Perspectives in healing

It is 6:30 p.m. The Kendall Square Cinema lobby thrums with the usual flurry of moviegoers shuffling in and out of the popcorn line. There’s a small table set up nestled up against the bar of coffee dispensers. Several women are crowded around the table with bright, bold name tags. In a dim movie theater lobby, there is a brightness about this corner of the room that has nothing to do with the cinema ambience. They are here to see the Boston premiere screening of a film called A Better Man.

A tall young woman stands behind the reception table. This is Kara, who has worked in domestic violence intervention and prevention for six years. She is the development coordinator at Transition House, the nonprofit organization hosting tonight’s film screening. 

“We offer safe housing and referrals to support resources in the Cambridge area,” says Kara. She first discovered Transition House through Northeastern University’s curriculum. She smiles: “I was their first intern through the co-op program. I’d been working on human services projects, and this…” She gestures to her Transition House colleagues, who are eagerly extending literature to new guests. “This really spoke to me.” 

Attendees trickle into the theater. There are plenty of empty seats in the small auditorium, yet the space feels as though it is at capacity, perhaps because everyone’s energy is high as they await the main event.

As the audience settles into their seats, Transition House Executive Director Sarah Gyorog welcomes the film’s co-director, Attiyah Khan, and cautions that the film includes discussions of violent acts that could be traumatic for people who have experienced intimate partner violence. 

“We have staff here for support, and know that you are welcome to leave at any time,” says Gyorog. Transition House mental health counselors are present and on call for attendees should they need to leave the theater during the show. 

Gyorog then introduces Attiyah Khan, the director and central figure of the film the crowd has gathered to see. The film, A Better Man, follows a domestic violence survivor (Khan) as she revisits her abuse 23 years later in a series of conversations with the man who harmed her. Khan shows how she healed 23 years after the abusive relationship ended, and challenges prevailing narratives about healing from domestic violence, and extends compassion to both abuser and victim roles in the domestic violence cycle.

Most times, when a person escapes from their situation of domestic violence, the trauma is such that the abuser is removed from the situation and, therefore, removed from the conversation of healing; if the victim has escaped violence, conventional wisdom goes, it is best for them to permanently eliminate that relationship from their life. But in A Better Man, Attiyah arrives at her healing moment by going back to the very person responsible for her trauma and her abuse and speaking openly with him about their relationship.

In the opening scene, Khan sits across from her abuser, Steve. 23 years have passed since they were living in the same house, where Steve repeatedly beat, choked and verbally harassed Khan for two years. She was 16 when the abuse started. 

“The only way we’re going to end violence is by talking to the people that are harming others,” says Khan. “What is it actually like for someone who’s harmed somebody to live life, knowing that they’ve hurt someone?”

The film follows Khan as she and Steve embark on a series of conversations. Most of these conversations are mediated by a therapist. Khan recounts her memories of the abuse. Steve listens. Steve acknowledges the abuse he inflicted and acknowledges his responsibility for Khan’s ongoing trauma.

The cadence of Steve and Khan’s conversations in the film is steady and careful, a delicate dance. But emotions smolder at the core of the film, and Khan’s recollections of abuse punctuate every scene. Her compassion toward Steve is as powerful as her anger and frustration as she recalls the details.

Domestic violence intervention often falls into a binary logic that looks something like this: People who are experiencing intimate partner violence (IPV) are either stuck in the cycle of violence as a victim, or they have decided to remove that abuser from their life and move on. But most people’s path to escape and healing is not so linear.

“In general, the way we talk about survivors and victims is problematic, we have this idea that people who experience violence are weak, and we tend to blame them for that,” says Khan. “It’s actually the opposite. You have to have so much strength to live in a situation where there’s violence. There’s so much strategy.” 

Often, people involved in a cycle of violence return to their abuser, whether it’s because they have children to care for, or economic or emotional dependence. Often, these victims face judgment from friends and family for the choice to return to their abuser.

A Better Man suggests it’s not as simple as labeling the abuser as a monster and removing them from one’s life entirely. People who use harm are not inherently bad people incapable of change. Khan’s once-abuser, Steve, is an example of this. In extending empathy to Steve, Khan’s film extends that compassion to all people who use harm, noting that there are far less resources for people who use harm and want to change. 

In the session following the screening, Khan is careful to note to attendees: just because this method of healing—reconnecting with one’s abuser—worked for her life, does not mean it should be a prescribed model for all survivors of abuse. Each situation is different, but A Better Man implies that reconnecting with one’s abuser, on one’s own terms, can be incredibly powerful for combatting post-traumatic stress disorder and finding emotional closure.

“I don’t believe that all people who use violence can’t change,” says Khan.

In the film, Steve and Khan walk through the neighborhood where they lived during their relationship. 

Khan recounts a night when the violence was particularly bad, and she ran barefoot out of the apartment and down the street, past a purple house that has since been removed from the neighborhood. On multiple occasions, she recalls screaming as she fled past neighbors on the porch of that purple house. The neighbors did not respond to her or try to help. 

“When people saw it and didn’t do anything was it really enforced the idea that I deserved it,” she said in a Q&A session after the film. “When the violence was really bad, I’d sleep on the steps of a church. If I knew there was somewhere else I could go where I could spend the night with someone who wouldn’t judge me and wouldn’t judge me in the morning when I decided to go back to Steve, that would’ve been huge.”

In A Better Man, as Khan and Steve sit on this same street 23 years later, Khan stands and says abruptly, “I’m sorry, I think I might—I might vomit.” Steve watches her and follows her, concerned but hesitant. His hand hovers at her back. “Are you okay?” He pauses, not wanting to make her feel worse. “Are you okay with me being next to you right now?”

“That’s fine,” She says firmly. “I am very okay with you being here right now.” She sounds as surprised by this reality as he is.

That Khan can, in this moment, be physically and subconsciously repulsed by the trauma and memory of her abuse, while being comforted in the present day by the same person who abused her, is a moment of sheer and breathtaking hope. She breathes slowly, with Steve next to her, until the nausea passes.

Transition House focuses its efforts on aiding victims of abuse, but it does so with a multi-faceted approach, recognizing that each person’s path to healing is different. Transition House provides resources for every stage of the DV cycle and offers care in a non-judgmental way, no matter what kind of situation or decisions the abused person has experienced.

After the film, one audience member, who asked that her name not be disclosed, described the pain of caring deeply for her abuser while knowing she could not be in a relationship with him anymore.

“My abuser’s in prison. I think of him every day, and I don’t wish him harm,” she said. “I want him to be okay… Most people think there’s a switch—‘he hit you, so you hate him,’—I’ve been so judged by friends and family. Nobody gets it.”

According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, one of four women experience some form of intimate partner violence. While women make up the majority of survivors, intimate partner violence can happen to anyone, regardless of sexual orientation, biological sex or gender identity. 

In the film, Khan recalls a time when someone called the police on Steve when she was still in the abusive relationship. 

“The police said ‘Do you want to charge him?,’ and there was no way I was going to,” she recalled. “Because he could be let out that day, or the next day, or that night…and he’d kill me.”

Domestic violence intervention and prevention legislation is different in every state. Today, in Toronto, where Khan resides, the laws have changed to include mandatory arrest, meaning that when domestic violence is reported, a person at the crime scene must be charged. This complicates the victims’ access to support, particularly those who are in danger of abuse but not able to risk their own safety or stability by implicating their partner.

“What we know is, people come out of prison and they do it again…the aggression and violence that happens in prisons just breeds,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense that there is so much violence involved in punishing people for using violence.”

There is a collective murmur throughout the room as Khan speaks about the dearth of mental health resources in the criminal justice system. The room contains board members, clinicians who work with Transition House shelters, and people who have used their services or had past relationships involving intimate partner violence. But there are still ways potential witnesses and community members can be part of the solution, even if they are uncomfortable seeking help through law enforcement.

“One thing you can do is research resources in your community to both the person experiencing violence and the person that’s harming,” says Khan.

The pervasiveness of domestic violence resurfaces throughout the piece, as does a subtler message: intimate partner violence is not a black and white issue. Like any other widespread social phenomenon, it is nuanced, and the solutions are dependent on the individuals involved. 

“This form of healing is something we need to learn more about,” Says Gyorog. “There are survivors everywhere.” And, A Better Man implies, if there are survivors of harm everywhere, there are a proportionate number of people using harm, but fewer resources available to those abusers to find the help they need.

Domestic violence in the Cambridge community is more complex, for those experiencing harm and those using it. If you know someone who may be in need of assistance, Transition House has a hotline for people in need of immediate assistance, which can be reached at 617-661-7203. They also provide resources for any bystanders or community members hoping to become more involved. As the film shows, it takes a full community of bystanders to solve this social problem.

“There’s no bigger form of justice for me than having made this film with Steve and having him participate,” Khan says, taking a deep breath. “This film, for me, is justice.”