out that the rise in the number of unproven allegations of sexual misconduct by religious leaders may be a way in which new religious movements are continually discredited by the media. Palmer’s chapter draws attention to one of the most challenging aspects in the study of religion and family violence—that of religious interpretation. Religious texts, traditions, laws, and practices are based on stories and symbols, both of which have a surplus of meaning. Over time, religious traditions such as Judaism, Christianity, and Islam have developed numerous schools of interpretation that range across a spectrum from theologically conservative to liberal. Interpretation is an ongoing process within religious groups as they adapt to and/or resist the conditions of the societies and cultures of which they are a part (Baggett, 2009). New religious movements do not have long histories, yet their members develop close affective ties similar to families. Like older religious traditions, they are usually founded by charismatic leaders whose experiences form the basis for the movement—experiences which have not yet stood the test of time and are initially looked upon with suspicion by outsiders, including both religious and non-religious groups and individuals. Male leaders of new religious movements who challenge religious and secular sexual norms wield a tremendous amount of power over their followers, so the conditions for abuse, according to feminist theory, are apparent. As with other ground-breaking studies in this volume, more research is needed in order to better understand the agency of survivors and perpetrators of family violence in new religious movements in order to develop a range of responses beyond criminal justice interventions. The third section of this book includes research on religion and family violence in a variety of contexts, some of them outside of Canada. This is important given that one in five Canadians is foreign-born and many recent immigrants are living in transnational family situations. Religious immigrant families may be unfamiliar with the ways in which gender, ethnicity, and class are structured in their new home. Many are unaware of the public services available to assist them in dealing with situations of family violence. Members of transnational families live in different countries—they are together but living apart. These arrangements usually emerge for reasons of employment or education. In order to sustain their relationships, members of transnational families use advanced technologies in travel and communication to stay connected to one another. This deepens the complexities in cases of family violence. There is some evidence that some immigrant women use

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transnational situations as a means of mitigating the impact of family violence (Holtmann et al., 2016). The intersection of religious and civil marriage and divorce laws differs from country to country. This can create challenges as well as opportunities for immigrant women who have dual citizenship. Pascale Fournier argues that in multicultural and religiously diverse contexts, the relationship between marriage, family violence, and divorce is anything but straightforward. Not all cases of divorce involve family violence and not all cases of family violence result in divorce. The three chapters in this section are based on fieldwork in Israel, Lebanon, Canada and the us. Observations about the vulnerability of women within traditional and religious family law are not new (Coomarasaswamy, 1964; Nussbaum, 2000). Scholars have noted that women “face greater restrictions on their rights to marry, their rights to pass on their nationality or membership to their children, their options and access to divorce, their financial circumstances and their opportunities to be awarded custody” (Laquer Estin, 2004). Religious laws can lead to inequitable treatment of women in family and divorce affairs (Halperin-Kaddari, 2004; Zvi Triger).2 In Chapter 8, Fournier and Victoria Snyers highlight the intersection of religious and civil law in cases of divorce for Muslim women living in Israel. Stories from their qualitative data highlight the dynamic intersection of religious and civil legal systems in the divorce cases of their research participants. Civil marriage and divorce processes do not exist in Israel. Members of different religious groups must use their religious legal systems and in the case of Muslim women, they can only argue their cases for divorce before a Sharia tribunal. But they can appeal to civil courts in cases involving alimony and child custody. Muslim women look to the example of their Jewish counterparts in the strategic use of religious law during the divorce process. The situation is equally complicated in Lebanon, as described in Chapter 9 by Fournier, Farah Malek-Bakouche, and Eve Laoun. Here too, marriage and divorce cases are the purview of religious legal systems which are presided over by religious leaders—imams, priests, and rabbis. In this chapter, Fournier et al draw on insights from critical legal pluralism and feminism in order to explore the different levels at play in the dissolution of Lebanese women’s marriages. These levels include the micro-level of family and household dynamics, the mesolevel of ethno-religious communities in which families are embedded, and the state at the macro-level. The research focuses on issues of power at the

2 This paragraph is based on personal communication related to the work of her research team and our edited book from Dr. Pascal Fournier.

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­ icro-level which influence women’s choices within the macro-level legal m frameworks designated by the state. In Chapter 10, Yael Machtinger provides a thorough examination of how the divorce process is a form of domestic violence against the North American Jewish women who participated in her research. Machtinger reminds readers that in a religiously plural society, women’s choice to strictly observe religious laws is just as much a right as it is for them to choose to wear short skirts or sleeveless tops. Neither choice makes them responsible for violence committed against them by men. Her detailed explanation of the beliefs and practices that play an important role in conservative Jewish women’s lives, based on qualitative data from Canadians and Americans, helps readers to better understand their identities as well as their unique vulnerabilities in situations of family violence. It is important to disseminate widely and creatively the results of scholarly research on religion and family violence so as to advance knowledge in the field and to assist both religious leaders and secular service providers as they work together in a collaborative response to family violence. This book is the result of a collective effort to achieve these goals. The content of this book is just a glimpse of the complexity in the multi-disciplinary study of religion and family violence. Despite the many unique challenges that face religious victims and perpetrators of family violence, there are similarities. Firstly, issues of power are central. Religions and religious people often appeal to a higher power or source of authority beyond that of earthly society. This power has been personified and has many names—God, Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah, Vishnu, Buddha, Elohim, and Creator, to name but a few. Within religious groups, sacred or transcendent power is the source of knowledge about the form and substance of human relationships, particularly in the family. Religious leaders used to be acknowledged as having specialized knowledge about sacred power. The sources of sacred power and religious authority have traditionally been understood and constructed according to patriarchy. But traditional sources of gendered-religious power and authority are being challenged within and beyond religious groups, primarily by women of faith and the feminist movement. Some might argue that this has been a perpetual reality in religious traditions but nonetheless, it is taking place today to an unprecedented degree and is becoming more widely known by the public. Religious women are exercising their agency and are empowered to speak out about the problem of family violence individually and collectively. They are willing to participate in research that brings to light their suffering, the crimes committed by other family members, and the challenges that they face in seeking safety for themselves and

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their children. Researchers and some religious leaders are using their power to bring about systemic change in religious groups. A second similarity in the diverse research accounts in this volume is that there are multiple points and strategies for intervention in situations of violence amongst religious families. These include the training of religious leaders; the knowledge, interpretation, and practice of the value of care; faithbased, non-violent parenting advice; the provision of culturally-sensitive shelter services; the intersection of religious and secular divorce processes; the use of stained glass imagery for the dissemination of research results; therapeutic interventions for batters that incorporate spiritual teachings and practices; and the responsible reporting of cases of religion and family violence by the media. All of these strategies will work best when religious leaders and members of their organizations are able to work collaboratively to address the problem of family violence with secular service providers and policy-makers. References Aboriginal Healing Foundation. (2003). Aboriginal domestic violence in Canada. Retrieved from Ottawa, ON: http://www.ahf.ca/publications/research-series. Accessed 11 February 2012. Appleby, T. (2012). Judge condemns “sick notion of honour,” Globe and Mail (January 30). Retrieved from http://m.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/shafia-family -all-found-guilty-of-first-degree-murder/article2318731/ Accessed: 5 November 2017. Baggett, J. (2009). Sense of the faithful: How American Catholics live their faith. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Bramadat, P. (2008). Religion and public policy in Canada: An itinerary. Studies in religion, 37(1), 121–143. Cares, A.C., & G.R. Cusik (2012). Risks and opportunities of faith and culture: The case of abused Jewish women. Journal of Family Violence, 27, 427–435. Chaudry, A.S. (2013). Domestic violence and the Islamic tradition: Ethics, law and the Muslim discourses on gender. Oxford, UK: University of Oxford Press. Circle of Concerned African Women Theologians (CCAWT). Retrieved from http:// www.thecirclecawt.com/ Accessed 24 November 2017. Crenshaw, K.W. (1994). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. In M. Fineman & R. Mykitiuk (Eds.), The public nature of private violence: The discovery of domestic abuse (pp. 93–118). New York, NY: Routledge.

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Cunradi, C.B., R. Caetano, & J. Schafer (2002). Religious affiliation, denominational homogamy, and intimate partner violence among US couples. Journal for the scientific study of religion, 41(1), 139–151. Doherty, D. (2017). Rethinking safety planning: A self-directed tool for rural women who are abused. In T. Agusta-Scott, K. Scott, & L. Tutty (Eds.), Innovations in Interventions to Address Intimate Partner Violence: Research and Practice (pp. 18–32). New York: Routledge. Fisher-Townsend, B., N. Nason-Clark, L. Ruff, & N. Murphy (2008). I am not violent: Men’s experience in group In C.C. Kroeger, N. Nason-Clark, & B. Fisher-Townsend (Eds.), Beyond abuse in the Christian home: Raising voices for change (pp. 78–99). Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Gallagher, S.K. (2003). Evangelical identity and gendered family life. New Jersey, NY: Rutgers University Press. Gelles, R.J. (1997). Intimate violence in families (Third ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications. Gelles, R.J., & M.A. Straus (1979). Determinants of violence in the family: Toward a theoretical integration. In W.R. Burr, R. Hill, F.I. Nye, & I.L. Reiss (Eds.), Contemporary theories about the family: Researched based theories (pp. 549–581). New York, NY: The Free Press. Global Muslim Women’s Shura Council. (2009). Jihad against Violence: Women’s Struggle for Peace. Retrieved from http://www.wisemuslimwomen.org/pdfs/Jihad _against_Violence_Digest_(ASMA).pdf Accessed: 15 June 2017. Gross, R.M. (2009). A garland of feminist reflections: Forty years of religious exploration. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Halperin-Kaddari, R. (2004).Women in Israel : A state of their own. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Holtmann, C. (2013). From the top: What does it mean when Catholic bishops speak out on issues of family violence? In N. Nason-Clark, B. Fisher-Townsend, & V. Fahlberg (Eds.), Strengthening families and ending abuse: Churches and their leaders look to the future. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Holtmann, C. (2016). Christian and Muslim immigrant women in the Canadian Maritimes: Considering their strengths and vulnerabilities in responding to domestic violence. Studies in Religion Sciences Religieuses, 45(3), 397–414. Holtmann, C. (2018). Violence in families. In P. Albanese (Ed.), Canadian families today: New perspectives (4th ed.). New York: Oxford University Press. Holtmann, C., & J. Ganong (2016). Religious diversity in Canada and secular shelter workers’ response to domestic violence. Annual Meeting for the Association for the Sociology of Religion. Association for the Sociology of Religion. Seattle, WA. Holtmann, C., C.M. Torri, T. Rickards, & C. Matta (2016). A coordinated community response to domestic and intimate partner violence experienced by immigrant

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and newcomer women in New Brunswick. Retrieved from http://www.unb.ca/fred ericton/arts/centres/mmfc/research/researchteams/immigrant_visible_minority .html. Accessed 25 July 2017. Laquer Estin, A. (2004). Embracing tradition: Pluralism in American family law. M.L. REV 63: 540. Mahmood, S. (2001). Feminist theory, embodiment, and the docile agent: Some reflections on the Egyptian Islamic revival. Cultural anthropology, 16(2), 202–236. McCall, L. (2005). The complexity of intersectionality. Signs: Journal of contemporary women in culture and society 30(3), 1771–1800. Nason-Clark, N. (1999). Shattered silence or holy hush? Emerging definitions of violence against women. Journal of family ministry, 13(1), 39–56. Nason-Clark, N., & B. Fisher-Townsend (2005). Chapter 10: Gender. In H.R. Ebaugh (Ed.), Handbook on sociology of religion and social institutions (pp. 207–223). New York: Springer. Nason-Clark, N., & B. Fisher-Townsend (2015). Men who batter. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Nason-Clark, N., & C. Holtmann (2013). Thinking about cooperation and collaboration between diverse religious and secular community responses to domestic violence. In L.G. Beaman & W. Sullivan (Eds.), Varieties of religious establishments (pp. 187– 200). Farnham (Surrey), UK: Ashgate Press. Nason-Clark, N., & C. Holtmann (2015). Naming the abuse, establishing networks, and forging negotiations: Contemporary Christian women and the ugly subject of domestic violence. In A. Day (Ed.), Powers and pieties: Contemporary issues in the worldwide Anglican communion. Farnham, Surrey, UK: Routledge. Nussbaum, M,C. (2000). Women and human development: The capabilities approach. New York: Cambridge University Press. Pew. (2016). Israel’s religiously divided society: Retrieved from http://www.pewforum .org/2016/03/08/israels-religiously-divided-society/. Accessed 20 June 2017. Radford Ruether, R. (1986). Women-church: Theology and practice. San Francisco, CA: Harper and Row. Rinaldo, R. (2013). Mobilizing piety: Islam and feminism in Indonesia. New York: Oxford University Press. Satzewich, V., & N. Liodakis (2013). “Race” and ethnicity in Canada: A critical introduction (3rd ed.). Don Mills, ON: Oxford University Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, E. (1993). Discipleship of equals: A critical feminist ekklesia-logy of liberation. New York, NY: Crossroad. Sokoloff, N.J., & C. Pratt (Eds.). (2005). Domestic violence at the margins: Readings on race, class, gender and culture. Pictaway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Statistics Canada. (2017). Police-reported hate crime in Canada, 2015. Retrieved from http://www.statcan.gc.ca. Accessed 20 June 2017.

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Synod of Roman Catholic Bishops. (2015). The vocation and mission of the family in the church and in the contemporary world. Retrieved from http://www.vatican .va/roman_curia/synod/documents/rc_synod_doc_20151026_relazione-finale-xiv -assemblea_en.html. Accessed 15 June 2017. Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). (2012). They came for the children: Canada, Aboriginal peoples, and residential schools. Winnipeg, MB: The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. UN. (2013). UNite to end violence against women. Retrieved from http://endviolence .un.org/. Accessed 10 May 2013. Ursel, J. (2006). “Over policed and underprotected”: A question of justice for aboriginal women. In M.R. Hampton & N. Gerrard (Eds.), Intimate partner violence: Reflections on experience, theory and policy (pp. 80–99). Toronto, ON: Cormorant Books. Walby, S. (2007). Complexity theory, systems theory, and multiple intersecting social inequalities. Philosophy of the Social Sciences, 37(4), 449–470. Walby, S. (2009). Globalization and inequalities: Complexity and contested modernities. London: SAGE. Zvi Triger, H. (2014). A Jewish and democratic State : Reflections on the fragility of Israeli secularism Pepperdine Law Review 41:1091.

Part 1 Issues in the Research on Religion and Family Violence

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Chapter 1

Clergy, Congregations, and the Response to Domestic Violence in Families Steve McMullin

Research Context

While conducting research in a Midwestern u.s. city as part of the rave (Religion and Violence e-Learning) project research team, I arrived at the local women’s shelter for a scheduled visit. After a quick tour of the facilities and introductions with staff members, I sat down with the director of the shelter to outline the online resources that the rave website (www.theraveproject.org) provides for clergy and for victims of domestic violence who are part of a faith community. The brief presentation turned into an extended discussion when the director began asking question after question about how a woman’s faith, and her faith community, might impact her willingness to seek help from the shelter and about the possible impact that her faith might have on whether or not she would decide to return to the abusive relationship. She discussed the shelter’s attempts to deal with issues of faith and to respond to the spiritual needs of women who access the shelter but confessed that it is an area where their knowledge is limited—they rely on two staff members who are active in their local churches (but with no formal theological or ministry training) rather than relying on any contacts with seminary-educated local clergy. She had not previously considered ways that clergy or congregations might be a resource for victims of violence. When I mentioned that I would be meeting with a group of local clergy, she expressed interest in attending the meeting, so the next day, she and the two religiously active shelter workers joined eight local pastors at a restaurant in a lively and mutually helpful discussion about how religious congregations can contribute to a woman’s safety and to the community’s response to domestic violence. In the same city, I individually interviewed 28 clergy who serve in both mainline and evangelical Protestant congregations and I also made a presentation to about 20 clergy at the city’s Evangelical Ministerial Association meeting before engaging in some one-on-one and small-group conversations with members of the association. From those interviews and conversations, it

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_003

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became clear that many of those congregations routinely provide donations of money and practical items to the women’s shelter, but very few pastors had ever met or interacted with any of the shelter staff. Several of the clergy— mostly from evangelical congregations—said that they had referred individuals to the shelter for help but had no ongoing relationship with the shelter or its staff. The pastors who disclosed that they had made referrals to the women’s shelter sometimes expressed disappointment or even shame that they were admitting that abuse exists in their congregations and they did not have the resources to respond adequately themselves. Among these pastors, there is an expectation that Christians should live up to what they understand to be a biblical ideal that marriages should be loving, respectful, and completely free of violence; as clergy they believe that they are responsible to ensure that church families express love and harmony. For many pastors in evangelical Protestant congregations, admitting the existence of domestic violence in their midst was an admission of failure. Most mainline Protestant clergy in that city with whom I spoke had not referred anyone to the shelter for help; mainline clergy were far more likely than evangelical clergy to deny (sometimes quite vehemently) that domestic violence exists in their congregations. That atmosphere of denial can lead victims to believe that they best serve their congregation by trying to keep the violence hidden instead of seeking help. Several mainline clergy expressed to me the mistaken idea that is pervasive among some scholars and religious leaders that domestic violence most often occurs among conservative religious groups and is rare among mainline or liberal Protestant congregations, but research data do not support that conclusion. The study by Ellison, Bartkowski, and Anderson (1999) that looked specifically at that question concludes that there is no evidence that men or women from conservative Protestant congregations, or those who embrace conservative beliefs about the Bible, are more likely to commit violence against their partners. The dynamics of domestic violence are much more complex. But the persistence of the myth that domestic violence is rare in mainline congregations can become an important reason why victims in such congregations do not disclose their need for help. Victims suffer in silence, hiding the violence from others in the congregation, including the pastor, because they assume that they are alone in their suffering. As Machtinger points out in Chapter 10, such ideological misconceptions in any religious group (“Jewish men make ideal husbands”) create a stigma that leads to shame and silence when violence occurs. Those misconceptions thrive when clergy are not included in the community’s response to domestic violence.

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The research experience in this Midwestern city highlights some themes that seem to be quite common regardless of where we conduct research: • With a few individual exceptions, clergy are rarely part of a local coordinated response to domestic violence and have little contact with or knowledge of the local women’s shelter, except with regard to requests for donations of money and supplies. Not only are clergy unfamiliar with the resources available in the community, but community responders are equally unaware of ways in which clergy might assist in a coordinated community response to domestic violence. • Some clergy condemn domestic violence from the pulpit but provide no information about where or how victims can find help (for two quite different reasons: some clergy do not know how a victim can access help in the community and other clergy are unaware that domestic violence exists within their congregations). • Shelter workers are ill equipped to respond to the spiritual needs of victims who access their services and have not considered ways that local faith communities or seminary-educated clergy might contribute to meeting those needs. On the other hand, victims who in the wake of abuse have received appropriate spiritual care from clergy or from their congregation are empowered (Anderson et al., 2012). • In some cases there may be an ideological bias against working with religious congregations and their leaders; in other cases, staff may simply be unaware of the ways that a religious woman relies on her faith and on her faith community as essential resources in times of crisis both for empowerment and for comfort and consolation. • Some community responders who expressed an openness to “spirituality” do not understand that for women who are part of a local faith community, spirituality is much more than an abstract concept. For devoutly religious women, spirituality relates directly to their local congregations and to their religious leaders.

Understanding Idealism about the Family in Religious Congregations

A problem that may affect religious victims of domestic violence is the importance of the image of the ideal Christian family in many congregations (for example, see Trothan, 2003, p. 27). Rather than presenting the local church

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as a group of people who face a variety of life challenges and who are learning together and helping each other through the difficulties of life, congregations may want to portray themselves as “good people” with “good families.” Even though it may be unintentional, the congregation’s concern about its image as a place for good families and good marriages can lead to difficulty both for victims and for clergy. According to research by Mahoney et al. (2003), “Dissonance between the reality and expectations of sanctified family relationships may trigger feelings of spiritual failure.” Ill-informed pastors may attempt to manage incidents of domestic violence quietly within the congregation so others in the community do not find out and so victims are not shamed. These attitudes toward marriage were especially apparent among the students training for religious leadership that were interviewed on four theological seminary campuses. Many of the students, with no previous training about domestic violence, seem to have bought into a vision of the church as a place where families all live up to what they understand to be the standards of the ideal Christian family. In such ideal families, it might be imagined that violence would never occur and that relationships would always be characterized by respect and a deep commitment to one’s Christian marriage vows which were witnessed by God himself. Several students made specific references to the s­ acredness of marriage vows as a reason why violence is not acceptable in a Christian home. In spite of the fact that most families described in the biblical text are far from perfect and include several egregious examples of domestic violence, seminary students seemed determined to expect that violence would rarely occur in ­Christian homes. Consistently, when surveyed, the seminary students estimated that the rate of domestic violence in society is higher than it actually is, while they estimated that the rate of domestic violence within Christian congregations is lower than it is. In other words, they assume that church families do not have the same problems that others do, so they believe that domestic violence among church families is much rarer than it is in society in general. ­Previous research (Nason-Clark, 1997, p. 59) demonstrates that pastors of congregations similarly underestimate the rate of domestic violence within the church. At the same time, some seminary students understand that a focus on the ideal family can lead to religious victims hiding the abuse they are experiencing instead of seeking help. One seminarian (4:363)1 suggested that for those victims who have an image of an ideal Christian marriage, their abuse “is an embarrassment; they feel they should have known better.” In a focus group, 1 The number identifies survey and focus group respondents by seminary. In this first instance, the respondent is enrolled at the fourth seminary to participate in the study, and is the 363rd respondent.

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another student (2:4)2 argued that by their behavior in the home Christians should model for others what the family should be. Others focused on the New Testament teaching about the relationship between Christ and the Church (Ephesians 5) and held it up as the example of what Christian marriages should look like. It is in light of such Christian idealism that some seminary students believe that the pastor is better equipped to respond to incidents of domestic violence than secular agencies in the community. Such thinking is illustrated by the following quote from a focus group of students: I think a pastor realizes probably more than a secular counsellor the gravity of the violation that has actually occurred. I mean if they are really attuned to the proper relationship, especially the fact that the image we are given is of Christ and the church, the gravity of, the gross violation that occurs in spousal abuse. It’s not simply a violation of social order, it’s not a violation of individual rights, it is a much larger distinction that has to be made. This is an example of a violation that reflects on Christ and it is in that sense the thing that we are uniquely called to be aware of, and then because of that, and because of the relationships that stem out of that, namely the spiritual ones, as both the wife and the husband are members of the body, and that they can actually be dealt with within that larger picture—their spiritual needs, their emotional needs … The pastor has that special kind of “big-picture” view that the secular world doesn’t even offer (2:3)3. Such idealism can be very troubling to secular counsellors and other community responders. My experience in many meetings with mainline and evangelical Protestant clergy in both Canada and the u.s. suggests that idealism in mainline congregations leads to denial while making victims feel responsible for maintaining the respectability of the congregation in the community. That means that victims in mainline Protestant congregations are more likely to hide the abuse from clergy, even when they seek help from a shelter or from their friends within the congregation. In evangelical congregations, the idealism seems instead to lead to a fear of failure—failure to live up to the ideals of scripture. In such congregations, victims are much more likely to ­disclose 2 The number identifies survey and focus group respondents by seminary. In this first instance, the respondent is enrolled at the second seminary to participate in the study, and is the fourth respondent. 3 The number identifies survey and focus group respondents by seminary. In this first instance, the respondent is enrolled at the second seminary to participate in the study, and is the third respondent.

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the abuse to their pastor but it may lead to their marginalization in the life of the congregation, especially if disclosure of the abuse results in the marriage ending. That seems most likely among those evangelical congregations that emphasize personal holiness as an essential attribute of their members. Although these problems seem related to religious ideology, in reality they relate far more to a lack of understanding and a deficiency of training about domestic violence among religious leaders. Although seminary students referred repeatedly to Ephesians 5 and focused on it as an ideal portrayal of Christian marriage, they neglected the fact that many narratives in the Bible contain clear examples of dysfunctional and violent marriages and families. The wisdom literature and the prophets, as well as the words of Jesus in the gospels, address victims of injustice and violence and offer comfort. Pastors who have received training about domestic violence are more likely to portray the congregation as a fellowship that accepts hurting people, a place where people can be honest about their troubles, and where, together, people can depend on their faith in God as they work through life’s difficulties. When seminary students were confronted with statistics about domestic violence among religious families and when the power and control dynamics were explained to them, their attitudes about how to respond appropriately changed.

Clergy’s Unpreparedness to Respond

There is a considerable divide between the preparedness of community professionals to understand and respond to the needs of victims of domestic violence and the lack of preparedness among clergy. Our research has documented that theological seminaries do not adequately equip ministerial students to respond to incidents of domestic violence or to know how to refer victims to appropriate community resources for help and safety (McMullin & Nason-Clark, 2011; McMullin & Nason-Clark 2013; McMullin et al., 2015). In fact, clergy recognize their unpreparedness. When surveyed, only 8% of pastors indicated that they are well prepared to respond to an incident of domestic violence (Nason-Clark, 1997), and among accredited theological seminary students the percentage is 4.9% (just 2.1% of male students and 7.8% of female students; only 0.9% of single male students) even though nearly half of the seminary students (43.0%) indicated that they had already counselled at least one woman with an abusive husband (McMullin & Nason Clark, 2013). In focus groups, many ministerial students expressed fears about their unpreparedness to respond; some recounted stories of their failed attempts to intervene. Among the more than 400 seminarians that were surveyed, the experience that made the single greatest difference in a student’s sense of preparedness

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was having visited a women’s shelter and/or having met with shelter staff. Since clergy are often asked by victims of domestic violence to provide counsel and help, our data indicate that it would be very helpful for victims if the training for those preparing to be religious leaders included information about the work of women’s shelters. Yet few pastors have ever visited a shelter or met with shelter staff. In fact, our seminary study brought to light another issue: some shelters are unwilling to schedule such visits or meetings with seminary students, arguing either that allowing such visits is a safety concern or that they lack the time to meet with these graduate students who are preparing to be leaders in religious congregations. That unwillingness to provide an understanding of the work of the shelter for seminary students who soon will find themselves called to respond to cries for help from victims of domestic violence is a barrier that likely is not faced by students preparing to be secular professionals in the community. Another related barrier for clergy is their lack of familiarity with the process for making referrals to agencies or professionals—especially to individuals or organizations that are outside of their faith tradition (Nason-Clark et al., 2010; McMullin et al., 2015). A conscientious pastor is unlikely to refer a member of the congregation to someone with whom the pastor is unfamiliar; referrals are most likely to be made when a relationship of trust has been established between clergy and other community responders. It seems to be the case that when a religious leader responds to an incident of domestic violence in an unwise or inappropriate way, it often is unhelpfully assumed by community responders that the reason for such an unhelpful response is religious ideology. But when a similarly unhelpful response is provided by a police officer or a judge or a social worker, it may more likely be attributed to a lack of appropriate training. Since clergy of different religious traditions in our study invariably indicated their desire to respond appropriately to the needs of victims (McMullin, 2013), and since it has been well-documented that clergy are inadequately trained and know that they are inadequately prepared to respond, it would be much more helpful if community responders would consider ways to provide the kinds of training resources that clergy need instead of simply blaming religious teaching.

Training for Clergy

As a faculty member at Acadia Divinity College, an accredited theological seminary on the campus of Acadia University, I teach a course entitled “The Church’s Response to Domestic Violence.” As would be true in most theological seminaries, the course is not included in the core curriculum for “Master of

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Divinity” degree students who are preparing for pastoral leadership in a local congregation. For those students, the course must be taken as an elective and few can fit it into their schedule of requirements. However, when the course has been offered, the class has been bolstered by ordained clergy and by lay leaders who find themselves responding to incidents of domestic violence for which they had not received adequate training when they were in seminary. Their registration in the course shows that there are clergy who are eager to learn about how to respond if the training is available, and they express appreciation for what they learn in such a course. One grateful pastor of an urban congregation recently said to me, “I have learned in this course that everything I have been doing is wrong.” His problem was not ideological or religious; it was a lack of training. He was trying to fix problems without understanding what the real problems are. In my experience, most students (like most people in society) tend to see domestic violence as an incident of bad behavior because they are unfamiliar with the power and control dynamics of abuse. But once they understand that domestic violence is not just a behaviour to be corrected but a way of dominating others, they can play a very constructive part in the community’s response to the needs of victims. During the course, as students visit a women’s shelter and become familiar with the resources in the community, they express relief that they do not have to deal with the problem of domestic violence on their own. Another, more difficult, aspect of teaching such a course is that some people who have been victims of domestic violence sign up to take the course not because they seek training, but because they hope to find for themselves the spiritual and practical help that they have not received either from the resources available in the wider community or from their religious congregation. They are hurting and they are angry, and as people of devout religious faith their healing will not progress without addressing their spiritual needs and questions.

Inappropriate Responses to Spiritual Needs

Although shelters and community agencies may recognize that victims have spiritual needs, they may be slow to collaborate with clergy in the community— simply allowing those spiritual needs to remain unmet or relying instead on staff with no formal religious training and little familiarity with religious traditions other than their own. Although much has been written about the effects of inappropriate relationship advice by clergy, very little has been written about ways that victims may be adversely affected by inappropriate or ­inadequate counsel by secular responders about the victims’ spiritual and religious needs and practices.

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Some shelters, no doubt with good intentions, set boundaries about the practice of religion in their facility. Shelters may quite appropriately be intentional about not supporting any particular faith tradition, but in doing so—if they discourage, limit, or prohibit certain important religious practices among the women in the facility—such a policy may be interpreted by religiously devout women as a rejection of the importance of their own faith. Since religion can play an important role in a woman’s decision whether or not to return to the abusive relationship, a sense that the shelter or agency is hostile to a woman’s faith may be a factor in her decision to return to the violent home. Especially for a victim who has experienced spiritual abuse in the home from which she has fled for safety, such imposed limitations or prohibitions may seem like more abuse. A manipulative abuser may effectively use such limitations on her spiritual expression to convince a religiously devout victim that the shelter is not an option.

Why are Congregations Important for Helping Victims?

• Faith-based organizations are often the first place where abuse victims seek help (Beaman-Hall & Nason-Clark, 1997; Statistics Canada, 2005). Many women seek counsel from clergy, and many more women seek support from other women within their congregation. • For a woman with strong religious faith, the decision about whether or not to leave an abusive relationship and seek shelter, and then the decision about whether or not to return to the violent home, may be dependent on the advice she receives from people who share her faith and her views about the sacredness of marriage. She may be more likely to prioritize her safety if her pastor is part of a coordinated community response and refers her to a shelter or indicates support for her decision (Horton et al., 1988). Without a sense that they are supported by their religious leaders, women who are survivors of intimate partner violence may experience significant spiritual distress and suffering (Copel, 2008). • In situations where the abuser uses particular religious ideas (such as submission, forgiveness, marriage sanctity, etc.) as a means of power and control, it is important that appropriate interpretive resources be made available to the abused person (Sharp, 2014). That is unlikely to happen unless clergy who have been appropriately trained are involved in the response. • Religious congregations provide tremendous resources for people in need, especially for times of crisis. Some of those resources are specifically religious—including spiritual care as well as counsel and comfort from religious texts and rituals—and those resources can be powerful when they

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encourage a woman to seek safety and when they provide comfort and empowerment in the face of abuse. Additionally, religious congregations provide social, financial, and practical resources for people in times of need in both formal and informal ways. Religious involvement can promote psychological well-being for abuse survivors, including improved quality of life and decreased depression (Gillum, Sullivan, & Bybee, 2006, p. 246). Congregations can also provide resources that can be utilized by helping professionals in the wider community, including the use of church facilities and opportunities for training and for providing volunteers. • Finally, the inclusion of faith communities and religious leaders in the community’s response to domestic violence is especially important for those who are new to this country (Holtmann, 2016). As the immigrant population increases, community responders need to realize ways that faith communities are critical resources for immigrants (Choi et al., 2016). Not enough has been written about ways that appropriately trained clergy can contribute very positively to the community’s response to domestic violence and to the spiritual well-being of victims.

Removing Barriers

Several steps can be taken to dismantle these barriers between religious leaders and their congregations on the one hand, and community professionals on the other: Seeing Religious Faith and Spirituality as a Resource for Victims The first step to removing barriers would be a realization among community professionals that a woman’s religious faith and her faith community are among her most powerful resources when faced with a violent home. The qualitative research by Anderson et al. (2012) not only demonstrates that “social and spiritual support was instrumental to participants’ recovery, growth, and resilience” but also argues that understanding that religion/spirituality is a resource for victims “may contribute to interventions that build on women’s strengths and resourcefulness” (Anderson 2012, p. 1279) For many victims of violence, their own religious faith is a strength that they bring to their circumstances; their religious faith motivates them to leave the violence and, for many women (almost two-thirds of the women in that particular study), involvement in organized religion provides important support as they recover and find a new way forward. Ensuring the provision of adequate and appropriate spiritual care in accordance with the woman’s faith tradition can be empowering for

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religious victims of violence. The majority of the participants said that God (or a Higher Power or Spirit) was a source of strength, protection, love, and hope. They viewed God as a guiding force that saved their lives, helped them to prevail, and gave them strength to end their abusive relationships (Anderson et al., 2012). More than half of the women said that church support and involvement was instrumental in their recovery by offering emotional comfort, a sense of belonging, security, practical assistance such as financial help or shelter, and especially the women-to-women ministries in the faith community which provided guidance, mentoring, and companionship. In their 2006 study of domestic violence survivors, Gillum, Sullivan, and Bybee found that 97% of their study sample (151 urban and culturally diverse women) reported that spirituality or God provided comfort for them and that religious involvement tended to increase their psychological well-being. Survivors of domestic violence find strength and comfort in their religious tradition and in their faith community. Although community professionals may be cautious about incorporating spirituality as they respond to the needs of clients (Coholic, 2003), victims of domestic violence have experienced suffering and injustice and, for many, those experiences lead to spiritual and religious questioning. Therefore it should not be surprising when survivors seek spiritual and religious answers from their faith community and from their religious leaders. They seek meaning in the midst of what has happened to them so that they can move forward following the abuse. Secular professionals may help the victim to understand cognitively the power and control dynamics of abuse, but that will not explain why they have suffered. For many victims of domestic violence, and especially for those of devout faith, finding meaning in the face of their suffering is a religious journey. It is from their belief system that they seek answers to difficult questions: Why has God allowed this to happen to me? Why have my prayers not been answered? Has God abandoned me? How can I leave my marriage after making marriage vows before God? When a trusted religious leader can assure a victim that violence is evil and wrong and that God’s love and care is constant even though human relationships have been so disappointing, a victim of violence can be empowered to begin a new life journey, confident that the violence was not her fault and that her religious faith will continue to sustain her as she seeks safety. Neglecting the resources that religion can provide may make the victim more vulnerable, especially when the perpetrator seeks either to employ her religious beliefs against her in his efforts to abuse or when he threatens to withhold spiritual resources (e.g. permission for her and/or her children to attend worship services or to participate in spiritually vital aspects of congregational life). Considerable focus in the literature has been placed on the former, but little has been written about the latter—the reality that the withholding of

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the social and spiritual resources afforded by religion from a religiously devout woman’s life can be a debilitating form of abuse. A first very positive step is to appreciate the empowering role that religion can play in the lives of women of faith who have been victims of abuse. Adequate Training for Religious Leaders It is not surprising that community professionals are cautious or even reticent about inviting clergy to be part of the community’s response. The same study by Anderson et al. showed that in spite of the empowering and consoling effect of organized religion for victims of violence, only a small number of the women had positive experiences when they sought help from a religious leader. Our research team has already documented the lack of adequate training for religious leaders, both while they are seminary students preparing for ordained ministry and as continuing education for those who never received adequate training (McMullin and Nason-Clark, 2011; McMullin and Nason-Clark, 2013; McMullin et al., 2015). For a variety of reasons that our research documents, it is unlikely that most theological seminaries will offer such training to an adequate extent in the near future. It would be very helpful if community responders would recognize that in most cases the reason for inadequate and inappropriate responses from clergy is not religion but a need to be trained as clergy about what their role should be as religious leaders in the response to domestic violence and how to carry out that role with integrity and effectiveness. Our data demonstrate that training is needed by clergy in at least two areas: first of all, clergy need to understand how to respond at once to an urgent request for help so that immediate safety needs are addressed and appropriate spiritual care is provided for victims. Because that training is not typically provided to clergy as part of their seminary education and because it is unlikely that most theological seminaries will soon begin to provide such training, pastors will need to learn the dynamics of abuse and the appropriate ways to response by turning to other training opportunities— through online training (such as the rave website—www.theraveproject.org), through continuing education opportunities (seminars, webinars), or through denominational initiatives. The second area is even more challenging: our research among Christian clergy and seminary students has shown a lack of understanding of how to interpret key Christian scripture passages (especially Ephesians 5) in ways that are helpful for victims of violence. Even some clergy who want to encourage a victim to leave the home to find safety struggle with the hermeneutical challenges related to their views about the sanctity of marriage. Although an

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abundance of theological and biblical resources are available for Christian clergy (for example, see chapters by Kroeger in Nason-Clark et al., 2011), those religious leaders who most need those resources tend to be most unaware of the literature. The area where many clergy tend to already be well trained to respond is in the provision of spiritual care for victims and in the mobilization of the faith community to provide practical resources. Yet many times that important resource is either ignored by community responders, or attempts to provide spiritual care and community are made by people with inadequate spiritual understanding or religious training, which can lead to misunderstandings and harmful results. Inviting Religious Leaders to the Table The first time I, as a religious leader and seminary graduate with no training about violence, was invited in the early 1990s to participate in a coordinated response to domestic violence in our community I was told by the chairwoman who invited me that the group was unanimously opposed to having any clergy included on the committee. By participating in the group at her invitation I was not only able to learn a great deal myself, but I was also able to begin to provide resources for other local clergy who otherwise would have had little understanding or awareness of the problem of domestic violence in the community, and I was able to provide support and resources for victims who sought help from our congregation. Over the years I was able to dispel some myths among local religious leaders about violence, and I was also able to shatter some stereotypes among secular responders who assumed that religious leaders would not be helpful. Before receiving that invitation, I was very naïve about domestic violence; no adequate training had been provided to me as part of my preparation for ministry. The same is true for most clergy today—in most cases it will take an invitation from the wider community to enable religious leaders to understand abuse and to be aware of the resources that are needed by victims who seek help. Working Together to Provide Safety and Spiritual Care for Victims Victims who choose to leave an abusive relationship and seek safety may be less likely to return to the abusive home if their spiritual needs are being met and if they are being provided with the resources they need in order to interpret and understand what is happening to them in the context of their own religious tradition. In other words, the provision of appropriate spiritual care to victims has the potential to make it less likely that they will return to the

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abusive home. In cases where the abuse included the use of religion itself (such as demands that the victim submit and forgive) it is especially helpful when a religious leader can assure the victim that such a misinterpretation of religious doctrine is in opposition to the teaching of her religious tradition. When a victim of abuse makes the heart-wrenching choice to leave the marriage to seek safety, she faces daunting challenges. Maybe most or all of her friends at church are married, and she is suddenly single (and perhaps a single mother also). She has to deal with legal and financial issues as well as the practical and emotional realities of separation and divorce. If she is a mother, much energy and wisdom will be needed to nurture and to guide her children through all that they are experiencing. Spiritually, she will likely feel profound disappointment—her dream of a loving Christian family has been shattered. Amid such profound loss, it will make a huge difference if she receives the kind of spiritual care from her pastor and from her faith community that will assure her of love and acceptance both by God and by the congregation. She will need assurance from the scriptures of God’s love and she will need others to pray with and for her. She will need to draw on her faith in order to maintain the strength she will need. If she receives that spiritual care, it will be both healing and empowering. This need for care provides two opportunities for service providers to help a religious victim. First, they can encourage her efforts to find the guidance she needs from her faith community, and that best happens if service providers are familiar with some of the spiritual resources in the community. Second, they can affirm the woman’s attempts to find strength by depending on her faith— that affirmation can be a powerful way to care for a religious victim. The Response to Perpetrators of Domestic Violence The response of clergy to domestic violence is complicated by the likelihood that they have ongoing contact with the victim, with the abusive person, and with family members and extended family members. That puts the pastor in a situation that is quite different from that of many other people in the community who are involved in the response to domestic violence. With inadequate training, pastors may be manipulated by the abusive person in ways that bring additional harm to the victim—another reason why it is important to provide training for clergy. However, clergy who do understand the dynamics of abuse can be in a position to hold perpetrators of domestic violence accountable. For example, our data demonstrate that the likelihood that an abuser will complete a court-mandated batterers’ intervention program increases significantly when the abuser’s pastor has told him to complete the program (Nason-Clark, 2005).

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The “Duluth Model” of batterer intervention groups has also documented that the inclusion of religious resources in the response to abusers has positive results. Future Research Regarding Spiritual Care of Victims It would be very helpful if research would provide guidance for community responders (shelter workers, advocates, counsellors, mental health professionals) with regard to the spiritual care of victims of violence. Not only may clergy be reticent about referring congregants to secular agencies (Nason-Clark et al., 2010), but secular responders may be just as reticent about referring victims to religious leaders for spiritual care. But when referrals are not made, in either direction, it is the victim of domestic violence who suffers as a result. Such referrals are likely not only to benefit the individual victims, but they will also help to build trust between clergy and community responders so that together the community can better respond to people’s needs.

Conclusion

Intentional collaboration between congregations and their leaders on the one hand and community professionals on the other has great potential to assist religious victims of domestic violence by making sure that their immediate safety needs and their longer-term spiritual needs are adequately addressed. When such collaboration does not take place, devoutly religious victims are more likely to continue to suffer abuse instead of seeking help and safety, and those who seek help may be filled with a sense of inner conflict and shame that leads them to return to the abusive environment. Barriers on both sides will need to be addressed before such collaboration takes place. Clergy will need training and misconceptions about religion will need to be dispelled among community professionals. The result will be a more effective response to the problem of domestic violence. References Anderson, K.M., L.M. Renner, and F.S. Danis (2012). Recovery: Resilience and growth in the aftermath of domestic violence. Violence Against Women, November 2012, 18(11), 1279–1299. Beaman-Hall, L., & N. Nason-Clark (1997). Partners or protagonists? The transition house movement and conservative churches. Affilia, 12, 176–186.

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Choi, Y. Joon, Jennifer Elkins, and Lindsey Disney (2016). A literature review of intimate partner violence among immigrant populations: Engaging the faith community. Aggression and Violent Behavior, 29(2016), 1–9. Coholic, D. (2003). Incorporating spirituality in feminist social work. Affilia, 18(1), 49–67. Copel, L. (2008). The lived experience of women in abusive relationships who sought spiritual guidance. Issues in Mental Health Nursing, 29, 115–130. Ellison, C.G., J.P. Bartkowski, & Kristen L. Anderson (1999). Are there religious variations in domestic violence? Journal of Family Issues, 20(1), 87–113. Gillum, T., C. Sullivan, & D. Bybee (2006). The importance of spirituality in the lives of domestic violence survivors. Violence Against Women, 12, 240–250. Holtmann, C. (2016). Christian and Muslim immigrant women in the Canadian Maritimes: Considering their strengths and vulnerabilities in responding to domestic violence. Studies in Religion Sciences Religieuses, 45(3) 397–414. Horton, A., M. Wilkins, & W. Wright (1988). Women who ended abuse: What religious leaders and religion did for these victims. In A.L. Horton & J.A. Williamson (Eds.), Abuse and religion: When praying isn’t enough (pp. 235–246). Lexington, MA: Lexington Books. Mahoney, A., K.I. Pargament, A. Murray-Swank, and N. Murray-Swank (2003). Religion and the sanctification of family relationships. Review of Religious Research, 44(3), 220–236. McMullin, S. (2013). Clergy and the pastoral response to domestic violence: Understanding the complexities. In N. Nason-Clark, B. Fisher-Townsend, and V. Fahlberg (Eds.) Strengthening families and ending abuse. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. McMullin, S., N. Nason-Clark, B. Fisher-Townsend & C. Holtmann (2015). When violence hits the religious home: Raising awareness about domestic violence in seminaries and amongst religious leaders. Journal of Pastoral Care and Counselling, 69(2), 113–124. McMullin, S. and N. Nason-Clark, (2013). Preparing seminaries for collaborative work. In N. Nason-Clark, B. Fisher-Townsend, and V. Fahlberg (Eds.) Strengthening families and ending abuse. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. McMullin, S. and N. Nason-Clark, (2011). Seminary students and domestic violence: Applying sociological research. In N. Nason-Clark, C. Clark Kroeger, and B. FisherTownsend (Eds.) Responding to abuse in Christian homes (pp. 231–246). Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Nason-Clark, N. (1997). The battered wife. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. Nason-Clark, N. (2005). Linking research and social action: Violence, religion and the family. Review of Religious Research, 46(3), 221–34. doi:10.2307/3512552.

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Nason-Clark, N., S. McMullin, V. Fahlberg, & D. Schaefer (2010). Clergy referrals in cases of domestic violence. Journal of Family and Community Ministries, 23(4), 50–60. Sharp, S. (2014). Resisting religious coercive control. Violence Against Women, 20(12), 1407–1427. Statistics Canada (2005). Family violence in Canada: A statistical profile. Ottawa, ON: Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics. Retrieved from http://www.statcan.gc.ca/ pub/85-224-x/85-224-x2005000-eng.pdf. Accessed August 9, 2016. Trothen, T.J. (2003). Linking sexuality and gender: Naming violence against women in The United Church of Canada. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.

Chapter 2

Who Cares? Religious Immigrant Women, Social Networks, and Family Violence Catherine Holtmann

Introduction

This chapter explores the relationship between religious gender role construction and the concept of care in the lives of immigrant women in Canada. I argue that care is both a religious and secular value and that it can assist members of religious groups and public service providers in dealing with situations of intimate partner violence in immigrant and non-immigrant families. As a religious value, care can be related to the experiences of Israeli and L­ ebanese women described in chapters 8 and 9, respectively, by Pascale Fournier, ­Victoria Snyers, Farah Malek-Bakouche, and Eve Laoun. In the Canadian context, the value of care can be applied to the Orthodox Jewish women in Yael’s Machtinger’s research, presented in Chapter 10. Care is certainly a value for the Christian congregations that Stephen McMullin has studied (see Chapter 1) and its power as a starting point for conversations concerning family violence is especially relevant to churches addressing the abuse of children, as highlighted in Chapter 3 by Susan Nunn and Emma Robinson. The value of care aligns with the collectivist values and practices as well as gender norms espoused by religious groups and the cultures from which the majority of contemporary Canadian immigrants originate—the focus of this chapter. It has the capacity to incorporate the reality within which the lives of female survivors of family violence are embedded in ways that an emphasis on the liberal feminist value of individual autonomy cannot. I recommend that the concept and practices of care be utilized within the religious and secular social support networks to which abused immigrant women are most likely to turn for help in the aftermath of violence. One such support network is that of domestic violence shelter workers, highlighted in Chapter 4 by Jolyne Roy.

Immigrant Women and Research on Family Violence

In Canada there is relatively little research on the prevalence of family violence amongst immigrants in the population (Johnson & Dawson, 2010). ­Using © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_004

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data from the national Violence Against Women Survey and General Social ­Surveys (gss), Brownridge and Halli (2003) found that immigrant women from developed countries are less likely than Canadian-born women to report the experience of intimate partner violence. Du Mont and Forte’s analysis of gss data (2012) found that immigrant women who have lived more than 20 years in Canada are significantly more likely to report having experienced abuse than either immigrant women who have lived less than 20 years in Canada or ­Canadian-born women. The combination of these statistical findings suggests that immigrant women who have recently arrived in the country may be reluctant to disclose their experiences of family violence or that their understanding of what constitutes abusive behavior changes over time. Analysis of data from the Longitudinal Survey of Immigrants to Canada indicates that the early years of settlement have an emotional cost that manifests itself in the lives of immigrant women as persistent feelings of sadness, loneliness and depression (Holtmann & Tramonte, 2014). We can suggest many sources of this emotional burden, but certainly some of it is borne by those living in situations of family violence. The results of numerous qualitative studies amongst specific groups of immigrant women in Canada describe the complexities associated with their experiences of family violence which make it difficult for them to recognize, disclose and seek safety from abuse. Some of these complexities include: immigration policies (Mosher, 2009) and the precarious pathway to full citizenship (Holtmann & Theriault, 2017); socio-economic inequality (Barata, ­McNally, Sales, & Stewart, 2005; Fong, 2010), systemic racism (Bannerji, 2002; Jiwani, 2005), immigrating with young children (Brownridge, 2009), unfamiliarity with their legal rights (Wachholz & Miedema, 2004), the loss of family and friendship support networks which contributes to social isolation (Cottrell, 2008), the pervasiveness of patriarchy (Liao, 2006; Mojab, 2012), and the lack of confidentiality within immigrant groups when abuse is disclosed (Kulwicki, Aswad, Carmona, & Ballout, 2010). An intersectional approach to understanding family violence is currently considered a best practice both amongst social science researchers and those who provide services to survivors. This means that attention is directed to the intersection of the multiple structures of gender, class, and ethnicity/race that create both inequalities and valued differences in society (Johnson, 2005; Walby, 2009). Intersectional frameworks do not initially privilege one difference or inequality, such as gender, over another (Sokoloff & Pratt, 2005) but allow for the investigation of the particular structural intersection that is the most important to address for ensuring an abused woman’s safety depending on her societal context. The social structuring of ethnicity/race, gender, and class are not necessarily the sources of family violence, but rather m ­ ediate and shape

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it (Liao, 2006). This chapter focuses on how the social structuring of gender is influenced by Christian and Muslim beliefs and practices and how this overlaps with the social structuring of ethnicity and class in the case of Canadian immigrant women.

The Intersection of Religion, Gender and Ethnicity

It is only relatively recently that research in the domestic violence field has explored the role of religion. This research draws attention to the unique vulnerabilities that highly religious women have in abusive relationships, an important one being the need to understand the abuse within the framework of their religious tradition. Many religious women believe that they can help their abusive partner to change, that they must continually forgive his violent and abusive behaviours, and that it is their duty to keep their families together (­Nason-Clark, 1997). Religious leaders who are knowledgeable about family violence and trained in best practices in responding to disclosures from members within their religious groups can assist victims using religious language, concepts, values and symbols in ways that help them to understand that ­violence and abuse are never acceptable within family life. Skilled religious leaders can assist religious victims in renegotiating the content of the religious tradition in ways that help them prioritize safety for themselves and for their children (Nason-Clark & Holtmann, 2015). Religion can add to the complexities that immigrant women face in situations of family violence, but it can also augment their existing strengths. I have argued elsewhere that immigrant women’s formal and informal social support networks have an important role to play in helping them to recognize, disclose and bring an end to abusive and violent patterns in their marriages (Holtmann, 2016). I have suggested that public service providers consider viewing immigrant women as allies in the work of raising awareness about intimate partner violence and share information about it through their social networks, including religious ones. However, secular professionals also need to be sensitive to the values that religiously engaged immigrant women hold within patriarchal religious traditions and the multiple ways that these values can be interpreted. The concept, value, and practices of care are meaningful to religious immigrant women and can also be useful in the efforts of public domestic violence service providers working with religious clients. Patriarchal religious traditions teach and promote practices of gender complementarity in which women and men have distinct gender roles. For ­example, the Catholic church teaches that women have been created by God

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primarily for motherhood and their capacity for caring for others is the essential element of their nature, while men have been created for fatherhood and their capacity for providing for and leading families is the essential element of their nature. These gender roles are referred to as complementary because they go together—the social and natural order depend on women and men “doing gender” together. These complementary gender roles are the basis of collective social life as understood by the Catholic church. Men and women have different natures and roles yet are equal in dignity (Case, 2016). Likewise many Muslim religious authorities claim that while men and women are spiritually equal, they have been created biologically and socially different (Chaudry, 2013). Heterosexual gender complementarity is promoted by religious leaders as “natural” and “traditional” yet the gendered ideal of the “traditional family” has been tested through empirical research.1 Social science research has shown that in practice, members of some patriarchal religious traditions do not necessarily comply with complementary gender norms. Gallagher’s research on American Protestant evangelical families (2003) shows that although husbands and wives indicate that they believe in gender complementarity, their daily lives include practices of gender egalitarianism. She attributes this to middle-class Protestant wives’ increased participation in the paid labour force. Dual income earning families have become the norm in contemporary Western society. However, evidence of the impact of middle-class women’s increased labour force participation on shifting patriarchal religious gender roles in daily practice cannot ignore long-standing class and ethnic differences between women. Women in low-income, visible minority and immigrant families have always worked outside of the home for wages (Siltanen & Doucet, 2008, p. 129). On the other hand, Kaufman’s research (1991) indicates that some modern, middle-class Jewish women are attracted to Orthodoxy because of its well-defined gender roles. Similarly, Hoodfar’s study of Muslim women in Canada (2012) provides reasons as to why second generation daughters have adopted the veil despite the fact that their mothers rejected this more conservative style of dress. Many young Canadian Muslim women rely on the veil as a signal of their religiosity to their male Muslim peers. This helps in warding off sexual advances while the women pursue post-secondary education and careers.

1 There are challenges to heterosexual gender binaries from within Christianity and Islam, however space does not permit an exploration of these here. Nevertheless, I believe that the value of care would be equally useful in addressing intimate partner violence within nontraditional families.

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Despite the fact that women from all economic classes participate in paid work at rates almost equal to men, gender differences continue to exist in the realm of unpaid work in families (Luxton, 2005). Women’s experiences of unpaid household work (laundry, cooking, cleaning) and the care of children are significantly different from those of men. In Canadian studies of time use, mothers consistently spend more time on all of these tasks than fathers ­(Statistics Canada, 2011). In fact, mothers who work full-time spend twice as much time caring for young children than fathers who work full-time. This is despite the fact that, in Canada, more men are taking parental leave to care for young children and the number of stay-at-home fathers has increased (­ Siltanen & Doucet, 2008). This inequality in terms of the performance of unpaid care work shows that differences in gender norms persist regardless of women’s participation in the paid labour force. Unpaid care work involves both physical and emotional labour. In the cases of families of faith, gender norms for unpaid care work are reinforced by religious teachings on complementarity or what Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend refer to as a kind of “gender inerrancy” (2005, p. 210) that has become popular amongst conservative Christian leaders. Because of the value of their religious identities as caring mothers, women may be reluctant to ask or let their husbands take on a greater share of unpaid care work in families. Even if they do ask for help, religious men may refuse or hesitate to take on a greater share of unpaid care work because of their identities as fathers. Sociological research on the gendered division of childcare indicates that “norms, rules and internalized cognitive frameworks that are institutionalized in the family appear to shape gendered patterns of unpaid care to dependent others in a way that accounts for the persistence of gendered care, despite social forces that could un-gender care” (Oliker, 2011, p. 971). These internalized norms have deep emotional power for religious mothers and fathers. Religious women’s unpaid care work in families is further exploited by the conditions of the contemporary paid labour market. As mothers, women’s responsibilities for unpaid care work often lead them to choose part-time work in the paid labour market. Part-time work is precarious, insecure, and dependent on the good-will of an employer. The work is without benefits (pension, employment insurance) but can accommodate mothers’ responsibilities for unpaid care work. There is a proliferation of precarious work in the changing global economy. Precarious workers are part of a strategy of labour flexibility and this process is referred to as the “feminization of work” because of women’s over-representation in the domain of precarious work (Vosko, 2000). Greater numbers of men are forced to take on precarious

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work but, as already pointed out, fathers with paid work, stable or precarious, do not take on an equal share of the unpaid care work in the home. The proliferation of precarious work in the paid labour market creates uncertainty and social instability, the pressures of which are borne by families. Many families choose migration as a strategy for dealing with the pressures associated with increasing economic and social instability. They migrate in search of conditions that will help them to better care for their families. When women immigrate to the Maritimes, they encounter a social context characterized by a racialized labour market and precarious work (Holtmann & Theriault, 2017). In many cases, this means that immigrant women have moved from one context of social instability to another. There are however, at least two major differences that immigrant women encounter in the Canadian context. Firstly, their social support networks are greatly diminished. The social support of women from extended family and friendship networks that had helped them deal with the “double shift” of precarious jobs and unpaid care work prior to migration no longer exists. Secondly, resistance to patriarchal gender norms is part of public discourse and practice in Canada. This has led to some legal and policy changes that acknowledge the rights of all Canadian women and afford them options for protection and safety in situations of family violence. Religious immigrant couples are subjected to pressure from at least two sources: the global economic forces which push them to take on precarious paid work in foreign contexts in order to take care of their families’ material needs and religious forces that idealize the gendered division of unpaid care work. Economic pressures and the changing nature of work impact gender roles in immigrant families. Religious resistance to these gender role shifts do not assist couples in renegotiating and harnessing their religious values in the face of economic struggles. In the midst of these pressures, religious immigrant women who experience family violence can feel particularly squeezed— unable to recognize what they are experiencing in the midst of their caring activities as violent or abusive. Thus immigrant women can find themselves isolated and oppressed. In response to these pressures, they can seek out or create new social support networks. Research on social networks within religious groups largely highlights the positive impacts that these networks have for individuals and for congregations (Edgell, Tranby, & Mather, 2013). This is particularly the case for immigrant religious groups (Ebaugh, 2003). This is also the case in terms of the spiritual and practical support that conservative Christian women in Atlantic Canada provide for women who are victims of domestic violence in their congregational social networks (Beaman & Nason-Clark, 1999). Involvement in religious social

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networks can decrease the risk of a woman getting into an abusive or violent relationship (Ellison, Bartkowski, & Anderson, 1999). One study, which did not include religious variables, shows that social support networks play a complex role for a woman who is in a relationship with a violent spouse (Katerndahl, Burge, Ferrer, Becho, & Wood, 2013). The results of this study indicate that women living in situations of family violence with social support networks report a stronger sense of safety and better physical and emotional well-being than women without social support. They are also more likely to seek legal assistance. The study also found that members of victims’ support networks tend to have similar experiences with abusive relationships. Women are more likely to leave a violent relationship if their social support is inadequate. The results of Katerndahl et al.’s study (2013) are relevant for this research since I suggest that an emphasis on the value of care will resonate with immigrant women in religious social networks. The religious emphasis on mothers’ primary role in providing care, likely reinforced through women’s religious social networks, does contribute to their vulnerability to staying in violent relationships for the sake of keeping the family together. However, religious immigrant women who value their roles as caregivers may be open to renegotiating the concept of care in order to highlight several important elements that can help them to recognize family violence: the problem of the exploitation of women’s care, an emphasis on self-care in order to shift attention and energy away from helping the abuser and toward the self, and understanding the shift to self-care as a necessary component in the care of dependent children. This exploration of the value of care is based on the analysis of data from a qualitative study of Christian and Muslim women (N=89) who immigrated to the east coast of Canada between 2000 and 2012 (Holtmann, 2013). The research methods included personal interviews and focus groups with 58 ­Christian and 31 Muslim immigrant women, 57% of whom were mothers. In the following section, examples from the lives of these women will be shared in order to illustrate how gender roles are actually lived on a daily basis in religious immigrant families and how the value of care is practiced in the formal and informal social networks in which religious immigrant women participate in the Maritimes.

Doing Gender in Immigrant Families

The impact of economic changes on gender roles has already been mentioned and research shows that this is a global phenomenon (Walby, 2009). Inglehart and Norris (2003) use international survey data to compare how ideas about

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gender and changes in gender roles are taking place in different ways in countries around the world. Gender role shifts are evident in the lives of the Muslim and Christian immigrant women in the research who came to Canada from 27 different countries of origin. All of the immigrant mothers in the research strongly identify with their roles as mothers and many of them are the primary caregivers for their children. Many research participants spoke about how migration to Canada increased their personal feelings of independence. For example, in their countries of origin the women’s fathers or husbands were in charge of driving and taking care of the car and keeping the home in good repair. With the move to Canada many immigrant women get their first driver’s license, manage to shovel the driveway, scrape snow and ice off the car, and drive where they want or need to go. Likewise, in addition to negotiating mortgages for their new homes, some women deal directly with repairmen to get the roof fixed, for example. These are just some of the things that the women have never done in their countries of origin. Although in the initial months and years the women find this work challenging, they are proud of themselves and their self-confidence is stronger. It is through managing pragmatic aspects of the household and family, forms of care work that had previously been done by their fathers or husbands, that immigrant women gain a greater sense of independence. Getting paid work outside the home or success in post-secondary education also increases immigrant women’s feelings of independence and selfconfidence. Some young women originally from Saudi Arabia indicate that due to issues associated with their upper-class status, before coming to Canada they had been unable to work at part-time employment—it would have brought shame on their family. Getting work in retail sales in Canada, for example, is an opportunity for them to improve language skills and contribute to the family income. The shift from being dependent on the men in their families for the practical realities of daily life in the realms of unpaid and paid work in their countries of origin to learning how to do many of these things themselves in Canada is a source of pride for immigrant women. However, increased independence and self-confidence for immigrant women is often accompanied by tension or conflict with their husbands, fathers, or brothers. Some of the women in the study are very articulate about how the rise in their social status coincides with the decline in social status of immigrant men in Canada. One South Korean mother with two children explains: I came here first and I know the society and I have many friends here but after, when he [her husband] came here, he was new. I know more than him and so whenever he has trouble or he has a difficulty to do

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s­ omething—he has a higher position in Korea—but I think he feels there is nothing he can do well. So expectations should be low but I expect him to do something for us because I was so stressed. Yes, so the high expectation [hers] and the low reality [his], so that was stress to me and stress to him. Christian #9

The self-confidence and independence for immigrant women which arises through responding to the practical needs of their families (rather than feminist ideals) frequently results in conflicts with men in immigrant families. When asked if or how the tensions and conflicts are dealt with, the women say that they do not look to their families back in their countries of origin for help—something they would normally have done before immigration. Problems are handled within the extended family. Now they do not want their families back home to worry and rarely does an immigrant woman seek out professional counseling. One exception is an Iraqi woman who became depressed due to her older brothers’ attempts to stop her from interacting with non-relative men on the university campus where she studied. Because she became increasingly withdrawn, her friends advised her to get professional help. She describes what happened when she followed their advice: I saw them [the counselor] once and then I just stopped ‘cause I didn’t feel comfortable. Like, ok, what’s the point in going and telling them, and they can’t do anything for me because I understand it’s a cultural thing. And in my point of view it’s a very wrong culture, but I have to live with it because it’s my culture, right? Like either I can run away from the house and live my life independent but then I am going to lose my family right? So it’s kind of you have to decide: either live with it or …. Muslim #10

This young woman feels trapped between the gender norms of her family’s cultural origins, which she disagrees with, and those at the Canadian university where she studies. She believes that she only has two options. She does not have confidence that a professional counselor unfamiliar with her particular Iraqi-Muslim background and its cultural norms can help her navigate the complex gender role shift she is experiencing. She loves her family and does not want to alienate herself from them and at the same she loves her work at the university and does not want to give it up. Most often the women indicate that they speak to other immigrant women about the conflicts in their nuclear families—those who can identify with

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e­xperiences associated with shifting gender roles. When asked how they handled conflict in their marriages before immigrating to Canada, they had a similar strategy—they would first approach friends or family members for support in problem solving. Even in situations of family violence in their home countries, they said that every attempt would be made through informal social networks to keep the family together for the sake of the children. Separation and divorce are seen as worst-case scenarios. There is social stigma associated with family breakdown and women are fearful that they will lose access to their children because in their home countries fathers have stronger legal rights than mothers. Nevertheless, women are aware that the rates of divorce are climbing in their countries of origin. A mother originally from Egypt talks about how perceptions of divorce are changing in her home country: They [Egyptians] consider divorce is just a failure—but it’s not as before, like twenty years ago it was really hard because most of the women were financially dependent on their husbands. This is a big, big issue, but right now, not as before, they do not depend financially on their husbands. And people are changing right now, the young women and men are changing and even the rate of divorce is going up in Egypt right now, so it’s not as before. Muslim #2

Before migrating to Canada, both she and her husband had worked professionally while raising their children but there was a period when the children were very young that she chose not work. She said that it had been too hard to both work and care for the children. Like other mothers in the research, with the move to Canada, she is providing the primary income for her family because her husband is unable to find work commensurate with his professional expertise. At varying times in her marriage and due to varying circumstances, she and her husband were financially dependent on one another. As she explains, this was not the norm for couples in Egypt twenty years ago. She associates women’s financial independence with an increase in divorce rates because women are not forced to remain in marriages in which they are not respected and are subject to violence. Two immigrant women who participated in the study are survivors of domestic violence and both are divorced. Both of the women had been financially dependent on their husbands after immigrating to Canada. Both of them had disclosed the violence they were experiencing to immigrant settlement workers and had received information about local domestic violence services.

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In one case, the immigrant settlement service providers worked closely with shelter workers to ensure that the mother and her four children were well cared for. This included access to mental health professionals for the family and free child care so that the mother could attend language classes—­something that her abusive husband had prevented her from doing. At the time of our interview, she is volunteering in a nursing home in order to better position herself for future paid employment. For this Muslim mother, the violence had begun before the family had immigrated but divorced women had very little support in her country of origin. In Canada, the decision to leave her violent husband is the beginning of a new and better life for herself and her children. Many research participants encounter difficulties in the immigration and settlement process. When asked about their reasons for immigrating they inevitably speak about wanting a better future for their families—they care about the well-being of others. The majority of the Filipina women in the research are migrant workers sending remittances home in order to support their children’s education or their elderly parents’ health care. They miss their families and are homesick. A large proportion of the women in the research willingly face the challenges of living and working in a new society because they prioritize the education and employment opportunities for their children in Canada. Many take comfort from their religious beliefs in their struggles to care for their families. The women indicate that they exercise the value of care as immigrants because they believe that they are cared for by God. An example of this religious belief is given by a woman originally from Vietnam: I strongly believe that God is with me. So [when] I feel sad and I know that every day like I’m worried, but my Father worry more about [His] family, [His] kids. So I[’m] just like walking, walking, walking and knowing nowhere to go, but I’m not alone, God is behind me. I think so. And then after I got [a] job, my husband got [a] job, we bought the house and then I think, “Now I’m ok. My Father is still with me and He’s happy too!” Christian #8

Even though she was worried about the problems she and her husband had in finding work and the tensions that this had caused in their marriage, she found comfort in the belief that God worried about her even more. She attributes their success in finding work and housing to God’s care for her. This highlights the religious significance of care—relying on God’s care and extending that care to others.

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Caring Networks of Immigrant Women

The immigrant women in my research are part of a variety of formal and informal social support networks or what can be considered networks of care. Some informal social support networks are based on ethnicity or the women’s countries of origin. In these ethnic social networks women share the same language, eat similar kinds of food and have shared values. An example comes from a mother originally from Iran: My Iranian friend arrived two months ago here. She didn’t know many things. I called her. When I found out that this family arrived, I called to them. I offered to them, “Please come to our house for a dinner I prepare for you because you didn’t settle anything for your house now.” The family came to my house for a dinner. Muslim #4

Stories of this kind of caring through informal ethnic social networks are common in the data. This research participant had only recently moved to the Maritimes herself and has a young son. She is still adjusting to her new life but does not hesitate to open her home to another Iranian family, just as she and her family have been welcomed by other Iranians. Particular women play central roles in some of the ethnic networks of care—usually those who have been living in an area for a while, whose second language skills are strong and who are familiar with navigating the challenges of daily life. These women have created social capital in their social networks (Portes, 1998) and other immigrant women look to them for help. Occasionally an immigrant woman in this position does complain because she feels she is doing too much for others and wishes that more women in her ethnic social network would help ­newcomers. Ethnic social networks are particularly strong amongst immigrant women from the Philippines. Many of them have precarious work in fish and seafood processing plants in the region. They rely on social networks to help one another find paid employment when their contracts expire. But even in these networks there is some evidence of discontent. One Filipina worker refers to the “crab mentality” of Filipinas—“so if you’re successful people will pull you down … there’s always competition” (Christian #5). Formal social networks include those developed through publicly-funded immigrant settlement agencies, cultural associations, educational institutions, as well as those created through community-based religious groups. These formal social networks address the needs of many Christian and Muslim

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i­mmigrant women, yet some fall through the cracks. For example, the wives of international students at universities in the region and immigrant women sponsored by Canadian-born husbands are unable to access language classes and health care services until they have permanent resident status. Formal religious social networks of care are strong amongst Evangelical Protestant immigrants in the Maritimes yet non-existent amongst Orthodox Catholics. Evangelical Protestant churches with large numbers of immigrants have strategies for welcoming and caring for the practical needs of new immigrants. The wife of a Korean pastor explains: Yes, actually my church has a settlement program too. So we have a team, so somebody help with school, yes, visit together the district office and register their child. And somebody—[who wants to buy a] car—they visit cars and show them and they decide how to pay, something like that. Somebody find out [about] housing. Yes, something like that. Christian #22

In addition to attending to immigrant needs for housing, transportation, and guidance dealing with new education systems, some Evangelical Protestant churches host regular conversation circles in order to help immigrants practice the skills they are learning in government-sponsored language classes. These circles are open to all local immigrants whether or not they are Christian or of any religious background. Muslim women in the study speak highly of these opportunities for conversation and for making friends with other immigrant women. Several participants value the care and understanding they receive from members of a Bible study or faith-sharing group organized by their church. The research included a focus group session with a faith-sharing group of women from South Korea that had been meeting regularly with their Korean pastor. The women in this faith-sharing group were particularly emotional. Several of the women cried as they explained how hard it is to live in Canada. All of them are single-parenting their children who attend public school while their husbands continue to live and work in Korea. They are lonely and face an uncertain future. They do not know what the future holds for their children and their families. Transnational family situations are common amongst the participants in the research. The Korean women use the language of their faith—narratives of suffering and redemption through suffering—to explain how they are feeling and how they deal with the challenges they face. S­ everal of the Korean women indicate that their marriages have benefited from their involvement in the church. But not all of their suffering is associated with

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­being far away from their husbands. Some women use transnational family arrangements as a means of seeking safety in violent marriages but do not speak about this directly. A Korean mother of two teenage children explained that the women in her social network have names for husbands in transnational families: “penguins” are unable (or unwilling) to fly to Canada for a visit; “wild geese” describes the husbands who visit infrequently; and “eagles” are frequent fliers (Christian #17). In cases of family violence, some women prefer having a “penguin” for a husband, using the distance between Canada and their country of origin as a strategy for keeping their children and themselves safe. For many religious groups, caring for others extends through networks beyond the local community. Muslim women in the study understand charity as part of their religious practice. Charity is the religious practice of regularly exercising love for others—typically those who are considered less fortunate than oneself and one’s family. A mother from Pakistan explains how charity is a part of the Eid al-Adha or Festival of the Sacrifice: When we get the meat—the whole animal meat—then we bring it at home. We pray on that and then we make three pieces of that. One piece is for family, one is for the poor people—those who can’t afford that meat, and the other is for the friends and family. As we don’t have family here, so we do that in the potluck because friends are over here. And sometimes then I, like I don’t satisfy with that because the meat is always home—I can’t give it to the poor people. Yes, that is a problem, so then I divide that money, like if I have bought for $25.00 an animal, then I have $25.00, I send the money to Pakistan for the poor people—like for the flood. Muslim #20

Charity is a religious obligation for many women of faith. One Korean Catholic research participant is helping out with a fundraiser at her church, the proceeds for which are donated to the local women’s shelter. Research conducted with Catholic women in New Brunswick (Holtmann, 2009) shows that they are more likely to engage in works of charity on the basis of their faith than in work for social change. The two, however, are closely connected. Charity responds to the immediate material needs of people in difficult social circumstances and social change addresses the conditions that lead to these circumstances. ­Catholic women consistently prioritize caring for others over institutional rules and norms, especially in situations involving intimate partner violence (Holtmann, 2015). Few women are contesting the Catholic church’s teachings but many are acting in contradiction to teachings concerning reproductive

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choice as they care for abused women in their social networks. They do not hesitate to accompany a friend when she chooses to get an abortion. Religious women’s value of care and their formal and informal social networks can be utilized in a collective response to family violence experienced by immigrant women.

Harnessing the Value of Care in Responding to Family Violence

The analysis of data from Muslim and Christian immigrant women in the ­Maritimes shows how religious immigrant women care for others. They care for their children, their husbands and for other immigrant women and families. They even care for strangers. The value of care is closely tied to their religious identities as women and mothers. In order to cope with the challenges of the immigration and settlement process they create and utilize social n ­ etworks— networks through which they can extend care to others in pragmatic, emotional, and spiritual ways. Care is a gendered value. Religious institutions teach that women are essentially caring. There are a variety of ways in which religious women practice the value of care. Caring for others through service is a meaningful religious practice. This includes the physical, emotional, and spiritual giving of the self in the service of others. In their roles as caring mothers, religious women physically bear, nurture and provide for the needs of children. Their physical and emotional labour ensures that husbands, children, grandchildren, and elders are fed, clothed, and ready to face the world every day. Care is expressed through concrete activities such as grocery shopping (including the observation of religious dietary restrictions), the preparation and serving of meals, purchasing and laundering clothes, arranging and getting people to medical appointments, helping children with their homework, listening to problems, encouraging family members who are struggling, inviting people to visit their homes, offering a bed for the night, helping neighbours, and celebrating feasts and holidays together. Caring service is put into practice by women using the religious virtues of patience, kindness, generosity, hospitality, compassion, self-sacrifice, and forgiveness. Religious women are often responsible for passing on religious beliefs and practices, such as daily prayer, to their children in the home. Caring mothers act as role models. Christian women are more likely than men to be actively involved in the activities of their church, often ensuring its survival beneath the radars of male religious leaders. The global economic systems of which Canada is a part are increasingly dependent on women willing to do precarious paid work in order to a­ ccommodate

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their responsibilities for unpaid care work in families. Both religious and economic institutions exploit immigrant women’s propensity to care and this is particularly pernicious in situations of family violence. This does not necessarily mean that religious immigrant women’s caring is wrong or the result of false consciousness, but requires a reinterpretation and renegotiation of the value of care. The distinction between exercising the religious value of care and the exploitation of women’s care work needs to be made more explicit, particularly within the context of the family. This can take place in four ways: (1) through affirming the interdependence of women and men in families; (2) by emphasizing that the care of others is dependent on the care of self; (3) by helping women to recognize when their care is being abused and exploited; and (4) by defending the rights of caring women in the labour market. As already noted, religious understandings of gender complementarity depend on the cooperation of husbands/fathers and wives/mothers. Healthy relationships are ones of interdependence in which roles and workloads can be both ascribed and negotiated. Unhealthy relationship are ones in which one partner, often a husband, exerts power and control over his wife by demanding that she fulfil his expectations of her role or expecting her to shoulder all of the unpaid work in the home. Healthy gender dynamics are particularly important for dual-income couples. Whether or not couples take a complementary or an egalitarian approach to the day-to-day gender roles and responsibilities in their families, they need to share the unpaid care work load, respect, and support one another. Some Muslim scholars and activists argue that the Qurʾan promotes interdependence, for example when it states (9:71): “The Believers, men and women, are awliya (protectors) of one another” (wise, 2017). This is especially true during times of challenge like the migration and settlement process. The care of others should always be exercised in relationship to the care of self. Complete selflessness or total self-giving is a recipe for burnout and depression. For Christians, according to the Bible, there can be no love of neighbor without the love of self (Mark 12:30–31). This is akin to the safety instructions given prior to take off on an airplane: put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others. When mothers are cared for they can better care for others. An immigrant woman who is the victim of violence and abuse by her husband is not well-cared for. Children who witness abuse between their parents are not well-cared for. If religious immigrant families abide by the gendered division of unpaid care work in the household, then religious mothers need help in recognizing what kinds of behaviours are abusive and violent. They can learn that certain actions by their husbands, fathers and brothers are unacceptable. The use of

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coercion, ultimatums, threats, isolation, guilt, mind-games, minimizing, denying, blaming, and financial over-control are just some of the forms of abuse that religious women can learn to recognize. They can be supported in articulating and negotiating what they need from the men in their lives in order to better care for themselves and for others in their roles as mothers. Religious women can be patient, kind, and compassionate but they need to act strategically in situations of family violence in order to minimize risk. The point is not to begin conversations with immigrant women by challenging their religious beliefs in gender complementarity but to work with religious couples and families who already struggle with these beliefs while wives/mothers and husbands/fathers engage in their responsibilities for paid and unpaid work. This will involve difficult conversations, but they can start with talking about care. Models of care for self and others are already taking place within immigrant women’s social networks—as was shown in the analysis of data from Christian and Muslim immigrant women in the Maritimes. In situations of family violence, the process of learning to care for self and others and learning to recognize the lack of care that characterizes violence and abuse can ensure immigrant women’s safety and better care for their children. Muslim and Christian organizations and their leaders in North America have long advocated for social justice on the basis of faith (Bullock, 2012; H ­ oltmann, 2011; Hondagneu-Sotelo, 2008). Some of this advocacy has addressed issues of justice for immigrants. The presence of religious voices in public discourse specifically defending of the rights of immigrant women in the labour market is an important element in affirming the ways in which women of faith care for their families. Muslim and Christian spokespersons should draw attention to the ways in which immigrant women’s care is being exploited through the conditions of precarious work including low wages, the casualization of jobs, a lack of employment benefits, unaffordable child care, the uncertain pathway to permanent residency for temporary foreign workers, and immigration policies that reinforce wives’ dependency on husbands who sponsor their immigration. Changes in provincial legislation that make provisions for paid leave for employees dealing with situations of family violence should also be supported. The reinterpretation and renegotiation of the traditional value of care for religious immigrant women has tremendous potential because immigrant families are already experiencing gender role shifts. Times of change are also times of opportunity. Immigrant women are acting strategically in using immigration as an opportunity to ensure a better future for their families. They are becoming more aware of their independence and their self-confidence is on the rise. Some religious immigrant women are already talking to one another about how the changes in social status between men and women that have

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occurred because of immigration to Canada. They are aware of how changes in social status impact their relationships with their husbands. It is in the context of these kinds of conversations that the issue of family violence can and should be raised explicitly by people trained in best practices. This includes immigrant settlement service providers, shelter workers and domestic violence advocates, immigrant women leaders, and religious leaders. Many immigrant women’s initial contacts with Canadians happen through government-funded language classes offered through settlement service agencies or multicultural associations. It is through contact with settlement service providers and other immigrants that immigrant women become aware of the formal and informal social networks, including the ethnic and religious networks of care highlighted by the findings of the research upon which this chapter is based. These social networks are difficult for outsiders to access. Collaboration between immigrant settlement and domestic violence agencies can ensure that information on family violence is available to women in these networks. Information and training on family violence could begin with references to the value of care—language that resonates with religious and nonreligious immigrant women. Care is exercised through relationships and when used in reference of family violence, there are opportunities to encourage ­immigrant women to reflect on their collective identities as mothers, wives, sisters and friends and the ways in which they both receive and give care. Likewise religious leaders, or leaders of small groups within religious organizations, trained in best practices concerning family violence can also draw upon the value of care when initiating important discussions concerning the problem of family violence in Canada. Information about family violence that includes a nuanced understanding of the value of care can be introduced when discussing sacred texts, religious obligations for charity and justice, or in faith-sharing sessions. Violence against women and the abuse of mothers, wives, or sisters by male family members makes it very difficult for religious women to care for others. The sources and types of violence and abuse must be made clear within religious groups along with the fact that victims are not responsible for the violence perpetrated against them and their children. ­Violence is never an acceptable mode of interaction in religious families. The value of care is incompatible with unkind words, violent actions, and controlling attitudes. Recognizing and choosing to bring an end to the family violence can strengthen women’s ability to practice the value of care. Listening to the stories of religious women who have been victimized, providing information about public services (medical, legal, therapeutic, financial) and supporting ­immigrant women’s choices in the aftermath of disclosing family violence are ways to strengthen existing networks of care within religious groups.

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References Bannerji, J. (2002). A Question of silence: Reflections on violence against women in communities of colour. In K.M.J. McKenna & J. Larkin (Eds.), Violence against ­women: New Canadian perspectives (pp. 353–370). Toronto, ON: Inanna Publications and Education Inc. Barata, P.C., M.J. McNally, I.M. Sales, & D.E. Stewart. (2005). Portuguese immigrant women’s perspectives on wife abuse: A cross-generational comparison. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 20(9), 1132–1150. Beaman, L.G., & N. Nason-Clark (1999). Evangelical women as activists: Their response to violence against women. In Shared Beliefs, Different Lives: Women’s Identities in Evangelical Context (pp. 111–132). St. Louis, MI: Challice Press. Brownridge, D.A. (2009). Violence against women: Vulnerable populations. New York, NY: Routledge. Brownridge, D.A., & S.S. Halli (2003). Double advantage? Violence against Canadian migrant women from “developed” nations. International Migration, 41(1), 29–45. Bullock, K. (2012). Toward a framework for investigating Muslim women and political engagement in Canada. In J. Zine (Ed.), Islam in the Hinterlands: Muslim Cultural Politics in Canada (pp. 92–112). Vancouver, BC: UBC Press. Case, M.A. (2016). The role of the popes in the invention of complementarity and the Vatican’s anathemization of gender. Retrieved from Chicago, IL: http://ssrn.com/ abstract=2740008 Accessed 20 July 2016. Chaudry, A.S. (2013). Domestic violence and the Islamic tradition: Ethics, law and the Muslim discourses on gender. Oxford, UK: University of Oxford Press. Cottrell, B. (2008). Providing services to immigrant women in Atlantic Canada. Our diverse cities, 6, 133–137. Du Mont, J., & T. Forte (2012). An exploratory study on the consequences and contextual factors of intimate partner violence among immigrant and Canadian-born women. BMJ Open, 2(e001728), 1–9. Ebaugh, H.R. (2003). Religion and the new immigrants. In M. Dillon (Ed.), Handbook of the sociology of religion (pp. 225–239). Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press. Edgell, P., P.T. Tranby, & D.M. Mather (2013). Profiles of anticipated support: Religion’s place in the composition of Americans’ emotional support networks. Journal for the scientific study of religion, 52(2), 293–308. Ellison, C.G., J.P. Bartkowski, & K.L. Anderson (1999). Are there religious variations in domestic violence? Journal of family issues, 20(1), 87–113. Fong, J. (2010). Out of the shadows: Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant, and aboriginal communities. Toronto, ON: Women’s Press.

Religious Immigrant Women, Social Networks, and Family Violence 57 Gallagher, S.K. (2003). Evangelical identity and gendered family life. New Jersey, NY: ­Rutgers University Press. Holtmann, C. (2009). Heart, mind and soul: Catholic women and social action. (M.A.), University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, NB. Holtmann, C. (2011). Workers in the vineyard: Catholic women and social action. In G. Giordan & W. Swatos (Eds.), Religion, Spirituality and Everyday Practice (pp. 141–152). New York, NY: Springer Publishing Co. Holtmann, C. (2013). The complexities of structure and agency: Social networks among Canadian immigrant women. (PhD), University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, NB. Holtmann, C. (2015). Women, sex and the Catholic church: The implications of domestic violence on reproductive choice. In P. Dickey Young, H. Shipley, & T.J. Trothen (Eds.), Religion and Sexuality: Diversity and the Limits of Tolerance Vancouver, BC: UBC Press. Holtmann, C. (2016). Christian and Muslim immigrant women in the Canadian Maritimes: Considering their strengths and vulnerabilities in responding to domestic violence. Studies in Religion Sciences Religieuses, 45(3), 397–414. doi:10.1177/0008429816643115. Accessed 23 December 2016. Holtmann, C., & L. Theriault (2017). Coming and going: The impacts of precarious employment and non-citizenship on immigrant in- and out-migration in New Brunswick. International Journal of Migration and Border Studies, 3(1), 98–112. Holtmann, C., & L. Tramonte (2014). Tracking the emotional cost of immigration: Ethno-religious differences and women’s mental health. Journal of international migration and integration, 15(4), 633–654. doi:10.1007/s12134-013-0302-8. Accessed 17 August 2015. Hondagneu-Sotelo, P. (2008). God’s heart has no borders: How religious activists are working for immigrant rights. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Hoodfar, H. (2012). More than clothing: Veiling as an adaptive strategy. In L.G. Beaman (Ed.), Religion and Canadian society: Traditions, transitions and innovations (2nd ed., pp. 187–216). Toronto, ON: Canadian Scholars Press. Inglehart, R., & P. Norris (2003). Rising tide: Gender equality and cultural change around the world. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Jiwani, Y. (2005). Walking a tightrope: The many faces of violence in the lives of racialized immigrant girls and young women. Violence Against Women, 11(7), 846–875. Johnson, H., & M. Dawson (2010). Violence against women in Canada: Research and policy perspectives. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Johnson, R. (2005). Gender, race, class and sexual orientation: Theorizing the intersections. In G. MacDonald, R.L. Osborne, & C.C. Smith (Eds.), Feminism, law, inclusion: Intersectionality in action (pp. 21–37). Toronto, ON: Sumach Press.

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Katerndahl, D., S. Burge, R. Ferrer, J. Becho, & R. Wood (2013). Differences in social network structure and support among women in violent relationships. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 28(9), 1948–1964. Kaufman, D.R. (1991). Rachel’s daughters: Newly orthodox Jewish women. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Kulwicki, A., B. Carmona, T. Carmona, & S. Ballout (2010). Barriers to the utilization of domestic violence services among Arab immigrant women: Perceptions of professionals, service providers & community leaders. Journal of Family Violence, 25, 727–735. Liao, M.A. (2006). Domestic violence among Asian Indian immigrant women: Risk factors, acculturation, and intervention. Women & Therapy, 29(1), 23–39. Luxton, M. (2005). Family coping strategies: Balancing paid employment and domestic labour. In V. Zawilski & C. Levine-Rasky (Eds.), Inequality in Canada: A reader on the intersections of gender, race, and class (pp. 66–86). Toronto, ON: Oxford University Press. Mojab, S. (2012). The politics of culture, racism and nationalism in honour killing. ­Canadian Criminal Law Review, 16, 115–134. Mosher, J. (2009). The complicity of the state in the intimate abuse of immigrant ­women. In V. Agnew (Ed.), Racialized migrant women in Canada: Essays on health, violence, and ethnicity (pp. 41–69). Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. Nason-Clark, N. (1997). The battered wife: How Christian families confront family violence. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Nason-Clark, N., & B. Fisher-Townsend (2005). Gender. In H.R. Ebaugh (Ed.), Handbook of religion and social institutions (pp. 207–223). New York, NY: Springer. Nason-Clark, N., & C. Holtmann (2015). Naming the abuse, establishing networks, and forging negotiations: Contemporary Christian women and the ugly subject of domestic violence. In A. Day (Ed.), Powers and pieties: Contemporary issues in the worldwide Anglican communion. Farnham, Surrey, UK: Ashgate Press. Oliker, S. (2011). Sociology and studies of gender, caregiving, and inequality. Sociology Compass, 5(11), 968–983. Portes, A. (1998). Social capital: Its origins and applications in modern sociology. ­Annual review of sociology, 24, 1–24. Siltanen, J., & A. Doucet (2008). Gender relations in Canada: Intersectionality and beyond. Toronto, ON: Oxford University Press. Sokoloff, N.J., & C. Pratt (Eds.). (2005). Domestic violence at the margins: Readings on race, class, gender and culture. Pictaway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Statistics Canada. (2011). GSS 2010—Overview of the time use of Canadians. Ottawa, ON Retrieved from http://statcan.gc.ca/. Accessed 8 December 2016.

Religious Immigrant Women, Social Networks, and Family Violence 59 Vosko, L.F. (2000). Temporary work: The gendered rise of a precarious employment relationship Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. Retrieved from http://www.lib .unb.ca/. Accessed 31 July 2015. Wachholz, S., & B. Miedema (2004). Gendered silence: Immigrant women’s access to legal information. In M.L. Stirling, C.A. Cameron, N. Nason-Clark, & B. Miedema (Eds.), Understanding abuse: Partnering for change (pp. 197–218). Toronto, ON: ­University of Toronto Press. Walby, S. (2009). Globalization and inequalities: Complexity and contested modernities. London: SAGE. WISE. (2017). Current issues: Agency and autonomy. Retrieved from http://www .wisemuslimwomen.org/currentissues/agencyandautonomy/. Accessed 10 January 2017.

Chapter 3

“The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these”: Corporal Punishment and the Move towards Nonviolent Discipline in Christian Parenting Susan Nunn and Emma Robinson

Introduction

Over the millennia, the practice known as “spanking”—correcting children through physical strikes to the body, mainly the buttocks—has been viewed by many Christian families as Biblically-sanctioned. Yet the only verses in the Bible that seemingly direct a parent to hit a child as a method of discipline are in Proverbs. These few passages have had an enduring legacy. For some of the faithful, the quotes have taken on an aura of infallibility, even by those who reject other specific Old Testament directives. Certain contemporary religious teachers have promoted physical punishments of children with these same Biblical passages as justifications. However, the advocacy of spanking within Conservative Christian churches may have more to do with a socially-created culture, than Biblically-prescribed child-rearing advice. There is now a nascent movement among Christians for a different Biblical exegesis on the issue. Below are the published words of a Christian father of four that have relevance: I would like to write to you about some of the experiences we have had in our no-spanking journey from a father/husband perspective. … All those years I thought I saw something in the Bible that wasn’t there. It was a big spanking mirage! I had read into the text experiences and ideas from my own family, culture, and past. If I had been completely tabula rasa, I would have realized that the word “spank” was nowhere in the Bible. The concept of discipline was there, but I had substituted “spanking” and even “punishment” in its place. I had to realize that “discipline” does not inherently include a form of punishment. Indeed, punishment is a pretty low level of motivation. I was convinced, so we changed and decided to stop spanking. We became gentle-parenting parents. martin, 2014

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_005

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The transformation described above, is one example of a new sensitivity in the way that children’s bodies and spirits are regarded in some religious families. This embrace of non-violent child-training is a positive development, which would benefit all families and communities. Current social scientific research on child abuse reveals that the most likely people to perpetrate physical harms on young children are their parents or guardians (Finkelhor, 2008). This research on violence against children parallels the finding that adult women are most likely to experience violence at the hands of an intimate partner, someone who claims to love them. As NasonClark has pointed out, for believers, the family may be sacred but it is not always safe (1998; 2000). This chapter presents an overview of the research literature and theorizing on the abuse of children, focusing on the corporal or physical punishment of children by their parents. Discipline in conservative Protestant families will be the focus of this examination. Though religious parents who use corporal punishment on their children often do so with the belief that they are carrying out a beneficent, God-given form of discipline, social scientific research reveals harmful outcomes are associated with the use of corporal punishment in the family.

The Corporal Punishment of Children

There have been relatively large declines in the incidence of child sexual abuse, child homicide, and child physical abuse in the United States from the early 1990s to the 2010s (Finkelhor and Jones, 2012). Canada, likewise, has seen a decline in the number of substantiated child welfare cases (Selmini, 2016); though Canadian child sexual abuse incidence shows mixed-directional trends (Collin-Vézina, Hélie, & Trocmé, 2010). Child-harm prevalence estimates vary according to how the particular harm is defined, and which agencies carry out the data collection. In one particular methodology, for example, the us utilizes the National Child Abuse and Neglect Data System (ncands). Child protection agencies from states across the us contribute child maltreatment case statistics into online databases. From this data, trends can be analyzed. An important finding is that since the early 1990s, child sexual abuse incidence has declined by 64%, and child physical abuse cases have seen a reduction of 55 % (Finkelhor, Saito & Jones, 2013). The descending trajectory in child maltreatment appears to be widespread in other western nations as well. (Selmini, 2016). This decrease is an encouraging

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­development. Yet, the harm and abuse of children—who are the most vulnerable among humanity—remains a formidable social problem. One relevant phenomenon is that there is still widespread social support for the physical discipline of children. A large majority, approximately 70% of adults in the us, expressed in the 2014 General Social Survey, support for the statement that “it is sometimes necessary to discipline a child with a good, hard spanking” (Childtrends Data Bank, 2015). In Canada, a 2007 survey conducted in Quebec found that over 60% support the disciplining of a child by spanking (Gagné et al., 2007). This is problematic, not only due to the nature of corporal punishment and its effects, but also because parental child battery, in the majority of instances, begins with slapping or hitting a child in putativebehavior correction (Gershoff, 2010). In fact, the majority of child homicides by parents, from the child’s age of post-infancy to six years, start out as physical discipline, which then escalates (Finkelhor, 2008).

Conservative Protestants and Corporal Punishment

Conservative Protestant communities are known for their endorsement of corporal punishment, not just as an effective parenting technique, but as one that is both scripturally-justified and religiously necessary (Greven, 1991). Popular conservative Protestant parenting manuals cite Bible verses such as Proverbs 13:24, “Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him” (esv), to justify and encourage the use of spanking by Christian parents (Greven, 1991; Ellison & Bradshaw, 2009). These manuals advocate for corporal punishment by framing it in contrast to the eternal punishment they fear disobedient children will experience if their parents allow their sinful behaviour to continue unchecked (Bottoms, Nielsen, Murray & Filipas, 2003). Conservative Protestant parenting manuals often advocate that parents should use corporal punishment with the explicit objective of breaking their children’s wills (which represent their children’s innately sinful nature) so that they can learn the obedience required to submit themselves wholly to God (Greven, 1991). These beliefs can be traced back to the writings of Susanna Wesley, mother of John Wesley, one of the founders of Protestantism, and they have a deep-seated history within both Protestantism and American society. Conservative Protestant communities are theologically characterized by their belief in Biblical inerrancy, which is often associated with an emphasis on themes of innate human sinfulness, the need for piety, and salvation through grace, over other Biblical themes (Ellison & Bradshaw, 2009). Likewise, conservative Protestants tend to lend greater significance to the Old Testament than other Christians, where most of the verses directly addressing corporal

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­ unishment are located. Greven (1991), in his book Spare the Child, highlights p belief in hell, authoritarian family structure, and apocalypticism as predominant aspects of conservative Protestant faith that contribute to the justification of corporal punishment within these communities. Similarly, Ellison and Bradshaw (2009), in their analysis of 1998 American General Social Survey data, found that belief in hierarchical images of God and belief in hell were positively associated with support for corporal punishment. Conservative Protestants, on average, support the use of corporal punishment at twice the rate of the general American population, and are more likely than any other Christian denomination to advocate for its use in response to child misbehaviour (Hoffman, Ellison, & Bartkowski, 2016; Gershoff, Miller, & Holden, 1999). They likely use corporal punishment at a greater frequency than the general population, as well. Gershoff, Miller, and Holden (1999) found, in their study of 132 mostly religiously-affiliated parents, that conservative Protestants reported spanking their children an average of once or twice a week, in contrast to Roman Catholic, mainline Protestant, and non-affiliated parents, who reported spanking their children less than once a week.

Theorizing Corporal Punishment

Copious research shows that corporal punishment of children can have lasting undesirable effects. Unfortunately, awareness of these ramifications are often lacking in mainstream society. A meta-analysis of 88 studies found that corporal punishment is associated with damaging outcomes, including decreased moral internalization on the part of the child, increased child aggression, decreased quality of relationship between parent and child, and decreased child mental health (Gershoff, 2002). The same analysis revealed that adults who have been spanked in childhood have an increased risk of being victims of physical abuse, a greater likelihood for antisocial/criminal behavior, and increased risk for mental health disorders. Another study found that adults who were spanked as children have higher incidences of substance abuse problems in adulthood (MacMillan, et al., 1999). The practice of corporal punishment in families as a child disciplinary tool has different facets. There are sociological components to the acceptance of this practice in any given society. On a more micro level, interpersonal family dynamics are operative in the use of physical punishments. The use of corporal punishment is influenced by the beliefs, cognitions and psychological states of the child’s parents. In the most recent comprehensive study of corporal punishment, the authors, Gershoff and Grogan-Kaylor (2016), limit their definition of spanking to open-handed hitting of the buttocks or extremities. In the u.s., it is still legal

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in each of the fifty states to use implements such as paddles, belts, hairbrushes, etc. to strike children in the name of discipline (Straus, 2010). Thus, this examination and definition of corporal punishment will be inclusive of such practices. From a sociological perspective, the family is a unique form of social organization. The uniqueness has positive elements as well as potentially dangerous ones. The institution of the family for offspring can be growth-supportive, or possibly undercut and deform a child’s future wholeness. The distinctive qualities of the family have been delineated in a construct by Straus and Hotaling (1979). The particular characteristics are, to list briefly: (1) time at risk; (2) range of activities and interests; (3) intensity of involvement; (4) impinging activities; (5) right to influence; (6) age and sex differences; (7) ascribed roles; (8) p ­ rivacy; (9) involuntary memberships; (10) stress; and (11) exclusive knowledge. Several of these aspects have direct relevance to the potentiality of physical punishments. Characteristic #1, time spent with the nuclear family members, is, of course, greater the younger one is. Characteristic #3, the intensity of a child’s day-to-day involvement with a parent, is an extremely intimate type of engagement. Since children do not have the intellectual capacity or physical size to fend for themselves, they are in a dependent situation in relations to others. Children would have a natural difficulty psychically withdrawing from, or physically fleeing the intensity of the family unit to figure out and process feelings alone. A child’s exhaustion, blatant emotional expressions, and misbehaviors are witnessed by the family members. Adults sometimes respond to the child with the socially-acceptable form of correction, hitting, which can escalate into harsher violence. The extensive time spent with the family and the intensity of a child’s involvement in the family are related to the powerful parental attribute (#5), “right to influence.” Parents have expansive legally-bestowed and culturallyaccorded latitude to control their children’s lives. Children have a non-chosen, involuntary presence in their families (characteristic #9). Consequently, children possess very few legal rights or even cognitive strength to resist parenting styles, unless the child is unusually empowered or laws are being broken in flagrant ways by the parents and some outside advocate steps in to protect the child’s rights. Children are reliant on the adults in their families for their survival but are rendered, due to age, size and status, to a position of relatively impotent power in the adult-child relationship. A parent who is educated about best practices in child-rearing, and who possesses empathy and adequate self-awareness can wield the massive power that comes with being a parent in a responsible

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way. But often the parent does not have adequate knowledge or wisdom, or has unmet needs from his/her own childhood which are operating in an unconscious way. Structural conditions and debilitating environments may bring stress and/ or social isolation to the family (characteristic #10). Adverse conditions can impact a parent’s patience and result in inappropriate ways of parental coping. Potential stresses include unemployment, inadequate income, housing insecurities, and/or family physical maladies that bring persistent challenges to parental psyches. Some parents may turn to psychoactive substances such as alcohol, or engage in other addictions to cope. An active addiction often engenders dramatically changeable moods and erratic behavior for the addict. The parent with an addiction would at times be seriously deficient in the necessary mental composure to think through the discipline he or she is about to use; thus the thoughtless use of hitting in response to a child’s behaviors is more likely. Research shows that the number of children in a family has a significant relationship to reliance on corporal punishment by parents. A us study (Straus, 2010) revealed that spanking was used in 55% of one-child families, 66% in families with two-child families, 69% in three-child families, and 79% in ­families with four or more children. This pattern lends support to the stress hypothesis. Parents with more children may feel less willing to take the time for disciplinary methods that require talking and explaining. Spanking may be viewed by these parents as a valid shortcut to make a point, instead of the parent putting extensive effort into verbal communications with each individual child or employing non-violent actions such as “time out.” Larger families likewise require more financial resources to physically maintain the family. That factor, as well, would put stress on parents and perhaps lead to more parental use of violent child-corrections such as corporal punishment. The use of corporal punishment by parents for children’s misbehaviors is impacted by social/cultural factors. Research shows that verbal pressure to spank—from other adults close to a parent—results in more spanking of the child by the parent (Straus, 2010). One’s larger demographic group also correlates with certain attitudes towards spanking. gss data from the u.s. show that race, political beliefs, location of residence, and religion all have a relationship to beliefs about the rightness of spanking (Enten, 2014). Southern states in the u.s. have the highest advocacy for spanking, while people residing in the Northeast support it the least. Republicans support spanking more than Democrats. People who describe themselves as “born-again Christians” advocate spanking in a greater percentage than those who do not define themselves that

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way. Blacks support corporal punishment to a greater extent than do whites. These larger sociological groupings have meaning for individual identity, and could exert some conscious or unconscious influence on a parent’s likelihood to use spanking. At the micro family level, the pioneering sociological work, The Authoritarian Personality, presents evidence that authoritarian cognitions are rooted in early childhood discipline. The study differentiates between a “threatening” childhood discipline and an “assimilable” discipline in the early lives of the study subjects. Threatening discipline appears to the child as “unintelligible, arbitrary and overwhelming.” Such discipline “forces the child into submission and surrender of his ego” (Adorno, et al., 1950, p. 372). This description would be applicable to corporal punishment. Assimilable discipline maintains the child’s ego, and is not primarily oriented toward the child’s complete submission. The goal of assimilable discipline is that the child understands principles of cooperative behavior rather than simply obeying rules. Assimilable ­discipline aids the child to balance and control impulses, and contributes to integrated personality development in the child. The Adorno study found that the “threatening” discipline type was the most common in the lives of the men in the study who scored high on measures of authoritarian attitudes. None of the high-scoring men had experienced the “assimilable” type of discipline as their primary experience of the parent’s authority. The child who experiences harsh discipline tends to become an adult who believes in harsh punishments. In fact, research shows that corporal punishment in childhood is associated with increased risk to abuse one’s own child or spouse in adulthood (Gershoff, 2010). Violence as a way of solving problems is a feature of larger patterns that operate in families and in sociological groups. What is the route, the mechanism, by which corporal punishment, usually administered by a child’s most significant person—his/her parent—imprints the psychology of the child in lasting ways? Theorist Greven maintains, “Once a child is struck, the memory remains encoded in the brain and body forever” (1990, p. 122). The somatic experience of corporal punishment by one’s adult caretaker and its ramifications are explored in this next part of the chapter.

The Somatic Experience of Corporal Punishment of a Child

Erik Erikson proposed eight stages of human psycho-social development (1963). His theory maintains that a biologically-predetermined progression presents a series of conflicts and opportunities for a person at distinct times of life. The navigation of these stages, and whether the accompanying conflicts

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can be at least somewhat-successfully resolved, have profound r­ epercussions for personality development and somatic wellbeing. The eight stages and their accompanying dramas relate to the individual’s relationship with their broader social environment, and impact on the person’s emotional, physical and cognitive development. The developmental period that has particular relevance to how the experience of corporal punishment in childhood may be related to later personal issues is the second stage: Autonomy vs. Shame and Doubt. This stage occurs at 18 months to three years old. It is significant that during this period, when the child is becoming ambulatory, his/her muscles are maturing rapidly, and the child is dealing with issues of controlling elimination, that adult application of physical pain on the buttocks often begins. Research (Straus and Stewart, 1999) indicates that when a child is at the age of two years, the frequency per week of being spanked by the parent is greatest, though the incidence rate (percentage who are spanked) is at the highest (94%) when the child is in the age range of three to four years. The cultural practice of spanking interferes with optimal psychological development at the same period in a child’s life when that the child needs guidance for inner control, not the usurpation of the child’s movements and feelings by the adult. Erikson notes that during the child’s toddler years, “the environment ­encourages him to stand on his own two feet. It must protect him against meaningless and arbitrary experiences of shame and early doubt” (1963, p. 252). Erikson describes that in an ideal second stage, the adult sets firm boundaries so that the child is safe, but the adult allows the child some forms of exploration and manipulation of the environment. The child, according to Erikson, is aware of his/her body to a greater degree than adults assume or give thought to. The need for physical autonomy and to protect oneself from humiliation exists even at this early stage of life. According to Erikson, the child is aware of having a “back and a front.” Erikson describes the psychic experience for the child, relating to invasions of the buttock region. The excerpt relates to toilet training, but it also applies to spanking. This reverse area of the body, with its aggressive and libidinal focus in the sphincters and in the buttocks, cannot be seen by the child and yet it can be dominated by the will of others. The behind is the small being’s Dark Continent, an area of the body which can be magically dominated and effectively invaded by those who would attack one’s power of autonomy … ERIKSON, 1963, p. 253

If the child’s sacral region, his physical backside, is struck by someone much larger, who is intending to inflict pain, how does a child process that? The buttocks

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are in close proximity to the genitalia; they are, in fact, part of the ­greater genital erogenous zone. All humans have sexuality from birth until death. Even small children have early sexuality, as first proposed by Freud and now acknowledged by human development researchers. The genitals are part of the corporeal nature of our existence. Children in this second, early stage of life, correspondingly have early modesty. They are becoming more aware of their bodies. Researcher and author Shere Hite, specifically addressing spanking, provides insight into the experience for the child—in terms of emotions or subconscious awareness: The assault on the child’s body this close to his/her genitals must have confusing meanings for the child. What can it mean? That the parent desires to be intimate with the child—but the child must be punished because this desire is the child’s fault? That this part of the child, the genitals, are so shameful that the parent wants to beat them? … Certainly, in the case of spanking, the child must feel he or she is being punished not only by being struck, but also by the humiliation of having to “bend over” and “show” this shameful part of her/himself. All of these ideas and more pass through the child’s mind in a flash of reality, before the blur of “society’s reality” covers this insight and “tells” him or her the “right interpretation” of what happened, i.e., “it was necessary, and the parent had the right to do it, you deserved it, and it will make you a better person—straighten you out.” hite, 1994, p. 45

Spanking is an intimate, passionate act, even when administered by a parent who has waited for a time period, “cooled off,” after the child’s infraction to administer it. Spanking involves a take-over of the child’s body by another human, and the application of a very aversive stimulus. The child’s body is controlled and subjected to intentional pain. Hite illuminates: Another part of the problem affects not just the sexual identity of the child, but the psyche: the child is helpless against the assault. Whether or not “justice” is involved is not the point; whether or not she or he has done anything really wrong or particularly terrible is irrelevant. It is the power dynamic that is being imprinted on the brain: the child experiences the fact of being terrified and overwhelmed by a physical assault coming from someone she or he also loves/gets love from (in some form, even if just food and a place to sleep) at other times. hite, 1994, p. 46

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There is a disruption of a child’s bodily autonomy which, in addition to the physical pain inflicted, inculcates fear. Erikson specifically singled out ­autonomy as a necessary outcome of early struggles with the environment. But spanking profoundly disallows the victim’s prerogative to have physical boundaries; the child’s body is being struck, and frequently the adult is gripping the child’s body to minimize the child’s movement. Some parents make the child bend over, or hold the child over the adult’s knee. The child cannot retake control over his/her body or resist the adult with force, as the child is usually smaller, and without real power in the relationship. Toddlers, elementary-aged children, and often even adolescents are not fully physically nor cognitively developed. They are dependent on adult caretakers for their wellbeing. Children have deep, built-in, psychic impediments to challenging the supremacy of the adult. Greven refers to “the astonishing ability of children to deny their own rage, aggression, hatred and revengefulness when they are being forced to suffer in the name of discipline by the parents or other adults whom they love and on whom they must depend” (1990, p. 172). Children do not have protection under the law from assault if done in the name of discipline and not leaving lasting damage—parental use of force in the name of discipline is legal in all fifty states of the us and in Canadian provinces. Thus, the child’s perception that he is powerless is legally true. So how does the shame of being spanked, the physical pain of the act, the powerlessness experienced by the child, and the typical repression of negative feelings (toward the parent) play out in terms of the child’s inner development?

The Impact of Corporal Punishment on the Inner Psyche of a Child

The corporally-punished child does not have a clear pathway to express his conscious or unconscious rage at the adult, as the adult has the legal right to carry out physical punishments, and the child is compelled by his dependence and other factors to consider the parent the legitimate authority in the family. Society, likewise, has ideologies that protect the adult from blame in their child-rearing practices. So, what emotional route is there for a small, powerless child for psychological endurance? There is often an inner psychic gyration which takes place, to subvert natural emotions of rage into personally-harmful emotional states such as depression or anxiety. Sandor Ferenczi, a psychoanalyst and writer, was an early protégé of Freud. Ferenczi provides a compelling theoretical framework to describe how people

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develop harmful personality dissociations from early assaults in childhood. (This has relevance to sexual abuse and/or corporal punishments): It is difficult to fathom the behavior and the feelings of children following such acts of violence. Their first impulse would be: rejection, hatred, disgust, forceful resistance. “No, no, I don’t want this, it is too strong for me, that hurts me. Leave me be.” This or something like it would be the immediate reaction, were it not paralyzed by tremendous fear. The children feel physically and morally helpless; their personality is still too insufficiently consolidated for them to be able to protest even if only in thought. The overwhelming power and authority of the adults renders them silent; often they are deprived of their senses. Yet that very fear, when it reaches its zenith, forces them automatically to surrender to the will of the aggressor, to anticipate each of his wishes and to submit to them; forgetting themselves entirely, to identify totally with the aggressor. As a result of identification with the aggressor, let us call it introjection, the aggressor disappears as external reality and becomes intrapsychic instead of extrapsychic … When the child recovers after such an attack, he feels extremely confused, in fact already split, innocent and guilty at the same time; indeed, his confidence in the testimony of his own senses has been destroyed. Ferenczi in Masson, 1984, pp. 289–290

In other words, the child becomes alienated from her own will and her awareness of her own feelings, and instead internalizes the parent’s view, power and needs. The child internalizes the parent’s perspective in order to repel the child’s feelings of crushing vulnerability which result from the invasion and trauma. The difference between “threatening” discipline and “assimilable” discipline has previously been explained. The spanked child is experiencing a threatening kind of discipline, which denies a primordial control over his/her physiology. Erikson describes the potential consequences, positive or negative, to the child’s early experience of adult authority: From a sense of self control without a loss of self-esteem comes a lasting sense of autonomy and pride; from a sense of muscular impotence, of loss of self control, and of parental over-control comes a lasting sense of doubt and shame. 1959, p. 68

Assimilable discipline is more conducive to the child’s successful transversal of the second stage and the development of a grounded self-assuredness.

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­Threatening discipline can lead to lasting deficits and an underlying traumatized personality. “Muscular impotence” is a relevant phrase in relation to a child’s experience of corporal punishment. The characterization especially relates to very young children who are hit by parents; these children are often at the rudimentary stages of fine motor skill development and early physical mobility. Adults generally have a hard time recalling what corporal punishment feels like to a small child who is hit by someone two to three times one’s size, and quadruple one’s strength. There is a tendency for the child to dissociate during the punishment event, especially with harsh spankings and those which require humiliating rituals that reinforce a child’s submission. The child could feel compelled to split his/ her consciousness, as described above by Ferenczi. A trance-like escape from the embodied state helps the relatively-powerless child to adapt to the assaults, but this dissociation is not optimal in the long term. By psychically fleeing from the unacceptable and frightening feelings of anger and desire for revenge on the parent, the child takes on the guilt for the event. The punished child will interject the natural rage at the injustice of the corporal punishment against his/her inner self, which can have repercussions for a lifetime. Mood imbalances, anxiety disorders, and obsessive compulsions are some of the potential consequential developments of this inner rage repression. Greven notes, “The fear remains, to haunt and distort their lives for years to come” (1990, p. 122). Corporal punishment, similarly to sexual abuse, is a very profound form of early disempowerment. It is often accompanied by extreme feelings that are beyond the ability of the individual to process or integrate without professional help.

Addressing Polarization

Despite this evidence of the negative effects of corporal punishment on children, many conservative Protestant parenting experts argue that corporal punishment, delivered in a controlled, non-emotional, and consistent manner, causes no lasting harm to children and, as such, is distinct from physical abuse (Greven, 1991). Regardless of the method, the Bible’s word on discipline clearly demands that parents be responsible and diligent in spanking, but strongly prohibits physical abuse of any kind.1 1 Focus on the Family, an influential conservative Protestant parenting organization, states on their website www.focusonthefamily.com/.

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They elaborate Many people have bought into a bad, stereotypical model of spanking, where out-of-control parents and religious fanatics beat children instead of disciplining them. Not surprisingly, they have rejected it entirely, assuming that since they don’t know how to do it right, it shouldn’t be done at all. “Extreme spanking” has dominated the discussion at the expense of more moderate practices of physical discipline. As a result, a huge segment of the population believes spanking is barbaric, basing that opinion on the abuses rather than the biblical model. ingram, 2006

By contrasting “correctly administered” corporal punishment with physical abuse, conservative Protestant parenting experts have created a framework in which evidence of the harmful effects of corporal punishment on children can be dismissed as the effects of corporal punishment delivered incorrectly. While support for corporal punishment among conservative Protestants has declined over the past three decades, conservative Protestant support has declined at a flatter rate than support for corporal punishment among other Americans (Hoffman, Ellison, and Bartkowski, 2016). This widening gap may be indicative of cultural polarization, suggesting that support of corporal punishment has become an identifying feature of the conservative Protestant subculture. This polarization theory poses a significant challenge to any intervention efforts aimed to curb the use of corporal punishment within conservative Protestant communities, as they may be seen as an unwelcome imposition of secular culture upon a pillar of conservative Protestant identity. Here, there is a need for qualitative research to examine the lived realities of conservative Protestant families, and determine the degree to which they adhere to these parenting ideologies in practice.

Does Religion Have a Moderating Influence on Corporal Punishment?

Although conservative Protestant communities support corporal punishment at a higher rate than the general population, scholars have found that ­conservative Protestant families engage in positive parenting practices that differentiate them from stereotypically authoritarian families. Could the prevalence of these positive parenting practices justify the claim that conservative

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­ rotestant parents administer corporal punishment in a manner that does not P cause lasting harm to children? Wilcox (1998), in his analysis of data from the 1987–88 National Survey of Families and Households (nsfh), found that, although conservative Protestant parents were more likely to use corporal punishment, they were also more likely to praise and hug their children than parents with less theologically conservative views. While conservative Protestant parenting handbooks often contain passages emphasizing the importance of securing children’s obedience through the use of corporal punishment, they also contain many passages urging parents to model God’s love to their children through positive emotional interactions that uphold their children’s God-given dignity. Wilcox argues that the emotionally-focused influence of evangelical and charismatic movements on conservative Protestantism has resulted in a theologically-framed focus on parental warmth, and that the impact of this focus on parental practices shifts the conservative Protestant parenting style from strictly authoritarian towards authoritative (an approach that tempers firmness with warmth). Yet caution needs to be maintained in the consideration of parental warmth as a virtue in the context of a family situation where when violent methods such as spanking are used to teach children. Landsford, et al. (2014), in a study of children (N= 1,196) and their mothers, in 8 countries, found that maternal warmth did not consistently moderate the relationship between corporal ­punishment and child anxiety. In fact, the research found overall increases in anxiety over time for children whose mothers were high in both warmth and corporal punishment. Landsford et al. write, “These findings illustrate the overall association between corporal punishment and child anxiety and aggression” (p. 671). Bartkowski and Xu (2000), in their analysis of data from the same nsfh, found that conservative Protestant fathers were significantly more likely than fathers from other religious groups to engage in parental supervision, and were more likely to display affection towards their children than Catholic and ­unaffiliated fathers. Likewise, they found a significant positive relationship ­between strict parenting and both parental supervision and affection. ­Similar to Wilcox (1998), they credited family-focused imperatives in ­conservative Protestant parenting handbooks, particularly passages that emphasize ­affection and engagement as essential elements of male leadership, even in hierarchical family models, for the differences observed among conservative Protestant fathers. Bartkowski and Wilcox (2000), further analyzing the nsfh data, found that conservative Protestant parents of preschoolers and school-age children were significantly less likely to report yelling at their children than non-conservative

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Protestants. They highlight the focus on self-control in conservative Protestant parenting handbooks, particularly clear proscriptions against yelling, and the emphasis that corporal punishment should not be used in anger, and suggest that these beliefs may account for their findings. However, they did not determine whether conservative Protestant parents who used corporal punishment resorted to yelling less than other parents who used corporal punishment at a comparable frequency. Thus, while there are some unique parenting characteristics within conservative Protestant communities, it cannot be concluded that corporal punishment is used in lieu of yelling in these communities. Bartkowski and Wilcox (2000) propose that lower rates of parental yelling in conservative Protestant communities and other positive parenting approaches that differentiate these families from a stereotypically authoritarian model could moderate negative outcomes associated with corporal punishment. Likewise, Ellison, Musick, and Holden (2011) suggest that community attitudes towards corporal punishment may impact children’s experiences of it, and that widespread community acceptance may mitigate some negative effects by framing it as an act of parental involvement rather than something stigmatizing and degrading. While further research is needed in this area, one study does show that religion can play a small moderating role in outcomes for children who have experienced corporal punishment. Ellison, Musick, and Holden (2011), in their analysis of data from the first two waves of nsfh surveys, found that the children of conservative Protestant mothers who used corporal punishment experienced fewer negative emotional and behavioural outcomes over a five-year period than other children who were disciplined with corporal punishment. However, it should be noted that the age range in which the spanking occurred played a significant role in child outcomes. The research found that spanking in early childhood was not associated with negative outcomes (over the five-year study period), regardless of maternal religious affiliation, and that maternal religious affiliation did not moderate emotional problems among children spanked beginning in middle childhood. However, among children who were spanked both in early and middle childhood, those with conservative Protestant mothers experienced fewer emotional difficulties than other children, and conservative Protestant children spanked only in early childhood exhibited fewer anti-social behaviours than children not spanked at either point. It is important to note though, that it was mostly mothers who were the primary respondents providing the assessments of their children’s behaviors in this study. There are reasons why a religious mother may be motivated to present her child has better behaving, or of good disposition. Also, the long-term impacts of corporal punishment may not be discernable in this type of survey, administered to one’s mother in one’s

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in childhood, even though the impacts to the receiver of corporal punishment may be profound. The mixed outcomes of the Ellison, Musick, and Holden (2011) study highlight that certain risks associated with corporal punishment are not overcome by the family focus and warmth of conservative Protestant parenting practices. Thus, while it is important to highlight and address community strengths, the negative outcomes associated with corporal punishment cannot be ignored. Furthermore, while this study suggests that religious affiliation can have a small moderating effect on short term child outcomes, survivors of religiouslyjustified child physical abuse have been found, in the long term, to experience more negative mental health outcomes than survivors of similarly severe but not religiously-justified abuse (Bottoms, Nielsen, Murray, & Filipas, 2003). Greven (1991) explains that conservative Protestant parenting manuals often advise parents to tell their children they are acting on behalf of God when they are administering corporal punishment. He argues that this reasoning can negatively impact children’s spirituality, and discourages children from expressing their hurt to their parents. Simonič, Mandelj, & Novsak (2013), in their article outlining clinical guidelines for approaching religious abuse in families, emphasize that any physical abuse committed for religious reasons also constitutes emotional abuse, as it harms the child’s spiritual life in addition to their body, and can have a lasting impact on their perception of God. Bottoms, Nielsen, Murray, & Filipas (2003), in their study of 126 survivors of child physical abuse, found that survivors of religion-related abuse reported significantly higher rates of depression, anxiety, hostility, and psychoticism, and reported slightly lower self-esteem. It should be noted, however, that only a quarter of the participants in this study categorized their own experiences as abuse. In fact, 19% of the survivors of religion-related abuse reported that they experienced positive spiritual effects from their abuse, and 28% of the survivors of religiously-related abuse considered their abuse justified. Thus, even if certain acts are not considered abusive or spiritually harmful by the victim or by their larger community, they can still have a negative, long-term impact on the victim’s psychological well-being. Dr. Ralph Welsh is a clinical psychologist practicing in Bridgeport, Connecticut, who has worked with 3,000 court-adjudicated teenagers, proffers an ­analogy, “Corporal punishment is like a poison; a little bit of it may not hurt you, but who needs it?” This insight is relevant to the research showing that ­religious practice in a family may have a moderating effect on some of the ­negative impacts of corporal punishment. Religious beliefs and actions in a family may act as a bit of poison antidote, but do not change the poison’s constituents or potential effects (Welsh, 2017).

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Conservative Protestant Mothers and Parental Regret

Ingram (2006), in an excerpt from Focus on the Family’s guidelines for biblical discipline, paints a picture of corporal punishment as a precursor to a warm, fulfilling experience of parent-child bonding. He states For my part, some of the most intimate, touching moments I ever had with my kids were right after exercising discipline [corporal punishment]. So after disciplining your child, let me encourage you to take him in your arms and pray, “Thank you, Lord, for my precious boy, for the wonderful way You’ve made him, for the amazing guy he is, and for all the gifts You’ve given him. Please help him remember what’s right and give him the strength to do it. Thank You that he has taken responsibility for what he did. We know You’ve taken a big eraser and wiped it off the board. You’ve forgiven him and made him absolutely clean, and I forgive him too.” Then give him a big hug and do something fun. He’ll know he’s still accepted and that there’s absolutely no barrier between the two of you. Ingram, 2006

Ingram’s idyllic portrayal of the parent-child relationship in the aftermath of corporal punishment not only ignores the harmful, long-term effects of corporal punishment on children, but may contradict the experiences of parents themselves. Ruff (2006), in her doctoral dissertation, conducted 51 in-depth interviews with conservative Protestant mothers in New Brunswick, Canada. Reflecting on her own childhood experience, one of the participants states: ...but you snuck around and did all the things you weren’t supposed to do or whatever. You know, I mean, at the same time, you felt extraordinarily guilty. And I remember thinking, um, whenever I did something wrong, like there was the Lamb’s Book of Life. And when I did something wrong, my name was erased. And when I prayed and my sins were forgiven, right up to that spot, my name got written back in again. And when you ask about childhood memories, I remember if I couldn’t find my mother, I would think that the ah, that the rapture had gone and I’d been left ­behind. ruff, 2006, pp. 72–73

This participant’s religiously-rooted fear of eternal separation from her mother strikes a stark contrast to Ingram’s image of parent-child intimacy. Indeed,

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Ruff’s research revealed strong narratives of frustration from the mothers with young children, and regret from mothers of grown children, particularly over the use of strict, physical punishment. While many conservative Protestant parenting experts argue that emotional control separates corporal punishment from physical abuse, some of Ruff’s participants felt that they lacked the resources and support to discipline without anger. One participant states I feel that I should have had a better support system, when my husband was away. Um, because I was a very frustrated person at that time. And I dealt with things more harshly than I should have. And that’s one of my regrets. And I’m sure all mothers do have, but ah, that would be the thing that I, if I were to be able to go back, I think that’s the one thing I would try to do differently. ruff, 2006, pp. 97–98

Many of these conservative Christian mothers admitted to struggling with anger issues, and shared regrets over the way their anger affected the way they disciplined their children. Ruff found that regret was greatest in Christian families characterized by authoritarianism, isolation, and lack of flexibility, and noted that none of her participants expressed regrets over being too lenient or friendly with their children. This research suggests that corporal punishment use may negatively impact parents as well as children. Further research is needed in this area to explore the complex effects of corporal punishment on the family unit.

Making Impactful Change within Communities

While conservative Protestant parenting approaches emphasize parental authority and child obedience, the above review of the research has shown that these parents also engage in warm and emotionally-expressive parenting, ­challenging stereotypical views of the community as rigidly authoritarian. Nonetheless, even in the conservative Protestant cultural context, corporal punishment has been shown to have harmful effects on children. Religious leaders play an influential role in guiding parental disciplinary choices. In a sample of 500 parents in New Orleans, Taylor, Moeller, Hamvas, and Rice (2012) found that parents who sought advice from religious leaders (as opposed to pediatricians) were four times more likely to report use of corporal punishment. While some religious leaders may use their position of authority to guide parents towards corporal punishment use, religious leaders who

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remain silent on the issue are missing an important opportunity to educate their communities about appropriate, non-violent child discipline. Conservative Protestant mothers have expressed a desire to hear a clear condemnation of child abuse from the pulpit. “I think it should be addressed. I think there’s people that are doing it [abusing their children] that don’t even realize that they’re doing it” (Ruff, 2006, p. 137). Laura Kuehn (2012), in an article for Cornerstones for Parents, a Christian parenting website, suggests that parents ask themselves these questions before considering spanking: • Are Proverbs commands from God or inspired wisdom for godly living? • Are Proverbs to be taken as figures of speech (similar to conventional wisdom like: “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink”)? • Is a shebet (the Hebrew word for “rod’) a large walking stick, a small switch or figurative for all types of discipline? • Is the “child” referred to in these passages a very young child or an adolescent male coming of age? • If the niv says the rod is probably figurative but the esv says it is literal, what are we to believe? • What can we learn from seemingly contradictory passages like Proverbs 26: 4 and 5? • Is Solomon really saying that a literal rod can “save a child’s soul from hell” when all the rest of the Bible clearly states that Jesus is the One who saves? While Kuehn does not take an explicit stance for or against corporal punishment, arguing instead that parents must come to their own decision, her questions offer conservative Protestant parents a critical starting point to examine the commonly-cited biblical and theological justifications for corporal punishment. Conservative Protestant parents use corporal punishment for more than just theologically-based reasons. Gershoff, Miller, and Holden (1999) found that conservative Protestant parents emphasized the instrumental effectiveness of corporal punishment significantly more than parents from other backgrounds—expecting fewer negative and more positive behavioural ­consequences from its use. In response to these findings, the researchers recommend that intervention efforts focus on changing conservative Protestant beliefs in the effectiveness of corporal punishment as a disciplinary tool. While much of the debate over corporal punishment is centered on harm, there may

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be benefits in highlighting its ineffectiveness in producing desired behavioural change. This approach may be a way to avoid challenging religiously-grounded parenting values, such as the importance of children’s obedience to parental authority, by emphasizing more effective, non-violent ways to discipline disobedient children.

Final Thoughts

A rather profound disconnect exists in advanced societies where spanking is legal, such as the United States and Canada. Most adults have accepted the idea that a man does not have the right to correct his female partner with physical blows. Yet, the majority, religious and non-religious, still believe that hitting a child is an acceptable and even a desirable way of behavior correction. An important task for family violence activists, religious or secular, is to publicly call attention to the fact that hitting of loved ones, whether adults or children, has long-term individual and social detriments. The introduction to this chapter contains a quote from a father of four children, a man who has experienced a thoughtful change of perspective on the theological righteousness of spanking. This individual has additional candid words describing his journey as a parent of faith. He is humble in his willingness to be present and witness his children’s deep changes: Since those early days (almost two years ago), we have done pretty well. I have reverted back a couple of times, but to my shame, I admit it was when I was tired or stressed. It was not a matter of doing what is best for the kids. It was me trying to get what I wanted right now because I didn’t feel I had the emotional storehouse to get through another fitthrowing episode. Instead of digging deep and being the adult I should be, I tried to manipulate through fear and pain. I hate even writing these words. … I am the father of four little boys (ages 3–9). I know about movement, fights, throwing things, breaking things, punches, etc. If people think that non-violent parenting only works on quiet little girls, let me beg to differ. My boys have changed so much since we have ceased spanking. They get along better with each other and other kids. They are more affectionate toward my wife and me. They throw fewer fits. But most amazing is this calmness they have. There is now an inner peace I see in their eyes and in their movements. It is hard to explain, but I see it in them and I see it

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a­ bsent in children whose parents spank. I don’t know if it is a freedom from fear of being hurt by their parents or if it is a reflection of the calmness my wife and I now have as well. Either way, it is the biggest plus I have seen since we changed. martin, 2014

The healthier familial dynamics revealed in the above passage validate Greven’s insight that, “Physical punishment is both a practice and a choice. … Once we begin to recognize the long-term personal and collective consequences of such ordinary punishments, many of us surely will begin to refuse to hit children in the name of discipline” (1992, p. 215). It is our conclusion, based on substantial empirical evidence as well as personality theorists’ insights, that when more parents make the choice to parent without using physical punishment, the ramifications will be extensive and profound, creating a more peaceful, less fragmented world. Persons of all faiths hopefully share in that goal.

Resources for Christian Parents and Others

http://www.parentinginjesusfootsteps.org/ http://loveisnotareward.com/2014/10/16/12-biblical-reasons-stop-spanking/ http://www.gentlechristianmothers.com/ http://www.naturalchild.org/ www.nospank.net/ www.parentingwithdignity.com https://www.facebook.com/nonviolentchristian.parenting https://parentingbeyondpunishment.com/ www.cornerstonesforparents.com References Adorno, T.W., E. Frankel-Brunswik, D.J. Levinson, & R.N. Sanford (1950). The authoritarian personality. [Second Edition 1966] New York: John Wiley and Sons. Bartkowski, J.P. & W.B. Wilcox (2000). Conservative Protestant child discipline: The case of parental yelling. Social Forces, 79(1), 265–290. Bartkowski, J.P. & X. Xu (2000). Distant patriarchs or expressive dads? The discourse and practice of fathering in conservative Protestant families. The Sociological ­Quarterly

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41(3), 465–485. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/4121387.19-01-2017. Accessed January 19, 2017. Bottoms, B.L., M. Nielsen, R. Murray, & H. Filipas (2003). Religion-related child physical abuse: Characteristics and psychological outcomes. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 8(1), 87–114. doi: 10.1300/J146v08n01_04. Childtrends Data Bank (2015). Attitudes toward spanking pdf. https://www.childtrends .org/?indicators=attitudes-toward-spanking. Accessed July 18, 2017. Collin-Vézina D., S. Hélie, & N. Trocmé (2010). Is child sexual abuse declining in Canada? An analysis of child welfare data. Child Abuse & Neglect, 34(11):807–812. Ellison, C.G. & M. Bradshaw (2009). Religious beliefs, sociopolitical ideology, and attitudes toward corporal punishment. Journal of Family Issues, 30(3), 320–340. doi: 10.1177/0192513X08326331. Ellison, C.G., M.A. Musick, & G.W. Holden (2011). Does conservative Protestantism moderate the association between corporal punishment and child outcomes? Journal of Marriage and Family, 73, 946–961. doi: 10.1111/j.1741-3737.2011.00854.x Enten, H. (2014). Americans’ opinions on spanking vary by party, race, region and r­ eligion. https://fivethirtyeight.com/datalab/americans-opinions-on-spanking-vary-by -party-race-region-and-religion/. Accessed July 18, 2017. Erikson, E.H. (1963). Childhood and society, 2nd Ed. New York: W.W. Norton. Erikson, E.H. (1959). Identity and the life cycle. Psychological Issues, 1(1):1–171. Ferenczi, S. (1932). Confusion of tongues between adults and the child. Reproduced in J.M. Masson (1984) The Assault on the truth: Freud’s suppression of the seduction theory. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Finkelhor, D. (2008). Childhood victimization: Violence, crime, and abuse in the lives of young people. New York: Oxford University Press. Finkelhor, D. & L.M. Jones (2012). Have sexual abuse and physical abuse declined since the 1990s?; University of New Hampshire Scholars’ Repository, Crimes Against Children Research Center: 2012 (11): 1–6. Gagné, M.H., M. Tourigny, J. Joly, & J. Pouliot-Lapointe (2007). Predictors of adult attitudes toward corporal punishment of children. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 22:10: 1285–1304. Gershoff, E.T. (2002). Corporal punishment and associated child behaviors and experiences: A meta-analytic and theoretical review. Psychological Bulletin, 128(4):539–579. Gershoff, E.T. (2010). More harm than good: A scientific study of research on the intended and unintended effects of corporal punishment on children. Law & C ­ ontemporary Problem,. 73(2):31–56. Gershoff, E.T., & A. Grogan-Kaylor (2016). Spanking and child outcomes: Old controversies and new meta-analyses. Journal of Family Psychology, 30(4): 453–469.

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Gershoff, E.T., P.C. Miller, & G.W. Holden (1999). Parenting influences from the pulpit: Religious affiliation as a determinant of parental corporal punishment. Journal of Family Psychology, 13, 307–320. Greven, P. (1991). Spare the child: The religious roots of punishment and the psychological impact of physical abuse. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Greven, P. (1992). Spare the child: The religious roots of punishment and the psychological impact of physical abuse. New York: Vintage Books, Random House. Hoffman, J.P., C.G. Ellison, & J.P. Bartkowski (2016). Conservative Protestantism and attitudes toward corporal punishment, 1986–2014. Social Science Research, (2016), 1–14. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.ssresearch.2016.09.010. Hite, S. (1994). The Hite Report on the family: Growing up under patriarchy. New York: Grove Press. Ingram, C (2006). The biblical approach to spanking. Focus on the Family. Retrieved from http://www.focusonthefamily.com/parenting/effective-biblical- ­d iscipline/ effective-child-discipline/biblical-approach-to-spanking. Accessed March 5, 2017. Kuehn, L (2012, June 6). Should I spank? Cornerstones for Parents. Retrieved from http://www.cornerstonesforparents.com/should-i-spank. Accessed March 7, 2017. Lansford, J.E., et al. (2014). Corporal punishment, maternal warmth, and child adjustment: A longitudinal study in eight countries. Journal of Clinical Child & Adolescent Psychology, 43(4), 670–685. MacMillan H.L., M.H. Boyle, M.Y. Wong, E.K. Duku, J.E. Fleming, & C.A. Walsh. (1999). Slapping and spanking in childhood and its association with lifetime prevalence of psychiatric disorders in a general population sample. Canadian Medical Association Journal, 161(7): 805–809. Martin, S. (2014). A Christian father of four shares his journey towards gentle parenting. http://samuelmartin.blogspot.ca/2014/04/a-father-of-four-shares-his-journey .html. Nason-Clark, N. (1998). The Evangelical family is sacred, but is it safe? In C.C. Kroeger & J. Beck (Eds.), Healing the hurting: Giving hope and help to abused women (pp. 109–125). Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Publishing House. Nason-Clark, N. (2000). Making the sacred safe: Woman abuse and communities of faith. Sociology of religion, 61(4), 349–368. Ruff, Lanette (2006). Religiosity, resources, and regrets: Religious and social variations in Conservative Protestant mothering (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). ­University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, NB. Selmini, R. (2016). Sexual abuse of children in comparative and international perspective., in H. Kury, S. Redo, & E. Shea (Eds.) Women and children as victims and offenders: Background, prevention, reintegration: Suggestions for succeeding ­generations, Volume 1 pp. 821–855. Springer International Publishing.

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Simonič, B., T.R. Mandelj, & R. Novsak (2013). Religion-related abuse in the family. Journal of Family Violence, 28, 339–349. doi: 10.1007/s10896-013-9508-y. Straus, M.A. (2010). Prevalence, societal causes, and trends in corporal punishment by parents in world perspective. Law and contemporary problems, 73(2):1–30 Straus, M.A. & G. Hotaling (1979), in R.J. Gelles (2017). Intimate Violence and Abuse in Families, pp. 131–134. New York: Oxford University Press. Straus, M.A., & J.A. Stewart (1999). Corporal punishment by American parents: National data on the prevalence, chronicity, severity, and duration, in relation to child and family characteristics. Clinical Child and Family Psychology Review, 2(2):55–70. Taylor, C.A., W. Moeller, L. Hamvas, & J.C. Rice (2012). Parents’ professional sources of advice regarding child discipline and their use of corporal punishment. Clinical Pediatrics 52(2), 147–155. doi: 10.1177/0009922812465944. Welsh, R.S. (2017). The beaten may become beaters. http://www.nospank.net/welsh2 .htm. July 18, 2017. Wilcox, W.B. (1998). Conservative Protestant childrearing: Authoritarian or authoritative? American Sociological Review, 63, 796–809. .

Chapter 4

Responding to Unique Lived Realities: The Role of Intersectional Complexities in Shelter Experiences Jolyne H. Roy

Introduction

Domestic violence—including physical, sexual, emotional, and financial abuse—is a prevalent social issue that touches the lives of many women from all backgrounds and all socio-economic statuses (Jiwani, 2001; Johnson & Dawson, 2010; Johnson, 2008; Secretary General, un, 2006). How women experience instances of domestic violence will also differ based on many different social, individual, and environmental factors (Crenshaw, 1991; Jiwani, 2001; Mann, 2000; Brownbridge, 2009; Dobash & Dobash, 1998; Walby, 2007). These factors will also influence women’s willingness and experiences in seeking help (Baskin, 2010; Mosher, 2009; Spitzer, 2009; Rupra, 2010, p. 132). The chapter focuses on the role of intersectional identities in seeking shelter from the violence experienced by women in heterosexual relationships. This chapter is a review of existing studies that address the fundamental questions required to move this discussion—and subsequent actions—forward. Due to the fact that barriers to shelter access and hesitation from certain socio-demographic, socio-economic, and socio-cultural groups remain in the formal shelter systems, it is arguable that injustices and misunderstandings still remain, despite Kimberlé Crenshaw’s (1991, 1994) groundbreaking work analyzing the influence of intersectional identities on accessing formal services for domestic violence. To improve our collective understanding, it remains crucial to investigate how the intersectionality of factors influences women’s unique experiences with shelter services (Crenshaw, 1991; Fong, 2010; Rupra, 2010; Walby, 2007).

Shelters for Domestic Violence in Canada

One of the most prevalent interventions found for women experiencing instances of domestic violence by victim service providers in Canada is

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e­ mergency shelter and other residential services (Allen, 2014; Munch, 2012; Sinha, 2013). Though distinctions are made between primary emergency shelters and secondary transitional housing in much of the literature on help-­ seeking from domestic violence, this chapter will not speak specifically to each of the stages (see Beattie & Hutchins, 2015 for definitions of these stages). This is justified by the fact that intersecting identities influence women at all stages of the process of leaving an abusive situation. For the purpose of this chapter, transition homes and emergency shelters will be combined under the umbrella term “shelter”. In 2014 there were 627 shelters identified as serving abused women in Canada. In total, these shelters amounted to 12,058 beds throughout Canada (Beattie & Hutchins, 2015). Though some emergency shelters are specifically designated to serve victims of domestic violence, many of the shelter services available also admit women for other reasons than abuse—including general housing issues and protection of children. However, the most common reasons cited for seeking shelter are various forms of abuse, including emotional (66%) and physical (50%) (Beattie & Hutchins, 2015). Another particular challenge for some shelters in the Canadian context is that they offer services to men as well as to women. This creates unique challenges in perceived safety and security and can be problematic for women from certain cultural and religious groups (Rupra, 2010; Fong, 2010; Song, 2005; Agnew, 2009; Alaggia & Maiter, 2006; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2005). By adopting an intersectional lens for analysis, it is possible to examine how differing social realities can influence women’s willingness to seek access to shelters.

Theoretical Background

Factors that influence domestic violence intervention efforts may include, but are certainly not limited to: economic inequalities, race and ethnic relations, gender, sexuality, age, addictions, overall health, family composition, workplace and employment, education levels, locality, and the surrounding natural environment (Baskin, 2010; Berman et al., 2009; Bograd, 2005; Crenshaw, 1991). In order to properly address how the interaction of these various individual and social factors influence experiences of seeking help for domestic violence issues it is important to find a sound theoretical approach that allows researchers to understand the influence of these factors (Crenshaw, 1991, 2011b; Walby, 2009; Websdale & Johnson, 2005). Though many sociological lenses are available to analyze these situations, the three listed below are most relevant to the diversity explored throughout the various chapters in this collection.

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Intersectionality The concept of intersectionality can be briefly defined as an analytical framework that allows for the consideration of all identities and identifying characteristics to be considered in relations of power and subordination within an individual or a group (Bograd, 2005; Crenshaw, 1991, 1994; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b). Particularly, researchers must consider intersectional identities to gain a proper understanding of women’s experiences in seeking refuge in shelters in response to instances of domestic violence (see Crenshaw, 1991, 1994). The most notable aspect of intersectional analysis as described here is the fact that these intersecting identities are never to be placed in a hierarchy of influence (Crenshaw, 1991, 1994; Bograd, 2005; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Earner, 2010). All intersecting identities entail some form of risk for subordination, discrimination, oppression, or favoritism (Crenshaw, 1991; Nixon & Humphreys, 2010; Websdale & Johnson, 2005; Bograd, 2005; Baskin, 2010). Furthermore, the premise of the theoretical framework of intersectionality is that these intersecting categorizations are not mutually exclusive: “Intersectional subordination need not be intentionally produced; in fact, it is frequently the consequence of the imposition of one burden that interacts with preexisting vulnerabilities to create yet another dimension of disempowerment” (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1249). In other words, exploring the influence of one identity or category does not give the researcher permission to dismiss the role and influence of another, as is often the case in traditional literature on the topic of help seeking for domestic violence (Crenshaw, 1991; 2011a). In addition, just as there are different intersecting identities to be accounted for in a complete analysis, there also needs to be consideration of the different levels of influence and risk for subordination associated with these intersectionalities. There are different forms of intersecting relations of power that may lead to diverse lived experiences for women seeking shelter from domestic violence. Crenshaw (1991) outlines several forms of intersectionality including: structural, political, and representational. These lead to systemic forms of oppression—intersectional disempowerment based on conflicting personal and political agendas, and disempowerment through cultural constructions (p. 1245). Complexity Theory First and foremost, it is important to note that complexity theory is not a unified body of theory in the traditional sense, rather, it is described by theorists as an emerging approach and framework to analysis (Thrift in Walby, 2007, p. 456). Briefly conceptualized, complexity theory is based on the concept of

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social systems. Complexity theory addresses the challenges of theorizing the intersection of “multiple complex social inequalities” (Walby, 2007, p. 450). Within this theory, these inequalities occur simultaneously. Complexity theorists attempt to take the analysis one step further than traditional intersectionality theory because they specify that treating intersectionalities as a compounding effect is insufficient; it must be recognized that these intersectionalities also change and constantly influence one another. This interplay must become the center of social theory. Ecological Framework Heise (1998) and other theorists (Mitchell & Hodson, 1986; Thurston & Vissandjée, 2005) recognize that an ecological framework builds on existing work (as does that of Crenshaw, 1991 and Walby, 2007). Briefly described in relation to the study of violence against women, an ecological approach is one that recognizes the interplay of micro (individual), meso (communal), and macro (societal) factors in the analysis (Heise, 1998, p. 263, Johnson, 2008; Kimmel, 2007). The ecological framework comes into play as a different component than personal intersectional identities. This model is more focused on how the dynamic interplay of these intersectional identities influences an individual’s experiences and perspectives at different levels—micro, meso, and macro (Heise, 1998; Johnson, 2008; Kimmel, 2007, Fong, 2010; Bilge, 2010). As Lori Heise (1998) specifies: “More important than the location of any single factor is the dynamic interplay between factors operating at multiple levels” (p. 266). This theoretical approach is particularly relevant to the prevention of intersectional marginalization and further victimization of women seeking shelter from situations of domestic violence because it allows intervention planning to be conscious of the dynamic interplay of intersectional identities at different levels of the social world. The ecological framework will be particularly relevant when planning actions to eliminate the ongoing exclusion and isolation based on overlooked intersectionalities in resource availability, delivery, and access. Synergizing Theory to Create Multidimensional Understanding A combination of these three theoretical approaches can provide a more wellrounded approach to the study of intersecting identities and at different levels of the lived experiences for women seeking shelter from experiences of domestic violence. Intersectionality and complexity theory are used to comment on the role of identities and categorizations throughout the experiences, and the ecological framework is used to explore how these intersectionalities

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i­ nfluence—and are influenced by—different levels in society, beginning with the individual (micro) and working its way through diverse components of the social world from communities (meso) to broader social structures (macro). A key question asked when linking the theories of intersectionality and complexity to the ecological approach while conducting this review of the literature is “How do the factors addressed by the two previous theories interplay in different levels of an individual’s environment?”

Areas of Intersectionality

Though the list of possible intersecting identities that influence women’s experiences of domestic violence—and subsequent searches for shelter—is seemingly endless, there are noticeable themes found in the current literature. The following section is an overview of some of the main themes. Age Though not often directly addressed in the literature, the age of women and their spouses plays a significant role in their accessing of shelter services (Brownbridge, 2009; Daoud et al., 2016; Du Mont et al., 2005). When accessing services for domestic violence, particularly when seeking shelter, age may be a key influencing factor. Both the perceived “young” and “older” women may feel isolated during their experience because they are not of the median age group, making it harder to build rapport with other residents (Romans et al., 2007; Straka & Montminy, 2006). This is particularly true for older women (Straka & Montminy, 2006). An interesting dynamic interplay in forms of abuse is introduced when dealing with older victims of domestic violence because their experiences fall somewhere in-between elder abuse and domestic violence— making it hard to categorize the abuse at times (Straka & Montminy, 2006). Domestic violence is often framed and discussed as a “younger woman’s problem”, with much of the focus and attention placed on women in the fifteen to mid-thirties age range (Bachman & Saltzman, 1995; Straka & Montminy, 2006; Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). Despite the fact that some empirical evidence supports the fact that younger women have a higher incidence of domestic violence and that violence decreases with age (Statistics Canada, 2000; Greenfield et al., 1998 in Staka & Montminy, 2006 p. 251) it does not mean that researchers should discredit or omit older women’s experiences. There is much to be learned in service design and delivery when helping older women. Not to mention the fact that age is only but one intersecting identity in experiences of

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women seeking refuge from an abusive situation. Understanding the problem of domestic violence against older women—and how we need to respond to these situations—is identified in the literature as an area that needs further research (Straka & Montminy, 2006). Relationship and Marital Status Though there is no denying that instances of domestic violence can occur in any and all family compositions, how these women perceive their “right” to service access—and the exclusionary policies of some shelters—may vary ­(Liang et al., 2005; Nixon and Humphreys, 2010; Paradis et al., 2008; Sev’er, 2002). Whether legally married, common law, newly coupled, separated, divorced, or occasionally dating—there are no relationship levels that are immune to instances of domestic violence (Nixon & Humphreys, 2010; Sinha, 2013; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2005; Johnson, 2008; Alaggia & Vine, 2006). In fact, many times the abuse—or the more threatening and violent abuse—occurs after the relationship has ended (Sev’er, 2002; Johnson, 2008). This can deter women in seeking emergency shelter (Johnson, 2008; Sev’er, 2002). Regardless of the “legal” or “official” standing of a relationship, women are susceptible to violence by their partner—meaning they should be allowed, and encouraged, to access appropriate services when necessary. Family Composition The presence of children in the family will also influence women’s propensity to seek shelter from their abusers (Sev’er, 2002; Zink, Elder & Jacobson, 2003; Aron & Olson, 1997). In some instances, depending on socio-cultural and ethnic background, women will resist seeking shelter in fear of breaking-up the family and going against traditional family values. In other cases, it is not possible for women to take the children from their abusive partner because he wishes to retain control of the children, forcing women to remain in the household in fear of dismantling their family. Another important point to be made, is the fear of stigmatization and isolation from extended families and communities. If a woman decides to remove herself and her children from the abusive home it is sometimes seen as unacceptable behavior, or a failing of the woman for not “keeping her family together” or “upholding her responsibilities” (Sev’er, 2002; Ahmad et al., 2009; Johnson, 2008). This is particularly significant to those who resist seeking shelter in fear of going against traditional family, community, and religious values that place great emphasis on family unity (Ahmad et al., 2009; DeKeseredy & Dragiewicz, 2014; Earner, 2010).

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Visible Minority Status Despite numerous efforts to create positive and welcoming spaces, there are still barriers that remain for members of a visible minority seeking refuge (Fong, 2010a, 2010b; Mosher, 2009; Hyman et al., 2006b). Sometimes, whether intentional or unintentional, this resistance is felt by shelter administration or workers—often due to lack of appropriate sensitivity training— and s­ ometimes by the other residents themselves (Rupra, 2010; Fong, 2010). This will also make it harder for these women to build rapport with other residents—creating a situation that is not conducive to the resident’s wellbeing (Salcido & Adelman, 2004). Racism and ethnic barriers create a perpetual cycle of the minoritisation of immigrants, leaving them in a position vulnerable to subordination and oppression in the shelter system (Menjivar & Salcido, 2002; Paradis et al., 2008; Romans et al., 2007; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2010; Crenshaw, 1991). Their particular needs are often ignored, unless it is beneficial to the dominant members of the shelter. As Crenshaw (1991) explains, “The experience of violence by minority women is ignored, except to the extent it gains white support for domestic violence programs in the white community” (p. 1260). When visible minority women choose to leave their abusive situation they often lose the support of extended family. When they fail to receive support from friends and relatives it becomes a situation that can be perceived as more negative than remaining with an abusive partner (Salcido & Adelman, 2004). Another challenging negotiation for women of visible minority when choosing to seek refuge from an abusive situation is their inherent feeling of collective responsibility to protect the image of their community from further stigmatization and ill-founded perceptions (Ahmad et al. 2009; Crenshaw, 1991). As members of a visible minority that faces racism, oppression, and subordination on a daily basis in the social world, there can be a sense of duty in maintaining the integrity of their community—particularly through their public image (what will others think of their community if the abuse is made public). “…[T]he real terror experienced daily by minority women is routinely concealed in a misguided (though perhaps understandable) attempt to forestall racial stereotyping” (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1256). However, not all outcomes in the shelter experience are negative for members of a visible minority. In fact, in some instances it is to their benefit to be members of a visible minority (DuMont et al., 2005). Identity and identitybased politics are a double-sided coin. On the one hand, a minority identity in the shelter system can lead to unwanted isolation of certain women. On the

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other hand, identity-based politics are a source of strength, community, and intellectual development (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1242). Having several members of the same ethnic group, region, or religion in a shelter may help increase rapport and mutual support through their similarities and collective experiences (Anderson-Draper, 2006). Immigrant Status Though the literature is split on whether the length of stay in the receiving country influences likelihood of instances of domestic violence, there is something to be said about the role of immigrant status in instances of domestic violence (Earner, 2010; Gondolf, 1998; Thurston et al., 2006; Thurston et al., 2013). Women of immigrant status have unique experiences when seeking help from situations of domestic violence (Hyman & Dussault, 2000; Hyman et al., 2006a, 2006b; Liang et al., 2005). The literature, for both a Canadian and global context, lists stigmatization, misinformation, fear of persecution and deportation, and fear of isolation as common reasons for hesitating to seek help (­Menjivar & Salcido, 2002; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2010; Salcido & Adelman, 2004; Thurston et al., 2013). Furthermore, limited access to, and lack of knowledge of, social service agencies, police services, and professional resources can make it difficult for immigrant women to obtain desired assistance and services (Menjivar & Salcido, 2002; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2010; Paradis et al., 2008; Romans et al., 2007; Saulnier et al., 2007). For immigrant women, their socio-cultural norms of patriarchy, collective identity, and dedication to the family can be very different from Canadian cultural norms (Ahmad et al., 2009; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Thurston et al., 2013; Paradis et al., 2008). Within the literature, an overarching theme of delayed help-seeking is a result of the cultural and normative expectations of their home culture, and of their minority community in Canada (Ahmad et al., 2009; Hyman et al. 2006a). Often listed are marital obligations, rigid heteronormative gender roles, expected silence, fear of communal retribution and exclusion, social stigma, and limited knowledge of available resources compounded by myths about partner abuse (Ahmad et al., 2009; Menjivar & Salcido, 2002; Romans et al., 2007). Immigrant women fear isolation once having entered the shelter system because of racial, ethnic, cultural, immigration legalities, and linguistic differences (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Salcido & Adelman, 2004). Another unique dynamic for women of immigrant status, particularly newcomers with significant language or literacy barriers, is misinformation and lack of understanding about the services and protection laws in Canadian society (Paradis et al., 2008; Shirwadkar, 2004). It is not unheard of that the abusive

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partner will control the situation by feeding misinformation and fabricated “policy-based” threats to keep the woman in the relationship for as long as possible (Salcido & Adelman, 2004; Alaggia, Regehr & Rishchynski, 2009). Language and Literacy Barriers Though often overlooked, or assumed in another intersecting factor, language and literacy is a major factor influencing access to services for women experiencing domestic violence. Not being able to read or not having the information available in a language that is understood often means that individuals are not aware of services available or how to access them (Alaggia, Regehr & Rishchynski, 2009; Anderson-Drapper, 2006; Canadian Council on Housing Development, no date). Information sharing must be done in a variety of ways to remove barriers and narrow parameters of access for all. Furthermore, in some instances, women are excluded from services because of their inability to communicate with other residents and shelter staff (Baskin, 2010; Mosher, 2009; Spitzer, 2009; Rupra, 2010). It is also reported that sometimes shelters have a formal exclusionary policy on these grounds— leading to further subordination of abused women based on a minority identity (Rupra, 2010). Though an inability to communicate fluently with others can prove challenging, it should not be grounds for service denial—particularly since language barriers are often associated with other intersecting factors (Baskin, 2010; Mosher, 2009; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2010). Cultural Customs, Rituals and Traditions It is important that service providers and members of the community be cognizant of women’s cultural preferences while exploring issues of safety in a supportive, empowering, and nonjudgmental atmosphere that respects particular cultural and social expectations for different groups (Barrett et al., 2011). This is key to eradicating cultural barriers to service provision and counseling practices (Barrett et al., 2011). In times of crisis we often seek what is comfortable and familiar. Because of shelters’ location in Canadian society, they are often geared towards majority preferences. The smaller details—such as familiar food, customs, and celebrations—can be the area where women find the most comfort and solace during the difficult transition period (Horsburgh, 1995; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005). However, wanting to respect, maintain, and cherish traditional cultural customs may be seen as a source of political resistance to integration rather than being valued as a way of harnessing small comforts and familiarity in times of crisis (Horsburgh, 1995; Gondolf, 1998; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005b). As such, it is helpful when shelter service and counseling providers are able to provide

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e­ lements of familiarity for the women, however minor the detail. This has been proven to be helpful to the therapeutic process (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005b). Due to Canada’s rich cultural diversity, it is important that materials describing services and shelters for domestic violence be made available in various languages and designed for various audiences. It is crucial that everyone experiencing instances of domestic violence understand that they are not in any way obligated or expected to stay in abusive relationships through culturally relevant and appropriate fashions (Barrett et al., 2011; Salcido & A ­ delman, 2004; Saulnier et al., 2007; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b). Cultural competency and culturally competent services are an integral part of providing adequate services for Canada’s increasingly multicultural society (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Anderson-Draper, 2006). A great example of cultural sensitivity and acceptance would be in the case where shelters choose to celebrate the Chinese New Year with residents. Simply stated, in order to limit additional subordination, isolation, and favoritism, it is important for all shelters to embrace ­cultural competency by demonstrating an understanding and empathy towards cultural differences (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Gondolf, 1998; ­Horsburg, 1995). A more traditional culture-blind approach as described by Gondolf (1998) is counterproductive to serving all Canadians and assuring ­acceptance and equality of all women seeking refuge in a shelter (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005b; Gondolf, 1998). Religion and Spirituality Religious diversity is not a foreign concept to Canadians. However, how an individual’s religious beliefs and practices influence their willingness and experience when seeking shelter from domestic violence can vary substantially from one Canadian resident to the next (Itzhaky & Porat, 2005; Dekeseredy & ­Dragiewicz, 2014; Moffitt et al., 2013; Romans et al., 2007; Jategaonkat & Ponic, 2011; Shirwadkar, 2004). There are two main avenues as to how religiosity and spirituality may play a significant role in a woman’s decision to seek shelter from situations of domestic violence (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b; Horburg, 1995). The first is the individual’s personal religion and its views on domestic violence. The second is the shelter’s religious affiliation and the perceived role that it may play in a woman’s experience when accessing services from the shelter. For some, religious beliefs are a strong guiding principle in their lives and everyday actions. In certain cases, it can also be argued that religion becomes a primordial loyalty to individuals (Shirwadkar, 2004). When religion is based in a very traditional patriarchal structure, or when familialism is at the root of religious beliefs, it can make it exceptionally difficult for a woman to decide to leave an abusive situation; particularly if the only accessible shelter offers

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very secular services (Horsburg, 1995; see Nason-Clark, 2000 for a discussion on making the secular safe). For instance, fear of not being able to practice their lived religion within the shelter may place a significant barrier to a woman’s decision to leave (Horsburg, 1995). It is crucial for women to feel as though secular shelters are a safe space for them to continue their religious and spiritual practice, particularly during challenging times and in search of healing. The key to this success is truly making these secular spaces safe for women with strong religious beliefs (Nason-Clark, 2000). Religiosity and religious affiliation of shelters can also play a role in an individual’s decision to seek help and refuge (Itzhaky & Porat, 2005). Just as secular shelters may be intimidating for religious women, religiously affiliated shelters may be intimidating for secular women, or for women of a different faith ­(Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b; Sokoloff & Pratt, 2010). Authors such as Horsburg (1995) and Itzhaky and Porat (2005) describe how even though these shelters may be ready, willing, and able to accommodate women of all religious or spiritual beliefs, the women seeking shelter may feel inherently intimidated or discouraged from seeking aid. This can be particularly challenging in more rural or low population density areas where very few shelters operate (Websdale & Johnson, 1997; Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). Furthermore, whether intentional or unintentional, in certain cases shelters have proven not to be accommodating to religious beliefs and practices of some residents (Ahmad et al., 2009; Horsburg, 1995; Gondolf, 1998). Moreover, because of their diverse religious beliefs and practices some residents of shelters have reported experiencing scrutiny, discrimination, and isolation from other residents in the shelter (Gondolf, 1998; Horsburg, 1995). Rural or Urban Locality Research shows that where you live does, in fact, matter (Dumont et al., 2005; Paradis et al., 2008; Sev’er, 2002; Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). Population density and locality within an area will influence the actual number of shelters and shelter-beds available to the local population. Individuals in rural community settings may also experience the typical “close-knit” community syndrome—where they know that their situation will be discussed among community members—and this may influence their decision to seek help from their abusive situation (Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). The fear of being isolated from community members or having their affairs known to the public may be enough to deter women from seeking services even in the most desperate of situations (Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). Though these fears can be present in both rural and urban settings, it is most often discussed as a concern by women found in rural settings (Sokoloff & ­Dupont, 2005a).

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Socio-economic Status Many factors influence the “socio-economic” situation for individuals seeking refuge from abuse in the shelter system. These factors include, but are certainly not limited to: financial dependency on the abuser, housing instability, employment and employability, financial resources available for independence, fear of inability to provide for children, pre-existing poverty of the family, and perceived costs of seeking independence. Women of different socio-economic statuses face different barriers in leaving an abusive situation. In fact, it is widely cited in the literature that women of different socio-economic statuses (often referred to as “classes”) will also have differing experiences using the shelter system (Liang et al., 2005; Little, 2015; Mann, 2000, 2002; Melbin, Sullivan & Cain, 2003; Josephson, 2005). Access to greater resources often allows women different exit strategies than specific shelter usage; i.e. they may choose to stay at a hotel for extended periods (Daoud et al., 2016; Liang et al., 2005). They may also have greater access to transportation to leave the abusive situation or, in some cases, they live in more urban areas, making them less susceptible to social isolation than those who live in rural areas (Paradis et al., 2008). Despite socio-economic status being a factor in help seeking efforts, there are potential solutions to removing these barriers for all women. As Barrett, St. Pierre and Villaincourt (2011) discuss in their findings, it is of utmost importance that financial resources be removed as a barrier for all women, because the influence of accessibility of financial and economic resources is a significant intersectional factor in a woman’s decision to leave the abusive situation; particularly for those who are socially or economically oppressed (p. 63).

Discussion

Though the list of intersecting categorizations found here is exhaustive, it is far from complete. The goal of this chapter is not to create a “grocery list” of factors that influence individual and collective experiences of women seeking shelter from domestic violence. Rather, the intention is to highlight how accounting for the many different factors influencing how an individual’s social reality is constructed may help researchers, service providers, and other stakeholders better understand the complex reality of women seeking refuge from abuse. The most important theoretical takeaway is that researchers and service providers must take into account all of the applicable factors discussed above when exploring lived experiences of and providing services to women seeking shelter from domestic violence. Furthermore, emphasis must be placed on the main principle of complexity theory: that these intersecting ­identities and

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e­ xperiences do not occur in silos; they are interdependent and inter-­influential. Therefore, to look at any of these factors and dimensions separately would not be indicative of the individual’s actual experience. As Crenshaw (1991) points out, the danger of these intersectional realities is mainly if they are ignored. Therefore, it is crucial for professionals working in the shelter system to avoid voyeuristic inclusion (Crenshaw, 1991). Rather, focus must be placed on providing legitimate inclusion opportunities for those from minorities and other marginalized groups. As Crenshaw cautions: “Tokenistic, objectifying, voyeuristic inclusion is at least as disempowering as complete exclusion” (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1261). All of the factors listed above are identified in the literature as having an interwoven influence on women’s lived experience with seeking shelter from domestic violence—regardless of current social situation. Complexity theory is added to the theoretical analysis because simply listing intersections and not indicating their co-influence leaves another blind-spot in the discussion. Just as multiple intersectionalities change one another when they interact, there is also something to be said about the compounding effect of intersectional identities and categorizations (Crenshaw, 1991; Walby, 2007). For instance, immigrant women who do not speak the language of public service, have very low literacy, and are relatively isolated may be further coerced by an abusive partner when he uses existing immigration structures and policies to coerce and control them (Fong, 2010a, 2010b; Mosher, 2009; Hyman et al., 2006b). Similarly, an older woman living in a rural locality with no means for transportation and very limited resources will live a very different experience when seeking shelter from domestic violence than a wealthier, younger, and more mobile counterpart. The the older, isolated woman living in a rural milieu, similarly to the unfamiliar newcomer, will have to overcome more barriers to access shelter from domestic violence. Much of the research focuses on individual accounts of how intersectional aspects have influenced their experiences in seeking shelter for domestic violence. There are commonalities found in different groups—despite their differing identities, the way they describe their experiences and outcomes do have similarities (Heise, 1998). These commonalities tend to occur at the mesolevel. For instance, many groups speak of the role that technology may play as a tool and access to community resources. Women with language and literacy barriers, or living in rural/remote locations often describe the inaccessibility of technological resources as a barrier (Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006; Fong, 2010). Minority groups, particularly those with visible differences, often state the fear and risk of increased isolation within the shelter system as a barrier

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­(Rupra, 2010). These issues are not of concern for members of the majority group. This fact was made particularly apparent in discussions about building rapport and establishing—or an inability to develop—relationships with other residents in shelters (Gondolf, 1998; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a— discussion on isolation within shelters). Furthermore, the literature supports the notion that women’s unique categorizations and lived experiences will have greater risk and influence if the shelter services are not welcoming to a diverse clientele (Rupra, 2010; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005b). As Crenshaw (1991) highlighted Women working in the field of domestic violence have sometimes reproduced the subordination and marginalization of women of color by adopting policies, priorities, or strategies of empowerment that either elide or wholly disregard the particular intersectional needs of women of color CRENSHAW, 1991, p. 1262

Efforts in guaranteeing the same quality of service on a local, regional, provincial, and national level have been suggested as a possible solution to these current challenges (Crenshaw, 1991; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a). These diverse and complex experiences are best understood using the integrated approaches included in this chapter. For instance, intersectional theorists argue that acknowledging the multiple intersecting forms of oppression in individual women’s lives is crucial to a full understanding of their experiences (Bilge, 2010; Yllö, 2005). Similarly, ecological theorists (Heise, 1998; Mitchell & Hodson, 1986) highlight that what is most important is a multi-dimensional understanding that acknowledges the various levels of influencing factors, including the micro (individual), meso (community), and macro (societal) levels of intersectionalities. In other words, individual identities, group identities, and systems of domination contribute to women’s experiences in seeking shelter from domestic violence. Consequences of Exclusionary Policies There is a cautionary note found in Crenshaw’s (1991) work that needs to be reiterated in order to ensure that it remains front and center in people’s minds. That is, that we can also accidentally reproduce intersectional subordination in our very efforts to address the problem (p. 1262). As unintentional as it may be, these involuntary intersectional subordinations through intervention strategies are contributors to the ongoing issues of intersectional subordination, and why Crenshaw’s findings in her early 1990s pioneering work are still so prevalent in today’s shelter experiences. Because, despite best efforts, there

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are still instances where specific exclusionary policies create further marginalization and victimization of particular groups of women seeking shelter from domestic violence (Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Gondolf, 1998; Crenshaw, 1991). These unintentional reproductions of systems of domination occur at the macro-level, and are most often unconsciously instilled in exclusionary policies and procedures as a result of our oppressive patriarchal system. Still today, some shelters exclude women based on a particular identifying trait or categorization; whether it be religion, language, immigrant status (Walby, 2007; Crenshaw, 1991; Itzhaky & Porat, 2005). The problem is not that these shelters are devoid of empowerment, what is disconcerting is that these policies have disempowering consequences for only the women who are not deemed the “ideal client”, as the administration has imagined her (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1263). Due to these macro-level oppressions, and in what is perhaps the most detrimental consequence of such exclusionary policies and practices in the shelter system, women will choose to remain in situations of violence and abuse because they have a greater fear of what awaits them if they try to remove themselves from their current situation (Crenshaw, 1991; Liang et al., 2005; Little, 2015). A driving sentiment behind the need to address exclusionary policies that may still exist today is the fact that they inherently keep people in positions of danger (Crenshaw, 1991, 2011b). Without providing appropriate measures to serve all women who are seeking shelter from situations of domestic violence, certain women are refused access or excluded based on a specific categorization or intersection of identities, and these women are not removed from the situation of danger—the very premise at the root of the creation of the shelter system (Crenshaw, 1991; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b). Societal Efforts are Needed for Change It is apparent through the literature that shelter workers and administrators cannot be solely to blame for the current situation (Itzhaky & Porat, 2005; Jategaonkat & Ponic, 2011; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a, 2005b; Crenshaw, 1991). Using the ecological approach, researchers present the argument that the roots of intersectional oppressions, marginalization, and discrimination are found in the social construction of gender, class, and ethnicity within society, strongly influenced by colonialism and patriarchy. These macro-level intersections have negatively influenced women’s experiences when seeking shelter from domestic violence. For instance, a history of colonialism and other systemic oppression has influenced the experiences of women on a global scale. As discussed in Chapter 6 by Barb Fisher-Townsend, these unique lived experiences influence both First Nations men’s and women’s experiences of violence

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(See also Moffit et al., 2013 for discussion on experiences in the Canadian territorial north). Similarly, patriarchy, the root of gender inequality, continues to have a negative impact on women’s socio-economic position within society (Little, 2015; Mann, 2000; Melbin, Sullivan & Cain, 2003; Moffit et al., 2013; Nixon & Humphreys, 2010). Women are known to report higher levels of poverty and have a harder time accessing higher, and better paying, employment positions if they do leave an abusive relationship. The current work environment is also not receptive to the possibility of missed work for women as a result of instances of domestic violence—particularly if they must take a leave of absence when seeking shelter. Beyond the impact of macro-level influences on women and their individual experiences, macro-level systems of domination also influence shelters and shelter workers themselves (Itzhaky & Porat, 2005; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a; Teaster, Roberto & Dugar, 2006). Two societal level factors impact shelter services: funding for shelters and wages for shelter workers. When shelters operate as non-profit organizations they are often struggling to receive adequate government funding for operations, while also relying on community donations. Without appropriate operating funds, services and training suffer. Similarly, wages for shelter workers are often very low and not representative of the work required to ensure the safety and recovery of shelter users. As such, it is important to recognize that some fundamental changes need to occur outside of the shelter system, starting with colonial and patriarchal systemic mechanisms of oppression. These broader systemic changes are particularly important since, although many shelters are already making exceptional efforts in multicultural competency to accommodate all women, barriers and oppression continues to exist (Crenshaw, 1991; Burnett et al., 2015; Itzhaky & Porat, 2005). To truly improve women’s experiences when seeking shelter from domestic violence, we must overthrow the current systems of domination that perpetuate intersecting forms of oppressions. Shelters and front-line workers must also help women navigate and circumvent the “multilayered and routinized” forms of domination and oppression that exist in the outside world, in an attempt to re-establish themselves in society without having to return to the abusive relationship (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1245). This means that they must be properly trained and equipped to offer the necessary services, beginning with equitable wages for shelter workers. These added responsibilities are also often done in an environment of strained and insufficient resources to meet demand. This task would be much less daunting for shelter workers and individuals if the society in which women are to re-establish themselves after enduring an abusive ­situation

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would be more accepting, less dominating, and less oppressing than what is still seen today. One of the situational strategies that is mentioned in the literature is cultural sensitivity training that addresses unique lived realities and the role of intersectionality in individual experiences, and is perhaps the greatest tool to help frontline workers (Gondolf, 1998; Sokoloff & Dupont, 2005a).

Conclusion

The existing body of scholarly work presented in this chapter has made it clear that complex intersectionalities play a role in women’s experiences of seeking shelter from domestic violence. The chapter has highlighted intersectionality and ecological model based solutions; particularly for necessary societal changes. Applying an ecological-model-based approach to victimization from the role of complex intersectionalities in domestic violence may be the best standpoint from which to start to develop viable solutions and strategic resources for frontline workers. This is because an ecological model would allow for interventions, policy changes, and attitudinal changes to occur at all levels of social life—from society-at-large down to the individual (Heise, 1998). Specific interventions could be engineered for each level of the social environment in order to address all aspects of compounding stress due to complex intersectionalities, while providing tools and resources for shelter workers to be a positive first point of contact. References Agnew, V. (2009). Racialized migrant women in Canada: essays on health, violence and equity. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. Ahmad, F., N. Driver, M.J. McNally & D.E. Stewart (2009). Why doesn’t she seek help for partner abuse? An exploratory study with South Asian immigrant women. Social Science & Medicine, 69(2009), 613–622. Alaggia, R. & S. Maiter (2006). Domestic violence and child abuse: Issues for immigrant and refugee families. In R. Alaggia, & C. Vine (Eds.), Cruel but not unusual (pp. 99–126). Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Alaggia, R. & C. Vine (Eds.), (2006). Cruel but not unusual. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Alaggia, R.; C. Regehr, & G. Rishchynski (2009). Intimate partner violence and immigration laws in Canada: How far have we come? International Journal of Law and Psychiatry, 32(2009), 335–341.

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Allen, Mary. 2014. “Victim services in Canada, 2011/2012”. Juristat. Statistics Canada catalogue no. 85-002-X. Anderson-Draper, M.H. (2006). Understanding cultural competence through the evaluation of breaking the silence: a project to generate critical knowledge about family violence within immigrant communities. The Canadian Journal of Program Evaluation, 21(2), 59–79. Aron, L.Y., & K.K. Olson (1997). Effort by child welfare agencies to address domestic violence: The experiences of five communities. Urban Institute. Bachman, R. & L.E. Saltzman (1995). Violence Against Women: Estimates from the Redesigned Survey. U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Bureau of Justice Statistics. 8 pages. Barrett B.J., M. St. Pierre & N. Villaincourt (2011). Police response to intimate partner violence in Canada: do victim characteristics matter? Women Crim Justice, 2011; 21: 38–62. Baskin, C. (2010). Beyond cultural stereotypes: Chinese-Canadian helping professionals’ perspectives on woman abuse within the Chinese-Canadian community in Toronto. In J. Fong (Ed.), Out of the shadows: Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant and Aboriginal communities (pp. 73–98). Toronto, ON: Women’s Press. Beattie, S. & H. Hutchins (2015). Shelters for abused women in Canada, 2014. Justristat, Catalogue: 85-002-X-2015. Berman, H., G.A. Mulchany, C. Forchuk, K.A. Edmunds, A. Haldenby & R. Lopez (2009). Uprooted and displaced: A critical narrative study of homeless, aboriginal, and newcomer girls in Canada. Issues in Mental Health Nursing, 30(7), 418–430. Bilge, S. (2010). Recent feminist outlooks on intersectionality. Diogenes, 225, 58–72. Bograd, M. (2005). Strengthening domestic violence theories: intersections of race, class, sexual orientation, and gender. In N.J. Sokoloff, & C. Pratt (Eds.), Domestic violence at the margins: Readings on race, class, gender and culture (pp. 25–38). Pictaway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Brownridge, D. (2009). Violence against women: Vulnerable populations. Contemporary sociological perspectives. New York: Routledge. Burnett, C.; M. Ford-Gilboe; H. Berman; C. Ward-Griffin & N. Wathen (2015). A critical discourse analysis of provincial policies impacting shelter service delivery to women exposed to violence, Policy, Politics & Nursing Practice, 16(1–2), 5–16. Canadian Council on Social Development; Vancouver and Lower Mainland Multicultural Family Support Services’ Immigrant Women Services of Ottawa. (no date). ­Domestic violence in sponsor relationships among immigrant and refugee women and its links to homelessness: Implications for service delivery. Final Report submitted to Housing and Homelessness Branch - Human Resources and Social Development Canada. Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–1299.

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Crenshaw, K. (1994). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. In M. Fineman & M. Mykitiuk (Eds.), The public nature of private violence: The discovery of domestic abuse (pp. 93–118). New York: Routledge. Crenshaw, K. (2011a). Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: A black ­feminist critique of anti-discrimination doctrine, feminist theory, and anti-racist politics. In H. Lutz, M.T. Herrera Vivar & L. Supik (Eds.), Framing intersectionality: debates on a multi-faceted concept in gender studies (pp. 25–42). Farnham, Surrey, UK, Ashgate. Crenshaw, K. (2011b). Postscript. In H. Lutz, M.T. Herrera Vivar & L. Supik (Eds.), ­Framing intersectionality: debates on a multi-faceted concept in gender studies (pp. 221–234). Farnham, Surrey, UK, Ashgate. Daoud, N., F.I. Matheson, C. Pedersen, S. Hamilton-Wright, A. Minh, J. Zhang & P. O’Campo (2016). Pathways and trajectories linking housing instability and poor health among low-income women experiencing intimate partner violence (IPV): Toward a conceptual framework. Women & Health, 56(2), 208–225. DeKeseredy, W.S. & M. Dragiewicz (2014). Woman abuse in Canada: Sociological reflections on the past, suggestions for the future. Violence Against Women, 20(2), 228–244. Dobash, R.E., & R.P. Dobash (1998). Violent men and violent contexts. In R.E. Dobash, & R.P. Dobash (Eds.), Rethinking Violence Against women (pp. 141–168). London: Sage Publications. Du Mont, J., T. Forte, M.M. Cohen, I. Hyman & S. Romans (2005). Changing help-­ seeking rates for intimate partner violence in Canada. Women & Health, 41(1), 1–19. Earner, I. (2010). Double risk: Immigrant mothers, domestic violence and public child welfare services in New York City. Evaluation and Program Planning, 23(2010), 288–293. Fong, J. (2010a). Out of the shadows. Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant and Aboriginal communities. Toronto: Women’s Press. Fong, J. (2010b). Explaining the abuse of women: An examination of conventional and dominant theoretical perspectives. In J. Fong (Ed.), Out of the shadows. Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant and Aboriginal communities (pp. 8–28). Toronto: ­Women’s Press. Gondolf, E. (1998). Appreciating diversity among battered women. In E.W. Gondolf (Ed.). Assessing woman battering in mental health services (pp. 113–131). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Greenfield, L.A., M.R. Rand, D. Craven, P.A. Klaus, C.A. Perkins & C. Ringel (1998). ­Violence by intimates: Analysis of data on crimes by current and former spouses, boyfriends, and girlfriends. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of ­Justice Statistics.

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Heise, L.L. (1998). Violence against women: an integrated, ecological framework. Violence Against Women, 4(3), 262–290. Horsburg, B. (1995). Lifting the veil of secrecy: Domestic violence in the Jewish community. Harvard Women’s Law Journal, 18, 171–217. Hyman, I. & G. Dussault (2000). Negative consequences of acculturation on health behaviour, social support and stress among pregnant Southeast Asian immigrant women in Montreal: An exploratory study. Canadian Journal of Public Health, 91(5), 357–361. Hyman, I., T. Forte, J. Du Mont, S. Romans & M. Cohen (2006a). Help-seeking rates for intimate partner violence (IPV) among Canadian immigrant women. Health Care for Women International, 27(8), 682–694. Hyman, I., T. Forte, J. Du Mont, S. Romans & M. Cohen (2006b). The association between length of stay in Canada and intimate partner violence among immigrant women. American Journal of Public Health, 96(4), 654–659. Hyman, I., R. Mason, S. Guruge, G. Mekonnen, N. Stuckless, T. Tang & H. Teffera (2010). Changes in gender relations as a risk factor for marital conflict and intimate partner violence: a study of Ethiopian immigrant couples in Canada. In J. Fong (Ed.), Out of the shadows. Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant and Aboriginal c­ ommunities (pp. 172–185). Toronto: Women’s Press. Itzhaky, H. & A. Ben Porat (2005). Battered women in shelters: Internal resources, wellbeing, and integration. Affilia, 2(1), 39–51. Jategaonkar, N. & P. Ponic (2011). Unsafe and unacceptable housing: Health and policy implications for women leaving violent relationships. University of Toronto, 1–27. Jiwani, Y. (2001). Mapping Violence: A Work in Progress. Vancouver, BC: Feminist Research, Education, Development and Action (FREDA) Centre. Johnson, M. (2005). A typology of domestic violence. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Johnson, H., & M. Dawson (2010). Violence against women in Canada. Research and policy perspectives. New York: Oxford University Press. Josephson, J. (2005). The intersectionality of domestic violence and welfare in the lives of poor women. In N.J. Sokoloff & C. Pratt (Eds.), Domestic violence at the margins: Readings on race, class, gender and culture (pp. 83–101). Pictaway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Kimmel, M. (2007). Contextualizing men’s violence: The personal meets the political. In L. O’Toole J.R. Schiffman, & M.K. Edwards. (Eds.), Gender violence. Interdisciplinary perspectives (pp. 99–110). New York: New York University Press. Liang, B., L. Goodman, P. Tummala-Narra, & S. Weintraub (2005). A theoretical framework for understanding help-seeking processes among survivors of intimate partner violence, American Journal of Community Psychology, 36(1/2), 71–84.

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Little, M. (2015). Between the abuser and the street: An intersectional analysis of housing challenges for abused women. Canadian Review of Social Policy/Revue Canadienne de Politique Sociale, 72/73, 35–64. Mann, R. (2000). Who owns domestic abuse? The local politics of a social problem. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. Mann, R.M. (2002). Emotionality and social activism: A case study of a community development effort to establish a shelter for women in Ontario. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 31(3), 251–284. Melbin, A.; C.M. Sullivan & D. Cain (2003). Transitional supportive housing programs: Battered women’s perspectives and recommendations. Affilia, 18(4), 445–460. Menjívar, C. & O. Salcido (2002). Immigrant women and domestic violence: Common experiences in different countries. Gender & Society, 16(6), 898–920. Mitchell, R.E. & C.A. Hodson (1986). Coping and social support among battered women: An ecological perspective. In S. Hobfoll (Ed.), Stress, social support and women (pp. 153–169). New York: Hemisphere. Moffitt, P., H. Fikowski, M. Mauricio & A. MacKenzie (2013). Intimate partner violence in the Canadian territorial north: Perspectives from a literature review and a media watch. International Journal of Circumpolar Health, 2013(72). Mosher, J.E. (2009). The complicity of the state in the intimate abuse of immigrant women. In V. Agnew (Ed.), Racialized migrant women in Canada: essays on health, violence and equity (pp. 41–69). Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. Munch, Christopher. (2012). Victim services in Canada, 2009/2010. Juristat. Statistics Canada Catalogue no. 85-002-X. Nason-Clark, N. (2000). Making the sacred safe: Woman abuse and communities of faith. Sociology of Religion, 61(4) Special Issue (Winter, 2000), 349–368. Nixon, J. & C. Humphreys (2010). Marshalling the evidence: Using intersectionality in the domestic violence frame, Social Politics, 17(2), 137–158. Paradis, E.; S. Novac; M. Sarty; J.D. Hulchanski (2008). Better off in a shelter? A year of homelessness & housing among status immigrant, non-status migrant, and Canadian-­born families. Cities Centre, University of Toronto. Romans, S., T. Forte, M.M. Cohen, J. Du Mont & I. Hyman (2007). Who is most at risk for intimate partner violence? A Canadian population-based study. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 22(12), 1495–1514. Rupra, A. (2010). Experiences of front-line shelter workers in providing services to immigrant women impacted by family violence. In J. Fong (Ed.), Out of the shadows. Woman abuse in ethnic, immigrant and Aboriginal communities (pp. 132–146). ­Toronto, ON: Women’s Press. Salcido, O. & M. Adelman (2004). He has me tied with the blessed and damned papers: Undocumented-immigrant battered women in Phoenix, Arizona. Human Organization, 63(2), 162–173.

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Part 2 Religious Perpetrators of Family Violence

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Chapter 5

Portraying the Violence of Men through the Beauty of Stained Glass Nancy Nason-Clark

Introduction

The violence of men as intimate partners and the beauty of stained glass as a rich medium of communication in Christendom appear to be very odd ­concepts to appear in the same sentence, let alone placed together as the title for a presentation, or a chapter. As unusual at it may seem, I wish to argue that the beauty of stained glass has the potential to offer a powerful portrayal of the ugly reality of men’s abusive acts in families connected to the Christian ­tradition. The interweaving of faith and abuse leaves many people uneasy, both those inside and outside of congregational life. Visual methods may be one way to reduce the communication barriers and actually build a bridge to listeners. Here I develop further previous work of using stained glass as a pedagogical tool for: (1) raising the awareness of religious listeners concerning abuse; (2) empowering survivors as they tell their own story; and (3) challenging us all to see religion as part of the solution to domestic violence and not just as part of the problem. Within this chapter, I discuss our research on men’s accounts of their intimate partner violence, as well as our story of working together with creative talent to construct a powerful message that is data based, sensitive to the diversity within contemporary Christianity, and (hopefully) powerful in its impact. Visual sociology offers a strategy whereby the researcher’s toolkit for dissemination is transformed and the goal of social change is augmented.

Understanding the Stories of Men Who Batter

I believe one of the most powerful ways to begin to understand the stories of men who batter is to ask those men who act abusively to describe their own life experiences. Their personal narratives include stories of childhood, of adolescence, of drug and alcohol use, early experiences of intimacy and then ­parenthood, of being arrested and then charged for domestic violence,  and subsequently experiencing the longer-term consequences of the law—which © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_007

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may include imprisonment, mandated intervention programs, drug and ­alcohol treatment, and ongoing monitoring by the criminal justice system. It is a long story for most men involving pain, fear, abandonment, brutality, and neglect directed towards intimate partners they claim (or once claimed) to love. Sometimes the men are repeating acts they suffered personally as children. Sometimes the men are repeating acts they witnessed between adults in their own childhood homes. Sometimes the men are responding to the disappointments and injustices they believe they have been dealt by life. Always they are attempting to control—by using their fists, mean, intimidating gazes, or hurtful words. The stories of the men and the snapshots of their journeys derive from our many years of fieldwork where we conducted multiple personal interviews ­every six months over a four year period with fifty-five men who were ­connected to one batterer intervention program located in the northwest quarter of the United States. In our book, Men Who Batter (Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend, 2015), we focus on our interviews with these men, most of whom had been incarcerated at some point for domestic violence. We ­examine the men’s own accounts of their lives within a broader framework of the coordinated community response to intimate partner violence and the ­batterer intervention group that they attended. We try to understand how men themselves make sense of the choices they have made and the consequences of those choices to both themselves and to others. And we are especially i­nterested in their journey towards justice and accountability for the harm they have caused. Themes of vulnerability and resiliency co-mingle in the lives of men who batter their intimate partners. While control is a central feature of what the men are hoping that their violence will achieve, it is in large measure a lack of control in their lives that provides an important backdrop to their unfolding stories. While fear, pain, and despair often characterize the lives of the women who are currently in relationships with men who batter, or have been in the recent past, the men’s lives too reveal that fear, pain, and despair lurk close to the surface. Recognizing this does not diminish the harm that has been caused to women, children, or even the men themselves by their violent and controlling behavior. But it does provide both a context within which to situate their stories and a nuanced perspective to think about safety for all—including those who work with men who batter. Very few men set out to be batterers. Most men who abuse their intimate partners do not even think of themselves as someone who is violent. A violent man, by their own way of thinking, is someone who acts more abusively than they do, has committed more heinous acts over a longer period of time, or who does not wish to be reunited with their children. Curiously, many men

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who batter think of themselves as victims. But, before we go any further, let’s consider some of the data on men who harm those they claim to love. I would like to offer three stories, the first of which is a composite and the second two are specific men we interviewed. The Stories of Jake, Scott and Otto1 Neat rows of cornbraids frame Jake’s youthful face and a body trimmed by regular gym attendance hides behind his brand name clothing. At 25, Jake is trying to get his life together: this involves working in a skilled trade, hoping to eventually put in enough hours in casual employment to become a member of the local union, and to see his little girl at least once a week. Each time we see Jake he updates us on the struggles of his employment and his struggles to gain regular access to his four year old. Jake’s mother is a long time drug user and her story interweaves throughout her son’s life, sometimes offering him hope that they both can change, and sometimes complicating his journey towards changed thinking and changed behavior. As an adolescent, sports gave Jake some status and his ability to “chat up” young women offered him no shortage of intimate partners. Bounced from his mother to his grandmother, with two short periods of living with his father, stability was something that Jake never experienced growing up. Poverty, substance abuse, and domestic violence characterized his past and, despite his more recent efforts to go to community college and excel there, starting afresh has never really been possible. With debts to pay, and other ongoing financial obligations, Jake is more than able to make ends meet when times are good and he is working regularly on job sites, but when the economy took a downward turn, so too did his temporary economic good fortune. When this happened, Jake returned to his old ways—including drinking, drugging, and using his fists when things didn’t go the way he wanted them too. By contrast, Scott grew up in a rather privileged white family: his father was a professional and his mother an artist. Referring to himself as the wayward son, Scott began living dangerously when he was 14. Before long, he was involved in petty crime to support his drinking habits. An early, unwanted, pregnancy brought him into a longer-term relationship with the mother of his child and Scott determined at the age of 19 it was time for him to grow up. He found employment in grounds care at a large facility, a job that offered him good wages and opportunities for advancement. By the time we interviewed him, Scott had been employed for over 20 years and was now a manager, with 1 These three stories are based on our fieldwork; the first is a composite and the other two are each based on one particular man that we interviewed.

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a small business of his own on the side. After he was arrested for domestic violence, Scott fulfilled the law’s demands of him, maintained regular contact with his probation officer, and completed the batterer intervention program we were studying. He was divorced from the woman he had abused, was working hard to remain sober and clean, and appeared to have charted a different course than he had in the past in his new three year relationship with another partner. But, by our last interview, the fifth one with Scott, there were worrying signs in how he talked about his new wife and his optimism about the future had begun to fade. Otto and his four brothers grew up in a loud, violent, Latino-Catholic home, where his dad owned a small renovation company and his mom stayed at home and looked after the boys. He met Toni at a mall where he and his buddies were loitering in the food court. The relationship blossomed quickly and before long Toni was pregnant. She chose to get married to Otto and have the baby, in part a reflection of her deep commitment to her faith tradition. A 911 call in their second year together removed Otto from their apartment and initiated a child protection investigation. After a short time of struggling financially to maintain two separate residences, his parents were willing for Otto to return to their home while he fulfilled the “no contact” order imposed by the courts. With a previous record, including incarceration, Otto was determined that he would engage with all of the intervention programs offered to him as a way to attempt a new start. He was very enthusiastic about the batterer intervention group and he engaged fully with the drug and alcohol treatment program. On our second visit, Otto was explaining how he was putting into practice various skills he had learned in the groups he was mandated to attend. By our fourth time of contact, we learn that Toni has taken their little girl and moved back to the state where her parents lived and that Otto has returned to his earlier pattern of excessive drinking and fighting. All of these stories are replete with failed dreams and failed promises. Some offer evidence of the intergenerational transmission of violence that travels from the childhood home and, in the stories of many of the men we interviewed, including Scott’s, similar patterns of abuse and control were being observed in the behavior of their own sons. Each story told here also reveals the close relationship between alcohol and drug abuse and violence with an intimate partner. While alcohol and drugs do not cause the violence, they ­certainly co-mingle with it, and consideration of substance abuse must be part of any coordinated intervention initiative for batterers (for a review of this literature, see Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend, 2015). For some men that we studied, religious practices in their past, or present, offered hope that life could be lived differently in the future than it had in the past. Harnessing the language

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of hope, including notions of a new start, was an important ingredient brought to the lives of men who abuse by their faith traditions and those familiar with them. While hope without ongoing accountability should be considered reckless, hope in the midst of accountability structures can be considered empowering (Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend, 2015). The importance of a coordinated response to violence cannot be overstated, including the involvement of a faith community, or a faith leader, when religious beliefs or practices are part of the life story of a man who batters. For this level of coordination to occur, and to achieve success, as McMullin emphasizes in Chapter 1, there must be willingness not only on the part of religious leaders and religious communities, but also amongst secular service providers, many of whom do not really like working with highly religious clients (Whipple, 1987) and feel stymied in doing so. For so many reasons, cultural competency in working with the men, a subject Fisher-Townsend also raises in Chapter 6 in this volume, needs to include religious and ethno-religious understandings.

The Web of Religion and Abuse

For many years, I have been trying to understand the complicated interplay between religion and intimate partner violence. As a field researcher, employing a variety of research methodologies, I have sought, together with the help of students that I supervise, and the colleagues with whom I collaborate, to paint a picture of what happens when violence strikes families of deep religious commitment. In the early years, I focused on women who were victims, and then survivors, of intimate partner violence. I sought to understand the ways that their communities of faith assisted them in the aftermath of abuse and also the ways that these religious communities hindered women in e­ mpowerment, healing, and wholeness. My interest included how religious ­leaders themselves responded to those who came to them for assistance—whether as a victim or a perpetrator. But I was also interested in the stories of others who walked alongside victims, as friends, family members, co-­religionists, or as staff in community-based agencies. As others within and beyond religious communities and congregations became aware of some of my work, I got invitations to share the results, to offer training for religious leaders or seminarians, and to help those who worked in secular, community-based contexts, whether as criminal justice workers or in advocacy or transition houses. For people connected to ­congregations—as leaders or followers—the issue was to try to untangle the concept of abuse, ­especially when it occurs in households of faith. For people connected to ­secular

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agencies, the issue often involved how to take into ­account some of the unique needs and challenges of very religious clients. In both of these ­contexts— religious and secular—the goal included ­interweaving practical and emotional support and services together with responses that harnessed a client’s religious beliefs and practices. Concrete help from a service agency devoid of religious support means for many women the fear that their faith and their values are being discarded, or that they will be shunned or sidelined by their co-­religionists. On the other hand, religious support without the k­ nowledge of the dynamics of abuse means there is a potential of ­compromising women’s physical and psychological health and well-being. Like others who provide training, or discuss the results of their research with a wider audience than academics alone, I produced charts and tables—talking about the data in ways that social scientists often do. But over the years, I have increasingly used stories and visual imagery in communicating my research results to diverse audiences. My goals have always included evidence-based social change—in terms of the provision of best practices for survivors, and for perpetrators—and the ultimate reduction and elimination of the violence that gives rise to the need for it.

Deciding to Employ the Visual Imagery of Stained Glass

Almost ten years ago, I collaborated with a stained glass studio and its creative staff to produce The Stained Glass Story of Abuse . This was one part of a much larger initiative to develop, test and implement a web-based series of resources and training for religious leaders, known as the rave (Religion and Violence eLearning) Project. Initially, the idea to use stained glass was a way to bring the data collected from women survivors to life and to help religious leaders of the Christian tradition become aware of the pain and suffering of abuse, but also women’s journeys towards healing and wholeness in its aftermath. The Stained Glass Story of Abuse involves an interplay between the research initiative, the story of abuse as told to us by survivors and those that walk alongside them, and the creative artists. At several points, we evaluated the effectiveness of the strategy with survivor groups and in training venues. Its impact far exceeded our expectations. One story will suffice: we were holding a training session in a church basement in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was one of the first opportunities for me to share with a wider group of survivors, activists, and community-based agency staff photographs on our developing website of the stained glass that had been created to tell women’s stories of

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abuse. As I began to read the text that I had written to accompany each of the photographs of the panes of glass, I noticed one middle aged woman in tears. She was sitting in the front row, very close to me. With the website on the large screen, and directing everyone’s attention to the next photograph, I quietly walked over to her and whispered in her ear as to whether she would like to go to one of the empty rooms that we had available for use. I mentioned that I could ask one of the shelter workers to accompany her there if she so wished. “My dear,” she said, as a big smile crossed her face and she stood to hug me with the strongest African American hug I have ever experienced, “this is the most beautiful and sensitive way to tell my story that I have ever seen.” I let out the breath I had been holding so tightly within me. She continued loud enough for everyone around her to hear: “I just wish I had been given something like this all those years ago.” As an academic involved at times as a public sociologist, I have incorporated the Stained Glass Story into the training and awareness-raising I am invited to offer in many parts of the world. First, and possibly foremost, The Stained Glass Story of Abuse evokes positive emotion in the learning environment in which I am discussing religion and violence against women. It enables me to clarify and communicate several essential features of working with those who have suffered intimate partner violence and it does so without ­unnecessary heaviness, or guilt, laden on those who are listening. It affirms women’s s­ tories in a language of empowerment and strength. It makes clear in the strongest language possible that one cannot ignore the impact or the longterm consequences in victims’ lives of the violence that has occurred in their intimate ­relationships. While the past does not dictate the future, violence in an ­intimate relationship has a profound impact and cannot be ignored. The Stained Glass Story of Abuse is a visual reminder of the centrality of faith, or religious connections, in the lives of many women who have been abused. In this way, the medium is part of the message.2 The interplay between religion and abuse, portrayed through the connection between stained glass and religion, offers the background, or context, for my focus in this remaining portions of this chapter.

Portraying the Stories of Men Who Batter through the Medium of Stained Glass

About 10 years ago, together with Barbara Fisher-Townsend, I began to ­explore the stories of those who had acted abusively. My interest was prompted, in part, 2 With thanks to Cathy Holtmann for her insight and clarity on this point.

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because so many women of faith who were survivors of abuse had m ­ entioned in an interview or focus group setting how much they wished their abusive partner could find and receive help to stop his violent actions and the controlling behavior that gave rise to it. I wanted to see whether there was any evidence to believe that, should help be sought by abusive religious men, that their ­thinking and actions would change. In other words: was there any ­documented evidence upon which religious women could cling to such a hope?

The Medium of Stained Glass

Stained glass has been a visual storyteller in the Christian tradition for a very long time. The windows in churches and cathedrals were instructional, but they offered more than a visual reminder of the story of Jesus and the faithful. Around the world, stained glass windows in places of worship instilled awe, brought comfort, and offered hope. As the various colours of glass come alive when the sunlight shines through the panes, so too can ordinary men and women be filled with God’s strength when the spirit shines through them. We were intentional in our choice of stained glass as a medium to communicate the power of the spirit and the beauty of art to transform the ugly story of abuse and the devastation wrought by the perpetrator.

The Story of Creating the Stained Glass Imagery of Violence

Collaboration has been a central ingredient in the work that our research team has undertaken over the years. Not only do we believe in the value of a ­coordinated community response to intimate partner violence, and other forms of family abuse, but we believe in the value of working ­collaboratively with various community and religious partners in raising awareness and ­advocating for change. Helping religious leaders and congregations to know how to offer compassion in the context of best practices to those who are impacted by intimate partner violence is an enormous undertaking. And we are ­certainly of the belief that if shifts in our cultural and religious thinking are to occur, they are most likely to happen as a result of a consistent, coordinated, ­collaborative effort. Much of our work in raising awareness and developing empathy and compassion for victims within the context of religious communities has been ­visual. Our rave Project, the development of which was supported by a grant from the Lilly Foundation, was an initiative to bring training and resources to

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religious leaders around the world, and it was developed with the assistance of partners in four regions of Canada and the us (Charlotte, nc; Columbia, mo; Eugene, or; Calgary, ab, Canada) representing criminal justice, advocacy, therapeutic, and religious perspectives. Based on the success of our other, earlier attempts, it seemed very important to have a visual portrayal of the abusive religious man. At the time this was being developed, I was serving as the interim director of the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research at the University of New Brunswick. As part of my position there, I was hosting several community events that brought members of the academic, advocacy, government, and social service sectors to our Centre for either training or consultative purposes. In brainstorming with one of my research assistants, Gloria Nickerson, an accomplished photographer as well as a Sociology PhD s­ tudent, we came up with the idea of inviting students at the local Craft College to prepare a drawing that they felt encapsulated the emotion and the data of our just published book, Men Who Batter (Nason-Clark and Fisher-Townsend, 2015)—something that could serve as the first phase of a conceptual design for a stained glass window. We would prepare a display at the Centre of all the drawings submitted and we would offer a cash award to the drawing chosen for the next stage of communicating our results. There were several very interesting and engaging drawings that were forwarded for consideration. The one that I felt best communicated the results of our data was a drawing of the complicated roots of a tree. Both hope and despair were evident in the drawing: there was life and there was death. For me, it offered the most accurate, realistic picture of what we had heard from abusive men, and earlier from victimized women, in our many, many years of fieldwork. The drawing of the tree’s roots also offered us ample opportunity to interweave the secular and the spiritual within the story of religious families impacted by abuse. For sure, life and death are not only concepts central to abuse. They are key religious concepts and abiding themes in the development of the Christian tradition. After the competition was completed, I then contacted Cranberry Stained Glass, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the creative staff there designed the window shown in Fig. 5.1. With their creative team, I discussed our data on men who batter at length, in a similar fashion to what we had done years ago with the stories of women survivors. I asked that the image of the complicated roots of a tree, the drawing that had been chosen, feature into their artistic creation of stained glass representing the abusive man. The result, shown here, is a powerful, beautiful, but very disturbing, piece of creative work. I believe it communicates dramatically, but with great accuracy

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Figure 5.1 Stained glass portrait of men who batter. Cranberry stained glass. Photo credit: Denise Rowe

from the research data we have collected, the complicated story of men who act abusively in their intimate relationships. It pays attention to the e­ nvironment, the dangers involved, and the longer-term consequences. It offers a visual as nuanced as the story we were attempting to tell of the men themselves.

Describing the Stained Glass Portrait

There are nine points I want to draw attention to in this stained glass window. 1.

2.

At first glance, you see that the colours chosen are mostly earth-tones— greens and browns for the tree, and golden-tinged rust that represents the sun’s shadows marking the end of the day and the beginning of the night. The tree, and the portrait of it, remind us that there is a pattern to abuse, a pattern that continues day and night, on and on. There is no relief with the setting sun. The branches of the tree are blown in one direction only. We become aware of the wind and the environment. The tree is vulnerable to the

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e­lements around it. The branches are impacted the most. Here the ­message is u ­ ndeniable—it is one of vulnerability, especially so for the tender branches. The environment can be considered to have both ­secular and religious dimensions. Abusive power and control are features of patriarchy. The wind is a source of life and death to the tree: it can ­certainly be harnessed for good, but often the wind generates ill effects. Yet, the tree stands tall. It appears to be very solid. The wind does not appear to have caused irreparable damage. Here we are reminded of the resiliency of the trunk of the tree, even in the face of a formidable environment. This reminds us that abusive systems abound: in religious and in secular contexts. But there is an arresting red streak that winds its way around the base of the trunk and moves upward as the tree reaches towards the sky. While there is life in the tree, the red streak reminds us of death and destruction. At first glance, one might miss the red streak. It is subtle and the strength of the tree draws our attention at the beginning, when one is first considering the tree. But once you become aware of the streak, you cannot ignore it: it is hard to look upon the tree without being drawn to the mysterious, destructive streak that encircles it. Alas, there is a small patch of green at the base of the trunk of the tree. Destruction and life co-mingle. Here we are struck with the fact that fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. The intergenerational transmission of violence captures the reality that violence is learned behavior that travels frequently from parent to child. The red streak winds down almost to the base of the tree and we notice that some of the roots are black. We see for the first time that the red streak brings death and destruction. The red does not appear beneath the ground because its impact has already been felt. These roots, the ones that have been killed by the red streak, are no longer alive. They exist side by side in the ground with roots still living. Day and night, the tree stands tall but underneath the surface its roots are slowly dying. Strength and resiliency are present. But so too is vulnerability—for the tree and its branches. On only one leaf of one branch of the tree is there any evidence at all of the presence of the red streak. Here, there is an ever so subtle hue of red. At first I did not even see it. This was the artist’s intention. The branch and the leaf are young—there is so much evidence of vitality and potential. But, on very close inspection, there is a hint of red. The destructive forces cannot be ignored. In time, they impact even the healthiest of branches.

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With the roots and the branches, there is also a sustained connectedness. It is not easy to disentangle one’s self from a tree such as this. Of course, this is part of the message from many women who are abused—they love the tree and want to see it thrive! One more observation: at the base of the tree there is a seed that is broken open and it is sprouting life. We are left with the question: will it, or will it not, bear the red streak as it grows?

The portrait of stained glass includes both life and death: beauty and destruction. The image of the tree and its red streak is meant to make us feel uneasy, to feel uncomfortable. We are haunted by the power and the potential of the red streak. What can be done to curtail it? What exactly did the artist want us to feel? To answer this last question, I had a further conversation with the artist in the preparation of this chapter. I learned that she was inspired in her creative work to focus on two things: the “deep rootedness” of the tree as well as its “stubbornness.” She wanted us to see that the tree is imbedded in a context, one from which it is not easily dislodged. We could argue that such contexts have both secular and religious undertones. Each of these messages link well to the very hard work of social change in the lives of men who batter.

The Development of Visual Sociology

In his edited collection, Seeing Religion: Toward a Visual Sociology of R ­ eligion, Roman Williams (2015) offers us a plethora of examples that draw ­attention to the visual in our study of religion and which enhance both our understanding of it and the usefulness of the findings. His rationale for studying religion v­ isually includes (pp. 192–200): the common lines of inquiry; the value at every stage of research; the potential for engaged scholarship; the digital realities of contemporary life; and the corrective for myopic views of religion. Common lines of inquiry: Since religion and spirituality are cultural, material, and embodied, Williams argues “the outcomes of rituals produce symbols of social relationships” (p. 193). As such, visual methods can be understood to complement, or enhance, and sometimes even to challenge, other ways of representing insights or data. Understood in this way, visual sociology enables the researcher to bring together common lines of inquiry in an innovative fashion with the potential to offer fresh perspectives on the interweaving of culture and spirituality in our social world.

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Visual methods can be applied at every stage of the research process: from collecting data to the presentation of our findings. Whether the camera is employed as an additional set of eyes, or the content analyses of images offers new comparisons, images enrich our understanding and offer the promise that social change may be the result. In our chapter in that volume, we ­(Holtmann and Nason-Clark, 2015) argue that images help an audience to translate ­abstract social scientific concepts, making them more concrete. Without a doubt, visual research methods are engaging for researchers, participants, and audiences. Williams believes that these visual techniques have “the ability to shift the researcher-subject relationships” (p. 195). Drawing on the work of others—including those in the volume he edits—Williams claims that the visual representation can be considered a bridge between the participant and the researcher, and, we would add, the researcher and the public they may be trying to inform or impact. Further, we believe it enables a dialogue between researcher, participant, and audience to address very difficult, or even taboo, subjects. With many of the barriers to digital media visualization reduced—including access, cost, and user-friendly strategies of production—ordinary citizens, even school-children, are able to create and share images with one another. These are the digital realities to which Williams refers. The created images have the power to educate and to transform. Many in our world have not been socialized to see religion—their view of the spiritual is myopic. As a result, the promise for a visual sociology of religion is great. Images of neighbourhoods with their religious reminders, congregations and houses of worship, and people performing religious rituals help to correct the myopic view of religion and the misguided notion that secularization has created a generation of unbelievers who do not live their lives with any spiritual practices. From Cipriani and Del Re’s (2015) peaceful coexistence project amongst Jews, Christians, and Muslims in Israel to Jacobs’ (2015) study of Holocaust memorialization, and from Day’s (2015) social contrasts on Germantown Avenue in the us to the study of clergy self-presentation (Richter, 2015), we see the power and potential of visual sociology in the study of ­religious expression and experience. As Williams claims: “images bring the unfamiliar into view…and c­ onstitute a kind of evidence that may be used to sustain an argument….[to] carry the freight of emotional valence, the power of an image to move its viewer” (pp. 197, 198). Of course, as he cautions, images must not be used uncritically. They must be tested for both authenticity and impact. Unlike The Stained Glass Story of Domestic Violence, we have not yet field tested the Portrait of a Violent Man. But we have had some experience offering

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our research findings to the men (including a few who were actually involved in our study) and in that context we were very interested and, to be honest, a bit surprised, to hear from the group facilitators later of its therapeutic value. Preparing to offer remarks on research such as ours before a larger group of men who batter is no small matter. But, like the portrait, we have harnessed our data to tell a story—and that story has an impact on the audience.

Visual Methods as a Strategy for Social Change

Intimate partner violence is an ugly reality in our social world. Large ­numbers of women are its victims, as are some men. It occurs in every corner of the globe, and its impact is felt by women of every nation, class, race, and faith ­tradition. According to the World Health Organization (2013), based on data from s­ eventy-nine countries, it is estimated that the global prevalence of ­physical and/or sexual violence for ever-partnered women is 30 percent. While there is no evidence that religious women are more likely to be victims of intimate partner violence (Cunradi, Caetano, and Schafer, 2002), ­women of faith have  some unique vulnerabilities when they have been abused (Kroeger and Nason-Clark, 2010; Nason-Clark and Kroeger, 2004; Nason-Clark, Fisher-Townsend, Holtmann, and McMullin, 2018). Many religious groups have been slow to a­ dmit that abuse exists within families connected to their ­congregations or their membership. Community-based agencies have been slow to see that religion is able to be part of the solution, not just part of the problem. As a result, social change needs to occur at the level of congregations and with their l­eaders who require evidence of the prevalence and severity of the ­problem of intimate partner violence in their midst. Religious leaders and congregations have a vital role to play in denouncing violence and in translating how the beliefs and practices of their specific faith tradition can be harnessed to hold religious men responsible for their abusive actions and also to offer hope for a changed life. As our research with men who batter has shown, men connected to faith communities can learn to employ the language and the practices of their faith and in so doing navigate the challenges that ­surface in the aftermath of their abusive behavior. They can learn to think and act differently than they have in the past. As well, congregational life has the potential to foster peace, to teach nonviolent ways of interacting with other human beings, and, as Holtmann argues in this volume, to care for each other. But social change also needs to impact those working within community and government agencies—like transition houses, advocacy agencies, or

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­ ithin the criminal justice system. These workers need to be challenged to see w that religious leaders and congregations can be co-partners in bringing abusers to accountability and justice, as well as helping victims along the road to healing and empowerment.

To Conclude

We have chosen to use stained glass images as a way to build a bridge between our findings and the impact we hope to achieve. Stained glass has been a storyteller in the Christian tradition for a very long time: the windows are visual reminders of the people and the stories central within the history of the faith. Rooted in sacred texts, as well as oral traditions, the symbols and the people represented through the beauty of stained glass are a form of education for congregations, even as they bring comfort and a challenge to those communities. The ancient stories come alive as light shines on the various colours of the stained glass window. Like the stained glass windows in cathedrals around the world, we are using the panes of glass to educate, to display hope, but also to offer a reminder that the challenge indeed is great. The tree—representing the man who is abusive—is very stubborn, its roots are very deep, the red streak winds it path of destruction, and it impacts both the tender branches with its emerging leaves, and entangles those it seeks to destroy. It is both resilient and vulnerable. The portrait is meant to make us uncomfortable. For the problem of violence is everyone’s problem. References Cipriani, R. and E.C. Del Re (2015). Visual experiencing and communicating: Visual sociology as a truly comprehensive experience. In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing religion: Toward a visual sociology of religion, 122–136. New York: Routledge. Cunradi, C., R. Caetano and J. Schafer (2002). Religious affiliation, denominational ­homogamy, and intimate partner violence among US couples. Journal for the ­Scientific Study of Religion, 41(1), 138–151. Day, K. (2015). Exploring an urban ecology visually: Spatial approaches to studying ­social contrasts along Germantown Avenue. In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing religion: ­Toward a visual sociology of religion, 22–43. New York: Routledge. Holtmann, C. and N. Nason-Clark (2015). Reconfiguring stained glass: Religion, ­domestic violence, and visual engagement. In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing religion: ­Toward a visual sociology of religion, 174–191. New York: Routledge.

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Jacobs, J. (2015). Visual ethics, feminist ethnography, and the study of Holocaust ­memorialization. In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing religion: Toward a visual sociology of religion, 157–173. New York: Routledge. Kroeger, C. Clark and N. Nason-Clark (2010). No place for abuse: Biblical and practical resources to counteract domestic violence. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Nason-Clark, N. and B. Fisher-Townsend (2015). Men who batter. New York: Oxford. Nason-Clark, N. and C. Clark Kroeger (2004). Refuge from abuse: Hope and healing for abused religious women. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Nason-Clark, N., Fisher-Townsend, B., Holtmann, C., and S. McMullin (2018). Religion and intimate partner violence: Understanding challenges and proposing solutions. New York, Oxford University Press. Richter, P. (2015). From backstage to front: The role of the vestry in managing clergy self-presentation. In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing Religion: Toward a Visual Sociology of Religion, 103–121. New York: Routledge. Whipple, V. (1987). Counselling battered women from fundamentalist churches. ­Journal for Marital and Family Therapy, 13(1987), 251–258. Williams, R. (ed.) (2015a). Seeing religion: Toward a visual sociology of religion. New York: Routledge. Williams, R. (2015b). Why study religion visually? In R. Williams (ed.) Seeing religion: Toward a visual sociology of religion, 192–200. New York: Routledge. World Health Organization (WHO) (2013). Global and regional estimates of violence against women: Prevalence and health effects of intimate partner violence and non-partner sexual violence. Retrieved from www.who.int/reproductivehealth. ­ ­Accessed July 26, 2016.

Chapter 6

Aboriginal Men, Violence, and Spirituality: “A big part of who we are is the spiritual part” Barbara Fisher-Townsend

Introduction

My dissertation research, completed more than ten years ago, examined the intersection of the criminal justice system, batterers’ intervention programs, and faith-based services and supports. A small part of that research program, prompted by my interest derived from six years of teaching sociology on a First Nations reserve in New Brunswick and getting to know many people on that reserve, involved interviews with three Aboriginal therapists1 in Alberta who were facilitating batterers’ treatment groups for Aboriginal men. I come back to that research now because of a real interest in the potential of spirituality to heal what Duran and Duran (1995) call “the soul wound” in Aboriginal peoples. I am not of Aboriginal origin but I do have an abiding interest in the addition of faith, religion, and spirituality into the context of healing and recovering with the goal of changing violent thinking and behaviour. There is a plethora of academic literature on the topic of intimate partner violence in Aboriginal families—particularly from a social work perspective. This body of work includes historical treatises on colonization and residential schools and their lasting effects, contemporary discussions of the many policies developed by government agencies related to Aboriginal people and the consequences of these policies, and case studies of particular groups affected by the conditions of colonization and the resultant government policies. This chapter brings another perspective to this body of literature provided by interviews with three Aboriginal batterers’ intervention group facilitators who offer unique viewpoints based on their own life experiences: a. They bring an awareness and knowledge of the enduring effects of colonization; AT3: “We do a bit of history about colonialism and about schools … there has been so much disconnection because of that.” 1 AT1, AT2, and AT3 are abbreviations for identifying the Aboriginal Therapists who participated in the research.

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b.

They bring an awareness and knowledge of the importance of cultural reclamation and spirituality; AT2: “We work with the Medicine Wheel … and what it is to bring ourselves back to understanding. They spend a lot of time with the spiritual aspect of it.” They bring their own backgrounds and life experiences to their work with Aboriginal men who have acted abusively; AT2: “I incorporate my own experiences into the curriculum … It’s difficult to teach … you have to show it.” They are acutely aware of the need to bring spirituality into the intervention program, in fact to make spirituality the core of the treatment curriculum; AT2: “The spiritual is interwoven through the whole program in reaffirming that there is more than just you…. We are helping them understand that none of us have made it without help from others and also spirituality.”

c.

d.

Howell and Yuille (2004) list the terms commonly used in North America to ­refer to First Nations peoples—Aboriginal, American/Canadian Indian, I­ ndian, Native American/Canadian, Native, First Nations, Métis, Alaskan Eskimo, Inuit, and Indigenous. They argue that the use of one term, “Aboriginal,” is problematic because it assumes that these diverse groups of people are the same. However, within the literature on Aboriginal culture the various terms are used interchangeably except in cases where specific groups such as Inuit peoples are the subjects of discussion, and they will be used interchangeably in this discussion. Whatever the moniker, as one therapist said “We try to ­re-instill identity…. We help them identify as aboriginal people” (AT2).

Rates of Intimate Partner Violence

There are many government reports and research findings indicating that rates of intimate partner violence are considerably higher among Aboriginal populations than among nonAboriginals. True rates are difficult to identify amongst Aboriginal populations for several reasons including under-­reporting by ­victims, lack of appropriate screening by service, and data sets that have no consistent identifiers of Indigenous peoples (Day, Jones, Nakata, & ­McDermott, 2012). Douglas Brownridge (2003), in a project consisting of 700 telephone ­interviews in Canada, found that 8.1 percent of Aboriginal women compared with 1.6 percent of non-Aboriginal women had been victimized in the oneyear period preceding the interview, and the numbers were 12.6 percent vs. 3.5 ­percent within the five years preceding the interview. ­Kiyoshk (2003) ­identifies the rate of spousal assault as between 40 and 90 percent in Canadian A ­ boriginal

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communities. The Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics’ 2006 report i­ ndicates that 21 percent of Aboriginal people reported ­having ­experienced some form of physical or sexual violence perpetrated by their spouse within the five years preceding the survey. This is compared to six ­percent of non-Aboriginal ­people who experienced spousal violence in the same time period. More ­recent ­Statistics Canada data from the 2009 General Social Survey indicate that 15 percent of Aboriginal women who had a partner or spouse in the five years preceding the survey reported experiencing s­ pousal violence (defined as ­physical or sexual violence) compared to 6 percent of n ­ on-Aboriginal women—a rate two and a half times higher. Alarmingly, data from the 2014 gss indicate that ­Aboriginal women were three times more l­ikely to report being a victim of spousal violence. In the United States, researchers Campbell, Lindhorst, Huang, and Walters (2006) indicate that nearly 40 percent of Aboriginal women will experience intimate partner violence in their lifetime. The 2006 report from the u.s. Bureau of Justice Statistics states that both Native American women and Alaskan Native women had rates of intimate partner violence of 18.2 [per 1,000 population]—the highest in the nation. More recent data found that “87% of Aboriginal women will experience physical abuse in their lifetime, 65% will experience interpersonal violence, and 40% will experience multiple episodes of domestic violence” (Puchala, Paul, Kennedy, & Mehi-Madrona, 2010).

Batterer Intervention Programs

Many batterer intervention programs, differentiated by theoretical underpinnings (social learning theory, family-based theories, and feminist theories to name a few) and/or treatment models (Duluth, New York, Emerge, Amend, Change of Seasons, Invitation to Responsibility, etc.) are identified within the literature (Healey, Smith, & O’Sullivan, 1998; Health Canada, 2000; Saunders & Hamill, 2003; Jackson, Forde, Maxwell, & Taylor, 2003). But one commonality in the programs that I have visited in both the United States and Canada is the setting for these groups. Picture a group of people seated facing each other in a meeting room with two facilitators. Often this is around a large arrangement of tables with the facilitators at the head of the tables, but if the group is larger it might just be in some circular arrangement of chairs. The meeting begins with what is called “check-in” where each participant in turn (with some refraining from participating) briefly discuss relevant issues that have happened in the past week. The facilitators then highlight the topics to be covered in the 2-hour session and discussion begins with the assistance of handouts. ­Examples of topics on a weekly basis might be developing skills for responding to partners

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without violence, some aspect of parenting, or attitudes about gender roles. Each program has some commonalities such as the importance of taking responsibility and learning non-violent responses, and core basics such as developing offender self-esteem and changing sex-role attitudes. There are ­differences not only in content but also in program approach—some o­ ffering a structured curriculum with specific weekly topics and discussions, and o­ thers utilizing a more semi-structured approach allowing for some fluidity in the content delivery. As well, some groups are structured in terms of entry with closed groups having a set start and end date and open-entry groups having participants entering the program at any point. Importantly, Frederick (2001) argues that the context in which each act of domestic violence occurs must be understood. This is particularly the case for domestic violence amongst Aboriginal couples. In relation to Aboriginal men and violence, Kiyoshk (2003) makes the case for the integration of ­spirituality into the Change of Seasons domestic violence treatment program for ­Aboriginal men in Western Canada. In this program, every third session is a cultural activity (e.g. smudge, talking circle, sweatlodge purification, pipe ceremony, ceremonial dancing) that augments the psycho-educational group format. He argues that ritual and ceremony are integral to counseling in the Aboriginal community as their culture has a strong spiritual basis. The key to his argument is that since the survival of First Nations’ people has ­depended on a worldview that does not separate spirituality from everyday life, this ­characteristic, which has been reinforced over hundreds of years, is also what ensures success in counseling assaultive men.

Families and Trauma

Canadian government policies like the Indian Act and the residential school system were designed to eradicate Aboriginal culture and to lead to assimilation of Indigenous peoples. “Exposures to disease and loss of life, confinement and banning of cultural practices, as well as mass removals of children from families and communities continue to seriously threaten the well-being of individuals, families and communities” (Riel et al., 2016, pp. 286–287). Added to these traumas are the continuing contemporary issues of poverty, racism, addiction, and displacement—the traumas are collective, compounding and continue to impact the lives and worlds of Aboriginal people (Evans-­Campbell, 2008): AT3: What is lacking with a lot of people is balance so we work with them. They are lost, disconnected, but family members who are the very

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people you should trust have been violent.... Trust, faith, the spiritual part of those words. When you try to do the clinical part without the spiritual there is a chunk missing. A big part of who we are is the spiritual part. Sometimes some of these guys are so disconnected. We do a little bit of history about colonialism and about schools. There has been so much disconnection because of that—generation after generation—they were brought up this way. There is a class in parenting, a class in mentoring, they say I don’t know how to parent, I don’t know how to mentor. Riel et al. (2016) discuss violence in relation to these multiple, collective, and cumulative traumas felt across generations of Aboriginal peoples. Because of this legacy, they argue that interventions for family violence in Aboriginal communities must be focused on the entire family. Maria Yellow Horse Brave Heart (2003) refers to this cumulative trauma as historical trauma which is “­cumulative emotional and psychological wounding over the lifespan and across generations, emanating from massive group trauma experiences” (p. 7). In Chapter 5, on the violence of religious men, Nancy Nason-Clark highlights the stories of individual men in her research—stories that involve pain, fear, abandonment, brutality, neglect, and children repeating what they saw in their own homes growing up. Stories told by Aboriginal men who have acted abusively incorporate all of these elements as well, but they are told from the perspective of generational trauma based on several centuries of destructive government policies. AT1: Because of residential schools many of their parents never learned how to parent and there is anger—what is it—where does it come from and I was brought up on the other side of that because of the loss of teachings within the culture—they have lost that aspect of how to express the spirit. There is a lot of frustration and also you have to look at different cultures and they have different thoughts about women. We have men from different nations in our groups. Most of the people in their communities were in residential school and substance abuse is also very connected with that. But also there is that inkling of knowing that family is important.

Spirituality and Meaning

According to Warner (1993) religion serves as a fundamental category of i­dentity and association and is capable of grounding both solidarities and identities. Religion, as a system of meaning used to interpret the world, serves

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to bind people together in solidarity and identity. Berger and Luckmann (1966) note that religion offers concepts and categories through which we can find meaning and therefore understand the existential problems of life. Tisdell (2002) differentiates between religion and spirituality and argues that the two should not be confused. Religion, she states, is “an organized community of faith that has written codes of regulatory behavior,” and spirituality is “more about one’s personal belief and experience of a higher power or higher purpose” (p. 63). Clore and Fitzgerald (2002:97) define faith as the search for an integrating center of value and meaning that is cognitional in nature, developmental in process, and transcendental in its dimensions. Lori Beaman (2006) argues that Aboriginal spirituality should actually be termed Aboriginal spiritualities—those being “lived religions” that differ geographically in ­Canada and are influenced by the religion of European colonizers. Kiyoshk (2003) refers to spirituality as an extraordinary and elusive part of our beings [that] is so closely intertwined with the emotional, psychological, and physical aspects that at first it is viewed as something fundamentally different and separate, but it is not. It is a common thread that binds all the other aspects. p. 247.

The criteria of connectedness and the search for meaning are also identified by Wihak and Merali (2005). The thoughts of one Aboriginal therapist concur with these perspectives: Aboriginal spirituality differs from mainstream religions in that it is an individual path; it’s not so much a religion but a way of living. Whether discussing religion, faith, or spirituality the focus is on “meaning”—to be found in solidarity with others and to aid in grounding personal identities.

Culture and an Aboriginal Worldview

Tseng (2001) describes culture as: A set of beliefs, attitudes, and value systems that derive from the early stages of life through enculturation and become an internal mode of regulating behavior, action and emotion … culture changes continuously

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and dynamically through the generations in response to environmental demands.” p. 6

Mccabe (2004) argues that Aboriginal people are engaged in the process of cultural reclamation—a process “that has become more focused, more widespread and more documented than ever before” (p. 1). An Aboriginal worldview is intricately connected to culture and to spirituality. Ermine (1995) in Poonwassie and Charter (2005) describes Aboriginal worldviews as “founded on a search for meaning.” Traditionally, Aboriginal peoples believe that they are dependent on all of creation for survival including fire, water, earth, and air. “Nature was part of us and we were a part of the natural world.” (Mawhiney & Nabigon, 2011, p. 16). Those beliefs shape their holistic worldview—one in which all aspects of a person, the mental, ­physical, emotional, and spiritual in balance and harmony are given attention, and that view is symbolized by the Medicine Wheel with its four directions. The east signifies the spirit, the south the body, the west emotions, and the north the mind (Kiyoshk, 2003; Zellerer, 2003; Naclia, 2009; McCabe, 2008). Bessie Mainville (2010), an Ojibwe Traditional Healer, describes nine aspects of traditional life that are important for communities to support, several of which I identify here. The first of these is the pipe ceremony where the four elements of fire, tobacco, stone, and wood represent the four directions and the four races of man. This ceremony is a prerequisite to all events of significance in Aboriginal cultures— the pipe bowl and stem representing females and males respectively. The joining of the two is seen as symbolic of male and female forces working together to accomplish tasks. Next is language, which she argues “has a lot to do with how you get used to the way things are done in the traditional way, it’s more understanding and felt at the heart” (p. 2). Third is the clan system, which she refers to as an ordered group of action and conduct. Fourth are legends/stories. Mainville writes that she herself learned through stories which include many teachings. The importance of stories for the healing of Aboriginal people has been affirmed by other researchers (e.g. Malcolm, 2007; McCabe, 2008; Puchala et al., 2010; Cherubini et al., 2010). According to these researchers, ­Aboriginal healing is very much about the telling of story. A fifth aspect delineated by Mainville (2010) is the eagle feather which is used for being honoured, as it is the highest gift given in the Anishinaabe culture. The eagle feather is often passed from speaker to speaker with respect during a talking circle. Another aspect of Aboriginal traditional life is the sweat lodge—an event that is not talked about outside the lodge (Schiff & Pelech, 2007). According

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to Kiyoshk (2003), this is the most common North American Native ceremony. The term sweat lodge denotes both a place (a dome-like structure with a hole in the middle of the floor to hold hot rocks) and a ceremony (a cleansing of the lodge with smudging, the lighting of the fire, and pouring water over hot rocks, known as Grandfathers, to create steam). The participants sit in ­darkness and there are four rounds of song, prayer and sometimes talking or sharing. ­Virtually every Native community in North America uses some form of the sweat lodge (Walker, Lambert, Walker, & Kivlahan, 1993). In relation to rituals and ceremonies, Kiyoshk (2003) notes: “In many indigenous cultures it is believed that spiritual energies can be influenced through ritual.... Indeed, the purpose of spiritual ritual is to access, to express, to recreate and experience spiritual energies or fields” (p. 246). According to Zellerer (2003): “Spirituality is not separate from everyday life in Aboriginal worldviews, and it is an essential component to successfully counseling men” (p.  185). That view is supported by McCormick and Gerlitz (2009), who also d­ iscuss the ­commonly held beliefs amongst Aboriginal peoples that the ­natural world and spiritual world are connected, and the importance of this wider view for healing. AT1: We work with the medicine wheel and looking at all aspects and the teachings behind it and what it is to bring ourselves back to understand what that teaching is all about which takes in respect and honour of our women. [And] it is combining—what they have done is combined conventional teachings or applications with the medicine wheel. They spend a lot of time with the spiritual aspect of it. In a review of the literature related to resilience amongst Aboriginal people, Fast and Collin-Vezine (2010) refer to the work of Whitbeck, Adams, and Chen (2004) who identify three separate components of enculturation—traditional spirituality, traditional activities, and cultural identification—which they found to be good measures for resilience, particularly amongst Aboriginal youth. Marsh, Coholic, Cote-Meek, and Najavits (2015) identify “­reclaiming identity” as the key to healing for Aboriginal peoples who experience the intergenerational effects of violence. This reclamation involves traditional ­culture and identity. They argue that Aboriginal spirituality is premised on the principles of trust, sharing, respect, honour, and acceptance. Duran and Duran (1995) emphasize the necessity of balance in the lives of Aboriginal peoples in order to achieve self-esteem—which might be assisted by teaching language, traditions, customs, and spiritual teachings. While there was a recognized need for culturally appropriate programs for men that would include spirituality as a main component, the actual

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i­ mplementation of these programs took a twisting road. As one therapist said “there was a one size fits all approach to healing... [and] they found there was a need.” He continued: “I started a group just by doing exactly that—I told some guys in an aa group and the next week I had ten guys show up. It was an environment where an Aboriginal group could come together with a shared ­environment” (AT1). Neeganagwedgin cites Wesley-Esquimaux and Smolewski (2004), who argue that the goal of healing from trauma is to ­restructure the past and ­reconnect people to the present, to bring empowerment, to i­ncorporate, and help people recover from fear and despair. In contrast to Chapter 10 on get ­refusal, where Yael Machtinger examines the link between religion and ­domestic ­violence, I want to emphasize the link between lack of spiritual ­connectedness and domestic violence. AT2: The program is based on four aspects of human beings—around a person’s wellbeing including mainstream clinical practices but also with a time line on historical events for Aboriginal people that have contributed to why we are the way we are. It is a 16 week program that ... [is] always coming back to those four main areas. There is a lot of emphasis on kindness, caring, sharing, honesty, and respect—we learn and practice those things within ourselves. That is why we go through historical stuff because most of these guys don’t know the history. We are trying with the cultural aspect of how we can take those belief systems and focusing on contemporary society as tools—you can participate in contemporary society without giving up your identity. Some guys do use culture (drumming, smudging, etc.) and other guys just won’t. We help them identify as Aboriginal people. We introduce smudging as a way of creating a common bond between us all and some guys won’t. We bring in a feather that is starting to build respect. The feather is representative of respect. We use that as a talking thing and then give them the responsibility of looking after that feather. Some of them have never had that before so we slowly introduce them to the culture because you don’t know what these guys already know. We provide a sweat at the end but don’t say that it is mandatory. We start and finish with a prayer. The spiritual part of it—it is a difficult thing—there is no curriculum on it. So they are introduced through smudging and prayer. We tell the people to look to whatever they have. I use examples— I might say have you ever sat there and thought just get me through this and I will never do it again. What do you think you are doing? We are introducing people to a concept that very well may be foreign to them. A lot of them are not used to asking for help from anyone and for anything. There is a whole pride thing there. Helping them understand

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that none of us have made it without help from others and also spirituality. We need to develop personal relationships with our clients ... that’s a real danger in this kind of work—you have to be walking the talk.

Disconnection and Anomie

There is an abundant body of literature about the legacy of colonization that continues even today; about the loss of culture when the perceived need for assimilation of Indian peoples was dealt with through residential schooling (from the 1890s to 1970s), where there were directed attempts to “remove” the culture of Aboriginal children and there were government policies forbidding cultural practices, and about the policy that directed that thousands of Aboriginal children be removed from their birth families and often placed with nonAboriginal families. Johnston (1983) introduced the phrase “the Sixties scoop” to identify the overwhelming number of Aboriginal children removed from their homes and communities by child welfare authorities during this period. Locust (1999) used the term “split feathers” to describe the longterm psychological problems developed by Aboriginal children adopted or placed in foster care outside of their culture. Forced to assume the values of another culture that derided their own belief system, Aboriginal children were left in a cultural vacuum, relating neither to mainstream culture nor to their own community. AT1: We have to look at effects of colonization and residential schools— all the effects of that—that it has had on Aboriginal people and substance use as well and how the government has acted by taking a lot of our traditions. So the effects on an Aboriginal individual has been tremendous. They have taken away their aspect of culture. I was adopted out. I was lucky because my adoptive father was half native but I lost a lot. That was the way things were then. For a lot of us that created that loss of identity—in my own experience I go back—I learn as much as possible and right now I am learning the Lakota traditions and f­ ollowing those. It is very difficult because I am walking in two words trying to survive, learn and practice and hold on in my own world. This can cause a lot of c­ onflict. You get angry and frustrated because I didn’t have the ­opportunity to learn about my culture as a young man. All of these issues, with the resultant sense of anomie experienced by Aboriginal peoples, can be linked to rates of violence in Aboriginal families. Bernburg (2002) states: “Central to different versions of anomie theory is the premise

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that human beings are normative beings. People act and think on the basis of commonly shared definitions and traditions” (p. 729). When those shared definitions and traditions are stripped and denied by government-sanctioned policies, anomie results—the definition of which includes concepts such as social instability, personal unrest, alienation and anxiety, lack of cohesion, and the absence of clear societal norms and values. The legacy of colonialism has created for Aboriginal people a disconnection from their cultural heritage that continues to profoundly impact their contemporary life with racism and oppression experienced on a continuing basis (Native Women’s Association of Canada, 2009; Brownridge, 2003, 2008). ­Colonization begins with a process of othering —this process involves sorting the reference group and the other (Bourassa, McKay-McNabb, & ­Hampton, 2004). Those deemed as other are candidates for multiple oppressions. ­Assimilation of others was a government-supported policy in Canada meant to handle what was termed the “Indian problem,” which simply meant the existence of Indigenous peoples (Neeganagwedgin, 2013). Wesley-Esquimaux and Smolewski (2004) identify five areas impacted by colonization—physical, economic, ­cultural, social, and psychological. This legacy includes deaths due to epidemics of influenza and small pox, displacement from traditional native lands and ways of life, the rape and murder of Native women, and the removal of children from their families to be placed in residential schools—in Canada 30 percent of Aboriginal children between 1892 and the 1990s spent the majority of their childhoods in these institutions (Aboriginal Healing Foundation 2005)—or for adoption by non-Native families, as well as the loss of traditional languages. Hundreds of years of oppression mean that these conditions have been internalized by Aboriginal peoples and thus have become part of their thoughts, feelings, behaviours, and relationships (Duran, 2006). In their earlier writing, Duran and Duran (1995) refer to the intergenerational transmission of trauma from these types of atrocities and injustices as the “soul wound.” Because of these disconnections from traditional life, many Aboriginal men have little or no cultural experience or knowledge, and there is therefore a genuine need for Aboriginal men to recover from the effects of that disconnection with their culture and to reconnect with the spiritual traditions of their people. The violence behind these data is a legacy of that “soul wound.” This disconnection is recognized by those offering programs for Aboriginal men: AT3: A lot of times when you witness to abuse you become disconnected because it is so horrendous and it is painful to make that connection again. By providing tools that they can fall back on it makes it

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something they can rely on. If we just address the substances, they are horrible and we need to give tools to people so that they can get through these ­substances. That is what the spiritual is all about. Spiritual is not just an intellectual thing. We need the spiritual to get through those difficult times, to make us feel better. The role of native religion was such a huge component a long time ago and sometimes even the medicine man had so much power you could be banished from the tribe. We have gone from that extreme to here nowadays there is not even prayer or spiritual and we have gone to that extreme.

Spirituality and Healing

In the Aboriginal context within North America, it is not religious leaders per se that are required for intervention, rather it is the inclusion of the ­Aboriginal worldview of spirituality. A counselling approach based on a Eurocentric framework has been challenged because of the many differences in ways of life (Wihak & Merali, 2005). AT3: It is a 16-week program where we start and finish with smudging sweet grass and sage and then we say a prayer and then do a check in. [She notes that] the big part is the spiritual and how do you make it through a tough time. We give them an opportunity to see their Aboriginal First Nations practices. So many of these guys are so disconnected they do not know how to pray, have never smudged, etc. So we always start with a prayer and do that. If we don’t do that we are not taking care of the whole person. Spiritual is not just an intellectual thing, we need the spiritual to get through those difficult times to make us feel better. The role of native religion was such a huge component a long time ago.... Trust, faith, the spiritual part... when you try to do the clinical part without the spiritual there is a chunk missing. A big part of who we are is the spiritual part. Western healing models separate people from their environments but “traditional indigenous healing practices are embedded in a spiritual sense of ­interconnectedness” wherein balance among the emotional, physical, mental, spiritual, the environment, and the spirit world is sought (Coates et al. 2006, p. 393; Wihak & Merali, 2005). Traditional Indigenous spirituality is linked to philosophy, ideology, and daily living. Balance represents health and s­ tability within families and can be achieved through participating in traditional ­cultural activities (Martin & Yurkovich, 2014).

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AT3: Meditation is used as a tool—could be a walk and there is one meditation story that I tell them that they can go on this guided walk and they go into a cave and it is nice and warm and there is a buffalo robe and they can leave their worries there. That seems to really work well and then they come back out of the cave and get back into the room. Another is a grounding exercise where they get into their bodies. We want to work with the whole person not just a segment of the person. The one thing we want to do is take in the whole person and the big part is the spiritual and how do you make it through a tough time. Waldram (1994) discusses Aboriginal spirituality and awareness programs in Canadian prisons as a variant of “symbolic healing” that requires a common cultural basis. He refers to the work of Dow (1986) in his description of this healing as culturally based—meaning that both patient and healer must share the same culture in order for healing to take place. Waldram identifies two streams to these programs—one concentrates on spirituality, which he notes prison staff see as “religious” in nature; the other focuses on cultural and academic education. In her interviews with Métis elders, Iseke (2010) ­uncovers a number of spiritual practices that reaffirm the relationship between h ­ umans and the Creator. These practices are seen as gifts from the Creator and ­include healing and teaching lodges, sundance ceremonies, world renewal ­ceremonies, etc., meant to create a sense of order in the chaotic physical world. ­Relatedly, ­Cherubini, Niemczyk, Hodson, and McGean (2010) describe the role of s­ pirituality in a­ ssisting novice teachers in Aboriginal settings. Phrases that were used by p ­ articipants include wisdom and spiritual traditions as framework; a c­ ulturally affirming presence; providing that safe environment; participants could partake in ceremony to share their experiences of struggle, hope, a­ lienation, and collectivity; and the freedom from repressing bothersome thoughts. Within the past ten years the term eco-spirituality has been increasingly ­utilized (Coates, Gray, & Hetherington, 2006; McCormick & Gerlitz, 2009). From an ecological standpoint relationality is a fundamental part of an ­Aboriginal spiritual worldview involving a connection between animate and inanimate objects in the natural environment as well as a perceived ­connection between past and present (Wihak & Merali, 2005). According to Coates et al. (2006, p. 389) [S]pirituality and ecology emphasize, respectively, a search for meaning and sustainability, and acknowledge the need to accept and value alternative perspectives … which assumes an interdependence and relatedness of all life, connectedness with nature, and the importance of place.

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These values “provide an accepting environment for indigenous forms of healing and helping.” Coates et al. (2006, p. 359)

A study within an Aboriginal health care setting found that patients had a holistic view of health that focused on balance between various types of health and on cultural traditions as important elements of healing and empowerment—such as talking circles, drumming circles, sweat lodges, and smudging (Hunter, Logan, Goulet, & Barton, 2006). A few words about these traditions are necessary for a better understanding. Talking circles are gatherings led by a person respected in the community where people have something to talk about and it is understood that everything shared is to be kept confidential. An object of spiritual significance such as an eagle feather is passed along to each speaker to hold while they are speaking. Drumming circles are settings wherein participants establish a sense of connection and community through drumming. The drums are instruments through which they can express emotions. Sweat lodges are described elsewhere in this chapter. ­Smudging ceremonies precede most gatherings. According to Kiyoshk (2003), smudging, wherein an herb such as sage or sweetgrass is burned and each participant wafts the smoke over themselves, is “a means of cleansing oneself and one’s surroundings of negative energies and thoughts” (p. 247). Traditional healing practices, such as those listed above, are crucial according to Green (2010), but she also notes the importance of healing practices that involve the “sacred use of culturally validated symbolic acts, words, and objects, healing circles and ­sentencing circles …and specific internal and external purification rituals” (p. 30).

Cultural Competence

Proulx and Perrault (2000) emphasize that family violence does not exist in isolation but rather in context with a myriad of other issues such as addictions and incarceration—all of which require therapeutic intervention that recognizes the legacy of abuse suffered by Aboriginal people and the need for Aboriginal-specific programming. Zellerer (2003) argues that becoming a culturally competent service provider involves (a) becoming knowledgeable about the group they are working with, (b) being self-reflective and recognizing biases within themselves as well as within their profession, and (c) integrating this knowledge and reflection with actual practice. Culturally-focused intervention programs for men who have acted abusively have been developed for an array of diverse groups of male abusers (Kiyoshk,

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2003; Healey, Smith, et al., 1998; Gondolf & Williams, 2001). Aboriginal peoples have been identified as one group in need of culturally-focused therapeutic interventions. According to Bussey and Whipple (2010) [T]o respond most effectively to domestic and other forms of v­ iolence against Native women, it is vital to work toward an integrated, c­ oordinated effort among practitioners across differing systems (i.e., tribal leaders, child welfare and social services, advocates, probation and parole o­ fficers, attorneys, and law enforcement officers) (pp. 296–297). Any intimate partner violence intervention program or procedure must recognize the colonial legacy as well as the context of violence within Native families and attempt to bring restoration through the inclusion of spiritual and cultural practices and artifacts meant to reconnect Aboriginal peoples with their heritage. The work of Freeman, Coll, Two Dogs, Iron Cloud Two Dogs, Iron Cloud, and Robertson (2016) emphasizes the cascading generational impact of this colonial legacy and proffers the argument that the restoration of culture and the utilization of culturally based interventions are key healing factors correlated with better outcomes. One Aboriginal therapist notes that [W]e work with the medicine wheel and looking at all aspects and the teachings behind it and what it is to bring ourselves back to understand what that teaching is all about which takes in respect and honour of our women. And it is coming what they have done is combined in conventional teachings or applications with the medicine wheel. They spend a lot of time with the spiritual aspect of it. We have to look at the effects of colonization and residential schools—all the effects of that—that it has had on Aboriginal people. And substance use as well and how the government has acted by taking a lot of our traditions—so the effects on an Aboriginal individual has been tremendous—they have taken away their aspect of culture (AT1).

Acknowledging the Need

The Calgary treatment groups for Aboriginal men were formed in recognition of the fact that the cultural differences of Aboriginal abusive men require culturally appropriate and responsive services (Zellerer, 2003). The agency ­brochure described the program as “an 18-week domestic violence group ­counselling

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program for Aboriginal men. The program is grounded in the teachings of the Medicine Wheel and is informed by Aboriginal culture, identity, traditions and values.” An example of the spiritual aspects of the group processes are briefly ­described by a Calgary area therapist, who said: AT1: We introduce smudging as a way of creating a common bond between us all and some guys won’t. We bring in a feather that is starting to build respect. The feather is representative of respect. We use that as a ­talking thing and then give them the responsibility of looking after that ­feather. Some of them have never had that before so we slowly introduce them to the culture because you don’t know what these guys already know. Nicole Elliott (2012) contends that spirituality is important in therapy and important for culturally competent services for Aboriginal clients. She defines cultural competence as “a process beginning with sensitivity, awareness, and knowledge and then acquiring the appropriate skills necessary for adapting to cross-cultural issues and including them into therapy” (p. 118). The key to this thinking is that since the survival of First Nations’ people has depended on a worldview that does not separate spirituality from everyday life, this ­characteristic, which has been reinforced over hundreds of years, is also what ensures success in counselling assaultive men. As well, a sense of pride is encouraged with the application of Aboriginal spirituality and knowledge to the therapeutic process.

Encouraging Outcomes

All three of the therapists interviewed were confident about the positive outcomes of the program and for the communities impacted by violence. There was an early evaluation done of the Calgary-based program two years after it was initiated and the results of that were also encouraging, with outcomes that were better than those reported for non-Aboriginal programs. The success of this program leads us back to considering the alarming statistic cited at the beginning of this paper which indicates that rates of intimate partner violence in Aboriginal families have increased very recently. This leaves one wondering whether more culturally competent programs are required or whether another remedy should be sought to deal with this issue that impacts generation after generation of Aboriginal people.

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AT2: I have great hope, yes. I have seen these young lads come up. They are struggling but they know that what they are doing is not right so it’s there—it just needs to be mentored and given enough time. It becomes that process of change. There is not enough of us to help the ­communities of the nations but it is getting better. They have built schools and they are teaching them the language right from grade one. So they are getting their education but also the importance of holding on to traditions, ­language, and ceremony. So it is starting to turn around. AT3: At the end we have a graduation and we give them a ­medicine bag. It might have sweet grass so their prayer goes to the Creator, a stone bear for courage, a little arrowhead for honoring their ancestry. Then we have a heart stone to show the heart and then a seed. We tell them we have ­given you the seed now you need to grow. Now you are on your h ­ ealing journey. We have tried to educate them. It is an educational thing but it is also trying to cover aspects of who we are. AT2: The feedback that we have gotten back is for the most part positive. We have sessions to seek out—we get feedback like “I like this group because we talk about hard stuff that I have never able to talk about before.” The men worry when it is coming to an end…. If one guy changes we have done well. That one impacts the whole community. There has been change. It took 500 years to get here. We are only just starting to make some of the changes. At the 2004 Resolve Conference held in Calgary there was a brief ­evaluation report presented by Irene Sevcik, a culturally competent social worker, about ­Calgary-based Aboriginal intervention groups. She noted that these groups ­usually consist of 18 weekly consciousnessraising sessions of 2–1/2 hours each that are co-facilitated by two Aboriginal therapists. The treatment ­experiences were divided into (a) what are termed the “basics,” meaning issues like ­colonization and residential schools and (b) their own experiences, which are often very violent. Traditional kinds of approaches were used with Aboriginal ­artifacts and music present, food was provided, groups often started late because they wait for participants to arrive, and rather than a classroom type environment everyone sat in what would be described as a healing circle. The e­ valuator believed these approaches provided the participants with an ­increased awareness of their sense of spirituality and the medicine wheel. The effectiveness of this culturally competent method was reported as follows: 54 men in four groups were part of the evaluation; 33 years old was the a­ verage age; 61 percent of the men were separated; 80 percent had

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c­hildren; 90–100 percent had substance abuse issues. Attrition rates were between 17 percent and 44 percent with men attending half of the sessions on average (it should be noted that these rates are lower than ­reported rates in non-Aboriginal programs). Of the ten partners contacted in a partner check, nine reported that they were safe. In terms of recidivism there were four re-assaults within ten months—also worthy of note as this is a low rate. Perhaps there is indeed reason for great hope. References Aboriginal Healing Foundation (Canada). (2005). Reclaiming connections: Understanding residential school trauma among Aboriginal people. Aboriginal Healing Foundation. Beaman, L. (2006). Aboriginal spirituality and the legal construction of freedom of ­religion. Journal of Church and State, 135–149. Berger, P. and T. Luckmann (1966). The social construction of reality. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Bourassa, C., K. McKay-McNabb, and M. Hampton (2004). Racism, sexism, and ­colonialism: The impact on the health of Aboriginal women in Canada. Canadian Woman Studies/Les Cahiers de la Femme, 24(1), 23–29. Brownridge, D. (2008). Understanding the elevated risk of partner violence against Aboriginal women: A comparison of two nationally representative surveys of Canada. Journal of Family Violence, 23, 353–367. Brownridge, D. (2003). Male partner violence against Aboriginal women in Canada: An empirical analysis. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 18, 65–83. Canadian Center for Justice Statistics (2006). Juristat. Catalogue no. 85-002-XIE, Vol. 26, [http://publications.gc.ca/Collection-R/Statcan/85-002-XIE/85-002-XIE2006003 .pdf] Accessed August 1, 2016. Cherubini, L., E. Niemczyk, J. Hodson, and S. McGean (2010). A grounded theory of new Aboriginal teachers’ perceptions: The cultural attributions of Medicine Wheel teachings. Teachers and Teaching, 16(5), 545–557. Clore, V. and J. Fitzgerald (2002). Intentional faith: An alternative view of faith ­development. Journal of Adult Development, 2, 97–107. Coates, J., M. Gray, and T. Hetherington (2006). An “ecospiritual” perspective: Finally, a place for Indigenous approaches. British Journal of Social Work, 36, 381–399. Day, A., R. Jones, M. Nakata, and D. McDermott (2012). Indigenous family violence: An attempt to understand the problems and inform appropriate and effective responses to criminal justice system intervention. Psychiatry, Psychology and Law, 19(1), 104–117.

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Duran, E. (2006). Healing the soul wound. New York: Teachers College Press. Duran, E. and B. Duran (1995). Native American postcolonial psychology. Albany: State University of New York Press. Elliott, N. (2012). Can spiritual ecograms be utilized in mental health services to promote culturally appropriate family and couples therapy with Indigenous people? First Peoples Child & Family Review, 7(1), 118–126. Evans-Campbell, T., T. Lindhorst, B. Huang, and K. Walters (2008). Interpersonal ­violence in the lives of urban American Indian and Alaska Native women: Implications for health, mental health, and help-seeking. American Journal of Public Health, 96(8), 1416–1422. Fast, E. and D. Collin-Vezine (2010). Historical trauma, race-based trauma and resilience of Indigenous peoples: A literature review. First Peoples Child & Family Review, 5(1), 126–136. Gondolf, E. and O. Williams (2001). Culturally focused batterer counseling for African American men. Trauma, Violence & Abuse: A Review Journal, 2(4), 283–295. Green, B. (2010). Culture is treatment: Considering pedagogy in the care of Aboriginal people. Journal of Psychosocial Nursing, 48(7), 27–34. Healey, K., C. Smith, and C. O’Sullivan (1998). Batterer intervention: Program a­ pproaches and criminal justice strategies. Washington, DC: Issues and Practices in Criminal Justice. Howell T. and J. Yuille (2004). Healing and treatment of Aboriginal offenders: A ­Canadian example. American Journal of Forensic Psychology, 22(4), 53–76. Hunter, L.M., J. Logan, J. Goulet, and S. Barton (2006). Aboriginal healing: Regaining balance and culture. Journal of Transcultural Nursing, 17(1), 13–22. Iseke, J. (2010). Importance of Metis ways of knowing in healing communities. ­Canadian Journal of Native Education, 33(1), 83–97. Jackson, S., D.R. Forde, C.D. Maxwell and B.G. Taylor (2003). Batterer intervention programs: Where do we go from here? Washington, DC: National Institute of Justice. Johnston, P. (1983). Native children and the child welfare system. Ottawa: Canadian Council on Social Development. Kiyoshk, R. (2003). Integrating spirituality and domestic violence treatment of Aboriginal men. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 7(1/2), 237–256. Locust, C. (1999) Split feathers: Adult American Indians who were placed in non-­ Indian families as children. Pathways, 74(1), 15. Mainville, B. (2010). Traditional Native culture and spirituality: A way of life that ­governs us. Indigenous Law Journal, 8(1), 1–6. Malcolm, S. (2007). Healing from intimate partner violence in a Northern Canadian ­Aboriginal context: A case study (Master’s Thesis). University of Alberta. Marsh, T., D. Coholic, S. Cote-Meek, and L. Najavits (2015). Blending Aboriginal and Western healing methods to treat Intergenerational trauma with substance use

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­disorder in Aboriginal peoples who live in Northeastern Ontario, Canada. Harm R ­ eduction Journal [open access]. Accessed: August 19, 2015. Martin, D. and E. Yurkovich (2014). “Close-knit” defines a healthy Native American ­Indian family. Journal of Family Nursing, 20(1), 51–72. Mawhiney, A.M. and H. Nabigon (2011). Aboriginal theory: A Cree Medicine Wheel guide for healing First Nations. In F.J. Turner (Ed.), Social work treatment: Interlocking theoretical approaches 5th ed. (pp. 15–29). New York: Oxford University Press. McCabe, G. (2008). Mind, body, emotions and spirit: Reaching to the ancestors for healing. Counselling Psychology Quarterly, 21(2), 143–152. McCormick, R. and J. Gerlitz (2009). Nature as healer: Aboriginal ways of healing through nature. Counselling and Spirituality, 28(1), 55–72. Naclia, B. (2009). Culturally-specific correctional programming: A qualitative analysis of the CSC program “In search of your warrior” (Master’s Thesis). University of Regina. Native Women’s Association of Canada (2009). Voices of our sisters in spirit, 2nd ed. ­Retrieved from http://nwac.ca/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/NWAC_Voices-of-Our -Sisters-InSpirit_2nd-Edition_March-2009.pdf. Accessed August 1, 2016. Neeganagwedgin, E. (2013). Ancestral knowledges, spirituality and Indigenous narratives as self-determination. Alternative: An International Journal of Indigenous Scholarship, 9(4), 322–334. Poonwassie, A. and A. Charter (2005). Aboriginal worldview of healing: Inclusion, blending and bridging. In R. Moodley and W. West (Eds.), Integrating traditional healing practices into counseling and psychotherapy (pp. 15–25). Sage Publications Ltd. Proulx, J. and S. Perrault (2000). The Ma Mawi Wi Chi Itata Stony Mountain project: Blending contemporary and traditional approaches for male family violence offenders. In J. Proulx and S. Perrault (Eds.) No place for violence: Canadian Aboriginal alternatives (pp. 99–115). Winnipeg, MB: Fernwood Publishing. Puchala, C., S. Paul, C. Kennedy, and L. Mehl-Madrona (2010). Using traditional spirituality to reduce domestic violence within Aboriginal communities. The Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine, 16(1), 89–96. Riel, E., S. Languedoc, J. Brown, and J. Gerrits (2016). Couples counseling for Aboriginal clients following intimate partner violence: Service providers’ perceptions of risk. International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology, 60(3), 286–307. Saunders, D.G. and R.M. Hamill (2003). Violence against women: Synthesis of research on offender intervention. Washington, DC: National Institute of Justice. Statistics Canada (2014). Victimization of Aboriginal people in Canada, 2014. Retrieved from http://www.statcan.gc.ca/daily-quotidien/160628/dq160628a-eng.htm. ­Accessed August 4, 2016.

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Statistics Canada (2009). Spousal violence among Aboriginal people. Retrieved from http://www.statcan.gc.ca/pub/89-645-x/2015001/victimization-victim. Accessed August 4, 2016. Tisdell, E. (2002). Spirituality and emancipatory adult education in women adult educators for social change. In S.B. Merriam (Ed.) Qualitative research in practice: ­Examples for discussion and analysis (pp. 62–92). San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Tseng, W. (2001). Culture and psychotherapy: An overview. In W. Tseng and J. Streltzer (Eds.) Culture and psychotherapy: A guide to clinical practice. Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Press. Waegemakers Schiff, J. and Pelech, W. The Sweat Lodge Ceremony for Spiritual Healing. Journal of Religion & Spirituality in Social Work: Social Thought, 26(4), 71–93. Waldram, J. (1994). Aboriginal spirituality: Symbolic healing in Canadian prisons. ­Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry, 17, 345–362. Walker, R., M. Lambert, P. Walker, & D. Kivlahan (1993). Treatment implications of ­comorbid psychopathology in American Indians and Alaska Natives. Culture, ­Medicine and Psychiatry, 16, 555–572. Warner, R. (1993). Work in progress toward a new paradigm for the sociological study of religion in the United States. American Journal of Sociology, 98(5), 1044–1093. Wesley-Esquimaux, C. and M. Smolewski (2004). Historic trauma and Aboriginal healing. Ottawa: Canadian Aboriginal Healing Foundation. Retrieved from http://www .ahf.ca/downloads/historic-trauma.pdf. Accessed August 1, 2016. Wihak, C. and N. Merali (2005). A narrative study of counsellors’ understandings of Inuit spirituality. Canadian Journal of Counselling/Revue canadienne de counseling, 39(4), 245–260. Yellow Horse Brave Heart, Maria (2003). The historical trauma response among Natives and its relationship with substance abuse: A Lakota illustration. Psychoactive Drugs, 35(1), 7–13. Zellerer, E. (2003). Culturally competent programs: The first family violence program for Aboriginal men in prison. The Prison Journal, 87(2), 171–190.

Chapter 7

“Guru Pedophiles”, Neo-Polygamists, and Predatory Prophets: Exploring the Sex Scandals and Abuse Allegations Concerning “Cults”/nrms, 1993–2017 Susan J. Palmer

Introduction

This chapter explores the recent proliferation of media reports and c­ riminal trials focusing on the alleged sexual abuse of women, men, and minors by patriarchal spiritual leaders of small, unconventional new religious movements (nrms), known to the public via the media as “cults” (Palmer and Hardman, 1999; Beckford, 2004; Richardson, 2007). The pedophilia scandal in the Catholic Church has been documented and widely discussed (Jenkins, 1996; Boston Globe, 2002), but a comprehensive survey and d­ iscussion of the sex scandals involving charismatic prophets of nrms has yet to be ­accomplished. There has been a noticeable increase over the last 30 years of news reports and court records concerning charismatic prophets (“cult leaders”) of new religions who have been accused of sexual misdemeanors or crimes (Hatch, 2016). But aside from one scholarly study of “clergy ­malfeasance” in new religions by sociologist Anson Shupe (1998) and several studies of specific notorious “cult leaders”, all that is available on this topic are personal memoires and the value-laden diatribes on sexual predators in anticult literature (Malcairne and Burchard, 1992; Singer and Lalich, 1995). This study seeks to provide an overview of this enigmatic phenomenon by compiling a list of cases, distinguishing between various forms of alleged abuse, and crafting a typology of sexual predator prophets in nrms. Next, it examines the sources of conflict and the social context of these controversies. Finally, it addresses the issue of justice and weighs two conflicting imperatives: (1) The imperative to control and punish “clergy malfeasance” (Shupe, 1998) to protect children and vulnerable disciples; (2) The imperative to respect the right for the presumption of innocence— even if the accused is a despised, heterodox “cult leader”.

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The Nature of the Complaints and Problems of Evidence

New Religious Movements (nrms) have a longstanding history of conflict with society. Dubbed as “cults” in the media, they tend to be viewed with suspicion by secular authorities and leaders of mainstream religions. The characteristic features of nrms—their strange practices, heretical beliefs, unconventional economic patterns and the extravagant charismatic claims of their founderprophets—have contributed to their controversial status (Beckford, 1984). When complaints are made about “cults”, however, they are usually by family members, for the social organization of many nrms provide a new model of family life, if a fictive one. Male and female disciples become “brothers” and “sisters”, and when their intense devotion to their fictive “father” or “mother”, the spiritual master or mistress, interferes with biological family ties, formal complaints, lawsuits, custody battles and negative media reports will result. The fierce rivalry between the bereft parents and the charismatic gurus over their adult children’s affections, new radical lifestyle, and future prospects is reflected in the stereotypical portraits of “cult leaders” as ruthless con artists, as schizophrenic megalomaniacs, or as exploitative psychopaths abound in the media and in anticult literature. The allegations, rumours, and formal charges against these holy men range from the sexual exploitation of female disciples, to child molestation, to arranging forced underage polygamous marriages (Derocher, 2008). More recently, there have been complaints against homosexual spiritual masters who have forced young “straight” male disciples into homoerotic relationships. Holy Hell, a 2016 documentary by Will Allen describes his seductive gay guru, “Michel” of the Buddhafield; also, the 2017 scandal surrounding 91-year-old Dennis Lingwood, founder of Friends of the Western Buddhist Order, whose former disciples complained he had created an esoteric spiritual path that required heterosexual “deconditioning” by one’s roshi (Doward, 2017). Many venerable swamis, roshis, or gurus, now in their eighties and n ­ ineties, have recently found themselves confronted by alleged victims from their past. Even deceased holy men are targets of posthumous allegations of sexual misconduct, as for example Hindu spiritual masters Muktananda, Sri Sathya Sai Baba, and Krishnamurti (Balfour-Clarke, 1977). Most of the victims tend to voice their complaints years after the abuse, which raises problems of credibility and evidence. The progress of these allegations moves from rumours, to scandals in the media, to police reports, to civil or criminal lawsuits, to convictions or dismissals. Some nrm leaders, branded as child abusers in the mass media and

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documentary films, were never formally charged. David Koresh has been described as a child abuser, but his sexual initiations of child brides were with the ­parents’ consent and an investigation of the Branch Davidian children by social services found no evidence of abuse. David Brandt Berg of the Children of God/ The Family was wanted by Interpol, but he lived in a secret location (“selah”) and was never arrested (Bainbridge, 2002). Those cases that do go to court have varied results. Some prophets are convicted with draconian sentences—even multiple life terms in solitary confinement in maximum security prisons (e.g. Warren Jeffs and Dr. Malachi York). Several convicted prophets have escaped prison by fleeing to distant countries (Lucien Engelmajer, William Norman, Robert Spatz, Prakashanand Saraswati). Other leaders find their charges dismissed (e.g. Quebec’s mystical pope, Pope Gregory xvii; and France’s Hamsah Manarah of Mandarom). Many nrm leaders have (or still are) weathering longdrawn-out legal battles, like Robert Spatz (“Lama Kunzang Dorjé” of Ogyen Kunzang Chöling). Some cases have dragged on so long, with appeals and postponements, that the accused prophet dies before a verdict can be rendered. A major problem arising in the trials is how to assess the veracity of the allegations. Rape and sexual molestation are usually furtive, clandestine ­actions. In many cases there is no forensic evidence and are no reliable witnesses, other than the alleged victims themselves. If the victims refer to an event that ­occurred a decade or more ago, allegations might be difficult to prove, or may be inadmissible in court. For the researcher, it is often difficult, even impossible, to access the basic facts (Strong-Boaz, 1982). To protect minors, the court files are often sealed, as in the case of Nuwaubian leader, Dwight York (Palmer, 2010). Often the child victims do not appear in court, but videos of their statements are played for the jury, which does not allow for cross examinations by the defense. The media will often muddy the waters by publishing interviews with alleged victims before the accused goes to trial, thereby compromising the accused man’s right to the presumption of innocence. In the case of Dwight (“Dr. Malachi”) York, the judge was forced to order a change of venue, due to a tainted jury pool (Palmer, 2010). There are also cases where the accused has openly confessed to his guilt and transgressions, and even apologized for the harm he has done to people. Prophets may broadcast their new revelations that include taboo-breaking sexual regimens to be imposed on their followers (e.g. David Koresh, David Brant Berg, Winnifred Barton). Often the prophet’s own sexually deviant ­behavior will be rationalized post facto in religious terms: as following God’s mandate as received in revelation, as a necessary step in millennial preparation, or as a teaching device to rid disciples of their social conditioning and attachment to ego. To add to the confusion, there may be ambiguity in the term “statutory rape” or in what constitutes a “minor”. In 1890 in Canada the age of consent

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was raised from 12 to 14. Today it is 16. In the us the ages of consent for sexual activity vary by jurisdiction. Today, most states in the us set their limits between 16 and 18. In Mormon territory it has been deliberately raised—in Texas from 14 to 17, and in Utah from 14 to 18. Most “Fundamentalist” (i.e. polygamous) Mormon communities, who do not allow newspapers or television, were unaware of changes in the law until they experienced government raids (Jacobson & Burton, 2011). In Dwight York’s case, one plaintiff was not certain the sexual act occurred on the day before or after her 16th birthday, which raised the question of whether she was a victim of statutory rape or a consenting adult (Palmer, 2010). But even when charges are dismissed due to a lack of evidence, just the fact of having been accused results in loss and shame for the prophet, his organization, and his innocent followers.

The “Guru Pedophile” as the New “Folk Devil”

A new label for controversial cult leaders has emerged in France since the mid1990s; that of the gourou pédophile. This term is widely used in the French mass media, conveying the notion that most modern heterodox mystics are secret pedophiles. Many news articles imply that all “cult leaders” fit the psychological profile of the pedophile, and tend to lump any form of sexual deviancy, when perpetrated by charismatic leaders, as a sort of proto-pedophilia. If one types the term, “gourou pédophile”, into Google, about 324,000 results pop up. But if one researches the biographies and hagiographies of nrm leaders, one discovers they are not all pedophiles. In fact, they fail to conform to one prototype, in terms of sexual orientation or marital lifestyle. Some are devoted monogamists (Guy and Edna Ballard of I am; Ernest and Ruth Norman of Unarius), others are serial monogamists (Elizabeth Clare Prophet of Church Universal and Triumphant) or seemingly happily-married polygamists (Ben Ammi, Joseph Smith). We find stern misogynists (Eugène Richer dit Laflèche and Emmanuel Robitaille) and eschatological feminists (Dada Lekhraj, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh and Raël) or promiscuous womanizers (David Brandt Berg, Da Free John). One finds a wide range of sexual lifestyles: ascetic celibates (Swami Prabhupada), celibacy-in-marriage (Brahmakumaris, the Institute of Metaphysics), “outed” and practicing homosexuals with long-term partners (Juliano Verbard; Claude David), closet homosexuals (Michel of the Buddhafield), and even a celibate homosexual castrato (Herff Applewhite). Thus, the mass m ­ edia’s stereotypical portrait of the contemporary patriarchal “cult leader” who sexually exploits his followers to feed his monstrous ego would appear to be unrealistic.

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Our 21st century Western secular culture has fostered a tolerance for diverse forms of marriage and sexual expression, considered to be socially and morally deviant just 70 years ago—and yet we have zero tolerance for sexual relations between adults and minors. The topic of pedophilia evokes strong emotions and deep revulsions. There is certain miasma around the topic so that even to speak or write about it (as I am doing now) would generally be considered to be indubious taste. And when this particular crime is perpetrated by a clergyman or holy men, the unsavory flavor of blasphemy is added. Below (see Table 7.1) is a chart showing a list of cases: 23 nrm leaders found guilty of child molestation charges, between 2002 and 2012. Much vital ­information is missing concerning these cases, but we find that quite discrete

Table 7.1

nrm leaders convicted on child molestation-related charges, 1993-2013

Name of leader/nrm

Year

Place

Ken Dyers/ Kenya Ivon Shearing/ Kabalarian Philosophy Guy-Claude Burger/ Instinctotherapy Israyl Hawkins/ House of Yahweh William Kamm (Little Pebble) Dwight York (Dr. Malachi Z York)/ United Nuwaubian Nation Frère Pierre-Etienne Albert/ Communauté des Beautitudes Claude David/ Les Gens de Bernard Lucien Engelmajer/ Dianova Tony Alamo/ Tony Alamo Christian Ministries Wayne Bent/ Lord Our Righteousness Church Brian David Mitchell/ Self-styled Mormon prophet Rev. Daniel Cormier/ Église du centre-ville

1993

Australia

1997

Vancouver, Canada

2001

France

2005 2005

Texas, usa Australia

2005

Georgia, usa

2007 2007 2007

France Toulouse, France France

2008

Arkansas, usa

2008

New Mexico, usa

2009

Utah, usa

2009

Montreal, Canada

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Table 7.1 nrm leaders convicted on child molestation-related charges, 1993-2013

Name of leader/nrm Ulrich Schultz (Oliver Shanti)/ Casal San José Robert Patrick Bernard/ une secte familiale Robert Le Dinh, dit Tang. Christian mystical group Warren Steed Jeffs, flds Prophet/ Yearning for Zion Prakashanand Saraswati (Shree Swamiji)/Barsana Dham Colin Batley/ Black Magic Cult Frère Aldo/ Eglise apostolique Terrill Dalton (Holy Ghost)/ Church of the First Born and the General Assembly of Heaven Sean O’Neil/ Hare Krishna schismatic

Year

Place

2009

Germany/Portugal

2009

France

2010

France

2011

Texas, usa

2011 2011 2011

Texas, usa Wales, uk Brazil

2012

Utah, us

2013

Valbonne, France

and varied scenarios fall under the same rubric, as the depredations of the “guru pedophile”.

A Short History of the Discussion

In the mid-to-late 1980s, what became known as the “Satanic Panic” (Victor, 1993) or “Satanic cult threat” (Bromley, 1991) resulted in awareness of the unreliability of children’s testimonies and the prejudicial nature of techniques of questioning children, as well as of the “rumor effect” (Richardson, 1999). Between 1987 and 1990 it was publicly acknowledged that popular hysteria, false rumours and allegations had delayed justice in the cases of the McMartin preschool trial and the Hamilton, Ontario policeman accused by his own foster child (Eberle, 2003). This “panic” was echoed in a series of militarized raids in the early 1990s on a new religious movement, known as the Children of God or The Family, in Australia, France, Argentina, and Spain. Over 600 children were inspected by doctors, psychologists, and social workers and in every case no evidence

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of abuse was found. The charges were dismissed and children were returned to the community—although there was compelling evidence that sex between minors and adults had been encouraged in the Children of God throughout the 1980s (Duymaer van Eck, 2015). Two major events occurred in French-speaking Europe in 1996 which set the stage for the “gourou pedophile” scare. In 1996 in Belgium there was the Marc Dutroux scandal: the kidnapping of little girls and their death in captivity. In 1996 the Guyard report on sectes in France published a list of unconventional spiritual associations, presumed dangerous. The Raelian Movement was on this list and, due to their enthusiastic celebration of polymorphous sex and public nudity, they were soon labeled in the media as “pedophiles”. They protested in vain, and finally got so tired of being labeled as pedophiles that in the late 1990s they founded nopedo, an association dedicated to warning Catholic parents against the depredations of Catholic priests. nopedo pointed to the double standard in attacking “cults” but not the Catholic Church. This predated (or perhaps prompted?) the scandal of pedophile priests that started to break in 2000. In France the word gourou has quite a different meaning from the honorific Sanskrit term, sadguru (“teacher of truth”). Today it means a cult associated with deviant behavior that may include fraud, abus de faiblesse, medical ­neglect, and pedophilia. When children in France call each other “pedo” in the playground, it means “homosexual”. Pedophilia is defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders as “paraphilia involving intense and recurrent sexual urges towards/fantasies about prepubescent children”. Most of the accused “gurus” in this study do not fit the psychological profile of a pedophile. Many prophets of nrms have been investigated by police and social services in response to allegations of sex abuse of minors, but were never formally charged. Norman William, the “soi-disant Micmac chief” of Ecoovie received complaints concerning his initiations of pre-pubescent boys that allegedly contained a sexual element (Deliège and Brewaeys, 1990). Juliano Verbard, the mystic and leader of Coeur douloureux et immaculé de Marie on the French island of La Réunion, acting on orders from the Virgin Marie, kidnapped a twelve-year-old boy in 2004. Sexual molestation was suspected but in the end he was convicted of kidnapping and contempt of court. Based on the list of prophets in table 7.1, I have created a typology that reflects the different motivations and situations of the accused. Only three fit the psychological description of a “pedophile” and some leaders fit two or more types.

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Table 7.2 Typology of the “Guru-Pedophile”

The Self-Confessed Pedophile

The Traditional Polygamist

The Lapsed Monk

Little Pebble Daniel Cormier David Mitchell David Koresh Albert

Warren Jeffs Malachi York Tony Alamo Israyl Hawkins

Juliano Verbard iskcon teachers Prakashanand Saraswati Frère Pierre-Etienne

The Unwitting Target

The Sex Magician

Gilbert Bourdin Robert Spatz Michel Tremblay Dwight York

Colin Batley Ivon Shearing

The Undiscriminating Womanizer Yahweh Ben Yahwe Robert Le Dinh David Brandt Berg



The Self-Confessed Pedophile

The “Self-Confessed Pedophile” claims he received a divine mandate and bases his actions on an apocalyptic rationale. He views his sexual relationship with minors as a sacred form of marriage, and is driven by the divine mandate to beget a new race, or father the 24 Elders of Revelation. He leaves a trail of evidence in his letters, and in public speeches. Witnesses who heard his speeches and attended his rituals can attest to his deviant sexual mores. William Kamm (Little Pebble) is an apt example of the self-confessed pedophile. Estranged from his wife, Kamm prophesied her death in 1990 (to no avail). He announced a series of revelations that began on 1 December 1993 that God wanted him to establish a Royal House of David through his “mystical marriage” with 12 queens and 72 princesses (Webber, 2008, pp. 140–143). In Kamm’s eschatology, the queens signaled the restoration of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, and the 72 princesses would rule as monarchs in the millennium, under the new Trinity: Mary Queen of Heaven, Jesus, and Little Pebble. In a vision received on July 3, 1993, Kamm declared that Jesus had inserted into his body a “Holy Shining Thing”, a concept borrowed from the German mystic, Catherine Emmerich (1774–1824). Kamm claimed Jesus placed the hst “where

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the seed must come forth” and describes it as “six to eight inches long and ­containing luminous fluid” (Webber, 2008, p. 150). Kamm claimed the Virgin Mary had appeared to him to announce he was the “New Abraham”; destined to father seven new tribes, five clans and 72 nations through supernatural procreation. Kamm’s letters to his queens and princesses, and his diary entries, contain explicit sexual passages that were used as evidence in his prosecution. Kamm was found guilty in May 2007 of aggravated sexual assault on a 15-year-old girl. In October 2014 he was sentenced to five years in prison for multiple sexual attacks (Fiorenza, 2014).

The Traditional Polygamist

The Traditional Polygamist justifies plural marriage, referring to the examples of ancient prophets in the Old Testament, the Hebrew Bible, or the Qurʾan. These weddings to virgins are viewed as sacred and part of God’s Plan for the Millennium, or as essential to prepare for the prophet’s afterlife in Heaven. Procreation is the goal of marriage, and marriage and motherhood is considered a “one possibility thing” in terms of a meaningful life for women (Solomon, 2003; Bennion, 2008; Bramham, 2009). Warren Steed Jeffs, prophet and leader of the flds community, Yearning for Zion (yfz) in Eldorado Texas, was a traditional polygamist who inherited the mantle of “Prophet” from his father in a Mormon subculture that can be traced back seven generations (Bradley, 1993; Palmer and Perrin, 2004). After the 2008 raid on the yfz community, a cassette of recorded speeches by Jeffs was found in the temple that led to his conviction and life sentence for the rape of two 12-year-olds, both his plural wives. It is important to note that Jeffs was a sexual deviant within his own subculture. The recording proves he performed his sexual initiations (rape) in a group context. These girls should have remained virgin “spiritual wives” until they came of age, and group sex, in the temple or anywhere else, was unheard of in the flds and in Brigham Young’s “puritan polygamy” (Foster, 1981). Moreover, Jeffs was accused of sexually molesting his nephew, and homosexuality is considered an egregious sin in Mormon communities (Jessop & Brown, 2009). Neo-traditional polygamy is a common pattern found in Black Nationalist Moorish, Rastafarian, Hebrew, as well as the various Black Muslim communities in America where women past the age of puberty are eligible as plural wives (Palmer 2010). Fundamentalist Christian communal, millenarian churches like the House of Yahweh and the Tony Alamo Christian Ministries also base their rational for plural marriage in the Bible.

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The Sex Magician

For the Sex Magician, the sexually-charged manipulation of young virgins o­ ccurs within a ritual context. It is motivated by a magical intent to control spiritual forces, to access the magical powers latent in youth to assist in a ­magical process of rejuvenation or longevity, or the exorcism of evil spirits. The sexual union might be acted out on an altar, or it might be merely symbolic. Colin Batley, the magician who founded an Aleister Crowley-inspired thelemic magic circle in Llanelly, Wales, where children were molested in a ritual context of the black mass, appears to conform to this type (Nathan, 1991; Forest, 2014). Ivon Shearing, the second leader of the Kabalarians in Vancouver, British Columbia, was accused by his female disciples of sexually molesting them throughout their teen and adult years during his weekly exorcism s­ éances performed in darkness.

The Lapsed Monk

Lapsed monks might be married men, closet homosexuals, or celibate monks who break their vows. They do not practice what they preach, and are caught indulging in secret transgressions forbidden in their communities. The Lapsed Monk may justify his behavior by concocting new revelations or doctrines, and claim he is an exception to the rule. They often target children and teenagers, who are available as pupils and are structurally weak in the group. Elijah Muhammad of the Nation of Islam preached a strict message of monogamy and families values to his congregation, but secretly cohabited with and impregnated two of his teenaged secretaries, as Malcolm x recounts in his 1965 biography (X & Haley). When confronted, Elijah Muhammad rationalized his actions as a divine mandate to spread his seed. Reverend Moon of the Unification Church (as it was once called) presided over God-centered mass marriages that involved elaborate purity/cleansing rituals as the New Adam and Lord of the Second Advent. Secretly, however, he had sexual relations with three mistresses who bore him illegitimate children (never acknowledged). His mistresses were rationalized in religious terms as the “Three Marys”. The case of Swami Prakashanand Saraswati, a Hindu guru, appears at first glance to be a “lapsed monk” situation. Prakashanand, the founder of ­Barsana Dham, a huge temple project in Austin, Texas, was arrested in 2011, and an ­American court found him guilty of 20 counts of molesting minor girls. On closer examination, however, we find a clash of cultures, for sexual relations between

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the guru and female devotees was not unusual in his own ­Krishna-conscious Bhakti tradition. Prakashanand’s guru, Kripalu has been arrested for rape twice during his 60-year reign as one of India’s great spiritual leaders. Both gurus were believed to be avatars of Krishna, and their sexual touch was understood as prema dan (divine love). Female devotees of both ­gurus would be given private audiences and invited to worship Krishna through charan seva, a kind of massaging ritual which usually incorporated sexual touching. A former acolyte of Prakashanand recalled, “He was so cute in the bath, just like a child with his rubber duckies. He would invite the young girls to assist him in the bath. This was seen as lila or divine play. But then the girls would find out there was more in the water than just the duckies! In his teaching, sexuality will disappear if you meditated. The power of Krishna was so profound that desire and material attachments would disappear over time, divine grace takes over, so if illicit sex happens, don’t think about it, just keep meditating!” (Personal communication, May 2013).

The Undiscriminating Womanizer

For the Undiscriminating Womanizer sex is a gift from God, a positive force in the universe, and sexual freedom, polyamory, or “free love” is advocated or implied in his teachings. Celibacy and sexual fidelity have no value in his worldview, and he openly exhibits an attraction to human females, regardless of their age. Sex with underage girls is justified by examples of child brides of prophets found in other cultures, the Bible, and the ancient world. Often, his divine mission, as he understands it, is to help women experience sexual pleasure. David Brandt Berg, founder prophet of the Children of God (a.k.a. The Family), is a striking example of this type (Carney, 1993; Chancellor, 2000). Berg rebelled against his strict Disciples of Christ upbringing (“The Devil Hates Sex”) and received a revelation of the Law of Love, which was used to justify “Flirty Fishing”, an evangelical strategy whereby pretty women would offer their bodies to lonely men to demonstrate Jesus’ love. Berg’s own daughter, Deborah, and his granddaughter, Merry Berg, accused him of molesting them when they were children, but Berg’s sexual fantasies even extended to his own mother and grandmothers (Berg & Davis, 1984).

The Unwitting Target

In cases of the Unwitting Target, we often find the founder prophet of a nrm with a history of escalating conflict with its host society. One finds many points

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of past friction. These might include illegal weapons, zoning disputes around building projects, infringement of labour laws, tax fraud and evasion, medical neglect, and the illegal practice of medicine. In the midst of a legal struggle over an issue quite unconnected with sexual abuse, an ex-member will suddenly pop up to complain of an incident of rape or child molestation that happened ten or more years ago when he/she was still a minor. A dramatic arrest of the “cult leader” will follow, often amidst a militarized police raid gleefully captured by photojournalists. New charges will be “slapped on” opportunistically. This is the scenario we find in the cases of Hamsah Manarah, Dr. Malachi Z. York, Robert Spatz, and Pope Gregory xvii. Although previous allegations against these leaders were completely discrete and unconnected, once child molestation allegations are introduced, all evidences of deviance will be interwoven by the media in such a way as to conflate and amplify the alleged threat of abuse. This tactic results in a barrage of intertwined charges so that the ability of the accused to defend himself is impeded. An unwitting target is found in the example of Gilbert Bourdin (Hamsah Manarah), the messianic leader or “Cosmoplanetary Messiah” of the Holy City of Mandarom in the French Alps. There had already been a history of conflict and controversy, ever since Hamsah Manarah’s public 1990 coronation, and two police raids had already targeted Mandarom’s administration on charges of building violations and tax fraud. The purpose of the third raid, launched June 12, 1995, was to arrest Bourdin on charges of rape; allegations already broadcast through the mass media since 1993. A member’s daughter, Florence Roncaglia, had visited Mandarom briefly as a young girl. In 1995 she coauthored a book (Mandarom: Une Victime Temoigne) with journalist, Bernard Nicolas, who had become her boyfriend. In this she describes her alleged rape, among other crimes allegedly occurring at Mandarom. The sensational media reports that followed spurred the police to launch a raid (Palmer, 2011b). Hamsah Manarah and twenty-six disciples were arrested in the raid on June 12, 1995. A television crew filmed the raid against the backdrop of Mandarom’s unique architecture and statuary. Hamsah Manarah was dragged out of his Lotus Temple in handcuffs and taken away by the gendarmes in a police car—and these images ­appeared on television shows, magazines, and newspapers throughout France (Introvigne, 2004). Bourdin was released from prison after 18 days, on June 30, 1995. He had demanded the right to question his accuser face to face (an ancient legal right in France). When he asked Roncaglia if she had seen his naked body at the time of the alleged rape, she replied, “Yes”. Then he asked her if she had noticed any distinguishing marks on his body at the time. She said, “No, it was normal like any other man”. Then Hamsah Manarah slowly stood up in the court room and cast off the coverings of his upper robes, revealing garish tattoos of

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arcane symbols that covered every inch of his chest, belly, back and shoulders. The court was stunned. There was a long silence. Roncaglia’s credibility was in question, and Hamsah Manarah was soon released on bail. On November 17, 1995 the Tribunal de Grande Instance (tgi) de Nanterre condemned Roncaglia, her co-author, and her publisher for having produced a book that overturned a man’s “presumption of innocence”. The mass media ignored this potential news item, but Paris Match commented: “Bourdin may not have been guilty of the rape of young girls, but he was certainly guilty of having raped a mountain”. (Introvigne, 2004). Wayne Bent (a.k.a. Michael Travesser) is another example of the Unwitting Target. The messianic leader of the Lord Our Righteousness Church, an apocalyptic commune in New Mexico, he was sentenced in 2008 to ten years in prison for criminal sexual contact with a minor, and for contributing to the ­delinquency of a minor. In the trial it was established that he had lain in bed naked with two sisters, ages 14 and 16, in separate incidents in 2006 at his Strong City compound near Clayton, New Mexico. Moreover, his millenarian prophecies had included a vision of seven virgins who would be his consorts in the Millennium: “God told him to sleep with seven virgins to mark the destruction of the earth”. (Genzlinger 2008) . During his trial, Bent denied any wrongdoing or sexual motive, insisting he only placed his hands on the girls’ sternums, not their breasts, as part of a “spiritual cleansing” ritual. The two girls, members of the commune, supported his statements, explaining to the court that nothing sexual had transpired. The 14 year-old explained her voluntary action of reclining naked beside Bent (born in 1941) as a “religious healing experience” for her, with no sexual element. Since ritual nudity is a common feature found in religious rituals, it appears not unlikely they were telling the truth.

The Two Injustices

The cases described above speak of two kinds of injustice. The first is the exploitation and abuse of innocent children and teenagers by men in positions of spiritual power. Often the crime is difficult to detect and later to prove, due to the communal structure and sectarian nature of community and the loyalty of the charismatic prophet’s acolytes. The second kind of injustice is the willful destruction of the careers and reputations of innocent men who happen to be gifted mystics, spiritual leaders, and creative theologians and preach heterodox philosophies (Palmer, 1998). If, indeed, there is a high rate of sexual abuse occurring in nrms, perpetrated by charismatic leaders, this suggests that there might be certain social

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c­ onditions or internal factors found in some sectarian religious communities that foster the systemic sexual exploitation of vulnerable followers (Nilsson, 2016). Burke ­Rochford, in his insightful study of child abuse in the Hare Krishna movement (iskcon), analyzes the social conditions that contributed to the widespread physical, emotional, and sexual abuse of iskcon children who were separated from their parents and sent to live in the group’s boarding schools in the United States and India in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Rochford points to the children’s caregivers and teachers, who were young men, recent converts vowed to celibacy who had no training in educating children, and often ­resented what was regarded as a demeaning task in the movement (Rochford, 1998). Or is it the charismatic leaders themselves who share peculiar personality traits and power concerns that drive them to acts of domestic abuse in their fictive families (Eisenstadt, 1968; Lockwood Carden, 1970)? In this volume, Nason-Clark’s and Fisher-Townsend (in c­ hapters 5 and 6, respectively) have examined aspects of violent men’s family histories and social environments that may have resulted in domestic violence. Also, Fisher-Townsend has explored the negative impact of the history of colonialism on Aboriginal men who resort to violence. Lorne L. Dawson (2002) in his study of charismatic authority explores the ways in which the challenges to the (innately precarious) charismatic persona, and the mismanagement of charisma can lead to violent “solutions” in new religious movements. How can we explain the recurring frequency of abuse claims/charges leveled at “cult leaders” in North America and Europe? Is it the result of “moral panic” arising out of what Phillip Jenkins (2006) refers to as the “child saver” movement”? Or is it more simply a newfangled strategic weapon used by anticult groups to control unconventional religious minorities and to discredit their heterodox spiritual leaders? References Bainbridge, W.S. (2002). The endtime family: The Children of God. Albany: SUNY Press. Balfour-Clarke, R. (1977). The boyhood of J. Krishnamurti. New Delhi, India: Chetana Press. Beckford, J. (1984) Cult controversies: The societal response to new religious movements. London: Tavistock Publications. Bennion, J. (2008). Evaluating the effects of polygamy on women and children in four North American Mormon Fundamentalist groups. Lewiston, NY: The Edwin Mellen Press. Best, J. (1990). Threatened children: Rhetoric and concern about child-victims. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

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Bradley, M.S. (1993). Kidnapped from that land: The government raids on the Short Creek Polygamists. Salt Lake City: University of Utah. Bramham, D. (2009). The secret lives of saints: Child brides and lost boys in Canada’s polygamous Mormon sect. Toronto: Vintage Canada. Burke Rochford, Jr. (with J. Heinlein) (1998). Child abuse in the Hare Krishna movement: 1971–1986. ISKCON Communications Journal, 6(1), 41–69. Carney, T. (1993). Children of God; Harbingers of another (child law) reformation? Criminology Australia, 5, 2–5. Chancellor, J. (2000). Life in The Family: An oral history of the Children of God. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. Dawson, L.L. (2002) Crises in charismatic legitimacy and violent behavior in New Religious Movements. In David G. Bromley and J. Gordon Melton (Eds.), Cults, religion and violence (pp. 80–101). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Deliège, J-F. & P Brewaeys. (1990). Ecoovie: le mic-mac des services secrets. Bruxelles, Belgium: EPO. Derocher, L. (2008). Vivre son enfance au sein d’une secte religieuse. Comprendre pour mieux intervenir. Québec: Presses de l’Université du Québec. Doward, J (2017, February 19). Fears mount over scale of Buddhist sect sexual abuse. The Guardian. Retrieved from: https://www.theguardian.com. Eck Duymaer van Twist, A. (2015). Perfect children: Growing up on the religious fringe. New York: Oxford University Press, 2015. Ellison, C.G. & J.P. Bartkowski (1995). “Babies were being beaten”: Exploring child abuse allegations at Ranch Apocalypse. In Stuart A. Wright (Ed.), Armageddon in Waco (pp. 111–152). Chicago: University of Chicago. Eisenstadt. S.N. (1968). Max Weber on charisma and institution building. Chicago: University of Chicago. Father Jean de la Trinité and the Hidden Children of St. Jovite. (1971). St. Jovite, Quebec: Magnificat. Fiorenza, Bishop (2014, October 14) Letter from Bishop Fiorenza, “Judge punishes doomsday prophet”. The Age. AAP. Forest, A. (2014). The devil on the doorstep: My escape from a Satanic sex cult. London: Simon & Schuster. Foster, L. (1981). Religion and Sexuality: The Shakers, the Mormons, and the Oneida C ­ ommunity. New York: Oxford University Press. Genzlinger, N. (2008, May 7) New Mexico compound’s enraptured believers. New York Times. Introvigne, M. (2004) Holy mountains and anti-cult ecology: The Campaign against the Aumist Religion in France. In J.T. Richardson (Ed.) Regulating religion (pp. 73–84). New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Investigative Team of the Boston Globe. (2002). Betrayal: The crisis in the Catholic Church. Boston: Little, Brown & Co.

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Jenkins, P. (1996). Pedophiles and priests: Anatomy of a contemporary crisis. New York: Oxford University Press. Jenkins, P. (2006). Moral panic: Changing concepts of the child molester in modern A ­ merica. New Haven: Yale University Press. Jessop, F & P.T. Brown (2009). Church of lies. New York: Jossey-Bass. Hatch, J. (2016, November 28). Bikram Yoga creator loses it when asked about sexual assault allegations. Huffington Post. Lockwood Carden, M. (1970). Oneida: Utopian community to modern corporation. New York State Historical Association. Malcairne, V. & J.D. Burchard (1992). Investigations of child abuse/neglect Allegations in religious cults: A case study in Vermont. Behavioral Sciences and the Law, 10, 75–88. Nathan, D. (1991). Satanism and child molestation: Constructing the ritual abuse scare. In J.T. Richardson, J. Best, & D.G. Bromley (Eds.), The Satanism scare (pp. 75–94). New York: Aldine. Nilsson, S. (2016). Children in New Religions. In J.R. Lewis and I.B. Tollefsen (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of New Religious Movements, Volume II (pp. 248–263). New York: Oxford University Press. Palmer, D & D. Perrin (2004). Keep sweet: Children of polygamy. Vancouver: Dave’s Ores Inc. Palmer, S.J. (1998). Apostates and their role in the construction of grievance claims against the Northeast Kingdom/Messianic communities. In D.G. Bromley (Ed.), The politics of religious apostasy (pp. 191–208). Westport, CT: Praeger. Palmer, S.J. & C. Hardman (1999). Children in New Religions. New Brunswick, N.J.: ­Rutgers University. Palmer S.J. (2010). The Nuwaubian Nation: Black spirituality and state control. U.K.: ­Ashgate Publishing. Palmer, S.J. (2011). Rescuing children: Raids on religious communities. In S.A. Wright & J.T. Richardson (Eds.), Saints under siege: The Texas state raid on the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints. New York: New York University Press. Palmer, S.J. (2011b). The new heretics of France: Minority religions, la République, and the government-sponsored “War on Sects”. New York: Oxford University Press. Perry, B.D. (1994). Destructive childrearing practices by the Children of God. (Report to the Health and Community Services, Melbourne, Australia, March 28). Richardson, J.T. (1999) Social control of New Religions: From “brainwashing” claims to child sex abuse allegations. In S. Palmer & C. Hardman (Eds.), C ­ hildren in New Religions (pp. 172–186). New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press. Richardson, J.T. & M. Introvigne (2007). New Religious Movements, countermovements, moral panics, and the media. In D.G. Bromley (Ed.), Teaching New Religious Movements (pp. 91–114). New York: Oxford. Richardson, J.T., J. Best, & D.G. Bromley (1991). The Satanism scare. New York: Aldine.

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Rochford, E.B. (1998). Child abuse in the Hare Krishna movement: 1971–1986. ISKCON Communications Journal, 6(2), 64–67. Rochford, E.B. (2007). Hare Krishna transformed. New York: NYU Press. Roncaglia, F., and B. Nicolas (1995). Mandarom: Une Victime Temoigne. Paris: TFI Editions. Shupe, A. (1998). Wolves within the fold: Religious leadership and abuses of power. ­Rutgers University Press. Singer, M.T. & J. Lalich (1995). Cults in our midst: The continuing fight against their hidden menace: New York: Jossey-Bass. Soloman, D.A. (2003). Daughter of the Saints: Growing up in polygamy. New York. W.W.W. Norton & Company. Strong-Boag, V. (1982). Intruders in the nursery: Childcare professionals reshape the years one to five, 1920–40. In Joy Parr (Ed.), Childhood and family in Canadian history (pp. 160–178). Toronto: McClelland and Stewart Ltd. Victor, J.S. (1993). Satanic Panic: The Creation of a Contemporary Legend. Chicago: Open Court. Webber, G. (2008). A Wolf Among the Sheep: The Little Pebble. Tomerong, NSW: KeyStone Press. X, M. and A. Haley. (1965). The autobiography of Malcolm X. New York: Random House. Zelizer, V.A. (1985). Pricing the priceless child: The changing social value of children. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Part 3 Family Violence, Religion, and Legal Pluralism

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Chapter 8

The Legal Status of Muslim Women in Israel Undergoing the Experience of Divorce: Static or Dynamic? Pascale Fournier and Victoria Snyers

Introduction

The chapter deals with the legal status of Muslim women in Israel going through the experience of divorce, through the question of the role and impact of religious norms in civil society on their relationship with the law. More precisely, it explores the static and dynamic nature of the legal status of Muslim women in Israel, whose situation is very unique from a national, historical, and geographical perspective (Rouhana, 2006, p. 1). Indeed, after the war and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, Palestinian citizens who had not left their birthplace became an ethnic and national minority in an exclusively Jewish state (Rouhana, 2006, p. 1; Dieckhoff, 2005, pp. 69–80). The Palestinian minority in Israel is divided into three religious communities: Muslim, Christian, and Druze. In Israel, there is no separation between religion and the State (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2). Jews—unlike individuals from Israel’s religious minorities—automatically receive Israeli citizenship, no matter where they are from (Dieckhoff, 2005, pp. 69–80). Moreover, marriage and divorce cases are under the exclusive jurisdiction of courts and tribunals specific to each religious group, which judge these cases according to their own religious law (Jewish, Muslim, Christian, or Druze) (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2; S. Shiloh, 1970. p. 479; Triger, 2014, p. 1096). Consequently, civil divorce and marriage do not exist, and Muslim women must appear ­before a Sharia tribunal (the Islamic tribunal) when there is a dispute ­concerning divorce (Benbassa, 2007, pp. 13–14). On the other hand, civil courts can be addressed for all other matters relating to personal status or if there are ­matters accessory to the divorce (e.g., alimony, custody, etc.) (Benbassa, 2007, pp. 13–14; Halperin-Kaddari, 2004, pp. 233–258). Hence, Muslim women undergoing the experience of divorce in Israel inevitably find themselves in a situation where religious norms and civil laws are intertwined. Although this chapter focuses on the situation of Muslim women in Israel, we should point out that women in Israel who belong to the country’s other religious minorities ­(Christian © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_010

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and Druze) are equally subject to the challenges of this two-tiered legal system. In general, in Western countries, we tend to perceive the market and the family as two separate spheres (Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 7). Thus, debates usually oppose two schools of thought. On one hand, there are those who believe that the state should respect the principle of multiculturalism and must not intervene in the area of religious law, which belongs to the private sphere of f­amily. On the other hand are those who perceive religious law as a form of oppression towards women which can be countered by the intervention of the state, through the application of secular laws imposing respect for gender equality (Fournier, 2012, p. 2). However, in the case of marriage and divorce in Israel, religion is the law. The boundaries between the spheres are blurred or non-existent. It is not a matter of belonging to a religion and having strong beliefs in it or not, because religious affiliation is a sine qua non condition for accessing the fundamental rights of marriage and divorce. In this context, ­being affiliated with a religion has ipso facto substantial consequences for an individual in the areas of personal and family law. Religious laws have been shown by numerous authors to be discriminatory against women (Benbassa, 2007, p. 13; Freeman, 2003, p. 66). This is why ­certain authors argue that religious women in the West are in an advantageous ­position, since they can choose the route of civil marriage as an alternative to religious marriage (Freeman, 2003, p. 66). This is what leads them to promote the introduction of civil marriage into Israel (Freeman, 2003, p. 66; ­Shifman, 1986, p. 50; Choudhury, 2009, p. 159; Moller Okin, 1998, pp. 33–52). This discourse presents matters which are governed by civil law as having been ­“conquered” by secular law, overcoming religious laws and “coming to the aid” of oppressed women (Shifman, 1986, pp.  501–506). Marsha Freeman (2003, p. 71) explains that: Israel is not the only country that requires its citizens to choose between marrying under a religious regime and foregoing formal marriage ­entirely. But this is the only democratic state in which the law does not provide a nonreligious alternative. Providing for civil marriage and divorce would allow Israelis to marry according to their conscience, in accordance with fundamental human rights principles. The lack of provision for civil marriage prevents Israelis from marrying across religious lines. We will weigh these allegations by analyzing the concrete impact of the way religious and civil laws are intertwined for Muslim women in Israel. Our analysis will be supported by a discussion of a field study conducted in Israel

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with six Muslim women who have undergone the experience of a divorce.1 These women, from different socio-economic backgrounds, are between 23 and 46 years of age. Some of them have jobs; others are unemployed. The interviews, which lasted between one and two hours, concentrated on the ­subject of divorce and its implications. They also touched on topics such as the relationship of the women with their religious communities and families, woman’s health and wellbeing, and the strength of their affiliation with their religion. Despite the fact that the interviews do not represent an exhaustive sample, they provide insight into the unique situation of Muslim women in Israel, who are more likely to suffer simultaneously from oppression based on gender and race, similar to racialized women in the American context. The work of Kimberlé Crenshaw on intersectionality (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1243) makes it possible to incorporate intersectional theory into our analysis—even though it obviously originated and gained attention in a very different geographical context—because the combination of factors of oppression experienced by Muslim women is similar to the situation of Black women in the United States (Kathy Davis, 2008, p. 70). In the first part of this article we will elaborate on the specific situation in which the Muslim women we interviewed found themselves in terms of their relationship with religion within the state. As one interviewee states in her comments below, their experience as women is profoundly shaped by the fact that they undergo a “double discrimination” (Herzog, 1999, pp. 344–369): first, at the national level, by the segregationist policy of the Israeli government which divides Israel’s population based on ethnic and sectarian stigmatization (Section 1); second, at the local level, by the patriarchal structures of their religion (Freeman, 2003, p. 62) (Section 2). Woman #4: …we are victims of the society we are from and of the state where we live. So it’s really hard! So all the other related problems (jobs, transportation, empowerment, woman’s autonomy) come down to that. It’s the role of the state to deal with this issue, but the state doesn’t do anything…

1 This project has been approved by the Office of Research Ethics and Integrity of the ­University of Ottawa. The study was conducted by Dr. Fournier’s research team in 2012. We are particularly grateful to Sahar Gahadhban, who travelled to Israel in order to interview these women.

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Next, we will show that, despite the extent to which the Muslim women in ­Israel we interviewed feel excluded from civil law and seem to be confined to unequal conditions in the religious sphere, their status is not static. Indeed, some of them benefit from family support as a resource and an academic/intellectual education (Section 3), while others benefit from an alternative model offered by the Jewish civil law system (Section 4) and the influence of contemporary ideas (Section 5) that destabilize the traditional thinking the women resist. 1

Ethnic and Sectarian Stigmatization: The Relationship between State and Religion, A Two-Tiered Legal System, and Religious and Citizenship Formation

The women we met face a first level of discrimination, that of the segregationist policy of the Israeli government, which divides the population of Israel into groups based on ethnic and sectarian segregation. Presenting Israel as the homeland of the Jewish population, the primary concern of Zionism in 1948 was to ensure that the Jewish population was an ethno-demographic majority (Santos, 2013, p. 514). This necessity is reflected in the policy of the State of Israel which governs law and religion in a way that erases the boundaries between the two, has created a system that legitimizes differential treatment among the different religious and ethnic communities of which it is composed (Triger, 2014, p. 1096). Such a strategy is flagrant in the policy of conferring citizenship. All Jews, regardless of their country of origin, automatically receive Israeli citizenship (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2). On the other hand, non-Jewish Israelis (essentially those affiliated with the Muslim, Christian, and Druze religious groups) do not benefit de facto from a citizenship that guarantees unalterable privileges; their ­citizenship status is constantly subject to negotiation (Santos, 2013, p. 517). On this point, Zvi Triger (2014, p. 1096) points out: The question of religious affiliation, known also in Israeli politics as the “Who is a Jew?” debate, is central to the maintenance of segregation between religious and ethnic communities in the country. This segregation, facilitated by the religious marriage regime, was viewed in the early 1950s by the Knesset—the Israeli parliament—as necessary in the wake of the Holocaust and the murder of 6 million Jews by the Nazis and their allies. It was considered a means to revive the Jewish people by avoiding

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a­ ssimilation through marriage. It also stemmed from the view that being a Jew is not only a matter of religion, but also a matter of ethnic identity as well as of national identity. As a result, citizenship necessarily has a direct link to the majority religion, Judaism (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2; Dieckhoff, 2005, pp. 69–80). It is not the ius soli (right of soil) principle that is the foundation of Israeli citizenship laws, but rather that of ius sanguinis (right of blood) (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2). On this ­subject, Hoda Rouhana (2006, p. 8) notes [translated from French]: The plurality of Arab religious legal authorities is part of the state’s plan: it allows people to perceive the Palestinian national minority as a series of religious minorities. In this way, the state emphasizes the religious identity of Palestinian citizens, while avoiding the construction of a common platform for all, and in particular for the women who probably have more of a stake in contesting family law matters. In support of this argument, Madalena Santos (2013, pp. 514–518) argues: Through complex legal and religious structural systems and institutionalized practices, Israel’s division between Palestinians and Jewish Israelis establishes differential racialized categories based on ethnic and religious groupings…. To ensure the whiteness of the state and quell the potential for Palestinian nationalist sentiment and struggle, Israel has further ruptured and fragmented the Palestinian population within ’48 through the construction of racialized citizenship and civil rights categories based on ethnoreligious divisions. The hierarchical positioning of Palestinian Arabs into separate groupings as Druze, Bedouin, Christian, and Muslim facilitates the promulgation of what Rhoda Ann Kanaaneh (2009, p. 10) refers to as a “good” versus “bad” Arab stereotype.2 2 Santos, 2013, p. 514–518 : “In contrast to other ethno-religious Palestinian groups, Druze males—as “good Arabs” or in Ong’s sense “whiter Arabs”—are conscripted into the Israeli military due to their historical relationship with Zionist forces. Prior to and during al Nakba, the Druze built alliances with “non-Arab and non-Sunni-Muslim communities against Arab nationalism” (Kanaaneh 2009:10). Bedouins, who also have a history of ­collaboration with Zionists during 1948, albeit on a much smaller scale, are not required but may voluntarily enter the Israeli security apparatus. Some “friendly [Bedouin] tribes” (Kanaaneh 2009:12; Sa’di 2011:20) are actively encouraged by Israel to enter military service based on common state ­interests which places them second only to the Druze in the state’s

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This process of “Judaization” is reflected in the “Law of Return” and the “­Absentees’ Property Law” (Santos, 2013, p. 515). The Law of Return automatically confers Israeli nationality and citizenship on any Jewish person who ­immigrates to Israel, while the Absentees’ Property Law prohibits the restoration of property to Palestinian Arabs who have been forced to leave their homes (or their homeland, if we are talking about Palestine in a general sense) during the al Nakba (the Palestinian exodus in 1948) (Santos, 2013:, p. 515). Considered absentees, their houses, land, and possessions were confiscated, even if they were simply forced to move within the territory where they lived (in this case, the term present absentee is used) (Santos, 2013, p. 515). Furthermore, as well as subjugating citizenship to sectarian affiliation, the State of Israel has, in a sense, “abandoned” an essential aspect of personal status, surrendering these matters to religious laws and to the absolute power of religious courts (­Rouhana, 2006, p. 8; Freeman, 2003, p. 25). Thus, civil marriage and divorce do not exist in Israel (Freeman, 2003, pp. 64–65). Only certain matters related to marriage, such as custody of the children and alimony payments, are dealt with by civil courts. In other words, an individual’s personal status is determined by a tangled combination of civil laws (apparently equal) and religious laws (more often than not explicitly unequal). In addition, marriage—a fundamental right—is subordinated to religious affiliation (Benbassa, 2007, p. 14), which results in this right ­being transformed into a privilege conditional on being religious. Certain people are, then, obligated to join a particular religion not because of their convictions but because of constraint (Rouhana, 2006, p. 7). This violates the principle of ­freedom of religion, according to which individuals have the freedom to choose to associate or not with a religion (Freeman, 2003, p. 70). This Muslim woman describes the inevitability of religious marriage, an obligatory step whether one shares the beliefs of a religion or does not: Researcher: So, although you aren’t religious, you had a religious marriage? Woman #2: It’s “technically” a religious marriage, because there is no alternative in Israel… He asked for me in “obedience” before a religious court. Yes, because, as you know, there is a religious and a civil court here ethno-religious ­hierarchical ranking. Like Bedouins, Christians and Muslims are also not obligated to p ­ articipate in the military and can enter the security apparatus only through volunteerism; however, based on their ethno-religious position they are viewed with increasing degrees of suspicion on the part of Jewish Israelis (Kanaaneh 2009:62–67; Sa’di 2011). On the Zionist scale of whiteness, Muslims in ’48 come last and are seen as closest to their racialized counterparts in the Occupied Palestinian Territories.”

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in Israel. The religious court deals with divorce and trials, and the civil court deals with custody of the children. Before 2001, the entire spectrum of matters relating to personal status fell ­ nder the exclusive jurisdiction of religious courts. In 2001, the Knesset (­Israeli u parliament) modified the law in order to invest new civil courts with the ­power to rule over any matter dealing with the personal status of Muslims and Christians, with the exception of their marriage and divorce, which ­remained under the exclusive jurisdiction of religious courts (Rouhana, 2006, p. 3; Triger, 2014, pp. 1092–1096). Consequently, except for matters that exclusively ­concern d­ ivorce and marriage, Muslim men and women can choose to bring their ­disputes to the state court for family matters and, in so doing, benefit from laws favourable to the equality of men and women enacted by the Israeli ­parliament (Rouhana, 2006, p. 2; Benbassa, 2007, p. 13).3 We can summarize the situation as follows. Although the personal and ­family status of an individual is subject to civil laws which attempt to ­formally ­establish gender equality, matters of marriage and divorce remain under the exclusive jurisdiction of religious courts, the laws of which place more ­emphasis on the complementarity of the roles of men and women than on the equality between the sexes (Benbassa, 2007, p. 13; Freeman, 2003, p. 66). Marsha ­Freeman argues in this regard: In its traditional forms, Islamic family law, like Jewish law, is ­inherently unequal. Islam permits polygamy, allowing a man to have up to four wives; women are entitled to inherit from their parents only half of what their brothers inherit, and men can divorce their wives by pronouncing the talaq (a statement of divorce) without grounds, while women must apply to a religious court and establish grounds for divorce”. freeman, 2003, p. 66

Similarly, Zvi Triger states: “Another consequence of the religious monopoly over marriage and divorce is related to women’s status. All major religions are patriarchal, and, therefore, all religious family laws discriminate against women.” (Triger, 2014, p. 1094). Ruth Halperin-Kaddari (2004, p. 227) confirms that “Religious laws are generally traditional and patriarchal in nature, and a common feature to most of these systems is their prejudiced perceptions of

3 It is important to note, however, that in actual fact, these laws have been difficult to apply and their effectiveness has been weak.

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women’s nature and role, which leads to discriminatory treatment of women in these matters.” Furthermore, claims have been made that efforts of the states to adopt laws fostering gender equality are hindered by a refusal to impose prohibitions on discrimination by religious courts. Indeed, the Israeli government entered a reservation in respect to Article 16 of the cedaw, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women4 of the United Nations (Article 16 concerns marriage and family life) (Freeman, 2003, pp. 57–59). ­According to certain Palestinian feminists, this confusion between law and religion camouflaged as a “positive acknowledgement” of cultural diversity in a democratic state is, in reality, nothing more than a political instrumentalization of religion to divide the Palestinian community (Balchin, 2016, p. 19). Indeed, the fact that the Israeli state maintains differential treatment in family law matters means that, not only are “mixed” marriages impossible (Rouhana, 2006, p. 7), but also, because of differences in the access to rights and privileges, Jews and non-Jewish minorities tend to live separately: children go to different schools, and social life is entirely organized around one’s ethnic and sectarian origin (Santos, 2013, pp. 515–516). 2

Sexual Stigmatization: Patriarchal Society, Role of Women, and Social Stigmatization

The segregationist policy of the Israeli government results in a division of the population of Israel into different religious communities, with the Jewish community predominating. Superimposed on the ethnic and sectarian stigmatization is the sexual stigmatization to which Palestinian Muslim women may be exposed to within their communities. One woman we interviewed described the double discrimination Palestinian women experience this way: Woman #4: In general, there is an injustice committed against women in religious courts, but also within Israeli society. It applies to Palestinians in general, and to women in particular.

4 Adopted on December 18, 1979, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, sets out in Article 16: “States Parties shall take all appropriate measures to eliminate discrimination against women in all matters relating to marriage and family relations and in particular shall ensure, on a basis of equality of men and women” the same rights and responsibilities regarding marriage and divorce.

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In Palestinian society, men play the role of providers for women, i.e., “the ones who protect women and provide” for their needs (Rouhana, 2006, p. 5). As for women, their role consists of passing on religious traditions and responsibility for the sphere of production and reproduction of the hamûlah (family in a broad sense) (Pirinoli, 2007, p. 75). In fact, one of the women we interviewed commented: Woman #1: But it would be a lie if I told you that things are good since I’ve been alone. Any woman who says that is lying. A woman is still a woman. A man is still a man. Men help women. They are their providers. Moreover, since women are required to protect traditions and the family, they often carry the weight of the failure of the marriage when they divorce, and can easily be seen as unfit parents if they do not make every attempt to preserve the relationship they are trying to end (Savaya & Cohen, 2003b, pp. 309–326; Savaya & Cohen, 1997, p. 8). These two women expressed it this way: Woman #3: You know, everyone told me to get back with him. A very good friend of mine told me to give him a second chance so people wouldn’t say I hadn’t tried and that I just threw in the towel the first time we had an argument. She told me she knew he wouldn’t change, but that I couldn’t not give him a second chance. Woman #2: It’s actually the society that is really harsh towards a d­ ivorced woman. When I tried to find a job, it was very hard… They [employers] want to know why I couldn’t look after my daughters, who would get the children after work, etc. Considered as “deviants,” the women’s sexual morality could also be questioned upon divorce (Savaya & Cohen, 1997, p. 8; Kulik and Klein, 2010, p. 921). This woman stated: Woman #4: It depends on a lot of different factors, such as where she lives, what level of education she has, and of course her character. But in general, it is a negative image. Either people feel pity for a divorced woman, or they believe she is a woman who is too liberated, strong and selfish. That she sacrificed her children for her own wellbeing. This is all the more true when the woman tries to carry on a normal life. Often, people will criticize her for going out, for having a normal social life. They’ll go as far as to have doubts about her “morals”… Even if he’s the one who’s divorced her. This image can follow her. Unless it is clear that

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it was really he who divorced her and that he’s the one at fault. But even then, people are always likely to put the blame on the woman, whatever she says or does. Divorced women suffer from isolation and various forms of rejection, by their families as well as by divorced men who prefer to remarry single women. The following hypothesis could be formulated, although it cannot be validated by our limited sample: the double marginalization of Muslim women in Israel exacerbates their reluctance to initiate divorce proceedings. As they already live with a substantial stigmatization at the national level, due to ethnic exclusion, the addition of another form of social reprehension, this time arising primarily from the community with which they are affiliated, presents a definite risk (Savaya & Cohen, 1998, p. 162). We observed the reticence of the women we interviewed towards divorce and the anticipated shame from social taboos: Woman #6: Divorce is really frowned upon. Very few of the people around me knew that I was getting divorced. It took me two years before I told them. So, the subject is taboo, to say the least. That’s the reason we never talked about it. It is even more than a taboo, I would say; it was shameful. Woman #4: I didn’t want to ask for a divorce if I wasn’t ready to do it. I could have been divorced five years earlier, but I wasn’t ready. When I felt strong and ready, I began the divorce proceedings. Rivka Savaya & Orna Cohen concur: Divorce is still not considered legitimate. An Arab woman who undertakes divorce can expect considerable social criticism and even sanctions, including by her parents and relatives. In effect, she loses her place in society. Together, these various factors can be expected to create their own particular blend of inducements and deterrents to divorce, and, thereby effect the motives that lead Arab women to take the step.” savaya & cohen, 1998, p. 162

However, with some of the women we interviewed, the determination to opt for a better life was evident: Woman #1: It was then that I understood that either I would stay with him or I would kill myself. That man is an animal. Even that description

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can’t really express all that he is… All that rage. I am sure that there are a lot of women in my situation who would never dare speak so freely. But that is wrong. All women should never be silent about their rights. Lots of women will never dare talk about it, and because of that men continue with their behaviour. Woman #3: I had no expectations, actually. I didn’t even want to divorce. I just wanted to free myself from the situation I was in. I couldn’t see myself with children, in such living conditions, for the next five years, or the next ten years. In fact, I had no expectations. Instead I had apprehensions that pushed me to make that decision. The social “role” of women is accentuated by Islamic laws which create unequal access to divorce (Freeman, 2003, p. 64; Halperin-Kaddari, 2004, p. 259). For example, only a man can dissolve a marriage unilaterally and without valid grounds; divorce by means of a formal repudiation (called talaq) is not an option available to a woman (Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 3). For a woman to initiate divorce, she must proceed by khul or faskh. A khul divorce means that the woman must waive her right to claim a mahr, the amount normally paid to a woman by her ex-husband in the case of a divorce (Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 1). As for a faskh, it is an annulment based on fault, but is restricted to a very limited number of grounds (Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 1). The concept of the complementarity of men and women in their relationship can also be seen in the duty of the wife to obey her husband and the correlative duty of the husband to support his wife financially (Rouhana, 2006, p. 5; Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 3). Furthermore, Muslim women in Israel are noticeable by their quasi absence as judges in Sharia courts, even though these judges play a fundamental role in determining the status of women, having exclusive jurisdiction over matters of marriage and divorce (Rouhana, 2006, p. 6). In fact, on April 25th, 2017, Hana Mansour-Khatib became the first woman to be sworn in as a Qadi or judge of the Islamic court in Israel. Her appointment, which is a precedent for Israel, comes before there is a female judge on Israel’s Jewish rabbinal court (Judy Maltz, “Israel Appoints First Female Judge to Muslim Religious Court”, Haaretz, April 25th 2017, http://www.haaretz.com/ israel-news/1.785547) As women are rarely represented in a judicial capacity in Israel, Islamic case law is therefore more likely the product of a male interpretation (Rouhana, 2006, p. 5), a factor that may contribute to legitimizing discriminatory attitudes towards women. One fact that is worthy of note is that religious family laws in many M ­ uslim communities have been reformed in order to adapt to the evolution of ­society and to foster greater equality (Rouhana, 2006, p. 3). According to Hoda

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­Rouhana, the fact that no reform has been envisaged in Israel’s Muslim community can be explained in different ways [translated from French]: First, the Palestinian community, like others, tends to confer on personal law a sacrosanct or unalterable quality. Second, personal law, essentially focused on relationships between men and women, has come to be seen as the last bastion of male dominance, and is closely linked to the group or collective identity of Palestinians. As a result, any questioning of this patriarchal structure is perceived as a threat to their identity. Third, Israel’s Palestinian community has not conducted any research on Muslim case law since the collapse of the Islamic establishment after the war of 1948 and the ensuing departure of the muftis and oulemas who would have been able to undertake that task. (We do not deny that they may have opposed such reforms or validated the “holy order”; we simply want to point out that they had the aptitude for this type of action and could constitute a reference point.) Finally, the isolation of Israel’s Palestinians, especially feminist groups, from the rest of the Arab world and its cultural centres, has excluded them from debates on these subjects. Their isolation has limited their opportunities to acquire the skills required to undertake such a task. rouhana, 2006, p. 10

It should be said that neither the Christian nor the Jewish laws are any more egalitarian; the three dominant religions in Israel are all fundamentally patriarchal. The most notorious example in the Jewish religion remains the treatment of the agunah (chained woman). To obtain a Jewish divorce, the wife must be granted a get (a statement of divorce) by her husband. Without this, she becomes an agunah (a “chained” woman) (Fournier, McDougall and Lichtsztral, 2012, pp. 551–552). The power to break the bonds of marriage is thus the preserve of the husband, even if he is the one at fault (see Chapter 10 by Machtinger in this volume for further details based on the experiences of North American Jewish women and divorce). Esther Benbassa writes [translated from French]: The consequences of this situation are substantial, because if the woman is married but separated and has a child with a man who is not her legal husband, the child is considered a “bastard” (mamzer) under Jewish law. This status excludes illegitimate children from any benefits they could expect from their community. What is more, under the Jewish legal ­system, these children can only marry other “bastards.” Inversely, if a

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married man has a child with a woman other than his legitimate wife, unless the woman is married herself, that child will not be a bastard. benbassa, 2007, p. 14.

We should also mention that Rabbinical (or Jewish) courts, which benefit from state legitimacy, are not exempt from problems resulting from a patriarchal interpretation of religious law. Indeed, certain Orthodox Rabbis who serve on religious courts avoid forcing reluctant husbands to grant their wives a get, and in so doing legitimize a culture of extortion by persuading wives to comply with the conditions to which their husbands subject them before granting them a get. These conditions may include waiving their right to financial compensations or surrendering their possessions (Halperin-Kaddari, 2004, p. 238). On this matter, Ruth Halperin-Kaddari writes: The rabbinical courts, then, are apprehensive about the validity of the get, which is dependent on the man’s “free will”, and usually prefer to deal with a recommendation for divorce and send the parties to negotiate its terms. This leads the way for a common course of negotiation which generally results in the women buying her way out of the marriage by paying whatever the husband demands in terms of property rights, child ­support and so on. halperin-kaddari, 2004, p. 238

Muslim women in Israel definitely navigate their power relationships within multiple intersections and entanglements, particularly those which relate to gender, race, and religious affiliation. Of particular note, these women face Islamic laws which are often applied unequally by Sharia courts exclusively directed by men. 3

Education as a “Survival” Mechanism and the Ambivalent Role of Family

Education is one of the first factors that merit discussion, as it underlies our thesis that the status of Israel’s Muslim women is dynamic. Certainly, a woman’s level of education has a clear influence on her knowledge of the resources and tools available to her. In a pioneering ethnographic study on divorced Muslim women living in Israel, the authors noted that the only woman requiring the assistance of a social worker assigned by the Sharia court was the only woman with a secondary school diploma (Savaya & Cohen, 1997, pp. 225–245).

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Another study along the same lines showed that the number of women who divorced tended to be higher among women who had an advanced education (Kulik and Klein, 2010, p. 919). Towards the end of the 20th century, modernization and reforms made it much easier for Muslim women in Israel to pursue education and enter the workforce (Savaya & Cohen, 2003a, p. 287). Our results illustrate that women know about the changing opportunities; some women explicitly stated that they were aware of the role education might play in the decision of women to divorce and in their optimal use of support services: Woman #1: I have a daughter who is engaged to someone, but I am i­nsisting on her getting her education. A woman’s best weapon is her ­education…. There will not be no marriage unless there is a diploma. The second important factor is the family. In our observations, the family network functioned in contradictory fashions. On one hand, families dissuade people from getting a divorce. On the other, they offer vital assistance when divorce occurs: Woman #4: My family supported me. Of course my family also tried to prevent me from getting a divorce. They wanted me to give him a second chance, hoping that would lead to changes. But in the end they saw I had made my decision and that I had tried everything, so they ended up accepting it and supporting me. During the proceedings, I went alone to the court. I didn’t want to get anyone else involved in the process. I believe it concerned me alone. My family wanted to go with me, but they accepted my wish to go by myself. Woman #3: After other family members tried in vain, his great-uncle came to their rescue. A man of a certain age, very much respected in his family and his community. He had already intervened early in our marriage to encourage us to reconcile. Although the social pressure to which a divorced woman is subject is in part fuelled by the family (as in the case of Woman #6), several of the women we interviewed emphasized the critical role their family’s support played in their lives (Savaya & Cohen, 2003a, p. 295–296), in particular in terms of financial support (Al-Krenawi and Graham, 1998, p. 112) (as in the case of Woman #2): Woman #6: Before, even if my family agreed to take me under their wing, reality was often more bitter. How many times I was humiliated. Whether

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you like it or not, I was a burden for them. So I had no other choice than to keep quiet. Woman #2: In fact, they [her parents] weren’t opposed to it. They knew something wasn’t right. In fact, I had their agreement. I lived with my ­family at first. They were even an excellent financial support, especially because I had to leave my job at the beginning to look after my divorce…. But family support is very important for a woman who is divorced. The women we met with described different reactions, both resigned acceptance and interference of the family in the marital conflict. This suggests that the family may serve as the primary authority between the spouses and represent a decisive factor in the choice of a wife (Moors, 1995, p. 144). 4

The Jewish Model and Civil Law as a Point of Comparison

When we analyze the legal status of Muslim women in Israel, another element to consider is the Jewish model, which acts as an indirect point of comparison. The women we met with had no other option than a religious marriage, contrary to Muslim women from more secular countries who must choose between a civil marriage and a religious marriage which may or may not be recognized by the state. However, this type of constraint did not translate into a deeper level of religious belief. Quite the opposite, in fact: in the women’s comments, we can detect distrust towards Muslim religious institutions; they feel that Muslim law, as practised in religious courts without state legitimacy, is ineffective in protecting their rights. Some of the women we met seem to consider Jewish women to be in a more advantageous situation, based on their impression that Israeli civil courts are better able to protect the rights of women: Woman #6: The law in Israel is very favourable towards women. The first thing the court looks at is the wife’s interest. Even when a wife has been adulterous, she can decide not to go to a religious court, but instead to a civil court. What does Israeli law say about this matter? It says a woman is free to do as she chooses with her body. Because of this, if she is s­ tanding before a civil court, she can win her case and obtain custody of children, for example, and half of their property, even if she is the one at fault. Woman #2: I think we should imitate Jewish women, where there are organizations that help women going through a divorce. That doesn’t exist

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in Muslim circles. We should also encourage counselling sessions for the spouses, to avoid divorce and the consequences of divorce. In secular societies, we sometimes expect individuals to make a clear choice: endorse religious precepts without any hesitation, or reject them categorically in favour of a secular attitude which opposes them. In the countries which are most secular, such as France, our expectations seem to be even higher when it comes to Muslim women, since our perception of their traditional nature subjects the modes of their social integration to a straightforward expression of their choice (Fournier, 2016a, 2016b, p. 89). This pressure may take the form of an imperative to rescue them, an urgency to liberate them through secularism, and is fuelled by the idea that these women are systematically oppressed by their religion (Benbassa, 2007: 13; Freeman, 2003: 66; Shifman, 1986, pp. ­501–506; Mackinon, 1983, pp. 635–658). Yet our ethnographic research shows that women are critical towards religious practices, even those to which they partially conform. Woman #6 explains how her relationship to religion evolved following her critical analysis of certain practices: Woman #6: No, I am not religious. But I have a lot of respect for my religion as a Muslim. My life is guided by the precepts of the religion, without me being necessarily religious. Two years ago, I considered myself a lot more religious, but after seeing the hypocrisy around certain religious practices, especially women who wear the veil without real conviction, I took it off. Although she considers herself religious, another woman we interviewed gives herself the freedom to not automatically follow all the practices inherent in the Muslim religion: Woman #1: Yes, religious, of course, but as you can see I don’t wear the veil. The next woman (#4), who is not religious, clearly shows how critical she is towards the Muslim religion, as she would be with any other religion: Woman #4: No, I am not religious. I have a good understanding of religion, in general. But my understanding of Islam is the same as any other religion. But no, I do not consider myself a religious person. When religious norms and civil norms overlap—that is, when it is not strictly a matter of marriage or divorce—women navigate this space of interaction

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strategically, dealing with the norms in a way that empowers them (­ Fournier, 2012, pp. 47–72; Fournier, 2016a, pp. 219–235). In one case in particular, a ­woman confided to us that she had strategically put priority on the custody of her ­children to benefit from the protection of the civil law system: Woman #4: In fact, at the civil court it’s easier. But at the religious court, it is more complicated…. If the custody case had gone to the religious court, I am sure it would have been easier for him to obtain custody of the children. But at the civil court, they study each case in minute detail and make a decision based on the best interests of the child. Even if Muslim women in Israel do not face the pressure of having to leave a normative religious framework for a “neutral” state system by marrying under civil law, they nevertheless experience an alternative system which exists in parallel—the Jewish model—and which offers them a point of reference and comparison. It is interesting to observe that Muslim women are fully aware of this other normative framework—Jewish state law—and can use it as a means of comparison. Despite the fact that they rely on their perceptions of Jewish law rather than proven knowledge, the interviews show that the proximity of this different system is useful, at the very least, in promoting critical reflection. 5

The Intertwining of Traditionalism and Modernity in the Contemporary Society and Family

We cannot properly understand the construction of ethnic boundaries among Israel’s Muslim women without taking into consideration their struggles within multiple systems of representation. In L’ethnicité et ses frontières, sociologist Danielle Juteau defines intersectionality this way [translated from French]: Among the specific characteristics of intersectionality we should include an integrated perspective that identifies the complexity of identities and social inequalities; involves the simultaneous theorization of multiple and complex social inequalities; recognizes the multiplicity of societal dynamics performed simultaneously and interactively; rejects the hierarchization of oppressions; refutes the idea that oppressions are additive, and delves into their interactions. juteau, 2015, p. 213

For a Muslim woman in Israel, the intertwining of different forms of oppression (the perception of Israeli colonialism combined with experiences of s­ exual

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discrimination on the part of the husband or the Muslim judge) places her in a situation of permanent intersectionality, real or perceived. Thus, among the women who took part in our interviews, we can sense that traditional values are still very present and influential for some (e.g., Woman #6), while for others we note a detachment and a certain emancipation (e.g., Woman #4): Woman #6: There are many Arab families that have been able to remain intact. But many women have liberated themselves far too much, and this is because of the Israeli government which puts a lot of emphasis on women’s rights. Woman #4: As well, I would change, if I could, the vision society has of a woman. It’s a vision that is still very traditionalist. As if the woman must put everyone else before herself. It is a big problem. I believe religious men should take this into consideration. They should take the changes in our society into account. The same woman went on to say: I simply said it was my right to work and focus on my professional future, and that I do not see how the fact I work prevents me from being a good wife. And I do not believe it affects my husband or my children. Also, I added that this was part of our agreement at the beginning, before our marriage: that I am an educated career woman, and that my “individuality” is important to me. But it was he who wasn’t clear from the start because of his ambiguity. And because he refused it now, I do not see why I would be obliged to agree to live with him. So divorce becomes the only solution. This quest for identity and towards a greater liberation will, for some women, represent a break with the more traditional vision of “the Arab family.” In her interview, Woman #6 explicitly notes the existence of a conflict of loyalty for the “liberated” woman, as if her choices mean she is abandoning her attachment to the minority group as a result of the external influence of the Israeli approach: “…many women have liberated themselves far too much, and this is because of the Israeli government which puts a lot of emphasis on women’s rights” (authors’ emphasis). We can feel the tangible tension here. A dilemma. A conflict of values and norms. Is feminism Israeli? Inversely, is traditionalism Palestinian? Does a woman who says she is proud of both her origins as a Palestinian and her rights as a woman able to create this hybrid identity? By

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seeking a legitimacy which may be socially refused to her, will this woman be indirectly pushed in the direction of divorce? Woman #4 expresses it this way: Woman #4: It’s the everyday things that become intolerable in the long run. We didn’t agree on anything anymore. Then there was our perception of life, how he acted with me and how he acted with his family, the role of father and mother. We had visions that were diametrically opposed. That was the main cause that pushed me to ask for a divorce. There was a big gap between how he saw life and how I saw it. And the second cause was, without a doubt, his ambiguity about the way he wanted me to live my life. He didn’t know which way to go: to be a modern man in a modern society where the man is equal to the woman, or else to be a traditional man in a society where the man decides everything for everyone. … He was at the crossroads between the two. So it was very difficult. And we tried to make compromises and to settle things, but I realized very quickly that we had come to a dead end. And I couldn’t see any other option than to take this path, which is divorce. … When I met him, he acted like a modern man. I must say that he had come a long way from the environment in which he grew up—an environment that was very traditional. In university, he was surrounded by his friends and his classmates that almost all had a very modern vision of life. So when we came back here to our respective cities, he changed. On top of it, his weak personality kept him from knowing how to deal with this situation, this ambiguity. (authors’ emphasis) The boundaries are clearly drawn here, around a Palestinian “Us” of the past (“a traditional man in a society where the man decides everything for everyone”), and in contrast, an emerging “Us” (“a modern man in a modern society where the man is equal to the woman”). This creates an ideological spectrum in which the equality of the sexes is a marker for established boundaries. It is impossible to ignore something implicit in this struggle between modernity and tradition: the existence of the State of Israel, which is sometimes perceived by the women we interviewed as a source of economic and political domination, and sometimes as a model of civil family law. Besides the conflicts between modernity and traditionalism, the reasons motivating divorce on the part of the women we spoke with included the absence of love (#1), frequent arguments (#3), financial problems (#1) and marital violence (#5). Woman #1: At any rate, there was nothing that connected us to each other anymore: neither love nor affection.

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Woman #3: And at home, we argued all the time. Not every day, but at least twice a week. Often about ordinary things, especially connected with his lack of responsibility. Woman #1: It’s true that he worked, but it didn’t provide for our needs. That’s why it was very difficult for me. I was both the woman and the man of the house. I had to look after everything. Woman #5: All I wanted was for him to stop hitting me. The rest didn’t matter much to me. On the whole, the women we met with seemed relatively satisfied with the choice they made, because divorce allowed them to renegotiate their position in society. This was true despite the burden of family responsibilities. Woman #1: Yes, I feel that I am content, that I am free. I lead my own life without having anyone dictate my life. Woman #4: After three years of divorce, I believe my current situation has improved considerably. I am very satisfied with my decision, despite the difficulties surrounding it. It’s hard to be a single mother and to have to take on all the responsibilities—children, house, and work. Woman #2: But in general, my personal situation is certainly better than before… I have taken my place in society. I know what I want and what I don’t want. The situation of divorce, which in itself represents the breaking of marriage bonds between two individuals on the micro level, shows how the dynamics of ethnicity, culture, and identity on the macro level influence the internal process.

Conclusion

Since there is no boundary between law and religion in Israel (Section 1), the result is that the recognition of rights as basic as marriage and divorce require a religious affiliation, not to mention the fact that marriage and divorce laws are entirely determined by this religion, whose patriarchal character is denounced by numerous authors (Section 2). However, the Muslim women we interviewed in this study have not adopted a docile and resigned attitude

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t­ owards religion as a result of this situation. On one hand, they often benefit from the advantages of education and family support (Section 3); on the other, they are influenced by modernist trends and the alternative model provided by Jewish civil law (Sections 4 & 5). Their status, therefore, is not static, but rather engaged in a dynamic process. With the omnipresence of intersectionality, it is appropriate to recognize, as well, the way various challenges facing Muslim women in Israel are intertwined. In this article, five forms of intersection have been examined. They are: (i) ethnic and sectarian stigmatization, (ii) sexual stigmatization, (iii) education and the role of the family, (iv) comparison with the secular context, and (v) the intertwining of traditionalism and modernism in society and in the contemporary family. In a pluralist perspective, instead of positioning the spheres of religious law and civil law in opposition to each other by trying to impose a single perspective, it is more appropriate to acknowledge not only that each sphere has its own logic, but also that these spheres are in constant interaction. It is vital, then, that we stop trying to favour one at the expense of the other in our reflections. On the contrary: we must envisage their “­compossibility” (Ost and Van de Kerchove, 2002, p. 8) by taking their dialectical relationship into account. This strategy implies a process of “translat[ing] across the ­cultural boundaries” and of creating a dynamic of mutual co-operation and understanding (­Merry, 2006, p. 75). As Cyria Akila Choudhury (2009, p. 161) emphasizes: The fact that women continue to value religion and culture cannot be reductively explained as a product of ignorance or brainwashing… To acknowledge this alternative view is not to say that Muslim women do not live in systemic patriarchy, that Islam is not patriarchal and that gender subordination sometimes reflected in “traditional arrangements” ought not to be challenged. Rather, it is to say that opinions about how it is challenged, by whom, and what priorities are established can legitimately ­differ among women and are mediated by local contexts. Within the context of our study, we cannot help but conclude that ethno-­ cultural boundaries vary in time and space, and refuse to be pinned to a static and uniform nature, either materially or symbolically. Equality of the sexes remains a marker of identity for several of the women we interviewed; nevertheless, they do not want to leave their minority group in order to transform it. It would, then, be an error to paint Muslim law with a broad brush, as a set of homogenous and discriminatory laws which systematically contribute to the ­oppression of women. Our interviews show the importance of w ­ orking towards an understanding of the diverse and complex ways that religion can be instrumentalized by subjects of law (Merry, 2006, p. 74), in particular by

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the women who recreate spaces of connection and belonging which are inevitably fluid. References Al-Krenawi, A. & J.R. Graham (1998). Divorce among Muslim Arab women in Israel. Journal of Divorce & Remarriage, 29 (3/4), 103–119. Balchin, C. (2016). Le droit de la famille dans les contextes musulmans contemporains: Déclencheurs et stratégies du changement. Retrieved from http://classiques.uqac .ca/contemporains/helly_denise/droit_familial_et_parties_musulmanes/textes _autres/droit_de_la_famille-CB.pdf. Accessed January 5, 2016. Benbassa, E. (2007). « Légalité, ambiguïté, réalités : la condition des femmes en Israël ». Le statut des femmes dans le monde (II). Retrieved from http://www.fondation -seligmann.org/ApresDemain/NF-002/nf-002_4880.pdf. Accessed June 19, 2017. Choudhury, C.A. (2009). Empowerment or Estrangement?: Liberal Feminism’s Visions of the ‘Progress’ of Muslim Women. Law Forum, 39(2), 153–172. Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics and ­violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–1299. Davis, K. (2008). Intersectionality as buzzword: A Sociology of Science perspective on what makes a feminist theory successful. Feminist Theory, 9(1), 67–85. Dieckhoff, A. (2005). Quelle citoyenneté dans une démocratie ethnique? Confluences Méditerranée, 54(3), 69–80. Fournier, P. (2016a). Family law, state recognition and intersecting spheres/spaces: Jewish and Muslim women divorcing. In R. Provost (Ed.) Culture in the domains of law. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, pp. 54–84. Fournier, P. (2016b). Droit et cultures en sol français: récits de femmes juives et musulmanes à l’aube et au crépuscule du divorce. Anthropologie et Sociétés, 40(2), 89–106. Fournier, P. (2012). Calculating claims: Jewish and Muslim women navigating religion, economics and law in Canada. International Journal of Law in Context, 8(1), 47–72. Fournier, P. et al. (2012). Secular rights and religious wrongs? Family law, religion and women in Israel. William & Mary Journal of Women and the Law, 18(2), 333–362. Freeman, M. (2003). Women, law, religion and politics in Israel: A human rights ­perspective. In K. Misra and M. Rich (Eds.) Jewish Feminism in Israel: Some Contemporary Perspectives (pp. 57–75). Hanover, NH: Brandeis University Press. Halperin-Kaddari, R. (2004). Women in Israel: A state of their own. Philadelphia: ­University of Pennsylvania Press. Herzog, H. (1999). A Space of Their Own : Social-Civil Discourses Among PalestinianIsraeli Women in Peace Organizations. In Social Politics : International Studies of Gender, State and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 344–369.

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Juteau, D. (2015). L’ethnicité et ses frontières 2e. Canada: Les Presses de l’Université de Montréal. Kanaaneh, R.A. (2009). Surrounded: Palestinian Soldiers in the Isreali Military. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Kulik, L. and D. Klein (2010). Swimming against the tide: Characteristics of Muslim-­ Arab women in Israel who initiated divorce. Journal of Community Psychology, 38(7), 918–931. MacKinnon, C. (1983). Feminism, Marxism, method and the state: Toward feminist ­jurisprudence signs. Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 8(4), 635–658. Merry E.S. (2006). Human Rights and Transnational Culture: Regulating Gender ­Violence Through Global Law. Osgoode Hall L.J., 44(53), 54–75. Moller Okin, S. (1998). Feminism, women’s human rights, and cultural differences. Hypatia, 13(2), 32–52. Moors, A. (1995). Women, property and Islam. Palestinian experiences 1920–1990. ­Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Ost, F. & M. Van de Kerchove (2002). De la pyramide au réseau? Pour une théorie dialectique du droit. Bruxelles: FUSL. Pirinoli, C. (2007). Genre, militantisme et citoyenneté en Palestine. Nouvelles Questions Féministes, 26(2), 73–91. Rouhana, H. (2006). Le droit musulman de la famille en Israël : Le rôle de l’État et la citoyenneté des femmes palestiniennes. Réseau international WLUML (Women Living Under Muslim Laws), Dossier 27. Santos, M. (2013). Relations of ruling in the colonial present: An intersectional view of the Israeli imaginary. Canadian Journal of Sociology, 38(4), 509–532. Savaya, R. & O. Cohen (2003a). Lifestyle Differences in Traditionalism and Modernity and Reasons for Divorce among Muslim Palestinian Citizens of Israel. Journal of Comparative Family Studies, 34(2), 283–302. Savaya, R. & O. Cohen (2003b). Sense of coherence and adjustment to divorce among Muslim Arab citizens of Israel. European Journal of Personality, 17, 309–326. Savaya, R. & O. Cohen (1998). A Qualitative cum Quantitative Approach to Construct Definition in a Minority Population : Reasons for Divorce among Israeli Arab Women. The Journal of Sociology and Social Welfare, 25(4), 157–179. Savaya, R. & O. Cohen (1997). “Broken Glass” : The Divorced Woman in Moslem Arab Society in Israel. Family Process, 36(3), 225–245. Shifman, P. (1986). State recognition of religious marriage: Symbols and content. ISR. L. REV., 21, 501–506. Shiloh, I. (1970). Marriage and divorce in Israel. ISR. L. REV., 5, 479. Triger, H.Z. (2014). A Jewish and democratic state: Reflections on the fragility of Israeli secularism. Pepperdine Law Review, 41, 1091–1100.

Chapter 9

The State, the Household, and Religious Divorce in Lebanon: Women’s Everyday Struggles Pascale Fournier, Farah Malek-Bakouche and Eve Laoun

Introduction

Family law represents as much a cultural and religious institution as a legal norm (Halley et Rittich, 2010; Tsoukala, 2010). In Lebanon, family law is mirrored by the multi-confessional structure of the country and its colonial legacy. Therefore, the actual legislation still arises from the long history of coexistence among many religious communities, the French mandate, and the various war episodes (Weber, 2007). More specifically, since the Taif Agreement of 19891 and the amendment of the Lebanese Constitution in 1990 reaffirming the confessional system, religious institutions are qualified in Lebanon for matters related to marriage, divorce, child custody and alimony (Shehadeh, 2010). This chapter uses unique fieldwork carried out with Lebanese women experiencing religious divorce to analyze the legal regulation of the household and its effects on women’s bargaining power during marriage and after its dissolution, as well as the role of religious courts in producing just outcomes between men and women. It incorporates insights from critical legal pluralism and feminism to describe the overlapping influence of different entities (the immediate and extended family, the mother-in-law, the community, the state) when women exercise individual choices related to the couple and the children. In better understanding household dynamics from a micro perspective, our hope is to reflect on the wider legal and political debate around issues of civil vs. religious marriage and divorce in the country. The first part of the chapter provides a description of the legal context in family law matters in Lebanon. This framework surrounding household structure will be useful for analyzing, in the second part, the seven interviews we conducted with women regarding their expectations and experiences of 1 Taif Agreement, signed on October 22th, 1989 in Saudi Arabia and approved by the Lebanese parliament on November 4th, 1989. https://www.un.int/lebanon/sites/www.un.int/files/ Lebanon/the_taif_agreement_english_version_.pdf

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_011

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­conjugal life before and during marriage, as well as upon divorce. In attempting to capture the complexity of power relations at such critical moments in a woman’s life, we insist throughout the chapter on the role that households play in allowing or disallowing gender equality to flourish in the country.

Part i: Legal Context of Family Law in Lebanon

In Lebanon, the state does not assign a privileged status to any of the official religions but recognizes their authority (Abiad, 2008). Section 9 of the Constitution explicitly provides that “(…) personal status and religious interests of the population, to whatever religious sect they belong, shall be respected.” The Lebanese Constitution identifies eighteen official religious communities: Maronite, Greek Orthodox, Melkite Greek Catholic, Armenian Orthodox, ­Armenian Catholic, Syrian Orthodox, Syrian Catholic, Assyrian Chaldean Nestorian, Chaldean, Coptic Orthodox, Latin, Evangelical, Sunni, Shia, Alawi, Ismaili, Druze, and Israelite (Héchaime, 2010). Unlike many Arab countries that have been greatly influenced by civil law as a legacy of colonization (An-Na’im, 2008; Mahieddin, 2005; Papi, 2010), such as Algeria, Turkey, and Iraq, family law in Lebanon remains religious in nature (Mahmassani & Messara, 1970). Rather than having one homogenous system applying to all Lebanese citizens, what is referred to as “personal status” is delegated to religious courts. For Muslim and Druze communities, “personal status” includes both patrimonial and extra patrimonial aspects (Khalife, 1998) whereas the situation is rather hybrid for Christian communities. Indeed, while marriage, filiation, divorce, and capacity of the person are governed by religious institutions, patrimonial aspects such as estate law remain under the umbrella of civil law, namely the Law of inheritance of 1959 (Héchaime, 2010; Najjar, 2012). In regards to Druze communities, most of the “personal status” aspects are embodied in the Law of February 24, 1948, which mainly covers marriage, alimony, child custody, and guardianship (Khalife, 1998). Each religious community is entitled to adopt a personal status code, which provides specific dispositions in matters of administration and legislation in addition to ensuring the observance of the edicted rules related to those ­personal concerns. Religious courts are divided into groups: the spiritual courts for Christians and Israelites, the Sharia courts for the Sunni, the Jaafariya courts for the Shiites and the Mazhabiya courts for the Druze (­ Khalife, 1998). While in Muslim communities courts are remunerated by the state, in Christian communities they are remunerated by the churches (Clarke, 2012).

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This family law system is complex because Lebanese citizens are treated differently depending on their religious affiliations, where the law can be applied unevenly based on said affiliations. Nada Khalife suggests that discrimination subsists not only between men and women but also regarding same sex couples (1998). Religious affiliations have historically fragmented the Lebanese ­nation into a multitude of different identities (Weber, 2007; Corm, 2012). ­Indeed, groups in Lebanon seem to not identify themselves according to their ethnicity or nationality but rather as part of cultural groups and religious communities (Kabakian, 2009; Zuhur, 2002; Besson, 2008). Therefore, since a centralized system does not regulate personal status issues in Lebanon, family law is also plural in terms of identities and cultures. Beyond the resulting inequalities of the system, this hybridization makes family law the meeting point of many normative orders which are eventually experienced in many different manners by the legal actors. To this complexity, one must also consider the recognition by the Lebanese state of foreign marriage contracts (Héchaime, 2010; Human Rights Watch, 2015). Indeed, there are Lebanese couples who choose to get married abroad in order to have their marriage contract governed by the laws of the chosen country instead of a religious institution in Lebanon (Khalife, 1998; Human Rights Watch, 2015). This practice is used as a remedy for the difficulties experienced by Lebanese couples from different confessions or simply for couples who wish to avoid the religious or family barriers to their union (Zuhur, 2002; Human Rights Watch, 2015). As the popularity of this practice has not ceased to increase, the Lebanese Civil code of procedure provides, since 2014, that the Lebanese civil courts are competent to deal with disputes arising out of a marriage contract concluded in a foreign country (Héchaime, 2010). However, as Human Rights Watch states, those foreign marriages are only accessible to the people who can afford to travel abroad and are not recognized by L­ ebanese Ja`fari, Sunni, and Druze courts (Moniovitch, 2013; Human Rights Watch, 2015). Another key dimension in understanding household dynamics in Lebanon is the significance of domestic violence in the country. The local nongovernmental organization kafa is clear: Lebanese women who have been victims of domestic violence vividly denounce the state’s failure to intervene in family dynamics (kafa, 2015). Indeed, local and international organizations have repeatedly criticized both the inability of the personal status laws to protect victims from domestic violence and the gender discrimination they create among Lebanese women (Human Rights Watch, 2015). As a response to social and political pressures, the Lebanese state has adopted the Law on Protection

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of Women and Family Members from Domestic Violence2 in 2014. This bill, which amends several dispositions of the Penal Code, aims to address family violence by implementing a series of protective measures for all Lebanese women. While women are now entitled to get a restraining order against an abuser in case of domestic violence, the bill still fails to fully protect women in the sense that it does not cover all forms of violence, such as marital rape (Human Rights Watch, 2014). Marriage Formation Family Law in Lebanon is unique in the way that it sets out a large range of conditions of both form and substance depending on the religious tradition one belongs to. Although the Lebanese Constitution does not discriminate between the sexes, women and men possess different rights according to their religious affiliation (Shehadeh, 1998; Zuhur, 2002). While for Muslim, Druze, and Israelite communities, marriage is seen as a contract from a theological perspective, Christian theology considers it a holy sacrament (Shehadeh, 1998; Khalife; 1998). In fact, Catholic communities do not allow the stipulation of conditions in the marriage contract, while both Hanafi and Ja’fari laws provide certain types of admissible conditions (Shehadeh, 1998). For example, a Sunni woman can include in her marriage contract a condition to restrain her husband from taking a second wife and she can request an equal right for divorce (kafa, 2015). All communities include a provision for financial attachment to the marriage contract, what is referred to as Mahr (Sunni, Shiites and Druzes) and dowry (Christians) (Shehadeh 1998). For the Muslims, Israelites, and Druzes, this provision is of critical importance because it is historically related to the husband’s right to acquire his wife’s obedience and right to restrict her movements outside the matrimonial home (Khalife, 1998; Fournier & McDougall, 2013). In return, the wife acquires the right to her Mahr and the right to maintenance (Esposito and DeLong-Bas, 2001; Wani, 1995). For other communities however, this provision is only optional and, in fact, it is more a matter of custom (Khalife; 1998). In regard to obligations drawing from the marriage contract, both ­Christians and Muslim communities demand that the couple lives together under the same roof and that the husband supports his wife (kafa, 2015). As for 2 Bill for the Protection of Women and Family Members Against Domestic Violence, promulgated by the Parliament’s General Assembly in April 1st, 2014 and published on May 15, 2014 on the Official Gazette. http://www.kafa.org.lb/foapdf/fao-pdf-11-635120756422654393.pdf

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­ hristian wives, they have the obligation to be “named after their husbands C (Greek Orthodox and Assyrian Orthodox churches), support their husband where he is in need and lacks revenue (Greek Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox, Assyrian ­Orthodox and Evangelical churches) and refrain from exercising any job ­without her husband’s approval (Armenian Orthodox church)” (kafa, 2015). As for Muslim wives, they notably have the obligation of obedience, including fulfilling intercourse. In regards to form, the validity of marriage depends on the consent of both parties. But once again, the rules applying to the presence of witnesses that can testify the exchange of consent are unequal, since some communities do not accept female testimonies (Khalife; 1998). Dissolution of Marriage Rules regarding the dissolution of marriage vary depending on the religious communities. At the time of the dissolution of marriage, one must reach out to the religious court before which the marriage contract had been made (kafa, 2015). According to Human Rights Watch report (2015), Lebanese women are disadvantaged compared with men in terms of their ability to end the marriage: Men (…) have a unilateral, unlimited right to pronounce a divorce, with or without cause, and outside of any judicial proceeding. Druze women also have circumscribed access to divorce and may risk losing their pecuniary rights while Druze men can obtain a divorce, with or without cause, by petitioning a Druze judge and receiving a divorce judgment. (…) While a man under Sunni and Shia personal status laws can divorce without the intervention of any religious or judicial authorities he does so without the religious court’s certification. Absent this certification there is no binding court decision that obliges the man to pay the deferred Mahr and the three months maintenance during the waiting period. Divorces that are not filed with religious courts are also not recorded or enforced by the personal status department of the Ministry of Interior. This means that the wife will still be registered under their husband’s name. The right to terminate her marriage is only conditional for a non-Christian woman. In fact, only the man can repudiate his wife through the Talaq under Islamic law, which is a unilateral act dissolving the marriage contract (Kreuz, 2000; Qasmi, 2002). However, both Sunni and Shia communities provide `isma, which refers to a contractual delegation from the husband to the wife that

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recognizes an equal right to unilateral divorce (Human Right Watch, 2015). In practice, women face unequal access to it because it is socially rejected by many families (Human Right Watch, 2015). In addition to judicial dissolution for specific reasons enumerated in the personal status codes, Muslim Lebanese women also use Faskt or Khul` divorce, but these forms of divorce are either difficult to obtain (fault-based divorce) or financially costly (Rehman, 2007; Mir-Hosseini, 2000; Alami & Hinchcliffe, 1996). After the dissolution, spouses are subject to a “waiting period” (Idda) which forbid them from entering into a second marriage. This period is three menstrual cycles for Sunnis and Shiites and four lunar months for the Druze (kafa, 2015). In regards to Christian communities, the conditions to fulfill in order to obtain a divorce are very restrictive for both parties. In the Greek-Orthodox and Evangelical communities, divorce can be granted only on grounds of adultery. In the Catholic community, divorce is not permitted. To remedy those difficulties, other possibilities are available, such as temporary or permanent desertion (mostly in cases of violence), annulment, or dissolution. Dissolution can be granted when one of the spouses converts to another religion, in case of non-consummation of the marriage, or when obligations are not fulfilled (Human Rights Watch, 2015). Except for the Catholics, in case of dissolution, Christian communities also provide a “waiting period” (Idda) which can vary between forty to three hundred days depending of the community (kafa, 2015). As reported by Human Rights Watch, high legal representation fees in addition to the lack or protection measures against physical and emotional abuse towards women are important barriers to access to divorce (Human Rights Watch, 2015). Effects of the Dissolution of Marriage Bounds In Islam, parental authority is exclusively reserved for the father, which is not the case for Christian communities (Héchaime, 2010). Parental authority refers to “the management of assets, education and life in general” (kafa, 2015). Even if the mother is entitled to have the custody, namely the daily care of her child, the Muslim father is the only tutor and all obligations such as maintenance and education are under his control (Héchaime, 2010; Human Rights Watch, 2015). Since custody is by nature of limited duration for the mother, the religious communities have fixed its termination according to the age of the child. Moreover, the age is different depending on the communities and also varies depending on the sex of the child. For example, while a Shia mother has the right to custody of her male child up to the age of two and up to the age of seven for her female child, a Druze woman will lose the custody of her male

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child at the age of seven and the age of nine for her female child (Abiad, 2008; Human Rights Watch, 2015). For Christians, the woman’s right to custody depends on the community she belongs to. While in Catholics and Greek Orthodox communities the mother is entitled to have the custody only if the father loses it, for the Syriac Orthodox community, the father has to grant the mother the right for custody (kafa, 2015). However, for all Christian communities, if the separation is caused by the father’s decision, the mother is entitled to have the custody regardless of the above rules. Questions of custody have raised many issues before religious courts and continue to be debated, even though the Lebanese state adopted a legislation for the protection of all Lebanese children’s rights in 2002 ­(Héchaime, 2010). Across all confessions in Lebanon, the wife loses her right to maintenance once the marriage is dissolved. As reported by Human Rights Watch: The husband’s duty of spousal maintenance automatically expires following a court ruling dissolving the marriage. Once a marriage is terminated, the husband is no longer required to financially support his former wife regardless of her need, his ability to support her, and her economic or non-economic contributions to the marriage. and the concept of marital property does not exist. (p. 41) Since the Constitution Act, 1926 was enacted, several movements have frequently criticised the legal system in Lebanon, especially regarding the lack of a civil law regime for marriage (Maktabi, 2013; Zuhur, 2002). Attempts to institute an optional civil personal status law have failed despite the numerous initiatives and campaigns organized by organizations and activists in the country. While some movements advocated for the introduction of a general civil code addressing all personal status matters, others tried to only introduce civil marriage (Weber, 2007). The last attempt, in 2014, consisted of submitting a bill to the government, which proposed gratning the right to optional civil marriage for all Lebanese citizens without having to abandon their religious affiliation (Human Rights Watch, 2015). However, the political initiatives of the 1990s for the complete secularization of family law have been replaced to a large extent by projects aimed at partial reform through the introduction of mediation (Maktabi, 2013, Zuhur, 2002). Indeed, there is a growing movement toward using mediation to resolve divorce cases, which can be advantageous for women in that it allows them to bypass the formal legal structure of the personal status laws.

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Part ii : Methodology, Theoretical Framework and Portraits of Women Moving from Marriage to Divorce

The objective of the fieldwork, which was carried out in January and February 2014 in the Lebanese cities of Beyrouth, Mar Boutros, Aramoun and Jdeideh, was to interview divorced women on the impact that the religious Lebanese laws governing divorce (including patrimonial and extra patrimonial effects) had on them, and whether mediation played a role in the process. In particular, we were interested in (1) women’s knowledge of their rights under the applicable personal status law, whether as a married woman or a divorcee; in (2) their encounter with their husband and what led to the divorce, with any possible influence from external parties when married or during the divorce; in (3) the experience of the divorce itself and the legal proceedings; and finally, in (4) how they felt overall and if they believed any mediation helped or could have helped. The seven interviews focused on the following confessions and their respective divorce laws and procedures: Sunni and Shiite Muslims, Druze, Melkite and Maronite Christians, Greek Orthodox, and Armenian Orthodox. Interestingly, the women did not necessarily belong to the same confession as their husband and, accordingly, experienced a divorce under the laws of their husbands’ religion. Their various religious backgrounds, in addition to different levels of traditionalism, and a different corpus of values within their respective families, made our general context very heterogeneous. Given that family law in Lebanon is governed by numerous religious communities, we studied the normative experiences of women through the lens of critical legal pluralism, a theoretical framework which is particularly useful to grasp religious women’s complex interactions with their respective cultural background (Fournier, 2017). Critical theories of legal pluralism reject the traditional view of the legal system, whereby law is strictly a representation of the state (or religious authority), and prefer embracing a vision of law as an integral part of a country’s “culture” (Berger, 2008, Anker 2005, Riles 2006, Merry 1986; Jackson 1995). Hence, “law arises from, belongs to, and responds to everyone” (Macdonald, 2002). These theoretical insights allowed us to underline how the boundaries between different religious traditions in Lebanese family law are moving and contested by women’s day-to-day interactions with the state, the religious tribunal, and the family (Woodhead, 2016). We also used feminist insights to look into the relationship between family law, gender, and the reproduction of collective identities and stressed women’s unique position within their respective religious communities. In fact, we tried to better understand the inequalities created by the religious laws which ­often

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represent barriers for women to obtain justice. In analyzing the interviews, we addressed the parameters of those barriers and tried to assess how women deal with them through resistance mechanisms. In the following section, we present portraits of women moving from marriage to divorce as social agents who are inevitably “bargaining with patriarchy” (­ Kandiyoti, 1988) in contested social spaces (Fournier & McDougall, 2013). The Decision to Marry: Various Motivations, Various Barriers The women we interviewed all reported having no knowledge of their rights, as wives-to-be or in case of a divorce, when they first met their husband and intended to get married. According to them, the main factor for this weak ­informational situation was age. Out of the seven interviews, two women had married at age 17 (participants #3 and #5), one at age 20 (participant #4) and one at age 21 (participant #7). The women admitted being too young at the time of the wedding to fully understand what marriage entailed and were in fact not prepared for what followed. In the words of a Maronite woman who got married at age 20: “Yes, I was getting married, but I had no idea of what I was about to do. I thought I was going home after.” A similar mindset affected the Druze woman we interviewed, whose age at the time of the celebration was 21: Participant #3 (Druze): I was too young to get married. And I was too … like that … living in a bubble, still, I knew nothing yet, I loved him, and I wanted to get married, and that was the only thing that … it was the only reason … But I was not thinking ‘oh … what will I benefit from marriage, if he divorced me, what would be my rights’ …. etc. I never thought about that. Another starting point is the observation that women are expected to obey their husband upon marriage, which will directly condition whether they ask questions about their rights. Here, the legal landscape presented below moves in the “shadow of the law” and social behaviors are internalized and typically reproduced inside the household. This Catholic participant, who was raised in a conservative family and was initially promised to her cousin at age 13, insisted on the role of submission for women: Participant #3 (Catholic Melkite): Honestly, I did not know we had rights, as women. Here, we are raised in an environment, especially in Lebanon, where women have to listen to their husband, he is the one that brings food … Our life environment was so at the time, the woman has to listen

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to her husband, she cannot go out without his approval, this was another time, another generation. In other instances, women could have known their rights but failed to ask. Two women candidly reported that they were in love: they never gave any monetary value to their relationship and did not want to. One Greek Orthodox participant, who first married a man of her community, and then a Shiite man in a subsequent marriage, specifies: “I knew nothing of my rights … did not think of including any conditions to the marriage. I was in love with him. […] I never contemplated the worst”. Our fieldwork made us raise questions about access to legal information in light of the very specific Lebanese environment. For instance, we found it interesting that one of the participants could have attended the information sessions her church provides, but she refused, in agreement with her husband. She reported that these sessions were not efficient as the persons in charge were not fit to advise on marital issues. Participant #1 (Greek Orthodox): If anyone has to advise, it should be someone who is knowledgeable. Because what they address in these sessions are out-dated, another generation, our parents’ and grandparents’ generations—the responsibilities of women that don’t correspond to the reality of nowadays. It should be someone like a couple therapist, whether outside or inside the Church, doesn’t matter, as long as someone knowledgeable in the matter, with experience. Another woman did second this opinion, reporting that these sessions had no positive effect or use, as her brother attended them and got divorced anyway. Interestingly, while women embarked on marriage with almost no knowledge of their rights and obligations under the law, they still experienced this lifetransforming event as an active choice in reaction to social or familial issues. For many of them, marrying was indeed the only way out, a form of legitimate exit from their families’ sphere of influence. This participant, who married at age 17, states: Participant #5 (Sunni): The reason of my marriage was my family, the reason for my whole life is my family. [I wanted] to end up with all of it. (…) Everything I wanted was forbidden, my parents were very strict with me. […] One of my brothers would organise a party and lock me in my room. Forbidden to go out, forbidden to see. If my younger brother wanted to go out with me, my other brother would forbid it as people may think I

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was his girlfriend. My life environment was very strict and conservative which annoyed me. As we are interested in the decision processes which led women to undertake marriage, we observe that the Lebanese women we interviewed tend to mobilize family law as a remedy to a prior lack of freedom in childhood, teenagehood, or from a first marriage. In fact, a Sunni woman marrying a Shiite man openly reported that she did not want to know more about her rights when she remarried, not out of love but because she was fleeing once again her family’s influence: “When I got married, I did not want anything, I was trying to get away from my family once more”. Let us now move from the expectations women had before they got married to the reality of their married life. During Marriage: A Private Sphere which Turns to be Vividly Public If women initially escaped their family through marriage, secretly hoping to see their life governed by their own desires and expectations, they soon realized that multiple layers of influence made their “private” bond vividly ­“public”: more families to deal with, parents-in-law to please, and the entire community watching, judging, and deciding whether their individual behaviour was socially acceptable. Often, the interests of women might not essentially align themselves with the interests of the extended family as a whole. In one case, a Maronite woman reported having been pressured by her brother into marrying a man she had been seeing only for five months at the time of marriage. As he was himself seeing the sister of the groom, he pressured her to remain with this man, even if she did not love him. Participant #4 (Maronite): I tried to leave him twice. I had no children then. But because of my father, my brother, I did not. They would tell me ‘don’t leave him’, ‘your brother is married to his sister’, ‘you are going to create problems to your brother’, because of the family [in law]. My parents were against the idea of me leaving him, according to them, I had to put up with it. To put up with what? I was going to die, and their reaction was not the right one. Although our interviews do not allow us to draw general conclusions, they do reveal experiences of subordination to internal and external pressures, such as family disputes or parents-in-law’s manipulation. Women go back and forth between those spheres of influence, trapped or attracted, either for support or because they are fleeing the very authority that affects their individual choices. They married not only a man, but also his family. Some would even say that

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they married a mother-in-law, whose shadow is described in these terms by two participants: Participant #5 (Sunni): His mother was the ‘daughter of the Sultan’. ‘You must love your mother’ ‘I am the center of everything’. […] If he wanted to buy me a packet of cigarettes, he would have to ask his mother, she had the money. His life was with his mother’s. Participant #4 (Maronite): His parents told us they had a property: ‘that would be a pity for you to pay a rent’. But it did not work out because of his mother … if I wanted to pee, she would forbid me to sit there, if I wanted to wash my hands in the sink, she would say ‘ah no, it is forbidden because the sink is brand new’ […] And finally when we first slept there, she went to get us a mattress but old and spongy. So when my mother heard of it, she said ‘you and your husband come back live with me’. Patriarchy also manifests itself in the ways in which women are socially blamed for infertility or for not giving birth to boys, suggesting that men cannot be infertile or that they don’t contribute equally to the child’s gender. Participant #4 (Maronite) mentions: “I tried to have a child. But I did not get pregnant. So his parents told me to go see a gynaecologist”. In this case, the family-in-law paid the doctor for the insemination but as it turns out, it is the husband who was sterile, a medical fact that his family knew all along. Again, the community plays a significant role here in reinforcing gender stereotypes that silence women, as is also apparent in the following excerpt: Participant #6 (Shiite): Then my mother told me I was going to keep crying because of my children, ‘whatever your husband does, you’re not happy. Have another child’. And I got pregnant with my daughter. I got pregnant and I was happy but he was waiting for a boy, a boy, a boy, … and I got a girl. Women report bargaining experiences with their community’s rules which often draw from patriarchal and traditional views of family bonds (Kandiyoti, 1988). Sometimes, the very oppressing patterns surrounding them lead to the worst: domestic violence. Domestic Violence and the Public/Private Divide In Lebanon, the public/private distinction that regulates the household rests on premises that further disadvantage women by distributing legal and ­symbolic

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power in an uneven way between men and women. In a country where domestic violence is common, unreported, and not taken seriously by the State, women fail to notice “the public nature of private violence” ­(Fineman & M ­ ykitiuk, 1994). Out of five women we interviewed, three reported physical abuse against themselves or their child. In two cases, the husband only showed signs of violence after the birth of a girl child. Yet none of the women mentioned having benefitted from any kind of legal preventive and/or protective measures. They just left their homes, experiencing violence as a mere incentive to divorce. Participant #2 (Shiite): The first part of my marital life was ok. […] Until I got pregnant with my daughter […] I discovered a new person. He started beating. Was a trouble maker, would hit and beat. […] I stayed two more years. [… But] he did something I cannot talk about, very much humiliating, like a rape, I was not consenting. […] Got worse than ever, so I had to leave. Participant #4 (Maronite): As soon as he would get upset, he would break something in the house, he would beat me. So I told him: I want to leave you, it is over. Participant #6 (Shiite): When my daughter was born, he changed […]. He started being abusive. He loved me and he abused me […] We got into a fight, and he hit my daughter. He cut off a nerve in her hand. He broke a plate on her … I left the house, me and my daughter, we did not take our belongings. The victims of domestic violence who we met chose to escape the hostile environment in which they seemed trapped, looking for one thing and only one thing: divorce. When your safety and that of your children are at risk, you do not necessarily think of ways to eradicate the overall regime that negatively affects women. However, understanding the relationship between the Lebanese State and the household and its most vulnerable members is key. Why is domestic violence not reported by women? How is the (non)-enforcement of criminal law influencing and structuring the role of men and women inside the household? Are the background family rules regarding obedience and permission from the husband to work outside the home affecting how women respond to domestic violence in Lebanon? Only once we connect, theoretically and practically, the internal structure of households and their regulation to state distribution of legal and material resources will we be able to appreciate the phenomenon of divorce in general and domestic violence in particular.

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Divorcing: A Game of Power Which Increases Women’s Vulnerability In order to understand women’s experiences of divorce, one needs to grasp the family law rules that shape the exit possibilities and concrete situational positions before and after the dissolution of marriage. As seen above, Lebanese women of all religious affiliations are disadvantaged compared to men in terms of their ability to end the marriage. Unsurprisingly, our interviews reveal how divorce is experienced as a game of power between unequal parties. Participant #2 (Shiite): Yes, I called [my lawyer] and told her I wanted to file a claim. She told me ‘the most important is for him to divorce you, otherwise, he will play with you for some time. Go get a divorce and then we’ll see what can be done with regard to the custody.’ […] But he did not want to divorce me, so I put pressure for him to divorce me but he did not want. I asked for divorce eventually […] he did not want to divorce, but agreed eventually thinking I would come back to him within the 3-month-period. He was expecting I would come back during this time. Since the personal status laws perpetuate significant gender discriminations, the legal structure definitively plays a role in reproducing unequal bargaining endowments between men and women as they try to negotiate their way out of the marriage. As this Catholic Melkite woman states, “the man does not wonder. He does not wonder how much it will cost if he wants to ask for a divorce. There is nothing that guarantees such a right to a woman. The man simply decides to divorce. As simple as that. There is nothing in women’s hands that would allow us to claim our rights.” Moreover, the religious courts themselves further push women into a weaker legal position by applying unfair and discriminatory divorce laws instead of resisting them or offering alternative interpretations that would offer more egalitarian outcomes. As reported by this Catholic Melkite woman, divorce often operates as a waiver of any rights a woman might otherwise benefit from: “It is my husband who set the conditions of the divorce so I give up all my rights, so I don’t get anything. […] Everything, [the woman] has to give up all her rights. To simplify the situation, the procedure. To speed up the procedure, to be able to get a divorce. Otherwise, the procedure can last one year, two, even three years” (Participant 3). Sometimes, the religious courts will even explicitly refer to religion to justify their ruling, as mentioned by this Greek Orthodox woman: “One thing I remember [when I was] in court, because I [was] Christian, I didn’t get custody. […] The judge told me I could not get my daughter, by principle I could have had the custody, but because I [was] Christian I could only have her

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on ­week-ends.” (Participant 2) In one tragic case, divorce was explicitly pronounced in the absence of the Sunni wife: “He left, and sent me the divorce papers, and disappeared of my life. […] He sent me the divorce documents, and he did not send it to me, he sent to my parents’ house. […] He went to the court, he sent the documents. The sheikh did not see me”. Moreover, because in Lebanon the macro determining conditions around rules of custody are sharply designed along lines of gender, the micro negotiations between husband and wife at the time of divorce similarly reproduce gender imbalances. Each actor’s agency is thus conditioned, in its scope, by such a legal framework but also by the extended relationship with the religious community at large (Fournier, 2011). For instance, the Druze, the Catholic Melkite, and the Maronite women we interviewed similarly described how the unfair rules of custody were at the center of what they lost and expected to lose economically: Participant #7 (Druze): We were distant, for three years. And for two years we did not have any sexual relationship […] Three years because I was thinking about the issue, and I was scared that if I asked for divorce, he would take my daughter, I was scared to ask or even open the subject again. I was afraid he would say ‘fine, you want to divorce, but you leave your daughter here.’ This was my nightmare. […] My plan was that he reached a point where he says ‘ok, this is not working.’ […] When he finally wanted the divorce, for me it was like a relief and very scary at the same time. Because I still did not know what was coming. Participant #3 (Catholic Melkite): I am going to tell you why [I also gave up my right to custody]: to speed up the divorce proceeding, the last difficulty is the children. What I mean is I either say I want the children, and then custody discussions start, I can see them twice a week or they remain with their father. But because I had no house, had nothing, was leaving our marital home empty handed, I was working but had nothing else than my salary (…) I could not ask for my children’s custody. That is what speeded up the procedure. Participant #4 (Maronite): […] I just wanted my daughter. Asking for the money would have lengthened the procedure. He would not have paid. As long as these background rules regarding child custody and access to divorce remain discriminatory towards women, men will continue to benefit from a more efficient bargaining position in negotiating the divorce outcomes,

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on both a financial and personal level (Becker, 1991; Kennedy, 2008). Indeed, almost all the women we interviewed reported having given up some, or all, of their own patrimonial rights to simplify the proceedings, avoid delays, and/or in exchange of their child’s custody and child support. And even when women described having received a financial compensation of some sort, it was a minimal amount. The Greek Orthodox woman we met described her micro negotiation upon divorce in these household terms: Participant 1 (Greek Orthodox): He would not give [me the child’s alimony]. I had to file a new petition to get it. I eventually got a judgement of alimony, but little amount, only 200$. […] Me, I turned down all the advantages I could have gotten, such as the house, I could have been paid us$ 80 000 approx. I learned this in the law but later … But I just wanted the custody, only. In this matter of alimony, […] I was fighting to guarantee my child’s right. In another case, a woman explained that she had to flee the house because of her husband’s extreme violence against her child. She had to leave her belongings behind (participant #6). It’s only by giving up her patrimonial rights in the house that she got her belongings back and could start the divorce proceedings. On top of these procedural difficulties, several women reported not having been able to claim their rights for lack of economic power to do so. They simply could not afford the costs of the legal proceedings: Participant #4 (Maronite): I was working double shifts because I needed money and I wanted to divorce. I did not have the means. Participant #3 (Catholic Melkite): Even the tribunal took my money to the last dime for the divorce procedure. And I had presented my proof of income, showing I was not paid well. Everything I ever earned I invested it in my husband’s house. A bit here for the house, a bit there for my children, I never planned to leave the house. Participant #1 (Greek Orthodox): I had no lawyer going on my behalf, she would work from outside, I could not afford a lawyer to go on my behalf and plead before the judge. I went alone to defend myself. The lawyer would write the pleadings and send them to me. As Ayelet Shachar suggests, a pluralistic legal system based merely on the respect of cultural and religious diversity carries the risk of perpetuating

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s­ ystemic discriminations (2010). In Lebanon, the unequal and discriminatory legal structure deeply impacts women in their divorce procedures by placing them in an a priori vulnerable bargaining position. However, we could observe that the issue goes far beyond the secularization versus sectarianism debate. The Perception of Divorce: More Than a Secular vs Civil Debate Overall, the interviewees believed that the current religious community-based system had to be reformed. Some women reported that if they were to remarry, they would rather opt for a civil regime which would favour more transparency and legal predictability. A Druze woman explained that, even after divorce, she still lives in the fear of losing her child if she gets remarried: Participant 7 (Druze): If I get married again, I will never get a religious marriage. Ever. And if there is a prenup, I do a prenup. I don’t understand why there is no prenup in Lebanon, seriously, it is very important. At least you know what is coming, in case of divorce you would know what you are entitled to, how things are going to happen. A Catholic Melkite woman, who had to give up all her patrimonial rights to get divorced, similarly states: “A religious marriage, I won’t do it again. I will remarry if civil marriage exists because it protects my rights and I know what I am entitled to” (Participant 3). Interestingly, we observed that women wanted their rights to be protected, no matter what religious personal status rules they were under. Hence, the issue was not necessarily about whether civil rules would be better than religious ones, but rather how the legal system protects women or not. A Shiite woman, who lived under her family-in-law’s oppressive influence and got separated from her children at the time of divorce, mentioned that the problem is not Islam per se but the ways in which religious law is actually being applied and enforced in a patriarchal way by judicial authorities: Participant #6 (Shiite): All the tribunals system is wrong. […] Whether Shiite or Sunni, both are defective. The woman is nothing. She has no right. […] There are things I completely agree with in the civil marriage. […] But there are things in Islam that strengthen the woman, but we are not using them. In addition to being caught in a web of various discriminatory laws and subordination to patriarchal norms which leave them unprotected, women also insisted on the lack of neutrality of the judiciary. In some instances, women reported that their interventions were useless or even detrimental to their rights.

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While one reported corruption within the courts (participant #6), another specified that the judge was taking the side of her husband: Participant #1 (Greek Orthodox): The judge, who is a priest, did not help. Instead of obliging my husband to pay, he would tell him to flee, for him not to pay, ‘or she will arrest you.’ He would, on the other hand, take side with me whenever I solicited him. So according to the person talking to him, the judge-priest would take sides. Therefore, the question is not whether a secular or a religious system is better for women on a theoretical level but rather how Lebanese women actually navigate between and across different systems in an aim to reach the best outcome in their view (Geertz, 2003; Fournier, 2011).

Conclusion

This chapter developed an innovative theoretical framework for analyzing the complex relationship between the household, the state, and women in Lebanon. Using the lens of critical legal pluralism and feminism, our fieldwork allowed us to better understand the macro and micro socio-legal reality of religious customs from the perspective of women who have experienced divorce procedures under different personal status laws. The women we met all insisted on the background legal regimes that affect their choices during marriage, like obedience to the husband and permission to work, as well as upon divorce, such as unfair access to custody of their children, alimony, and general patrimonial rights. Family laws, they say, distribute unequal bargaining conditions between household members, leading to peculiar vulnerability towards women. Despite this apparent invisibility, we suggest that Lebanese women are ­active and visible subjects of personal status laws, whose interactions with the system produce a complex set of social and legal practices. Not only is the Lebanese household a formative space for learning and teaching, but it also constitutes a very special economic entity which allows the regulation of individual interests and the distribution of formal and informal resources. Women’s strategies and experiences, we suggest, need to be better addressed in the literature and considered with more attention from a practical standpoint. This is the next project of the Research Chair in Legal Pluralism and Comparative Law. Thanks to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, we will spend the next five years establishing long-term partnership with different actors in

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L­ ebanon and approaching the heart of families with a much larger sample. This chapter allowed us to prepare for the coming fieldwork and identify some of its central themes. How is the relationship between the private sphere and the public domain unfolding upon divorce? What is the effect of adopting a specific legislation against domestic violence in criminal law without simultaneously amending the gendered obligations regarding obedience in family law? In other words, how do we connect the decision-process of individual women regarding the family with the wider debate around secularism in Lebanon and the codification of a civil law regime for family matters? References Abiad, N. (2008). Sharia, Muslim states and international rights treaty obligations: A comparative study. London: British Institute of International and Comparative Law. Al Alami, D.S. and D. Hinchcliffe (1996) Islamic marriage and divorce laws of the Arab world. London: Kluwer Law International. Anker, K. (2005). The truth in painting: Cultural artefacts as proof of native title. Law/ Text/Culture 9, 91–124. An-Na’im, A.A. (2008). Islam and the secular state: Negotiating the future of Shari’a. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Becker, G.S. (1991). A Treatise on the Family. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Berger, B. (2008). The Cultural Limits of Law’s Tolerance. Canadian Journal of Law and Jurisprudence 12(2), 245–247. Besson, Y. (2008). Identités et conflits au Proche-Orient, Comprendre le Moyen-Orient. Paris: L’Harmattan. Clarke, M. (2012). The Judge as Tragic Hero: Judicial Ethics in Lebanon’s Shari’a Courts. American Ethnologist, 39(1), 106–121. Corm, M. (2012). Pour une IIIe République libanaise, étude critique pour sortir de Taëf. Paris : L’Harmattan. Esposito, J.L. & N. DeLong-Bas (2001). Women in Muslim Family Law. Syracuse: University Press. Fineman, M. and R. Mykitiuk (1994). The Public Nature of Private Violence: The Discovery of Domestic Abuse. New York: Psychology Press. Fournier, P. (2011). Borders and crossroads: Comparative perspectives on minorities and conflicts of laws. Emory International Law Review 25(2), 987. Fournier, P. (2017). Family law, state recognition and intersecting spheres/ spaces: ­Jewish and Muslim women divorcing in the United Kingdom. In R. Provost (Ed.) Culture in the domains of law. Cambridge: University Press Cambridge.

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Fournier, P. & P. McDougall (2013). False jurisdictions: A revisionist take on customary (religious) law in Germany. Texas International Law Journal, 48(3), 435. Geertz, C. (2003). La description dense. Vers une théorie interprétative de la culture. Paris : La Découverte. Halley, J. and K. Rittich (2010). Critical directions in comparative family law: Genealogies and contemporary studies of family law exceptionalism. American Journal of Comparative Law, 58, 753. Héchaime, A. (2010). Actualités du statut personnel des communautés musulmanes au Liban. Droit et cultures, 59, 121. Human Rights Watch (2014). Lebanon: Domestic violence law good, but incomplete. Retrieved from https://www.hrw.org/news/2014/04/03/lebanon-domestic-violence -law-good incomplete. Accessed 1 June 2007. Human Rights Watch (2015). Unequal and unprotected: Women’s rights under Lebanese personal status laws. Retrieved from https://www.hrw.org/sites/default/files/ reports/lebanon0115_ForUpload.pdf. Accessed 1st June 2007. Jackson, B.S. (1995). Making sense in law: Linguistic, psychological, and semiotic perspective. Liverpool: Deborah Charles Publications. Kabakian B.N. (2009). Liban entre stabilité intérieure et sécurité régionale. Bruylant : Delata. KAFA (Enough Violence and Exploitation) (2015). Zalfa’s questions on the personal status laws. Retrieved from http://www.kafa.org.lb/StudiesPublicationPDF/PRpdf -90-635882033908238022.pdf. Accessed 21 June 2007. Kandiyoti, D (1988). Bargaining with patriarchy. Gend Soc, 2(3), 274. Kennedy, D. (2008). Sexy Dressing : Violences sexuelles et érotisation de la domination. Paris : Flammarion. Khalife, N (1998). Situation de la femme mariée au Liban au regard du droit international des droits de l’Homm., Mémoire pour un diplôme d’études approfondies (D.E.A). Université Catholique de Lyon. Kreuz, S.R. (2000). Le divorce dans l’Islam. Berne : Intermedio CRS, Centres de compétences interculturelles. Macdonald, R.A. (2002). Lessons of everyday law. Montreal: Mcgill-Queen’s Press for the School of Policy Studies. Mahieddin, N.M. (2005–2006). L’évolution du droit de la famille en Algérie: nouveautés et modifications apportées par la loi du 4 mai 2005 au Code algérien de la famille du 9 juin 1984. L’Année du Maghreb, 97–137. Mahmassani, M. and I. Messarra (1970). Statut personnel au Liban, Beyrouth : Publications de la Faculté de droit et des sciences économiques. Maktabi, R. (2013). Female citizenship in the Middle East: Comparing family law reform in Morocco, Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. Middle East Law and Governance, 5(3).

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Merry, S.E. (1986). Everyday understandings of the law in working-class America. American Ethnologist, 13(2), 253. Mir-Hosseini, Z. (2000). Marriage on trial: Islamic family law in Iran and Morocco. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Moniovitch, A. (2013). Le mariage civil au Liban face au communautarisme religieux. Montreal : Mémoire de maitrise, université du Québec. Najjar, I. (2012). Droit patrimonial de la famille : Droit matrimonial – Successions. ­Beyrouth : Hitec Book Conception. Papi, S. (2010). Le contrôle étatique de l’islam en Algérie : un héritage de l’époque ­coloniale. L’année du Maghreb, 6, 491. Qasmi, A.J. (2002). The Complete System of Divorce (Talaq). Karachi: Zam Zam Publishers. Rehman, J. (2007). The Sharia, Islamic family laws and international human rights law: Examining the theory and practice of polygamy and talaq. Int’l J. L. Pol’y & Fam, 21, 108. Riles, A. (2006). Anthropology, human rights, and legal knowledge: Culture in the iron cage. American Anthropologist, 108(1), 52. Shehadeh, L.R. (2010). Gender relevant legal change in Lebanon. Feminist Formations, 22(3), 210. Tsoukala, P. (2010). Marrying family law to the nation. American Journal of Comparative Law, 58, 873. Wani, A. (1995). The Islamic law on maintenance of women, children, parents and other relatives: classical principles and modern legislations in India and Muslim countries. New Delhi: Qazi Publisher & Distributors. Weber, A.-F. (2007). Le Cèdre islamo-chrétien : Des Libanais à la recherche de l’unité nationale Nomos : Baden-Baden. Woodhead, L. (2016). Intensified religious pluralism and de-differentiation: the British example. Society, 53(1), 41. Zuhur, S. (2002). Empowering women or dislodging sectarianism? Civil marriage in Lebanon. Yale Journal of Law and Feminism, 14, 177.

Chapter 10

In the Name of God? ‘Get’ Refusal as Domestic Abuse Yael Machtinger

Setting the Stage: Context and Content

This chapter is part of a larger project: the first comprehensive interview-based study of Jewish religious divorce in Canada and the first comparative study between, New York and Toronto, the cities with the largest and most diverse Jewish populations in their respective countries. In this larger undertaking, I examine get (Jewish divorce) refusal by tracing gaps between law reform and social behaviour with a concentration on gendered storytelling and the complexities that surround religion, culture and identity in particular socio-legal contexts. I explore to what degree changes to state legal systems in Toronto and New York elicit changes to religious/Jewish legal orders regarding get refusal.1 Thus I also ask how these messy entanglements are experienced and navigated by women from within the religious culture and how are they perceived by the culture and communities, revealing distinctions between Toronto and New York. Focusing on women’s storytelling (though I interview diverse stakeholders such as rabbis, activists, judges, and others), this project demonstrates that get refusal persists despite the existence of civil legal remedies in the “official” legal system and despite the traditional legal methods of the “unofficial” religious legal system; thus, legal reforms have had unintended results. Moreover, I argue (and the women’s narratives illustrate) that the persistence of get refusal indicates that claims that the legal remedies have solved the phenomenon, 1 In Jewish law, a marriage is contracted between two parties rather than imposed upon them by a third party, such as the rabbi or the state. Thus, in order to divorce, a couple must mutually agree to end the marriage through the giving and receiving of a get. A get is Hebrew for a Jewish writ of divorcement; gittin is the plural. A get is a contractual release, dissolving the ketuba, marriage contract. It is not a religious ceremony and a get is not a religious document; it is a legal exchange. A get must be given of free will and accepted of free will; it cannot be coerced. Even if the wife initiates a divorce, it is the husband who must place the get in the wife’s open, waiting hands, Deuteronomy 24:1. This process has enabled some abusive men to take advantage of a most often banal legal step which does not result in get refusal.

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that internal religious methods are effective, and that the civil amendments have been unsuccessful simply due to an access to justice issue (implying that women are unaware of the amendments), are all false.2 To execute this study, I interviewed diverse participants over the course of just under a year, from roughly early fall 2013 through late summer 2014—­beginning with expert interviews, followed by in-depth interviews with women refused a get, or agunot,3 in the past and present to get a “thick description” (Geertz, 1973) of get refusal within communities. While get refusal falls completely within the area of “classic” socio-legal sites for analysis, and is an ideal case study to examine gender, religion, and law, and the ways in which religious laws interact with civil courts, there have been few socio-legal scholars who engaged this nexus,4 and none from a religious feminist approach or methodology. I hope to contribute to women’s historiography of marriage, and I am inspired by the method of legal pluralism. In this chapter, as in my larger project, I seek to ground my analysis in fieldwork, place women at the centre of analysis, and write from an insider’s perspective.5 2 Such claims have been made by John Syrtash, Pascale Fournier, Norma Joseph, respectively, among others. 3 Aguna is a woman who is chained, bound, or anchored to her (unwanted) marriage; agunot is the plural. The Hebrew term literally means anchored, tied, or slowed down from remarrying. First found in verb form in Book of Ruth 1: 11–13; Rashi Talmud: Tractate Baba Kama, ­Chapter 7 Folio 80a; Talmud: Tractate Baba Bathra, Chapter v Folio 73a. Iggun is the phenomenon of get refusal generally. A woman may become an aguna for three broad reasons: when the whereabouts of her husband is unknown (such as missing soldiers, 9/11, or the Holocaust, where bodies are not recovered); when a husband is mentally incapacitated and unable to grant a get of sound mind; or our point of interest- where the husband’s whereabouts are known and he is of sound mind but he is simply refusing to grant a get. Here a woman becomes a distinct type of aguna known as a mesurevet get, or a woman refused a get. 4 Perhaps in some measure Michael Broyde, Pascale Fournier, or Susan Weiss, though likely only Fournier would self-ascribe as a socio-legal scholar. 5 Although I am not an experiential expert, in that I have not been and aguna myself, an academic insider is defined as a, “researcher who studies a group to whom they belong” and consequently outsiders are not considered a part of the groups they study (Mullings, 1999, p. 340). Thus, this exploration benefits from “ethnographic privilege” (Zavella, 1999, p. 54). The fact that I am an observant Jewish woman, a community member, and that the participants know this, underscores our commonalities and my non-judgement. I have an ­understanding of the values we share and the laws we follow, the language we speak and turns of phrase used, and in fact, even that which goes unspoken such as the modest dress, the blessings recited over food or drink, the kosher venue chosen etcetera. From this understanding emerges equality, reciprocity, and trust between the participants and myself; and, it serves to breakdown the harmful power dynamics most often inherent in interviews of the knower and the known, the object, and the subject (Taylor, 1998, p. 340; Acker, Barry, & Esseveld, 1996, pp. 80–84). Consequently, because we share a belief system, community, and gender that

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What my broader research has revealed, and what I will illustrate and elaborate on in this chapter, is an aspect of get refusal that most often gets overlooked: that it is a form of domestic abuse. Moreover, get refusal is a form of domestic abuse that, like other forms of domestic abuse, is indiscriminate; potentially impacting any Jewish woman, at any level of (non) observance. In fact, I will illustrate that get refusal is often the culmination of a pattern of abuse which persisted throughout the marriage. Subsequently, I will investigate how the phenomenon of get refusal enables men to use religion (in this case, Judaism) as a weapon or tool of abuse.6 Indeed, a woman’s “membership in a faith community or religious subculture is another aspect ­perpetrators can use in their efforts to control” (Cares & Cusick, 2012, p. 427). Spirituality is an integral part of everyday life, and thus it often plays and integral role in domestic abuses occurring within religious communities (Deshan & Levi, 2009, p. 1300). This is elaborated throughout the collection and specifically in the work of McMullin (Chapter 1), Holtmann (Chapter 2), Palmer (Chapter 7), among others. In this context, individual, recalcitrant men manipulate Jewish law to commit spiritual abuse and employ a lexicon of terms existing within ­Judaism to buttress them in their recalcitrance. This occurs in the “shadows of religion or religious law” (Mnookin & Kornhhauser, 1979). As a result, women are forced to balance their right to religion and their right to be free from domestic abuse in marriage and divorce.

Myth-Busting: Are Only the Religious at Risk?

I am often faced with the fallacy that only Ultra-Orthodox or Hasidic women are victims of get refusal and moreover, that if they would not be so willing to “submit to patriarchal religious structures they would not find themselves in such a predicament, as to be refused a get”.7 This viewpoint is similar to fallacies associated with other types of gendered abuse, like “she was asking for it because she was dressed promiscuously”. Just like this fiction, the ­fallacy claiming that the phenomenon of get refusal is one that impacts only the Ultra-Orthodox or Hasidic women is grievous. Framing get refusal as a r­ esult of connects us, rapport builds and a trusting relationship forms and I became a trusted insider which allowed me accessibility to knowledge that would otherwise be inaccessible. 6 It is likely that get refusal as a form of domestic abuse is a part of a larger trend in religious communities, whereby abusers use religion as an abuse tactic, particularly in the context of Muslim marriage/divorce. 7 Comments I have received after delivering papers at academic conferences from time to time.

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a woman’s right to religious practice places the blame on the individual (religious) woman herself, simply because of her identity and beliefs, rather than on an abusive husband or the attitudes with which he was raised. In reality, women have a right to religion and a right to divorce: not one or the other, but both. We must respect the feminist principle of allowing women to choose (Campbell, 2010; R. Johnson, 2013; Madhok, Phillips, & Wilson, 2013; Shachar, 2001). Women must not be made to feel that to choose religious marriage or divorce is to choose patriarchy, misogyny, or theocracy. In fact, women must have their right to religion without being made to feel belittled about their choice (Weiss & Gross-Horowitz, 2012, p. 198). Women should be free to be orthodox or ultra orthodox, free to marry in accordance with those customs and rituals, free to remain in their communities, and free seek advice of rabbis. Moreover, in m ­ aking such choices, Orthodox women should not be seen to be conceding their right to divorce nor should Orthodox women be penalized for such choices. The right to religion and the right to divorce are not mutually exclusive and consequently giving up one to avoid problems with the other is not a solution. Norma Joseph (2005) argues, that if women cannot get a get and the law is too patriarchal it is not a solution to suggest they leave, for that Misses the point—both of Orthodoxy and of feminism. Orthodox Jews are Orthodox because they believe in the integrity of the system and women choose to remain Orthodox because they believe in it and accept and find it meaningful. They do not wish to abandon their beliefs, their heritage, their community, no matter how they feel about a particular item, and no matter that at times they feel abandoned by that system. They have chosen to be Orthodox Jews. Their choice! And feminism is about choice. It’s about the ability of a woman to choose to stay where she is and perhaps want to renovate from within. Joseph, 2005

Thus the contention that the issue is one with religion/halakhic marriage or only impacts religious women detracts much from the empowerment of women and their freedom of choice and identity. Furthermore, just as it is understood that sexual assault impacts all types of women, this is true of the abuse of siruv get8 as well. All types of women are impacted, not only the Ultra-Orthodox. Blaming a woman’s religious observance for her experience of abuse makes religion the cause or “problem” and 8 Siruv get is Hebrew for get refusal.

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absolves the aggressor, implying that women who are more stringent in their observance should always foresee the potential abuse of get refusal (similar to the troubling fallacy that a woman wearing a mini skirt should always foresee the potential rape). In these scenarios, it is not only imperative that the onus be placed on the aggressor, but also that the very premise upon which the fallacy stands be itself exposed as false. In reality, there is not one category of women more likely to be refused a get. The phenomenon, just like other abuses, is indiscriminate.9 In my study, the mesuravot get10 ranged in age, class, ethnicity, level of religious observance, time spent as a mesurevet get, current marital status, and number of children. Indeed, my research demonstrates that siruv get cuts across observance levels and other identity markers as well. I interviewed thirty-six women11 of diverse ethnic and national origins, socio-economic levels, and ages, women who were married for different lengths of time, women who married at different ages, women who were refused a get for different lengths of time, women with or without children, and women with varied current marital status. To clarify, the phenomenon of get refusal is not one that targets a small and distinguishable group of only Ultra-Orthodox women. Any Jewish woman might be impacted at any time; there is no formula or prototype to avoid. I interviewed women who self-defined as “not-affiliated”, “not observant”, “traditional”, Conservative, Modern-Orthodox, Ultra-Orthodox, and Hasidic. Included in this group were both women who were “frum from birth”, that is born into ­observant homes and were observant from birth, and “baalot teshuva”, that is women who became religious later in life. Women who were Ashkenazi, ­Sephardi, Bukhari, Lubavitch and Russian Jews (groups whose rituals and observance varies greatly) were also interviewed.12 I spoke with women who lived in Upper East Side Manhattan condos and women who needed food stamps 9

Although there are certainly ways in which get refusal is not equivalent to other abuses such as sexual assault, they are equivalent in that they may impact anyone. The differences or particularities of get refusal as a form of abuse will be elaborated and analyzed at length in the coming analysis. 10 A mesurevet get is Hebrew for a woman who is refused a get. Mesuravot get is the plural, women refused a get. 11 I interviewed participants over the course of just under a year, from roughly early fall 2013 through late summer 2014. I began by interviewing stakeholders such as rabbis, judges, attorneys, advocates, among others, followed by interviews with women refused a get in the past and present. The in-depth interviews ranged in length, typically lasting about an hour and a half to two hours. 12 Ashkenazi Jews are Jews originally from Eastern Europe. Sephardi Jews are those originally from Western Europe, the Middle East, or Africa. Bukhari Jews are from central Asia. Lubavitch Jews are an international Hasidic outreach movement.

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to feed their children and asked for clothing hand-me-downs during our interviews. The women I met with were in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and even 70s, and included women married in their teens or 20s and in their 30s or 40s. I interviewed women married only a year or two before becoming anchored to a dead marriage by being refused a get, and women married 20 or 30 years before becoming anchored. I interviewed women anchored for “only” a year, and women anchored for 20 years. I interviewed some women who were happily remarried, some happily single, and some still in a state of limbo either with a civil divorce and refused a get, or without either. There is no unifying or homogenous factor about the demographics of the women themselves who wind up as mesuravot get. Consequently, the premise that only Ultra-Orthodox women are in (greater) danger of becoming mesuravot get and that the danger stems from their religious observance (and so women should be less observant) is erroneous and myopic.13 A brief note about the commonalities or “constants” of the participants: each participant was a woman who, though not necessarily observant, was n ­ onetheless demanding a get and/or was concerned with the ramifications, either social, Jewish-legal/halakhic,14 or both, of not having a get both for themselves and at times, for their children. As well, not one woman ever anticipated she would find herself in the position of being refused a get. Finally, each participant was willing and often eager to share her story, and expressed gratitude for being given the opportunity to articulate and share.

No Longer Overlooked: Get Refusal = Domestic Abuse

Rather than concealing or repressing analyses regarding get refusal and domestic abuse, I bring them to the foreground here, and explore more deeply the intrinsic connection between get refusal to domestic violence. There has been minimal acknowledgement of get refusal as a distinct type of domestic abuse, and most of that acknowledgement has come from organizations such as ora, the Organization for the Resolution of Agunot,15 rather than in the existing 13

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Despite the fact that, for some women, the consequences of get refusal may differ based on different levels of observance. For example, the reform movement officially voted to accept civil divorce as equivalent to religious divorce in 1869, bypassing the need for a get altogether. Halakha is Hebrew for body of Jewish law. Halakhic is Hebrew for “Jewish legal”. Halakhot are Jewish laws. ora is a New-York Based International non-profit organization that has helped hundreds of women exact a get.

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body of literature. Indeed, the existing literature on get refusal whether it be Jewish, feminist, or socio-legal, does not frame the phenomenon as an example of domestic abuse (Broyde, 2001; Fournier, 2013; Hacohen, 2004; Weiss & Gross Horowitz, 2012).16 Fournier’s work in Chapter 8 has other goals and contributions in regards to Jewish divorce. Only recently have courts begun to consider this connection, with the Israeli Beit Din, London Beit Din, and ­Australian Supreme Court all explicitly labelling get refusal as psychological abuse, emotional abuse, and domestic abuse respectively (Israel: Beis Din Demands, 2016; Faigenbaum, 2015; Levine, 2016). There has not been an in-depth examination of the ways in which get refusal as a Jewish-legal/halakhic requirement is potentially the culmination of a protracted pattern of abuse bolstered by religion, although Alison Cares and Gretchen Cusick (2012) note that the get is a fundamental way in which men use Judaism to control their wives (Cares & Cusick 2012, p. 434). In my own research I have found that, not only do women describe their husbands using religion or religious obligations in their abuse as the women’s first-hand narratives illustrate, but there is also a litany of concepts that reinforce this distinct interconnection between religion and domestic abuse in general and Judaism and get refusal in particular. Below I address some aspects of the interface between religion and domestic violence that are distinct to Judaism, as well as those aspects that are not distinct to J­ udaism but which feature prominently in the narratives of mesuravot get.

Part A: Narrative Analysis, Pointing to Patterns

Although get refusal has occasionally been portrayed by non-profit organizations and in the media as a form of domestic abuse to evoke concern, response, and to encourage funding for non-profit organizations working on iggun, or get refusal, the real-life, lived experiences of mesuravot get indicate that get refusers most often have been abusive in a multitude of ways, with the refusal of the get acting as the final form of abuse in a well-established pattern of abusive/ 16

There are many other scholars and aguna activists who also do not frame the issue as one of domestic violence; I included a sampling of some of the key players. In fact at recent jofa (Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance) conference at Columbia University held in New York, January 15, 2017, no aguna scholars or activists attended the sessions offered on domestic abuse (aside from myself). Perhaps the only exception in the literature is ora board-member and Dean at Cardozo Law School, who does make the link to domestic abuse in M. Greenberg-Kobrin. (2014). Religious Tribunals and Secular Courts: Navigating Power and Powerlessness. Pepperdine Law Review, 41, 996–1012.

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controlling behaviours. The word “abuse” recurred frequently throughout the women’s narratives in my primary interviews, often alongside descriptions of emotional, verbal, psychological, financial, sexual, and even religious abuses. The word “abuse” was used fifty-two times, “extortion” eleven times, “power” twenty times, “order of protection” thirteen times, “police” ten times, and the word “control” emerged thirty-two times throughout my interviews. The women told me about husbands with controlling personalities, anger management issues, drinking problems, drug addictions and gambling ­addictions—all of which contributed to abusive events and environments at home during the marriage. They described these among other abuses: He lacked emotional intelligence, he was manipulative, took out his rage on me, blamed me. It was like my own personal holocaust that I didn’t see coming and couldn’t believe it when I found myself in that situation. […] He controlled where I went, what I did, who I spoke to. He treated me as a sexualized body, using my past against me, telling me my family and I were useless (L.I.).17 I was so skinny I couldn’t eat. He said multiple times “until you die you won’t see a get”. I felt in jail in an open world (A.A.). He forbade me from seeing my parents, they hadn’t met their grandkids, didn’t even let me send them pictures[…] He would throw things, he hit our son when he was only 21 months, he didn’t let me sleep at night; there were miscarriages. He had me clock in and out since I was the only one working but he wouldn’t let me leave the house otherwise. I was on a budget. […] Emotional abuse was the worst. I was not permitted to host or visit with friends, he’d give me the cold shoulder while simultaneously 17

All interviews were conducted in person, with author in the greater Toronto or New York areas. The research and questions were reviewed and approved by the Office of Research Ethics at York University. All participants voluntarily agreed to be interviewed/answered a call for participants and signed informed consent forms at the outset of our meetings. The initials used to cite participants throughout the text are pseudonymous initials. This research is qualitative, rather than quantitative in nature, and thus I am aware of the limitations of my methodological approach. This qualitative research is not necessarily representative of all Jewish women refused a get. I nevertheless embrace the tradition of socio-legal and feminist storytelling to garner a more holistic and nuanced record and reflection of women’s experiences and choices at the nexus of religious and state laws at the time of marriage breakdown. This approach stretches the existing literatures by voicing the void of women (Horowitz, 1995), moving them from the margins to the main stage (Goldstein, 2007).

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controlling my time and body. But now, get refusal is the biggest abuse of power he wields in the end (B.R.G.). The women described all types of physical abuse, sexual abuse, and ­violence— even leading to miscarriages of children, stalking, attempted kidnappings, and rape. They described financial abuse in which husbands severely budgeted their wives, or purposely racked up debts on their wives’ credit cards. The women described religious, spiritual, emotional, and psychological abuses in which their husbands distorted religion to abuse them, using aspects of Jewish ritual observance including laws of kosher: forcing their wives to eat non-­kosher food; laws of tzniut or modesty: forcing women to cover or uncover their hair or dress in particular ways; and laws of taharat hamishpacha or family purity: nidda and mikva18(Cares & Cusick, 2012, p. 431; Deshan & Levi, 2009, p. 1302). Men also threw slurs about wives’ lack of piety. The women described husbands turning off hot water valves, naming children without wives’ consent, cutting women off from their families, and insulting women’s sexual abilities, figures, and intellects. The women described a range of experiences moving from abuse and controlling behaviours during the marriage to siruv get as a form of abuse/­control continuing into the period in which the marriage is effectively over. Here is a selection of accounts, particularly discussing get extortion: …He claimed his righteousness over me to extort from me (S.H.). When I arrived at beit din19 the day of the get I made a point of saying out loud, ‘I’m here to buy my get (L.I.). It was not a good marriage from the beginning. We had 5 kids and I was the sole bread-winner. I had never done anything against him; we did 18

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Nidda is Hebrew for a woman during menstruation, who has not yet immersed in a mikva. Mikva/h is Hebrew for ritual bath. Under the laws of taharat hamishpacha, or family purity, at certain points during a woman’s menstrual cycle, she is considered to be in a state called “nidda” during which she and her husband must abstain from marital relations. Jewish law condemns in most serious terms couples who violate the laws of nidda by having sexual relations during such prohibited times. Women have shared stories of being forced to engage in sexual relations during the nidda period, or to abstain from dipping in the mikva after the nidda period, leaving women feeling “tainted, guilty, and emotionally and spiritually depleted and unworthy”. Beit Din is Hebrew for House of Law, meaning Jewish Rabbinic court. Batei Din is the plural. Rabbinic courts exist in (large) Jewish communities and are comprised of three dayyanim, Jewish law judges (who are most often also learned rabbis). The leader of the court is called the Av Beit Din.

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whatever he wanted […] I went to rabbis for counselling, and I wanted him to go, I went to marriage counsellors too but nothing helped […] I waited 4 years without doing anything to be freed due to my community. Eventually, the beit din in Israel said “Kava diyyun l’get”—ordering a get and the judge acknowledged “Ee efshar l’hachriach otta”—that they could not force me to go back with him because he was abusive and a pathological liar but I still don’t have a get. He portrays himself, and perhaps even really delusionally views himself as a “nebach” case—a sob story—who has been wronged by his wife. He claims I’ve “gone modern” because my sheitel—wig to cover my hair for purposes of modesty—is a few inches too long and I drive […] It’s not fair. I’m supporting his 5 kids and he is manipulating our religion to use as a domestic abuse weapon (E.R.). My ex-husband took my religion to the bank. It was complete extortion. I ended up paying $30,000 for my get (R.W.). Women (and their children) suffered staggering abuses at the hands of their husbands. The repeated patterns that emerged throughout my interviews regarding a variety of domestic abuses were alarming, despite the fact that it is widely understood (at least among “aguna experts”) that a husband’s refusal of a get, which is his absolute right, has become a means to control the destiny of a wife. In interview after interview, women described abuses which preceded the refusal of a get and which thus indicated a pattern of abusive or controlling behaviour. Their repeated words and stories highlighted a significant, albeit alarming trend. The repetition of the word “abuse” in the passages from the interviews triggered me to re-examine the cyclical nature of the narratives as many followed the same trajectory. Though these narratives are not representative of all women’s experiences, my examination revealed that framing get refusal as a form of abuse is much more than a strategic tag-line used by advocacy groups. Indeed, the repetitions and cyclical nature of the narratives reveal an incontrovertible reality. Each and every woman, out of the dozens and dozens of women I interviewed, also described some former controlling and/or abusive behaviours culminating with the final abuse of get refusal (as well as get extortion at times). Moreover, as Holtmann suggests in Chapter 2, there is a need to engage subjects “where they’re at”, and to understand their lived narratives, which in the case of get refusal is most often the narrative of domestic abuse.20

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This sentiment is also echoed in the work of Nancy Nason-Clark (Chapter 5) and Barbara Fisher-Townsend (Chapter 6).

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This is not to say abuse definitively exists in all cases of get refusal everywhere, at all times, only that it did exist in each of the marriages of the women I interviewed. This fact need not imply that domestic abuse causes get refusal. The relationship must not be viewed as necessarily causal, for that implies there is no free choice of a moral actor to overcome individual tendencies or histories of abuse and do the right thing—that is give a get unconditionally— which men are capable of despite habitually abusive behaviours. There are certainly instances where a couple divorces due to abuse in the marriage, yet the husband does not refuse his wife a get. That said, while we must be cautious not to view the relationship as causal, there is certainly correlation. Women who are mesuravot get seem to often have, and in the cases of my participants, always, experienced previous abuses at their husbands’ hands (figuratively and frequently literally). Get refusal is a significant form of control as it impedes a woman’s future and impacts her legal, social, marital, and sexual status. While the husband is able to move on (with fewer halakhic and religio-cultural restrictions and ramifications), the wife is dependent on her abuser for her freedom. Her destiny and liberty are unambiguously in his hands. Husbands who refuse a get are individuals who are displaying abusive and controlling behaviours and thus, it is not unlikely that they would have abused or controlled their spouse in numerous capacities during marriage. This assertion emerging from my primary research is confirmed by Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski (2015), scholar of Jewish domestic abuse, who confirms and goes so far as to say: A husband’s refusal to provide a get is an obvious abuse of power. He has taken a provision of the Torah and made it into a weapon of tyranny and oppression. Without exception, every case of an aguna, every case of a husband’s refusal to give a get will reveal a history of a woman having been abused during the marriage. This last and perhaps greatest abuse of power, the refusal to give a get, is used only by individuals who were abusers and who had been either batterers or tyrannical controllers of their wives. Twerski, 2015, p. 117

Moreover, the common arcs among the diverse narratives in my research reveal that women who are mesuravot get are subject to abuse in triplicate. ­Multiple women illustrated 1) the abuses they endured in their marriages, as were discussed above, 2) the abuse that is the act of get refusal in and of itself, which I discuss below, while concurrently enduring 3) the silent acquiescence of their communities and rabbis who, by not doing or saying anything at communal or even grassroots levels, passively enable the abuses to continue.

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I’m free though imprisoned because I’m without an abusive husband and yet get refusal is abuse […] get refusal is the biggest abuse of power they wield in the end (B.R.G.). It bothered me that he was able to one up them—the rabbis […] When they asked him why it took 6 years, it was all about financial gain and control, power—the get was his golden ticket, his trump card (D.E.). Withholding a get is the ultimate control because I can’t run from it like you can run from physical or emotional abuse (S.L.). It is noteworthy that perhaps the most egregious excerpts I include here come from the Torontonian mesuravot get, rather than those I interviewed in New York. The women highlighted not only the silent acquiescence of rabbis and communities at large, but they astutely brought these previously-covert discourses to the fore. That is, their collective narratives challenge existing claims, particularly in the Toronto Jewish community, that the civil legal remedies to get refusal were effective in remedying get refusal21 and/or that denying there are any agunot in Toronto.22 If the rabbis would stand up against domestic abuse, women wouldn’t have to live in fear; they wouldn’t have to go back into abusive marriages because they are left no other choice, with nowhere to turn for support and without a get! […] None of the rabbis understand. They don’t have a grasp of the issues that arise in marriage and they think the causes of problems are simple, like I don’t know how to cook dinner properly. They have no idea about the levels of control and withholding that might exist (J.D.).

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These are claims made by activist and scholar Norma Joseph, Concordia University, and attorney John Syrtash. Both were involved in the Get Committee that petitioned Canadian Parliament for the legal amendments to the Family Law Act and Divorce Act in the late 1980s and early 1990s which attempted to solve the aguna issue, two notable figures who have made this claim in a variety of sources. These claims have been made by members of the Toronto Beit Din, or rabbinic court, in a variety of venues. This is part of larger phenomenon regarding legal protocol of the beit din which requires that they issue a seruv, or order of contempt, after a certain period of recalcitrance before a woman may get the legal designation of “aguna”. The beit din in Toronto does not issue these orders of contempt and thus there are technically no “legal” agunot according to their logic.

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You feel stuck, like a chain on your leg and you can’t really move. I felt stuck. Worst feeling I’ve ever had in my life and no one in our community helped. I had called Rabbi O., the Av Beit Din of Toronto twenty times but he never called me back and he never once called my husband. Eventually he told me “when your husband is ready, he will come”. Rabbi S just said, “hatzlacha raba, good luck!” (B.F.).

Part B: Literature Analysis, Using Religion to Reinforce Refusal

In “The Perils of Privatized Marriage”, Robin Fretwell Wilson (2011) demonstrates that domestic violence exists within religious groups at almost the same rates as it does amongst the general public, despite common misconceptions to the contrary, and yet religious groups do not have the same protections in place for women who experience domestic violence as the general public (Fretwell Wilson, 2011, p. 269). Nancy Nason-Clark (2004), in, “When Terror Strikes Home”, contends that “violence knows no boundaries of class, colour or religious persuasion” and religious women are almost as likely as any other women to experience abuse despite the fact that their husbands vow to love them before God (Nason-Clark, 2004, p. 303). Nason-Clark notes that theistic women are more vulnerable to abuse even though there is no evidence that violence is more frequent or more severe in theistic families (p. 304). The reason they are more vulnerable is because they are less likely to leave marriages, more likely to forgive and believe a husband’s pleas for forgiveness and promises to change abusive behaviours, less likely to seek support, resources, or shelters, more resistent to separating or divorcing, and more likely to experience shame and guilt in having failed their families and God in not being able to make the marriage work (pp. 303–304). These last two contentions particulary came through in the narratives of the mesuravot get I interviewed. Consequently, a theistic woman may be more vulnerable than a non-­ beleiver in abusive contexts. In Judasim this vulnerability is compounded by the lexicon of ideological concepts which are internal to communitites, as I elaborate below. Fretwell Wilson (corroborating some of my own findings as well as Nason-Clark’s contentions), further maintains that all theistic women find it difficult to leave their abuser due to their “religious beliefs about…doctrinal distortions about suffering and forgiveness” as well as traditional gender roles (Fretwell Wilson, 2011, p. 274). Moreover, while the abused women may look to their communities for support, “studies reveal that victims are likley to find cold comfort in their religious communities and at times even their clergy. Religious goups often acquiese, or worse, condone family violence” (p. 274). McMullin’s research speaks to such issues at greater length in Chapter 1. These

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findings are further reflected in many of the narratives of the women interviewed who described having nowhere to turn for support or comfort. Some women also described that their husbands had communal support in their abuse/get refusal or even that certain rabbis condoned the abuse. Two women explained, “Rabbi W did give him an aliya in shul on Shabbos.23 The rabbi was pushed to choose between his job and my husband and so the rabbi chose supporting my husband” (L.G.) and “My husband can now get aliyot in shul and give kiddushim but my rabbi won’t support me” (J.D.). Another described, “My Rabbi is always helpful in the private, emotional process, but not when he needs to speak up or help in public” (B.R.G.). Yet another woman expressed, “Some rabbis felt my pain but couldn’t help me. They belonged to larger rabbinic organizations, groups, and they’d lose their status, and/or ‘lose face’ if they’d come out and help me” (A.A.). In keeping with these excerpts, ­Nason-Clark (2004) describes the phenomena of condoning abuse or of turning a blind eye to the negatives that happen within a religious community as a “sacred silence” (Nason-Clark, 2004, p. 303), and she includes religious women who do not seek support because of their shame in this notion wherein their communities pay no heed to the abuses existing within. She concludes that religion constructs the notion of family as being of utmost importance and consequently also constructs divorce as “bad” (p. 303). Moreover, religion “spiritualizes social problems” such as divorce and abuse, and makes abuse marginalized because of the gender divide in religion (p. 306). This is particularly true regarding the phenomenon of get refusal. In fact, my primary research illustrates that the contentions of Nason-Clark and Fretwell Wilson about the persistence of domestic violence within religious communities and their assessments regarding some of the additional vulnerabilities religious women face when they experience abuse holds true for ­Jewish communities and Jewish women, at least in New York and Toronto. Janet Mosher (2009), in “The Complicity of the State in the Intimate Abuse of Immigrant Women”, picks up on the theme of the vulnerability of women faced with domestic abuse in her discussion about low-income/migrant/ racialized women. However, her arguments about government immigration policies can be applied in the context of Jewish women refused gittin. She argues, “social structures too often reinforce the batterer’s conduct and enable his power…abusive men often manipulate systems to further their control” and she later states, “…men’s abuse is emboldened by the inaction of those same systems” (Mosher, 2009, p. 41, 42, 44, 49). Indeed, mesuravot get reinforce 23

Aliya (aliyot plural) is Hebrew for an honourary prayer said in synagogue which requires being called up to the Torah; Shul is Yiddish for synagogue; kiddush (kiddushim plural) is Hebrew for a celebratory meal after synagogue.

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Mosher’s claims. One woman explained, “The beit din was so strict and my husband knew how to use and manipulate their stringency to his benefit” (J.D.). Another woman described, “The problems in Toronto are abuse, communal silence, and the beit din’s actions or inactions; and my ex took advantage of those problems” (P.L.). Whether they are state systems or religious ones, I would posit that Mosher is correct in arguing that individual men are often emboldened and enabled by the attitudes of the regulating social structures in their communities, which in the Toronto context would be recalcitrant husbands refusing their wives a get emboldened and enabled by the Toronto Beit Din, as my interviews have demonstrated (again, affirmed by McMullin’s discussion around clergy’s inability to deal with family violence in Chapter 1). Mosher further contends that abuse in cultural/religious communities is not always solely about the individual abuser, but rather about institutions, ideologies, structures and regulating normative orderings, all of which either blatantly favour men, or which abusive men are able to manipulate in their favour (Mosher, 2009). Indeed, one woman I interviewed spoke about how “We are somehow perverting it” (D.R.) when speaking about the entire system regulating marriage and divorce, halakha, ritual observance, and the rabbinic court system. The “system is flawed” D.R. said. Holtmann and Nason-Clark (2015) similarly suggest, “Some men misinterpret elements of their faith or tradition to justify their abusive behaviour” (Holtmann & Nason-Clark, 2015, p. 180). Moreover, communities, as well as abusive, observant men, tend to minimize and/or rationalize their abuse and its significant danger and exploitation. In fact, there is a “tendency of community, particularly men to deny or minimize the occurrence of violence within the family” altogether (Sevcik, Rothery, Pynn, & Nason-Clark, 2015, p. 30). These assessments of Sevcik, Mosher, as well as Holtmann and Nason-Clark, are reaffirmed by my study, as the narratives show. Individual men do manipulate or intentionally misinterpret the system or the tenets of their faith to further their abuse and persist in their recalcitrance at times with the aid of batei din or indeed, even entire communities. Consequently, it is not necessarily halakha in and of itself which is flawed. Although some would argue that religious laws need to be changed, that argument is not sensitive to the choices of women (as I discussed above) nor is it nuanced enough to understand that there are multiple factors which contribute to family violence. In large part it is attitudes toward domestic abuse and family violence (particularly attitudes of some religious groups, leaders, or individual men) that need changing. Moreover, “Rather than broad public concern… instead we see women positioned as the object of public disdain, regarded as the other within their own c­ ommunities…instilling fear in the normative centre” and this contention holds true regarding agunot (Mosher, 2009, p. 64).

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­ esuravot get are at times, and always in ­Toronto, cast as the Other24 (de BeauM voir, 1949), isolated and marginalized, thus left feeling disgraced and shamed. As the literature illustrates, there are culturally nuanced aspects to ­domestic violence that are not necessarily distinct to Judaism. Many cultures and/or religions share a number of hurdles in addressing domestic violence which the general public has to navigate as well, some of which were enumerated earlier. They include insular, tight-knit communities focusing on the sanctity of the family unit and the responsibility to maintain the intact family structure (Holtmann & Nason-Clark, 2015, p. 180), as well as avoiding the scandal of divorce and the intense shame and isolation that often accompanies it, to name a few. That said, get refusal and get extortion are aspects or types of domestic abuse that are unique to Judaism.25 Get refusal as a form of domestic violence impacts more than “the interpersonal level, but the transcendental one” ­(Deshan & Levi, 2009, p. 1302), leaving scars on the soul, not only the mind and/or body. Carol Goodman-Kaufman (2003) confirms, “Jewish women must endure a unique form of psychological abuse known as the withholding of a get” (Goodman-Kaufman, 2003, p. 40). Compounding this, Judaism has a lexicon that buttresses this type of abuse (get refusal) on which the final section of this chapter will expand.

Investigating the Lexicon: Language as a Tool

“Myths die hard” as Rabbi Dr. Twerski (2015) reminds us in the second edition of his ground-breaking work, Shame Borne in Silence: Spouse Abuse in the ­Jewish Community (Twerski, 2015, p. 9). There exists a misconception that Jewish men make ideal husbands, “they don’t drink, gamble, or beat their wives” and thus domestic abuse does not exist within the Jewish community (p. 9). Yet, as my primary research confirms, “race, religion, ethic group, philosophy, socio-­ economic level, education level—none of these preclude abuse like siruv get… there is simply no immunity” (p. 23). Nonetheless, this persistent myth of the ideal husband leads to a stigma surrounding Jewish domestic abuse leading to shame, silence, and things going untreated. “Perhaps the incidence is not the astronomical number that exists in the non-Jewish population, but neither is it an isolated phenomenon that can be ignored” (p. 12). Twerski notes that there 24

25

De Beauvoir used the term “Otherness” to express the constructed differences between men and women, with men constructed as superior and women inferior and thus to be excluded from society. Though there are certainly comparators in other religions, such as women being denied their Mahr in Muslim marriages.

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are halakhot and other Talmudic precepts that address the love and respect a husband must show his wife. Even aside from his ketuba contract obligations, the Talmud states “a husband should love his wife as much as he loves himself and should respect her even more than he respects himself”; “restoring peace in the home is of the highest order”; “This relationship cannot be a masterslave relationship in either direction and neither a husband nor a wife should be emotionally abused and have their dignity shattered”.26 Maimonides goes even further and prohibits sexual abuse within marriage, noting that a husband “is not to have intercourse while drunk or in the midst of a quarrel; he is not to do so out of hate, nor may he take her by force with her in fear of him”.27 Thus, paradoxically, the canonical discussions both uphold an ideal to which Jewish men can be called to account, and support the myths of the ideal Jewish husband and that domestic abuse does not exist in Jewish families (Cares & Cusick, 2012, p. 428; Steinmetz & Muhammad, 2006, p. 526). In tandem, the concept of the Yiddisheh Mameh and the Eshet Chayil compound the myth that Jewish marriages are immune to abuse. A yiddisheh mameh is based on the traditional, immigrant Jewish mother who puts husbands’ and children’s needs before her own, strives for happy families and full bellies ahead of her own personal aspirations (Horsburgh, 2005). An eshet chayil or woman of valour is the ideal Jewish wife, encapsulating the ideal wife and mother. These concepts place the responsibility (or burden) on the wife to achieve the important ideal of shalom bayit, or peace in the home. There is greater pressure on women/wives to avoid the “failure” of a non-ideal marriage even in cases where they might be abused. Moreover, these concepts all but absolve the (abusive) husband of any responsibility or obligation to fulfill shalom bayit himself. In fact, the sanctity of this concept is so robust, ­“Jewish women feel obligated to maintain shalom bayit in the home” (Goodman-Kaufman, 2003, p. 44) and when they “fail” and there is abuse in the home, the level of shame is immense. Women feel that they are not only failing at this ideal of shalom bayit, and thus at their very identities and obligations as Jewish women/mothers, but they are also failing their communities and religion. Irene Sevcik et al (2015) confirm in Overcoming Conflicting Loyalties: Intimate Partner Violence, Community Resources, and Faith, that a Jewish woman’s experience of domestic abuse is challenging in part because the concept of shalom bayit is

26

27

Ibid /Twerski, page 58 citing tractate Yevamot 62b, among numerous other Talmudic quotes. Page 115, and page 67 interestingly refer to this recurring theme- comparing get refusal to slavery. Ibid/Twerski, page 71, quoting Maimonides Laws of Marital Status 15:17.

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often misinterpreted as the “sole responsibility of the wives”28 (Cares & Cusick, 2012, p. 428). If it is a “wife’s responsibility for ensuring domestic tranquility or shalom bayit, … there is shame and self-blame if she is unable to achieve the ideals to which Jewish marriage is held” (Sevcik, Rothery, Pynn, & Nason-Clark, 2015, p. 33). There is “embarrassment for seeking help from within their community; concerns that seeking help from resources outside the community will bring shame upon all Jewish people; and a deep sense of failure on both emotional and cultural levels” (p. 33). Indeed, by turning faith into a weapon of abuse, get refusal perpetrators render their victims unlikely to turn to their religious communities for support, as they may have otherwise. In addition to the routine role the concept of shalom bayit plays in Jewish domestic abuse as just described, often in cases of get refusal shalom bayit is used as a rationale for men refusing a get, claiming they want to reconcile when in reality they want to prolong their control and abuse by refusing to grant a get. The concept is also used by rabbis and/or batei din who counsel and encourage reconciliation of couples for the sake of shalom bayit when one party appears before the rabbinic court to exact a get, despite the risk of ignoring (allegations of) abuses and potentially empowering recalcitrant husbands (Twerski, 2015, p. 117). This was reflected in the narratives of a number of women who wanted to leave their marriages but stayed for the sake of “shalom bayit”. They do not realize that “the abuser does not see this as a restoration of shalom bayis, a peaceful home. Rather, the abuser sees his wife’s return as a triumph on his part and as a capitulation by the beit din”, thus only empowering the abuser further (pp. 117–118). Husbands use the threat of get refusal as a way to keep their wives in the marriage, threatening that if they try to leave, they will never grant a get; thus it is not even worth trying. A number of participants in my study reported that they were encouraged to reconcile with their spouse/abuser—the ideal of shalom bayit being more valued than their safety and experiences of abuse. Compounding this principle are a number of other concepts in Judaism that, when manipulated, feed and support the abusive dynamics some men construct by refusing a get. With the pressure on Jewish women to maintain the ideal of shalom bayit, women refused a get may well (want to/feel pressure to) consider such normative values and principles despite the fact that some women described these very notions as complicating their attempts to exact a get. Teshuva, the significant value of repentance and forgiveness in Judaism makes it all the more difficult for abused Jewish women who, if their husbands 28

Though I imagine Jewish women’s experiences are not distinct from the experiences of women with other religious persuasions. In fact, I suspect most religions would find analogous concepts.

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are remorseful about their recalcitrance or other abuses, would often “want to embrace this value, wipe the slate clean and begin again” (Sevcik, Rothery, Pynn, & Nason-Clark, 2015, p. 14; Twerski, 2015, p. 38). Like the cycles of abuse typical in many abusive relationships, the concept of teshuva may make Jewish women more vulnerable to abuse by believing a husband’s pleas for forgiveness. Thus, when intersecting with domestic violence, teshuva may place women in even greater danger with the weight of a moral/religious precept coming to bear on their decision to stay, forgive, and accept apologies for abuse. In fact, there is a Power and Control Wheel for the Jewish Woman which highlights the particularities that emerge when Jewish women are faced with the cycle of violence (Power and Control Wheel, n.d.). Jewish women might also want to avoid a shandeh, a shame or disgrace and thereby avoid leaving abusive relationships or attempting to obtain a get. In line with the shame women of many religious persuasions feel (as discussed above), this form of shame, a shandeh, has Jewish elements. Jewish domestic abuse, Jewish divorce, and particularly get refusal all carry the stigma of being a shandeh. Consequently, women, even if they would not normally concern themselves with the opinions of others in their communities (although many of them would and would want to avoid a shandeh,) would certainly resist a shameful stigma that could affect their children’s marriage prospects or shidduchim, which these types of shandehs undoubtedly do (Goodman-Kaufman, 2003; Twerski, 2015, p. 40, 45). On a larger scale, there is concern that the disgrace and shame travels beyond the insular Jewish communities, “exposing Jewish misconduct to a Christian majority is a shandeh, a shame that brings disgrace upon all Jews in that each shoulders the burden of representing an entire people…anti-Semitism” (Horsburgh, 2005, p. 211). Indeed, in some communities, even in the 21st century, the pressure to not bring shame or disgrace is compounded by significant fears of anti-­ Semitism, which is on the rise worldwide, and women refused a get feel this pressure (p. 211). Picking up on the notion that Jewish women are pressured to avoid communal shame, as well as the broader shame that may spill over to the general community, the shandeh that is get refusal is then further compounded by additional concepts such as chilul Hashem, mesira, da’at Torah and lashon hara. “Airing dirty laundry” has long been a fear of Jews living in Diasporic communities worldwide (Goodman-Kaufman, 2003, xvii) “due to fear developed over hundreds of generations wherein Jewish communities were persecuted, victimized and when regimes randomly captured Jews and tortured them” (Salamon, 2011, pp. 52–54). Fear of the host nation and what may be the fallout of Jewish “bad” or shameful behaviour is commonplace and is simultaneously a “communal defense mechanism of survivorship” (p. 49). Michael Salamon, speaking about abuse in the Jewish community and factors that undermine the

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apprehension of offenders and the treatment of victims, goes so far as to say that in a post-Holocaust world, Jews have significant fears that no one will help them in times of need which history has proven is a recurring phenomenon and rising anti-Semitism reaffirms these fears (pp. 59–60). ­Consequently, this occurrence that is, of airing out dirty laundry to the broader, non-­observant community would be considered a chilul Hashem. In other words, some might interpret this to mean that bringing get refusal (or other abuses occurring within the Jewish community) into the realm of the broader, non-observant, normative order or to the attention of the state’s regulating bodies such as police, child welfare agencies, or judicial systems, would be considered a desecration of God’s name and the ethical/moral ideals God has set, bringing substantial shame on the self and the community. While not all religious Jews ascribe to the notion of chilul Hashem when it comes to abuses such as these, some do contend that reporting get refusal or other abuses to state regulating bodies brings shame to the entire community (Baruch, 2016; Salamon; 2011) and may negatively impact one’s impression of Jews and/or Jewish behaviour. Mesira, to turn over or give up to authorities, is similar to chilul Hashem. It is a dictate forbidding Jews from turning over or reporting the crimes of a Jewish person to non-rabbinic or civil authorities, largely due to fear of punishment without due process or cause (which again, has recurred historically to Jews) (Goodman-Kaufman, 2003, p. 76). Considered to be an act of betrayal, informing state regulating bodies is seen as more about Jews turning in and turning on other Jews (Salamon, 2011, p. 52) , rather than the consideration of the ramifications if abusive individuals are not turned in to the appropriate authorities (backed by the force of the state). In light of the significant risk of not turning in abusive individuals particularly—husbands who have abused their wives (and children)—leading rabbis have stated that the law prohibiting mesira no longer applies (p. 54).29 Reliance on da’at Torah, or the knowledge of Torah, is a concept that dictates that well-learned rabbinic leaders should be sought out to inform all lifeimpacting decisions based on their superior knowledge and values (p. 68). This concept is based on the presumption that the individual rabbi consulted has studied so intensively that he has the insight and wisdom to handle what is being asked of him, while still being comfortable enough with the limitations of his own knowledge to consult other authorities. Da’at Torah is relied upon by some (most often the Ultra-Orthodox/Hasidic) to make decisions about their 29

The most recent example is Israel’s chief rabbi, Chief Rabbi David Lau, who published an open letter to educators Sunday, August 7, in which he calls for them to “open their eyes” and deal with any and every instance of child abuse of any kind by reporting it.

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private family lives. Women often seek advice before making the decision to leave an abusive husband or to continue to bear the abuse, as well as seeking advice regarding fighting for a get, should it be denied. In fact, as my interviews illustrated, a number of women described seeking out rabbinic approval before making the choice to leave abusive marriages and start fighting for the get. Consequently, the notion of da’at Torah may have a significant impact on the abuses Jewish women endure. The concept of lashon hara is prominent in Judaism and underpins the lexicon addressed here, making it another tool to feed and support the abuse associated with get refusal. Lashon hara, or evil tongue, is the prohibition against derogatory speech or gossip about another person in halakha (p. 56). This concept has been manipulated and used to prevent people who witness or experience abuse from speaking out, almost guilting them into silence and shaming them for breaking the prohibition if they choose to speak out. In fact, this term has emerged on a number of occasions when I have spoken, including in my own synagogue (the largest Orthodox synagogue in Canada). One woman once admonished that I should not speak about get refusal in public due to lashon hara and I rebutted that in fact I see it as my duty and obligation (as an Orthodox Jew and woman) to speak up about abuses and injustices that occur particularly within our community in line with the Biblical obligation of “tzedek tzedek tirdof”, “justice justice you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:18). I would rather live with the violation of lashon hara, (and mesira and chilul Hashem) than live with the knowledge that I sat idly by while men continue to abuse their wives, particularly by not granting them a get. Consequently, the concept of lashon hara, along with mesira, chilul Hashem and da’at Torah all have the potential to compound one another and buttress a husband’s abusive power while simultaneously blinding communities and rabbis to a husband’s abuses through their reliance on and distortion of these concepts.

Conclusion

I have examined here the lexicon within Judaism impacting domestic abuses such as get refusal as well as some of the marked aspects of spiritual abuse all types of religious women come up against when negotiating and deliberating how and if to act in the face of domestic abuses. In examining the interface between religion, gender, and domestic violence, I considered ways in which misinterpreted religion may bolster the abuser’s pattern of control, particularly focussing on the interconnection between the Jewish religion and the abuse of get refusal. Many of the concepts discussed slip quickly into religious,

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s­ocio-cultural ­rationales for the perpetuation of get refusal by abusive husbands. Forgiving an abuser because of teshuva, staying in an abusive marriage in order to be perceived as an e­ shet chayil or because of the wife’s responsibility of shalom bayit, or because not doing so would be a shandeh and might i­ mpact a family’s standing or a child’s future marriage prospects must be revealed and discussed openly as enabling and perpetuating abuse. Moreover, wanting to avoid the prohibitions of ­mesira, lashon hara, or chilul Hashem must not come at the expense of bolstering a husband’s abusive capacities through the guise of revered religious o­ bservance. These concepts, when distorted, absolve the husband of responsibility for his actions, placing all the blame, shame, and guilt on the wife alone. By challenging the misuse, misinterpretation, and manipulation of the concepts and of the religion as a whole by men, (at times) rabbis, batei din, and even entire communities, I expose the latent risks to Jewish women placed in the shadows of religion or religious law. Indeed, for the women I interviewed who were refused a get, their “Jewish identity provides an additional set of ‘tools’ for their partner to use as part of a pattern of abuse” (Cares & Cusick, 2012, p. 433). In fact, Alison Cares, in her interviews speaking with Jewish victims of domestic abuse, found that 70% of the women she interviewed felt that their abuse was intimately connected to their Judaism, and this is reflected in my primary research as well (p. 434). However, the remedy here is not to eliminate Jewish observance, halakhot of marriage and divorce, or even the Jewish lexicon altogether. On the contrary, and as was illustrated by my research, women still see the importance of their religious identity and communal, socio-cultural, and religious norms in their lives, which often include some or all of the precepts discussed above. Domestic abuse is challenging for religious women due in part to the “denial of existence of problems by community, expectations to line up culturally and or theologically, based on idealism, and efforts to avoid disapproval” (Sevcik, Rothery, Pynn, & NasonClark, 2015). This culturally nuanced complexity all religious women face complicates Jewish women’s decisions when faced with get refusal. Women want the right to divorce and to remain a part of their religious communities, free from domestic violence and the threat thereof. Mesuravot get should not have to face a choice between remaining in their religious communities and in limbo, or gaining freedom, but losing their friends, families, and core systems of meaning—placing them outside their social fabric (Pelcovitz, n.d.). Ultimately, it is crucial to recognize that there are significant implications both socially, halakhically, and legally for women when identifying get refusal as a form of domestic abuse (which Fournier and Snyers elaborate on in Chapter 8). Framing the phenomenon in a way that p ­ rovides a context which

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both the social and legal worlds can understand, rather than dismissing get refusal as a religious issue, or one to brush under the rug, is a significant step toward preventing the abuse of get refusal and validating the experiences of women. In conclusion, in this analysis I explored more deeply a facet of get refusal which has been all but ignored in both the socio-legal and get-refusal ­literatures, and even by Jewish and feminist scholars (Broyde, 2001; Fournier, 2013; Hacohen, 2004; Weiss & Gross Horowitz, 2012). This paper established that get refusal is a form of domestic abuse that, like other forms of domestic abuse, is indiscriminate, potentially impacting any Jewish woman at any level of (non) observance. Furthermore, I illustrated that get refusal persists despite state legal remedies, and is often the culmination of a pattern of abuse that persisted throughout the marriage, and that the phenomenon of get refusal enables men to use their religion as a weapon or tool for abuse. In particular, individual, recalcitrant men manipulate Jewish law, and work in its shadows to commit spiritual abuse by belittling a spouse’s beliefs, preventing her from engaging in religious acts by employing a lexicon of terms existing within Judaism to buttress them in their recalcitrance.

Acknowledgments

I thank the editors for inviting me to participate in this meaningful collection as well as the participants forming a rich intellectual community. This chapter benefitted from thoughtful comments from Annie M. Bunting, Benjamin L. Berger and Sara R. Horowitz. I thank them for their continued support and inspiration. This paper forms a part of my Doctoral Dissertation supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the Ontario Graduate Scholarship and the Religion and Diversity Project. References A.A. June 6, 2014. B.F. June 14, 2014. B.R.G. Dec.31, 2013. D.E. Nov. 5, 2013. D.R. June 16, 2014. E.R. May 23, 2014. J.D. Aug. 22, 2014.

L.G. Oct 29, 2013. L.I. May 23, 2014. P.L. Aug. 13, 2014. R.W. May 26, 2014. S.H. Oct. 29, 2013. S.L. Oct. 23, 2013.

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Rashi Talmud: Tractate Baba Kama, Chapter 7 Folio 80a. Author’s translation. Salamon, M. (2011). Abuse in the Jewish community: Religious and communal factors that undermine the apprehension of offenders and the treatment of victims. New York, NY: Urim Publications. Sevcik, I., M. Rothery, N. Nason-Clark, & R. Pynn (Eds.). (2015). Overcoming conflicting loyalties: Intimate partner violence, community resources, and faith. Edmonton, AB: University of ­Alberta Press. Shachar, A. (2001). Multicultural jurisdictions: Cultural differences and women’s rights. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Steinmetz, S. & M.H. Muhammad. (2006). Definitions of and beliefs about wife abuse among Ultra-Orthodox Jewish men from Israel. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 21(4), 525–554. Talmud: Tractate Yevamot 62b. Author’s translation. Talmud: Tractate Baba Bathra, Chapter V Folio 73a. Author’s translation. Taylor, V. (1998). Feminist methodology in social movements research. Qualitative S­ ociology, 21 (4) 357–379. Twerski, Rabbi Dr. A.J. (2015). The shame borne in silence: Spouse abuse in the Jewish community 2nd Edition. Jerusalem, Israel: Urim Publications. Weiss, S.M., & N.C. Gross-Horowitz. (2012). Marriage and divorce in the Jewish state: ­Israel’s civil war. Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press. Zavella, P. (1999). Feminist insider dilemmas: Constructing ethnic identity with ­“Chicana” informants. Frontiers, 13 (3), 53–76.

Conclusion Nancy Nason-Clark

Capturing the Moment

There is a synergy that sometimes develops when scholars at various stages of their research careers come together to discuss something that is near and dear to their hearts and minds. It does not often happen, but when it does, the ­experience is both pleasant and profound. In the early stages of looking for research monies to bring us all together, Catherine Holtmann and I conceived of a workshop that would celebrate completed research and highlight ideas still under development. We wanted graduate students to be involved in various ways and we wanted to showcase projects not yet completed as well as innovative strategies for communicating research results. For the ­workshop to be successful, we felt that both informal dialogue and prior preparation were essential. To that end, we circulated drafts of all the papers in advance of our workshop and then offered opportunity for further development and refinement—based on the collective dialogue—after the workshop was ­ completed. We titled our workshop When Prayers are Not Enough to highlight the tensions that surface for religious people when violence impacts their lives. The title was meant to draw attention to the fact that the domains of religion, gender, and family violence are rarely considered together by either scholars or religious leaders. To say that the intersection between these circles of scholarship and practice has oft been neglected is to state the obvious. While researchers have been slow to examine and understand the important role that religion occupies in the lives of many victims, survivors, and perpetrators of intimate partner violence, religious believers and religious communities have downplayed the reality of abuse and the devastation it causes in their own midst and beyond. Both groups have underestimated the importance of taking seriously the frequency, severity, and impact of abuse in families of faith. Both groups have minimized the necessity of seeking both community-based and religiously-based services in the aftermath of family violence. As well, researchers and practitioners alike have tended to respond to the issue of abuse as if a coordinated, collaborative, response between the two perspectives was neither desirable nor achievable. Over the course of two days, our assembled group was an engaged intellectual community: we listened to presentations, debated ideas, asked questions,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004372399_013

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probed responses, challenged frameworks, and suggested solutions. While there are no easy answers to intersecting the silos that exist, there were plenty of examples raised in our discussions to stifle any excessive negativity and to applaud creative energy. While there is ample scholarly and practical work yet to be done to bring together various religious and secular communities to the collaborative table to address domestic violence, there is also much to celebrate and a foundation upon which to build. In this concluding chapter, my goal is to capture part of that experience— including the collaborative spirit—and by reflecting upon some of our shared ideas to chart the way forward.

The Workshop Experience

The workshop that took place on September 13–14, 2016 at the Muriel ­McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research at unb brought together a wonderful collection of junior and senior academics representing diverse personal and professional backgrounds. It began with a public address by noted legal scholar, Dr. Pascale Fournier, on the evening of the September 13th. To a lecture hall filled to capacity with students, faculty and community members, Fournier outlined the response of secular governments to divorce, family violence, and religion. Earthly States, Holy Matrimony, the title of her talk, outlined several features of religious and civil law relating to divorce for Muslim and Jewish women. Referencing Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and Canada, Fournier argued that there are both costs and benefits to individual women as they divorce a partner through either the religious or the secular sphere of law. At the close of her talk, Dr. Fournier called for enhanced religious awareness training for members of justice systems worldwide. This, she believes, would enable religious women and their legal counsels to harness more effectively the civil law system and to navigate divorce within religious law. Working in concert, according to Fournier, improves the lives of ordinary women and decreases the angst they experience when the system of secular law pulls in one direction and women’s lived reality of religious laws and customs pull in another. On the second day of the workshop, the authors of the various chapters presented in this volume gathered, joined by some members of the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research, several additional undergraduate and graduate student observers, and other researchers invited to act as discussants or to offer prepared remarks. The centrality of student participation served many purposes, not least of which related to thinking

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about future endeavours and the way forward. During the day there was a lively academic exchange as scholars presented their own work and responded to the research of others. Interdisciplinary perspectives covered included the social sciences, law, theology, human rights, religious studies, and feminism. Some of the scholars were themselves practitioners of religion, others were not. P ­ resentations and dialogue at the workshop covered the major world ­religions—Christianity, Judaism, Islam—as well as new religious movements. Our focus included cultural and legal analysis, the response of the criminal justice system and intervention services to various forms of domestic violence, as well as the role of congregations: their leaders and followers. Themes surrounding vulnerability, resiliency, emotional support, and intersectionality were central to the presented work at the workshop, our discussions there, and the chapters in this book. So too was the call for ongoing awareness training, for first responders and for those who walk alongside survivors and abusers over time. Participants were struck with the many layers of overlap between their own research and that of others around our collaborative table. The inclusion of several socio-legal scholars offered a unique opportunity to consider how issues of vulnerability impact not only individuals in the home environment, but also in their intersections with institutions and the broader culture.1 The nexus of religion, gender, and violence offered a path to see the many similarities facing women in various religious, cultural, and geographical contexts around the world. Discussants harnessed the ideas generated in individual papers and spoke in broad terms of the challenges ahead and the need to ever be cognizant of the ways in which religious language, traditions, and practices can be a source for strength and comfort for victims but also a tool employed by those who abuse. In this concluding chapter, I revisit some of these themes and outline a few steps ahead as we consider the interweaving of religion, gender, and violence.

Identifying and Exploring the Intersections between Religion, Gender, and Violence

Vulnerability and Resiliency When abuse occurs in families connected with established faith traditions, the impact can be devastating. To be sure, all women, men, and children who are victims of intimate partner violence or other forms of abuse are impacted. 1 Thanks to one of the anonymous reviewers for highlighting the additional layer of meaning associated with institutional vulnerability and the law.

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But the journey for those who are religious—whether as victims or as ­aggressors—involves some additional challenges and, as a result, they normally require some specific assistance (see Nason-Clark et al., 2018). Often, this means help from both community-based, or secular, providers as well as support from their own community of faith. Failure to provide bifurcated (secular and sacred) care can come at a great cost: either safety is compromised (religious help only) or emotional support from other believers is neglected (secular services alone). Sevcik et al. (2015) claim that the divide between ­secular-based service providers and sacral communities and their leaders can be bridged, a discussion we return to later in the chapter. Identifying or belonging to a religious group may prevent some women from seeing the actions of their partners as abusive, or disclosing what has happened behind closed doors. It also delays, or thwarts, seeking safety for themselves and their children in its aftermath. Moreover, identifying with a religious group may be understood by some men who batter as offering them permission to treat their partners and their children in ways that others see as abusive. Patriarchal social structures enhance the vulnerability of women and children, by supporting ideas and practices that place women and children in harm’s way. Chapters in this volume by McMullin, Holtmann, Palmer, Nunn and Robinson, as well as Fournier and her colleagues, all examine contexts and examples through which religious groups sometimes fail to act in ways that would empower those who have been abused. Failing to act increases a victim’s dependency, compromises emotional health, and puts safety in jeopardy. McMullin, in Chapter 1, notes that when support from the faith leader is not present, religious victims continue to suffer instead of seeking respite and assistance, and that is often accompanied by inner angst and shame, factors that can lead them right back into the arms of their abusers. Machtinger, too, in Chapter 10, sees the refusal of a faith community to assist those who are abused—in her case Orthodox Judaism—as placing religious women at increased risk. She argues that get refusal enables abusive men to continue to control long after the formal relationship has ended and in this way Judaism is harnessed as a tool for further abuse. Like McMullin, she notes the pressures on religious women to keep the family intact, to do everything within their power to bring peace to the home environment, and to protect those outside the faith community from using examples of abusive families as a reason to consider negatively the faith and religious practices of its members. In Chapter 2, Holtmann draws attention to the experiences of immigrant women who have been abused and considers the intersectional challenge of being immigrant, religious, and abused. She argues that religious beliefs and

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practices further augment the challenges of abused immigrant women. These chapters all provide evidence that there are explicitly religious dimensions to the experience of abuse for victims who identify with, or practice, one of the major world religions. Moreover, they help us to understand ways in which the angst that is created for the religious individual caught in the web of violence requires assistance from someone who understands the beliefs and practices of that tradition. The degree to which a culturally competent secular worker is able to provide this is something to be debated and discussed. There are certainly clues in the work provided in our collection here that would suggest that it is more powerful and impactful if the religious questions and angst are responded to by a person within the faith tradition itself. While the experience of vulnerability extends beyond geographical or religious boundaries, it is experienced differently by women who present with multiple experiences of marginalization, compounding the impact of individual factors as well as the combined impact of the intersections of country of origin, recent immigration, gender and religion. Many chapters in this volume offer supporting evidence of this: as Holtmann shows, sometimes these intersecting vulnerabilities take a long time to manifest fully as is the case in the lives of women who have migrated to Canada from cultures very different from here. And they can be observed, as well, in other countries amongst minority religious populations (e.g., Fournier et al. and Fournier and Snyers). Chapters 8 and 9, written by Fournier and her team of collaborators, offer us a fascinating look at the web of interactions between state and religious norms and the impact of these complex interactions on individual women, in different countries, as they proceed through the process of divorce. As Fournier herself suggests, “I have always been led by the strong ambition to deconstruct the relation between law and individual subjectivities, more particularly when it comes to religious women navigating through legal institutions.”2 In this way, Fournier and her collaborating colleagues have paved the way to see women’s interactions with legal systems through the passages of marriage and divorce as both stories to be told and bargaining structures to be analyzed. As we see in their chapters in this volume, there are social and legal constraints to be understood as well as women’s creativity and persistence as they navigate through the pressures they face. Foundational to Fournier’s approach are insights from critical legal pluralism combined with postmodern feminism. Together these chapters outline how “dynamic social spaces” reveal both resistance mechanisms and snapshots of women as active social agents. 2 Personal communication related to the work of her research team and our edited book from Dr. Pascal Fournier.

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Fisher-Townsend and Nason-Clark, in Chapters 6 and 5 respectively, highlight ways that religious men who have been abusive are themselves vulnerable, through their families of origin, or past experiences of abuse. Aboriginal men, in particular, have multiple and compounding needs for culturally specific programs that take seriously the importance of spirituality. When spirituality is embedded as part of a batterer intervention program, religious men who have acted abusively are called to alter their thinking and their “way of living.” As they have argued elsewhere (Nason-Clark & Fisher-Townsend, 2015), this is also true for non-aboriginal men who identify strongly with a religious tradition. Harnessing their religious sensitivities and the authority of their religious leader has been found to increase their “buy-in” to intervention services and thereby increase the level of accountability in their lives. In the conclusion to Chapter 7, Palmer asks whether certain social conditions or internal factors common to sectarian religious communities provide fertile ground for the exploitation of vulnerable followers. Or, whether the charismatic leaders themselves adopt power strategies that co-mingle with their personality traits leading them to act abusively with their fictive families? This chapter offers a different angle to discuss vulnerability and control, but, again, the centrality of the link between religion, abuse, and gender is ever-present. As we will discuss below, the specific vulnerabilities of abused religious women have implications for the support they need to receive from both religious and secular contexts. Roy, in Chapter 4, helps us to understand how community-based shelters can be responsive to these challenges by taking seriously the role of intersectional complexities in the lives of abused women, while Holtmann, in Chapter 2, offers us an example of how this might play out in the lives of abused religious women who are recent immigrants. While vulnerability is certainly a critical concept in understanding how women who have been abused experience their lived reality, so too is the concept of resiliency. Fournier, Malek-Bakouche, and Laoun, in Chapter 9, examine divorce in Lebanon and highlight women’s everyday struggles as they seek to negotiate the dissolution of their marriage in a context where the state and religious institutions have power over the family. Based on their early fieldwork, they argue that Lebanese women are active agents in maneuvering through the various social and legal practices impacting divorce in that cultural context, and, in so doing, exhibit multiple resistance mechanisms. In Chapter 8 by Fournier and Syners, we see ways in which women navigate the challenges of religious norms and civil laws. Resiliency is also evident amongst abused ­Christian women and McMullin’s research on congregations in Chapter 1 draws attention to the obstacles that must be overcome in order for c­ ollaboration to

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occur between secular and religious sources of help, obstacles that bear some similarity to the ones experienced by religious immigrant women, a subject raised by Holtmann. The interweaving of notions of vulnerability and resiliency can be observed in both the chapters by Fisher-Townsend and Nason-Clark as they draw our attention to the specific circumstances and roadblocks to working effectively with men who batter. For aboriginal men, spirituality is a resource that can be harnessed to assist on the journey towards accountability and change. The same is true for religious men who have abused their partners. The visual representation of the tree is one that elicits both of these concepts—­vulnerability and resiliency. Working towards accountability and change in the life of someone who has been abusive has many challenges and harnessing a man’s religious identity is one such resource. Emotional Support and Intersectionality What does it mean to provide care, or emotional support, to a person in need? And what are some of the ways that the care provided—whether it be housing, food, or support that leads to empowerment—can take seriously the differences between individuals who have been abused, or are abusive? Holtmann highlights the concept of care in Chapter 2 and provides evidence that caring social support provided through one’s social networks is a critical, though sometimes invisible, factor in helping abused religious immigrant women navigate their choices in the aftermath of domestic violence. Other chapters too mention the centrality of emotional support and caring actions by one’s community of faith when violence has been experienced. This general notion of looking out for others and treating them the way that you wish to be treated has been labelled Golden Rule Christianity by Ammerman (1997; cf., 2014) something for which there is widespread support in the North American context. However, notions of caring for others, or offering practical acts of kindness, knows no religious or cultural boundaries, though how it is manifested, of course, differs according to many factors, as several of the chapters reveal. Maybe it is obvious, but it is important to highlight none-the-less that employing the language of faith in cases of domestic violence is a central part of “hearing” the religious person disclose the pain and angst that is being experienced. When abuse strikes within the home of the religious woman, often she will begin her search for answers by asking religious questions, like, What is God trying to teach me through this experience? or Why has God abandoned me? Usually these questions are never said aloud: they are private thoughts, voiced maybe in a prayer. But they are very important issues to a woman of faith who is being abused by her intimate partner. And, it is critical to remember, they

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are not questions that can be addressed by someone without a knowledge of her faith and its traditions and beliefs. This is why the provision of services needs to include someone who can respond to her religious suffering and why we believe it is so critical to build bridges between religious communities and community-based services that respond to abuse. As Sevcik (2015) makes clear: each perspective—secular and sacred—has something to offer the other. And, when secular and sacral services work together, victims of violence are better served. That is the rationale for bridge building between communities of faith and community-based services on the issue of intimate partner violence. Working together involves finding a common language to discuss abuse, understand its dynamics, empower victims, hold abusers accountable, and look towards a day when abuse will no longer be tolerated in any context. While the importance of bridge-building is clear, and its rationale evidence-based, getting there takes time and effort. Language and empowerment go together. How her experiences are framed and explicated makes an enormous difference to an abused religious woman. This raises several points for us to think about: the importance of using the language of faith to make sense of life’s experiences; harnessing the language of faith to chart the way forward for individuals and families impacted by abuse; and building upon the networks of care already in existence in communities of faith. As Stephen McMullin and Yael Machtinger so aptly demonstrate in Chapters 1 and 10 respectively, religious victims see their suffering through spiritual eyes and use the language of faith to speak about what is occurring in their lives. As others have shown (Nason-Clark et al., 2018), when religious women first ­attempt to disclose the abuse to a religious leader, the response of that ­leader—either support or disbelief—in large measure charts the way forward for her. If she receives emotional and practical support, she is likely to choose options that reduce her risk of ongoing abuse. If she does not, she is more likely to choose options that compromise her safety and well-being. Since contact or referrals between religious leaders and secular shelters is still rather uncommon, a woman who seeks help first at a transition house may believe that she needs to leave both her abusive partner and her faith as she seeks respite. Roy, in Chapter 4, highlights many of the challenges facing shelters and their staff as they navigate the intersectional complexities of abused women’s lives. The presenting sociocultural and socioeconomic realities impact both how women experience abuse and the choices they believe can be made after it occurs. Employing religious language to understand abuse is important too for perpetrators who claim spirituality as part of their narrative (Nason-Clark

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and Fisher-Townsend, 2015). And, it can be harnessed as well to chart the way forward towards accountability and change. Both Nason-Clark’s and FisherTownsend’s Chapters (5 and 6, respectively) in this volume speak to this further. Fisher-Townsend offers convincing evidence that for aboriginal men, receiving support and hope from within an aboriginal framework makes a significant difference. While religious language can be harnessed to understand the experience of abuse for a believer, it can also be harnessed to offer choices and empowerment in its aftermath. This too can become part of the collaborative effort between community-based services and faith congregations. But, as Roy’s chapter outlines, there are many challenges on the road to working together. And those challenges can be compounded when certain practices are not understood as abusive, a point so clearly highlighted in Chapter 3 by Nunn and Robinson related to physical force and the disciplining of children.

Charting the Way Forward

When I am asked to offer training in either religious or secular contexts that addresses the issue of abuse in families of faith, I often ask my audience to ponder two questions: is your faith community, or the office of your pastor, rabbi or other religious leader, a safe place for a woman of faith to disclose that she has been abused by an intimate partner? And, are your community agencies, like shelters, a safe place for a woman to disclose that she is religious? Until we are able to answer “yes” to both of these questions, the obstacles remain in place for religious women seeking help in the aftermath of domestic violence. Findings from the research program of the Religion and Violence Research Team of the Muriel McQueen Fergusson Centre for Family Violence Research have pointed for some time to the necessity of building bridges between faith leaders and community agencies in an effort to respond with compassion and best practices to the issue of domestic violence. In a chapter for the Centre’s first edited book Understanding Abuse: Partnering for Change, we argued that there is much to be gained by collaborative ventures between congregations and local shelters (Nason-Clark, Mitchell and Beaman, 2004). Here we pointed out that already there is a strong link between many congregational women’s groups and their local transition houses, links that offer both physical and emotional resources. We challenged faith groups to place brochures highlighting abuse in the washrooms of their facilities, to raise the issue of abuse during premarital counselling sessions, and to offer speaking opportunities to

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­shelter staff during a regularly scheduled religious event. We challenged shelters to include religious leaders in community-wide events and to make known to congregations their services as well as their needs. Bridge building is a twoway street, we concluded, and it takes initiative and trust from all participating agencies to make it happen. Building on the themes of vulnerability, resiliency, emotional support, and intersectionality, the chapters in this collection begin a conversation that suggests that the silos between religion, gender, and family violence can be bridged, or made somewhat porous, in order for collaborative, cooperative projects between them to emerge. Within all the major faith traditions, there is a cohort of women and men who are willing to work together to assist victims, survivors and their families after domestic violence strikes at home. Often care at the grass-roots level involves offering basic emotional and practical support: listening, helping with childcare, and walking alongside someone who is suffering pain. As individual acts are translated into group endeavours, women’s organizations assist shelters and make way for women within their own faith traditions to tell their stories and to find support as they seek safety and improved well-being for themselves and their children. But faith groups, too, can be a source of accountability for those who are perpetrators, insisting on justice for victims and changed behavior for those who harm others. But, many questions remain. And there is a great need for empirical ­evidence—quantitative and qualitative in nature—to help us to understand how support can be maximized in the life of a survivor and accountability can be strengthened in the life of an abuser. Charting the boundaries of helpful and unhelpful intervention in the lives of families impacted by abuse—abused and abuser alike—is central to understanding the way forward. This is true at the individual level, but it is also true at the level of congregations, community services, and the broader culture. It is possible, and indeed likely, that families of deep faith may chart this journey differently from those listening to mostly secular voices in the aftermath of intimate partner violence. But the needs of all victims, families, and perpetrators are important—those who are religious and those who are not. It is critical to understand this at a theoretical level and to allow those insights to impact social policies and best practices.

Final Reflection

Over the years, I have received calls, emails, and notes from religious leaders and others who are responding to something I have written in a publication

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or said in a speaking engagement. The following excerpt came in the form of a letter:3 A few years ago while going through the ordination process in the United Methodist Church, I was asked to serve on the board of directors of a local shelter for battered women and their children. When the shelter women (board and staff) found out I was a clergy person, they were obviously nervous. They all knew of clergy who had sent women back to batterers to pray harder or be more submissive … During the same period I went to my Board of Ordained Ministry to continue my process toward full ordination … My paperwork that year included descriptions of my work at the shelter … In my interview, I was asked if I hated men, and if I was an angry feminist … The shelter’s hesitance about religion and the church’s fear of feminism meant that both were curious about me. I received this note almost twenty years ago. Much has changed in the last twenty years as it relates to increased public knowledge about intimate partner violence. But the web of interactions between religion, gender, and abuse has lagged behind, and the most successful collaborative efforts are often location specific. Without-a-doubt, there is more to do. And there is much more to understand, particularly as the demographics of many countries around the globe reveal greater ethnic and religious diversity. We need to ensure that all people—religious and secular—are offered services in the aftermath of intimate partner violence that take seriously their needs for safety (for victims) and accountability (for abusers) without neglecting the unique vulnerabilities and resiliencies of highly religious families. The work outlined in this collection goes some way towards addressing the problems that surface and the current research and initiatives that are underway. In her opening address to our two-day workshop, Dr. Pascale Fournier called for enhanced training on the relationship between religion, gender, and the law for both the judiciary and for those who help women navigate the criminal justice system. We would echo that call—for all who work with victims, survivors, and perpetrators of domestic violence. The more that we understand and appreciate the work of each other, and include an intersectional perspective in the services we provide, all of our institutions and the people serving within them will be better equipped to help those in need. 3 Portions of this letter were published in my book: Nason-Clark, N. The Battered Wife: How Christians Confront Family Violence, in 1997. Louisville, ky: Westminster John Knox Press.

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­Partnerships begin when two or more people are committed to working together for a joint vision. References Ammerman, N.T. (2014). Sacred stories, spiritual tribes: Finding religion in everyday life. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Ammerman, N.T. (1997). Golden rule Christianity: Lived religion in the American mainstream. In D.D. Hall (Ed.), Lived religion in America: Toward a history of practice (pp. 196–216). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Nason-Clark, N. & B. Fisher-Townsend (2015) Men who batter. New York: Oxford ­University Press. Nason-Clark, N., B. Fisher-Townsend, C. Holtmann, & S. McMullin (2018). Religion and intimate partner violence: Understanding the challenges and proposing solutions. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Nason-Clark, N., L. Mitchell, & L.G. Beaman (2004) Bridge building: Linking sacred and secular support services for religious victims of abuse. In M.L. Stirling, A. Cameron, N. Nason-Clark and B. Miedema (eds.) Understanding abuse: Partnering for change, pp. 223–248, University of Toronto Press. Sevcik, I., M. Rothery, N. Nason-Clark & R. Pynn (2015) Overcoming conflicting loyalties: Intimate partner violence, community resources, and faith. Edmonton, AB: University of Alberta Press.

Subject Index Aboriginal families and communities 7, 125, 134, 140 men 125–145 women 126–127 spirituality; worldview; culture; 130–132, 136–138 See also colonization abuse 2, 6, 12, 24, 28, 31, 32, 34, 40, 53–54, 84–89, 112, 114, 118, 135, 138, 146, 193, 200, 211, 212, 213n, 215–218, 231, 237, 242, 243 accountability 110–123 addiction 65, 85, 128, 216 agency (of women) 6, 9, 12, 14, 202 agunot 210, 214, 220, 223 alcohol 65, 109–112 alimony 13, 165, 170, 188, 189, 203, 205 anti-semitism 7–8, 227–228 assimilable discipline 66, 70 authoritarian 63, 66, 74, 77 autonomy 9, 38, 67–70, 167 barriers 30–35, 84, 92, 196–198 batterer intervention programs; batterer treatment programs 34–35, 110, 112, 125–128, 139, 141–142, 240 best practices 4, 40, 55, 64, 114, 116, 243–244 bible, biblical 1, 5, 22, 24, 25–26, 33, 50, 53, 60, 62, 71, 72, 76, 78, 80, 154, 156, 229 care; care work; caregivers; caretakers; ­spiritual care 10, 23, 29–35, 38–55, 66, 69,    134, 159, 193, 238, 241, 244 Catholic 1, 40, 41, 50, 51, 63, 73, 112, 146, 152, 189, 191, 193, 194, 196, 201–204 ceremony; ceremonies 128, 131, 132, 137, 141 charismatic 12, 73, 146, 147, 149, 158–159, 240 children; childhood; minors 1, 10, 13, 15, 31, 34, 39, 42, 44, 45, 47–48, 50–55, 60–80, 85, 89, 95, 110, 121, 128, 129, 134–135, 146–159, 170–184, 188, 193–205, 213–228, 237–238, 243–245 child sexual abuse 61, 70, 71 chilul Hashem 227–230 Christians; Christianity 1, 5, 7, 10, 22–34, 38–54, 60–80, 109–123, 150–154, 165–176, 189–201, 227, 240, 241

citizen; citizenship 13, 39, 121, 165, 166, 168–170, 189, 190, 194 civil law 6, 13, 165–185, 188–206, 236, 240 society 5, 165 clergy 10, 21–35, 121, 146, 150, 221, 223, 245 collaboration 10, 35, 55, 116, 169n, 240 colonization 7, 11, 125, 134–135, 139, 141, 189 comfort 23, 26, 29, 31, 48, 92, 116, 123, 221, 222, 237 community agencies 28, 29, 114, 116, 139 coordinated response 29, 110, 116, 235, 238, 242, 243 professionals 26, 27, 30, 31, 32, 35 responders 23, 25, 27, 30, 32, 33, 35 complexity theory 86–88, 95–96 congregations See Christians, Christianity conservative 6, 12, 14, 22, 41, 42, 43, 60–80, 196, 198, 213 control; power and control 3, 5, 6, 9, 26, 28, 29, 31, 53, 54, 55, 64, 66–72, 74, 77, 89, 92, 96, 110, 112, 116, 119, 146, 159, 193, 211, 215–222, 226, 227, 229, 238, 240 corporal punishment 11, 60–80 criminal justice system; criminal justice ­workers; 9, 12, 113, 117, 122–123, 125, 237 cultural competence; cultural groups; ­culturally appropriate; culturally sensitive; cultural practices 6, 11, 15, 46, 64, 67, 77,    85, 86, 91, 92, 93, 100, 113, 120, 126, 128, 131–141, 190, 219, 223, 224, 230, 239, 240, 242 cultural diversity 8, 31, 93, 172, 176, 203 custody 6, 13, 147, 165, 170, 171, 179, 181, 188, 189, 193–194, 201–203, 205 deviant behaviour 148, 150, 152, 153, 154, 173 discipline of children 60–80 divorce; religious divorce; civil divorce 6–7, 9–10, 13, 14, 15, 34, 47, 48, 89, 165–186, 188–206, 236–240 Christian divorce 193, 201, 203 Druze divorce 189, 190, 192, 193, 195, 204 Jewish divorce 176–177, 209–231 Muslim divorce 166–186, 191, 193, 202, 204, 211n

248 domestic violence; domestic abuse 2, 11, 21–35, 84–100, 109, 121, 127, 128, 133, 139, 159, 190–191, 199–200, 206, 209–231, 241, 244 economic class; economic system 2, 39, 42, 43, 44, 52–53, 84, 85, 95, 135, 167, 183, 213 education 12, 32, 41, 45, 48, 85, 123, 137, 141, 177–178, 185, 224 emotional abuse 75, 84, 85, 129, 159, 193, 215, 216, 217, 220, 225 employment 12, 45, 48, 85, 95, 99, 111 equality 5, 6, 93, 166, 171–172, 175, 183, 185, 189, 210n ethnicity 4, 8, 11, 12, 39–40, 49, 98, 184, 190, 213 Evangelical protestant 21, 22, 25, 41, 50, 73, 192, 193 extortion 177, 216, 217, 218, 224 faith-based services 125 family dynamics 63, 190 family law 13, 166, 169, 171, 172, 175, 183, 188, 189–191, 194, 195, 198, 201, 205–206 family violence 1–15, 38–55, 138, 191, 221, 223, 235, 244 fathers 41, 42–43, 45, 47, 48, 53, 54, 60, 73, 79, 134, 147, 153, 154, 183, 193, 194, 198, 202 feminist movement 14, 172, 176 theory 5, 12, 127, 195, 210, 212 financial abuse; financial exploitation 2, 54, 84, 216, 217, 220 get 176, 177 refusal 209–231, 238 gender; gender norms; gender roles 4–6, 38, 40–47, 54, 91, 98, 128, 221 complementarity 40–41, 53, 54 stereotypes 199 Halakhot 214n, 225, 230 Halakhic 212, 214, 215, 219 healing 3, 7, 8, 34, 94, 113, 114, 123, 125, 131, 132, 133, 136–138, 139, 141, 158 circles 138, 141 homosexual 147, 149, 152, 154, 155 honour violence 2, 4n, 12 husbands See fathers

Subject Index immigrants; immigrant women; immigrant families; immigrant status 9, 10, 12, 13,    30, 38–55, 90, 91–92, 96, 98, 222, 225, 238–239, 240, 241 inappropriate responses 27, 28–29, 32, 65 independence 45–47, 54, 95 inequality 39, 42, 99 intersectional; intersectional theory; ­intersectional approach 4, 10, 11, 39,    84–100, 167, 181, 182, 185, 237, 238, 241–242 intervention 4, 9, 15, 30, 72, 78, 84, 85, 87, 97, 100, 166, 192, 204, 237, 244 intimate partner violence 2, 29, 38, 39, 40, 41n, 51, 109, 110, 113, 115, 116, 122, 125, 126–127, 140, 235, 237, 242, 244, 245 isolation 39, 54, 65, 77, 87, 89, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 138, 174, 176, 224 Islamic law 175, 177, 192 Israel; Israeli; Israelite 7–8, 13, 38, 121, 153, 165–186, 189, 191, 215, 218 Jewish; Jewish law 1, 8, 9, 13, 14, 22, 41, 165–186, 209–231 Orthodox 38, 41, 177, 212, 213, 229, 238 Hasidic 228 Ultra-orthodox 211, 212, 213, 214, 228 justice 5, 54, 55, 68, 110, 123, 146, 151, 196, 210, 229, 244 legal pluralism 13, 188, 195, 205, 210, 239 mainline Protestant; mainline ­congregations 21–35, 63 marriage; religious marriage; civil marriage  1, 6, 9, 13, 22, 24, 25, 26, 29, 31, 32, 40, 47, 48, 50, 51, 147, 150, 153, 154, 155, 165–186, 188–206, 209–231, 239, 240 Medicine Wheel 126, 131, 132, 139, 140, 141 mental health 35, 48, 63, 75 men who batter 11, 109–110, 115–122, 238, 241 mesira 227, 228, 229, 230 mesuravot get 213–215, 219, 220, 221, 223, 224, 230 mothers 2, 10, 34, 41, 42, 44, 45, 47, 48, 51–55, 62, 73, 74–77, 78, 111, 147, 156, 183, 193, 194, 199, 225 multicultural policy; multiculturalism 8, 13, 55, 93, 99, 166

249

Subject Index Muslim; Muslim women 10, 13, 40–55, 121, 154, 165–186, 188–206, 236 Sunni 189–193, 195, 197–199, 202, 204 Shia; Shiite 189–193, 195, 197–199, 200–204 negative impacts 75 new religious movements 2, 12, 146, 147, 159, 237 non-religious 7, 12, 79 Orthodox (Christian) 50 Armenian 189, 192, 195 Assyrian 192 Coptic 189 Greek 189, 192, 193, 194, 195, 197, 201, 203, 205 Maronite 189, 195, 196, 198, 199, 200, 202 Syriac 192, 194 Syrian 189 Palestinian women; Palestinian community; Palestinian population 165, 169, 170, 172,    173, 176, 182, 183 parents; parenting; parenting ­practices; ­parenting handbooks; parental ­supervision 2, 15, 42, 50, 60–80,    109, 119, 129, 147, 148, 152, 159, 171, 173, 174, 179, 193, 197, 198, 199 pastors 21–35 patriarchy 5, 14, 39, 91, 98, 99, 119, 185, 196, 199, 212 pedophile 146, 149–153 perpetrators 3, 7–12, 14, 31, 34, 116, 211, 226, 235, 242, 244, 245 physical abuse; physical assault; physical ­violence 2, 5, 10, 42, 44, 52, 60–65,    67–70, 71–72, 75, 77, 79–80, 84, 85, 114, 122, 126, 127, 159, 193, 200, 217, 220, 243 police 9, 27, 91, 147, 152, 157, 216, 228 policy 15, 29, 43, 92, 100, 134, 135, 167, 168, 172 polygamist 149, 153–154 positive parenting 72, 74 prayer 1, 31, 52, 132, 133, 136, 141, 241 precarious work; precarious jobs 42–43, 49, 52, 54 psychological abuse 215, 217, 224

well being 30, 31, 75 wounding 129 public services 8, 55 service providers 4, 38, 40 rabbi 8, 10, 14, 177, 209, 212, 218–224, 226, 228, 229, 230, 243 rabbinical court 177 racialized 43, 167, 169, 222 racism 3, 7, 39, 90, 128, 135 referrals 22, 27, 35, 242 religious courts 170, 171, 172, 177, 179, 188, 189, 192, 194, 201 religious diversity 4, 8, 93, 203, 245 residential schools 7, 125, 129, 134, 135, 139, 141 resiliency 110, 119, 237–241, 244 ritual 2, 5, 29, 71, 92, 120, 121, 132, 138, 153, 155, 156, 158, 212, 213, 217, 223 sacred 1, 3, 14, 24, 29, 61, 123, 138, 153, 154, 222, 238, 242 safety 5, 8, 9, 21, 26, 27, 29, 31–35, 39, 40, 43, 44, 51, 53, 54, 85, 92, 99, 110, 200, 226, 238, 242, 244, 245 planning 9 scandal 146, 147, 152, 224 scriptures 1, 3, 25, 32, 34 secular 8, 10, 38, 72, 113, 114, 117, 119, 120, 150, 179, 180, 185, 205, 236, 240, 242, 243, 244, 245 agencies; institutions 8, 25, 35, 241 leaders 8 professionals; service providers 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 25, 27, 28, 31, 33, 40, 94, 113, 147, 238, 239 resources 4 secularization 121, 194, 204 self-confidence 45, 46, 54 seminary 24, 27 students 24–27, 32 sexual deviancy See deviant behaviour sexual orientation 5, 8, 149 sexual abuse; assault; misconduct; violence 2, 5, 12, 70, 84, 122, 127, 146, 147, 149, 154, 157, 158, 159, 212, 216, 217, 225 molestation 147, 148, 152 shalom bayit 225, 226, 230

250 Sharia 13 courts; tribunal 165, 175, 177 shelters 9, 10, 11, 15, 21, 22, 23, 25–29, 31, 51, 84–100, 221, 240, 242, 243, 245 workers; staff 9, 10, 11, 21, 22, 23, 35, 38, 48, 55, 84–100, 115, 244 social change 51, 109, 114, 121, 122 social status 45, 54, 55 spanking See corporal punishment spiritual; spirituality 11, 23, 28, 31, 41, 52, 75, 93–94, 117, 120, 121, 125–142, 158, 211, 240, 241, 242 abuse 29, 75, 211, 217, 229, 231 care; practices; resources; support; ­teachings 2, 3, 7, 9, 10, 11, 15, 23, 30, 31, 32,    33, 34, 35, 43 failure 24 leaders; masters 146, 147, 156, 159 needs 21, 23, 25, 28, 33, 35 well-being 30 wives 154 stained glass 11, 15, 109, 114, 118–123 stigma; stigmatization 22, 47, 74, 89, 90, 91, 167, 168, 172, 174, 185, 224, 227 stories 11, 12, 13, 26, 49, 55, 109, 110–117, 123, 129, 131, 217n, 218, 239, 244 strength 30, 31, 34, 40, 64, 71, 76, 91, 115, 116, 119, 167, 237 suffering 3, 5, 22, 29, 31, 50, 114, 221, 242, 244 survivors 7, 8, 10, 12, 29, 30, 31, 38, 39, 47, 75, 109, 113, 114, 116, 117, 227, 235, 237, 244, 245 talking circle 128, 131, 138 Talmud 210n, 225

Subject Index teshuva 226, 227, 230 theology 191, 237 therapy 140 therapeutic professionals 3 training; training resources 10, 15, 21, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 32–33, 34, 35, 55, 90, 99, 100, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 159, 236, 237, 243, 245 transnational families 12, 51 trauma 11, 70, 71, 128–129, 133, 135 unpaid care work; unpaid household work 42, 43, 45, 53, 54 values 3, 5, 38, 40, 43, 49, 79, 89, 114, 134, 135, 138, 140, 155, 182, 195, 210n, 226, 228 victims 3, 5, 6, 10, 11, 14, 21–35, 40, 43, 44, 53, 55, 63, 69, 75, 85, 88, 111, 113, 115, 116, 117, 122, 123, 126, 127, 147, 148, 149, 167, 190, 200, 211, 221, 226, 228, 230, 235, 237, 238, 239, 242, 244, 245 violation 25, 157, 229 visible minority 41, 90 visual imagery; visual methods; visual ­sociology 109, 114, 116, 117, 118, 120–123,    241 vulnerability 13, 44, 70, 110, 119, 201, 205, 221, 222, 237–241, 244 wife; wives 11, 25, 41, 50, 53, 54, 79, 112, 153, 154, 171, 175, 176, 177, 179, 182, 191–194, 202, 209n, 215, 217, 218, 219, 223, 224, 225, 226, 228, 229, 230