The Many Faces of Domestic Violence: Men, Women, Families and the Weight of Migration
She came to this country with a suitcase, a dream and a faith strong enough to carry both. She found work. She built a life. She sat in church every Sunday and smiled the way you smile when you are holding something together with both hands and hoping no one notices.
Nobody noticed.
I have sat with women like her more times than I can count. I have sat with men who had been told, quietly and consistently, that what was happening to them was not real, not serious, not the kind of thing you talk about. I have worked with children who had learned to read the temperature of a room before they had learned to read a book.
There is no day that passes without at least one telephone call about domestic violence. Every single day, without exception, someone reaches out to us — frightened, exhausted, often having carried their situation alone for far longer than anyone should. We support victims every day. That is not a statistic I share to impress. It is a reality I share because it means this is not a distant problem. It is a present one. It is in our streets, our churches, our community groups, our family WhatsApp threads. And it will remain there for as long as we choose not to speak.
Domestic violence does not have one face. Until we are honest about the full picture — the children who absorb what the adults cannot say, the men who suffer in silence, the women who stay for reasons more complex than fear, the families for whom migration has raised every wall higher — we will keep failing the people who need us most.
It Does Not Always Leave Marks
When most people picture domestic violence, they picture physical injury. A bruise. A broken bone. Something visible, something provable, something that fits the story we have been told.
But the most common form of domestic abuse is coercive and controlling behaviour — and it leaves no visible marks at all.
Coercive control is a pattern. It is the partner who monitors your phone, controls who you can see, dictates what you wear, tells you that you are worthless so many times that you begin to believe it. It is financial abuse — taking control of money, running up debt in your name, preventing you from working. It is emotional and psychological abuse: the constant criticism, the gaslighting, the humiliation in front of your children. It is digital abuse — location tracking, demanding passwords, using technology to surveil every movement.
And for migrant families, there is a form of abuse that is particularly devastating: immigration abuse. Threatening to report you to the Home Office. Withholding your passport. Telling you that if you call the police, you will be deported.
That last threat is a lie. But it is a lie that keeps people trapped. As a solicitor, let me be clear: your immigration status does not prevent you from calling the police. Calling for help will not automatically lead to deportation.
Under the Domestic Abuse Act 2021 — one of the strongest pieces of legislation in the world on this issue — all of these forms of abuse are recognised. Physical violence is only one of them. The law sees the full picture, even when communities do not.
What the Children Are Carrying
Before I say anything else, I want to talk about the children. Because in almost every situation I have been involved in, the children are the part of the story that stays with me longest.
Children in homes where domestic violence is present are not bystanders. They are witnesses. And witnessing is its own form of harm.
A child who grows up watching one parent control, demean or frighten another learns things no child should have to learn. They learn that love can feel like fear. That home is not always safe. That silence is the price of peace. They learn to make themselves small, to anticipate the mood of the room, to manage the emotions of adults who should be managing their own.
They carry this learning into adulthood. Into their own relationships. Into their own families. The cycle does not break itself. It has to be broken — deliberately, with support, with honesty.
For diaspora families, the weight on children is particular. They may be navigating two cultures simultaneously. They may be acting as interpreters for parents who do not speak English, including in situations that no child should ever be asked to manage. They may be carrying, at eight or ten or twelve years old, a weight that most adults could not bear.
The family that looks intact from the outside is often already fractured within. And the fracture lines run deep — through the marriage, through the children, across generations.
It Happens to Men Too
I want to say something that our communities do not say often enough: domestic violence happens to men.
One in three victims of domestic abuse in England and Wales is male. That is not a footnote. That is a crisis — a quiet, largely unacknowledged crisis — that sits inside many of the families I have worked with.
Men experience physical violence. They experience coercive control, financial abuse, emotional destruction, threats involving their children and, for migrant men, threats involving their immigration status. They are less likely to report it. They are less likely to be believed when they do. And in African and Caribbean diaspora communities, the cultural expectations of manhood can make speaking feel impossible.
If you are a man reading this and you recognise your story: what is happening to you is real. It is not your fault. You are allowed to ask for help.
When Migration Raises the Walls
Migration does not cause domestic violence. Abusers cause domestic violence. But migration raises the walls around people who are already trying to get out — and for families from Zimbabwe, Nigeria, Jamaica, Ghana or Kenya, those walls can feel impossibly high.
The first wall is isolation. When you migrated, you left behind the people who would have noticed. The mother who would have seen it in your eyes. The sister who would have asked the right question. The pastor who has known your family for twenty years. They are not here.
The second wall is immigration status. When your right to remain in the UK is tied to your relationship, leaving is not simply an emotional decision — it is existential. Does she lose her visa if she goes? What happens to the children? These are some of the most dangerous moments in an abusive relationship.
The third wall is financial dependence. Many migrant families arrive with one income. If that income belongs to the abusive partner, the other person may have no independent access to money, no credit history, no way to start again.
The fourth wall is cultural expectation. In many of our communities, marriage is not just between two people. It is between families, between churches, between communities. Leaving is visible. It carries shame. And the weight of what the community will say can imprison people long after the physical danger has become clear.
These walls affect men and women. They affect the children who watch. And they run — unaddressed — through generation after generation, unless someone finally names them.
What the Law Says — and What You Are Entitled To
I am a solicitor. This is where I speak plainly.
YOUR LEGAL RIGHTS — PLAIN ENGLISH
→ The Domestic Abuse Act 2021 covers coercive and controlling behaviour, not just physical violence. It protects men and women equally.
→ Your immigration status does NOT prevent you from calling the police or accessing support. Seeking help will not automatically lead to deportation.
→ The Destitute Domestic Violence Concession (DDVC) allows certain people with limited immigration leave to access public funds while their case is considered.
→ If your partner holds your passport or identity documents, the police can help you recover them. You have a right to your own documents.
→ Legal aid may be available for domestic abuse cases — even for people who would not usually qualify financially.
→ You do not have to stay in the relationship to remain in the UK. There is a legal pathway out.
A Word Directly to You
What I know from years of this work is that the people who suffer longest are not always those in the most dangerous situations. They are often those who have been told, in a hundred different ways, that what is happening to them does not count — that they should handle it quietly, protect the family, keep the peace.
Freedom, dignity and belonging are not luxuries. They are not things you earn by suffering long enough or quietly enough. They are birthrights. And no marriage, no visa, no community reputation is worth more than the safety of the people inside a home.
If this is your story — whether you are a man or a woman, whether you have spoken before or this is the first time you have let yourself read words like these — you are not alone. Help is available. And there is a way through.
If you need to talk, please reach out: rumbi@rumbibvunzawabaya.uk
"God did not bring you through everything you have survived to leave you here."
— Rumbidzai Bvunzawabaya
Where to Get Help
National DV Helpline - 0808 2000 247 — Free, 24 hours, men and women
ManKind Initiative - 01823 334244 — Support for male victims
Refuge — 0808 2000 247-Support for women and children
Southall Black Sisters - southallblacksisters.org.uk — Specialist BAME women
Karma Nirvana - 0800 5999 247 — Honour-based abuse / forced marriage
NSPCC - 0808 800 5000 —Children's support
About the Author
Rumbidzai Bvunzawabaya
Solicitor, speaker, founder of Tulia Group CIC and Freedom Women's Ministry. Rumbidzai works at the intersection of immigration law, community leadership and pastoral care. She supports victims of domestic abuse and migration-related legal issues through her practice and through the community organisations she has built. For enquiries and speaking: rumbi@rumbibvunzawabaya.uk
