Domestic violence doesn’t have a gender

I struggled for breath.

"Please… have mercy!" I pleaded.

My vision slowly blurred. I could make out only fragments of the shattered flower vase glittering nearby. I gulped a lungful of cold air, desperate to steady myself, but it was not enough. In a blink, unprepared, I was pulled by the lumps of my thick, black hair and dragged back to our room. I collapsed at the person's feet, sobbing and gasping on the floor.

"But..wha..is..my..faul..?"

"You're alive for no good. That's what your fault is," replied the hoarse voice.

For a few minutes, a stunned silence filled the room. I could not summon the strength to speak again. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, unprepared for this; at least not today, not on such a special day as our third wedding anniversary.

As I struggled to sit up, memories replayed in vivid flashes: the best moments of our life together, hand in hand, promising to stay for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death parted us. I clutched my chest as my heart pounded uncontrollably. The pain felt too dense to endure.

We had known each other since sixth grade, and love blossomed over the years. We believed we were meant to be. Life was beautiful in each other's company. My better half, my wife — had seemed infallible, understanding, and passionate. I was grateful for a perfect partner, until a year into our marriage.

I would have to pretend, I thought. I would have to play with my cheer, work my brain to hide the panic from my face. I would need to look my best to complement my charming partner around the several people who have always looked up to us as an epitome of love. So, I did, once again.

"I am content. I am happy," I whispered to my fatigued reflection — a small attempt to lift my falling spirits.

Descending the red-carpeted stairs, I spotted many familiar faces, my mother among them, radiant with joy. Her sight froze my insides, but I forced a reassuring smile. She must have felt relieved to see her cheerful child, unaware of the hurricanes beneath.

I hugged her tightly before moving on to greet more guests at our extravagant anniversary celebration.

Suddenly, my eyes caught the ruins of the vase I had forgotten to sweep away earlier. My pulse quickened. A familiar dread washed over me. What would happen tonight when we were finally alone? I prayed silently. May it not come into view.

Just then, my wife tapped me from behind. She glared at me with a ruthless intensity, that savage pleasure intact in her eyes. I was seized by terror. Oh no, she had noticed it.

My heart tightened. My only hope now was God. May He save me from my wife tonight.

Domestic violence is often spoken of as a woman's issue. Women face overwhelming rates of abuse around the world. But the conversation rarely includes men, even though, they too, suffer behind closed doors.

Male victims rarely come forward. Shame, disbelief, cultural expectations of masculinity, and fear of ridicule keep them silent. Abuse against men is often dismissed as weakness, even humour, generally ignoring the trauma that might have been hidden beneath.

But violence is violence, no matter who endures it.

If we are committed to building a safer Bangladesh, one where women and children are protected with unity and compassion, we must extend the same humanity to men. No one, regardless of gender, should suffer in silence within their own home.

Every voice deserves to be heard. Every victim deserves protection.