What do we choose to protect when we call a violent man ‘good’? The phrase echoes in the aftermath, a haunting refrain that isolates survivors and shields perpetrators. We hear it from neighbours, from relatives, even from our own conflicted minds. “But he was such a good man.” This myth of the dual identity is not a nuance. It is a lie. It is one of the most pervasive and dangerous obstacles to ending gender-based violence. It is the social alibi that lets cruelty walk free.

What does justice look like when the verdict is delivered, but the woman is still broken? The current system often fails survivors of gender-based violence. The formal, colonial-era court process can be a retraumatising labyrinth. It is alienating, slow, and focused overwhelmingly on a single question. That question is not “How is she?” It is “How do we punish him?” In this punitive model, the survivor becomes a witness for the state. Her needs are secondary to the legal proc

We are taught to recognise violence in the bruise, the broken bone, the shouted threat. But we are less adept at tracing its outlines in an empty purse, a stolen business profit, or the cold dread of an unpaid school fee. What does coercion look like when it is written in numbers, not scars? Economic violence is one of the most potent and insidious tools of control, a slow, methodical process that traps women in harm’s way as effectively as any locked door. Its weapon is not