He Was a Good Man: Deconstructing the Duality of Abusers

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.

Why is our first instinct to defend a man’s reputation, not to believe a woman’s reality?

This false duality allows us to compartmentalise. It lets us split a man in two. We can praise him for his generosity at the community fundraiser and wilfully ignore the terror he inflicts at the dinner table. We can elect him to a leadership position for his charisma and dismiss his wife’s bruises as a private misfortune. This cognitive split is a survival mechanism for the community. It allows everyone to maintain faith in the social order. The alternative is too destabilising. Accepting that the ‘good man’ is a constructed mask is to admit the foundation of our community is rotten. It is easier to call her a liar than to question his character.

What is the cost of preserving a public lie at the expense of a private truth?

For the survivor, this myth is a weapon turned against her. It is psychological warfare. If the community is invested in believing he is a ‘good man,’ then her testimony must be flawed. She is labelled dramatic, unstable, or vengeful. It forces her into an impossible battle. She is not fighting just her abuser. She is fighting the entire community’s preferred narrative. Her credibility, forged in silent suffering, is measured against his reputation, built on public performance. His reputation, polished and presented, almost always wins. Her truth becomes the casualty of our collective comfort.

When does a public benefit cancel out a private crime?

We must dismantle this fiction with ruthless clarity. We must speak plainly. A man who provides for his family materially is not ‘good’ if he controls them through fear. A man who is charming at church is not ‘good’ if he is tyrannical at home. A man who builds a clinic is not ‘good’ if he beats his wife. Character is not a series of isolated, public acts. It is a pattern of behaviour. The truest measure of a person’s character is not their performance for peers. It is how they treat those with less power behind closed doors. The ‘private’ self is not a separate entity. It is the core self, unrestrained by scrutiny.

How many community pillars are built on the crushed spirits of their families?

This duality is not an accident. It is a strategy. Perpetrators cultivate their public image with precision. They know the value of a donated cheque, a friendly handshake, a pious posture. This curation is a direct investment. It buys them credibility and insurance. It builds a bank of social goodwill they can draw from the moment an accusation surfaces. The community, feeling indebted to his public ‘goodness,’ repays him by doubting his victim. His charity becomes her prison.

What does it mean that we are so easily bought by a public performance?

Our compulsion to uphold this duality reveals our own priorities. It shows we value social harmony more than individual safety. We value a man’s public contribution more than a woman’s private hell. We would rather manage the discomfort of doubt than face the catastrophic truth that someone we admire is capable of monstrous acts. This is not empathy for him. It is cowardice within us.

Can a man be a blessing to the community and a curse to his own household?

The answer is no. The contradiction is the point. The public blessing funds the private curse. The admiration he harvests outside the home is the power he wields inside it. It is the currency he uses to say, “Who would believe you? Look at all the good I do.” This is not a complex man with two sides. This is a calculated man using one side to enable the other. The ‘good’ is not a side. It is a tool.

What happens when we start to measure goodness from the inside out?

To end our complicity, we must violently reject this duality. We must perform a radical shift in evidence. We must believe the survivor’s account of the man in the private sphere over the community’s perception of the man in the public one. We must understand, finally, that abuse is not a momentary lapse. It is not a bad day. It is the manifestation of a core entitlement to power and control. The charming facade is not the truth fighting to get out. It is the disguise the truth wears.

Who benefits from our continued belief in this double life?

The beneficiary is the abuser. The casualty is justice. When we utter the phrase “but he was a good man,” we are not describing a person. We are constructing an escape route. We are building a trapdoor beneath the survivor’s feet. We are choosing the myth of the man over the life of the woman. That choice is not neutral. It is an act of alignment. We are siding with the narrative against the truth.

How do we break the reflex to defend the monster we know?

We must train ourselves in a new discipline. When we hear of harm, our first question must change. It must no longer be, “But is that really possible of him?” It must become, “What does she need to be safe?” We must learn to sit with the discomfort of cognitive dissonance. We must accept that a person can be capable of both building a school and breaking a spirit. We must see that the latter cancels the former. A donated building is not moral compensation for a destroyed human being.

Where does our loyalty truly lie?

Our loyalty must migrate from reputation to reality. It must side with the vulnerable, not the powerful. It must value the unseen testimony over the visible trophy. This means risking social friction. It means challenging our uncles, our pastors, our colleagues. It means saying, “His good works do not excuse his harm,” and, “I believe her, even if it surprises you.” This is how we dismantle the alibi brick by brick.

Is the ‘good man’ finally gone?

He never existed. He was a phantom, a collective hallucination we maintained for our own peace of mind. Letting him go is not a loss. It is the first step toward seeing the real man, in full, terrible dimension. It is the prerequisite for any genuine justice. Until we do, the epithet “he was a good man” will remain the most effective get-out-of-jail-free card for abusers. It ensures the architecture of silence remains firmly in place, upheld by our own unwillingness to call a thing by its true name.

The work is this: to kill the phantom, so the living woman can finally be seen.