Domestic Violence- Women are Half the Problem

Domestic Violence- Women are Half the Problem

More:  Issues:  Dutton, Don, RADAR, "Rethinking Domestic Violence";
 Issues:  Pizzey, Erin: Women's Shelter Scam;
Issues:  "Women's Shelter" Gulags:  Lesbian Brainwashing & Seduction Camps
News:  Liberal Hedy Fry / Status of Women (SOW):
Issues:  Pedophiles Fear Dads;
Issuess:  False Accusations;
Issues:  Domestic Violence Fraud
Issues:  Child Trafficking by Public Officers & Judges

Domestic Violence - 1 in 4 Women - Interview with Erin Pizzey and Angry Harry

Domestic Violence - 1 in 4 Women (part 1 of 4) - Interview with Erin Pizzey and Angry Harry

Domestic Violence - 1 in 4 Women (part 2 of 4) - Interview with Erin Pizzey and Angry Harry

Domestic Violence - 1 in 4 Women (part 3 of 4) - Interview with Erin Pizzey and Angry Harry

Domestic Violence - 1 in 4 Women (part 4 of 4) - Interview with Erin Pizzey and Angry Harry

Male Psychology - Interview With Angry Harry & Erin Pizzey

Male Psychology - Interview With Angry Harry & Erin Pizzey

Why I loathe feminism... and believe it will ultimately destroy the family, Erin Pizzey

Why I loathe feminism... and believe it will ultimately destroy the family

Erin Pizzey, who devoted her life to helping battered wives talks for the first time about the abuse she suffered at the hands of both her parents and how it convinced her that women are every bit as cruel as men. 

Women are more unhappy despite 40 years of feminism, claims study

Women are less happy nowadays despite 40 years of feminism, a new study claims. Despite having more opportunities than ever before, they have a lower sense of well-being and life satisfaction, it found.

Women 'exhausted' by fight for equality, claims feminist icon

Women have won the war for equality but it has left many of them imprisoned and exhausted, a pioneering feminist has claimed.

Erin Pizzey: When Andrew Marr accused me of being a terrorist, it was like a bomb going off in my chest

The legendary campaigner reveals the story behind last week's court case - and tells how violence tainted Women's Lib.

Campaigner Erin Pizzey wins libel battle over terror group claims made in Andrew Marr's book

She has accepted undisclosed libel damages over a claim in a book by BBC presenter Andrew Marr that she was a supporter of British terror group the Angry Brigade.

Marr's pulped 'fiction': BBC star's history bestseller withdrawn after legal fears

All unsold copies of A History of Modern Britain are being withdrawn after the BBC journalist allegedly falsely claimed in the book that a women's rights campaigner had ties to a group of militant bombers.

How feminists tried to destroy the family

Erin Pizzey, founder of the battered wives' refuge, on how militant feminists - with the collusion of Labour's leading women - hijacked her cause and used it to try to demonise all men

 

Senator Ann Cools speaks about domestic violence

Senator Ann Cools speaks about domestic violence

More:  Issues:  Cools, Senator Anne: Lying Lawyers;
News:  Liberal Hedy Fry / Status of Women (SOW):
Issues:  Pedophiles Fear Dads;
Issues:  Pizzey, Erin: Women's Shelter Scam
Issuess:  False Accusations;
Issues:  Domestic Violence Fraud
Issues:  Child Trafficking by Public Officers & Judges

In Canada, it has been well established for a couple of decades that less than 4% of the women in Women's Shelters are actually physically abused or in danger of being physically abused.  Nevertheless since there has yet to be a government who is capable or determined enough to eradicate the "Femi-Nazi Concentration Camps" from Canada.  The demolition of the Canadian Family continues unabated.

This circumstance had it's origin, we think, when closet homosexual & Communist Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau, created his "Political Action Committees (PACs) in Ottawa, like the infamous Status of Women.  These gave Federal Funding, office space and other government resources to "Minorities" to guide Parliament in policy making and the revision of Canadian Statutes.  The most virulent and tenacious of these Canadian PACs we think has proved to be the "Femi-Nazi" (Lesbian / Socialist) PACs, who effectively run Parliament Hill on many many issues, and seem impossible to dislodge.

These and their Propaganda machines at the Women's Studies faculties are clearly unemployable in any capacity other than the parasitic role they have chosen for their careers.  They cannot dig, or create something of value.  They are desperate to remain where they are: on the Hill, in the Universities, and in the plethora of Public Offices by which they seek to run our lives in thought, word, and deed.

Until we as Canadians remember the value and vulnerabilities of the freedoms won for us in 1649 , and will stand behind a straight-thinking Prime Minister like Stephen Harper who has desired - under the watchful eye of an APOLITICAL Governor General. -  to put back in their place these Activist and fascist Public Officers, how can we ever expect to arrest the Sovietization of Canada, and it's aggregation into a  newly global Soviet Union.

More:  Issues:  Pizzey, Erin: Women's Shelter Scam;
Issues:  "Women's Shelter" Gulags:  Lesbian Brainwashing & Seduction Camps
Issues:  Cools, Senator Anne: Lying Lawyers;
News:  Liberal Hedy Fry / Status of Women (SOW):
Issues:  Pedophiles Fear Dads;
Issuess:  False Accusations;
Issues:  Domestic Violence Fraud
Issues:  Child Trafficking by Public Officers & Judges

Why I loathe feminism... and believe it will ultimately destroy the family

By Erin Pizzey

ERIN PIZZEY set up the world's first refuge for battered women in 1971 - and went on to establish an international movement for victims of domestic violence. But what she has never made public before is that her own childhood was scarred by the shocking cruelty of both her parents.

Here, for the first time, she tells the full harrowing story - and how it led her to a surprising, but deeply felt, conclusion ...

Though I remember little of my earliest years, I grew up in a world of extraordinary violence. I was born in 1939 in Tsingtao, China, and shortly after my family moved to Shanghai with my diplomat father, we were captured by the invading Japanese army. It was 1942, the war was raging and we were held under house arrest until we were exchanged for Japanese prisoners of war and put on the last boat out of China.

My father was ordered to Beirut by the diplomatic service, and we were left as refugees in Kokstad, South Africa. From living in an enormous house with a fleet of servants and a nanny, my twin sister Rosaleen and I were suddenly at the mercy of my mother Pat's temper. And it was ferocious. Having escaped the brutality of the war, we were introduced to a new brand domestic cruelty.

Indeed, my mother's explosive temper and abusive behaviour shaped the person I later became like no other event in my life.

Thirty years later, when feminism exploded onto the scene, I was often mistaken for a supporter of the movement. But I have never been a feminist, because, having experienced my mother's violence, I always knew that women can be as vicious and irresponsible as men.

Indeed, I would go so far as to say that the movement, which proclaimed that all men are potential rapists and batterers, was based on a lie that, if allowed to flourish, would result in the complete destruction of family life.

From the very beginning, I waged war against my mother and quickly learned to disassociate myself from the pain of her beatings.

Her words, however, stayed with me all my life. 'You are lazy, useless, and ugly,' she would scream. 'You look like your father's side of the family - Irish trash.'

They were vicious words that I have heard repeated over and over by mothers everywhere. Indeed, when I later opened my refuge for battered women, 62 of the first 100 to come through the door were as abusive as the men they had left.

She was, however, right: I did look like my father, Cyril. While my twin sister was slim and had long dark hair, and my mother's deep blue eyes, I was fat and fair-haired, clumsy, noisy and brash.

I was only five years old, but I knew my mother didn't like me. And with no servants to restrain her now, she lashed out whenever she felt like it.

When we finally joined my father in a flat in Beirut, I soon realised that he was no saint either. He would constantly scream and rage at all of us.

He was particularly consumed by jealousy. Even though he verbally abused my mother and rarely showed her affection, he seemed compelled to follow her around like a guard dog.

If she spoke on the telephone, he grilled her until she burst into tears. If she went out shopping, he paced the room until she got back and exploded with rage if she were more than a few minutes late.

I hated my father with all my childish heart - and was truly terrified by him. He was 6ft 4in tall, massively built and had a huge paunch that hung over his belt. He stared out of piggy, pale blue eyes and had a big sloppy mouth that slobbered over my lips when he kissed me.

He didn't believe in baths, which he said were 'weakening', and smoked tins of Players Cigarettes, which made him smell like an ashtray. His rages were explosive and unpredictable.

But despite his clumsy, predictable form of macho brutality - born out of his being the 17th child of a violent Irish father - it was my mother's more emotional, verbal form of abuse that scarred me most deeply.

She indulged in a particular kind of soul murder - and it was her cruelty that, even 60 years on, still reduces me to tears and leaves me convinced that feminism is a cynical, misguided ploy.

Unfortunately, at that time, what I wanted more than anything was for my mother to love me - something I never felt she truly did. And so, when my father was posted to Chicago, and I followed my mother to Toronto, to live with my godparents, I was initially hopeful. I believed that without my father's presence, she would have the time be a real mother.

But once in the bosom of this normal family, my own dysfunctional behaviour soon became apparent. I had, it seems, already been too badly damaged by my mother's hatred of me.

I was always in trouble at school, encouraging the other children to behave as badly as I did. On one occasion, I was caught sitting on the doorstep giving away the money I'd stolen from my mother's bag.

Needless to say, my mother went berserk. She took me upstairs and beat me with an ironing cord until the blood ran down my legs. I showed my injuries to my teacher the next morning - but she just stared back impassively and did nothing.

Many years later, when feminists started demonising all fathers, these stark images continually reminded me of the truth - that domestic violence is not a gender issue.

Shortly after the war, my father was posted to Tehran and we all went to live with him. It was only when I saw him again that I remembered how much I hated him.

He would come home from the office, and as he put the key in the door I would freeze. I would often hear him coughing outside the door - he was still a heavy smoker - and spitting phlegm into the flower bed.

His eyes were windows into his violent moods. If they were narrowed and red, I knew he was in a rage and it would only be a matter of time before he erupted.

But my hatred of my father was pure and uncontaminated by any other emotions. My feelings about my mother, however, were far more complicated.

As much as I was devastated by her hatred of me, I still genuinely strove for her love. In fact, I had moments of great compassion for her when I saw her weeping and wailing in front of my father.

Occasionally, she fought back against his brutality. She was only 4ft 9in, but my mother was extremely strong and her tongue was lethal. She accused him of being an oaf and an idiot. She called his mother a prostitute and his father a common Irish drunk.

Unsurprisingly, my brother and sister were both withdrawn and silent children. My sister suffered from headaches, weeping eczema and mysterious days of paralysis when she was unable to get up from her bed.

To outsiders, my father was a genial, intelligent man and my mother a famous party hostess with three beautiful children and a perfect diplomatic family. In fact, my parents were both violent, cruel people and we were all deeply damaged.

In 1949, my father was posted back to Tien Sien, in China. I was left with my twin sister in a boarding school - Leweston, near Sherborne in Dorset - and my brother accompanied my parents.

Very shortly after they took up their post, however, my parents were captured again - this time by the communists - and held under house arrest for three years.

Without them, I felt an abiding sense of peace and loved my holidays at St Mary's in Uplyme, a holiday home for children whose parents were abroad. Miss Williams, who ran the place, was the first adult that I really admired and respected. She became my mentor.

But this idyll was shattered when I heard that my parents had been released. I remember being called to the telephone in the convent to speak to my mother. I had completely blotted my parents out of my life and so when I heard her Canadian accent, I just screamed down the phone.

'You're not my mother!' I yelled, all too aware that the whole circus was about to start again.

When my mother first returned, to a house outside Axminster, we enjoyed an uneasy truce. I was much taller than her now, and too big for her to batter.

Instead, she began to list my father's faults, and the atrocities he had inflicted on us all, as if I were now her confidante. She would tell me how much she hated him and that they never should have married.

'But I stayed for you,' she told me. 'I stayed because I wanted you to go to a private school and enjoy a comfortable way of life.'

Once again, she was unleashing her peculiar brand of emotional cruelty, and placing all the responsibility - and guilt - on me. It was a pattern of behaviour I would witness again and again among some of the women in my refuge.

The day my father was due to join us in the new house, my mother was a nervous wreck. She was crying and clinging on to me, demanding that I protect her. 'I don't want him anywhere near me,' she said.

In dysfunctional families, children, no matter how badly they are treated, will try to take on the parenting role. For me, this still meant protecting and comforting my mother.

And so, on the night of my father's return, I took a large carving knife from the kitchen and went up to my parents' bedroom, which I peered into through a gap in the door. They slept in separate, single beds and I took the extraordinary decision that I would stab him if he tried to force himself on her.

I was, on reflection, following my mother's unspoken orders. Remarkably, she had manipulated me to such a degree that I was now willing to murder for her.

My father certainly tried to talk his way into her bed. Fortunately, however, he didn't become physical. If he had, he would now be dead and my life would have turned out very differently.

In the 1950s, while I was working in Hong Kong, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I returned to our house near Axminster - and found my father unchanged.

By now, he was trying to force my mother to sign her money - she had received a sizeable inheritance from her father - over to him. Week after week, in the local cottage hospital, she refused, and week after week, he ranted and raved at her while she writhed in pain. I begged the nurses to stop him, but they said no one could come between a man and his wife.

At first, my mother refused to believe she was dying. But when my father finally broke her down, and bullied her into signing the papers, her life began to ebb away in earnest.

She died on September 16, 1958, and my father had the body brought home and placed in the dining room. That night, as she lay next door, we sat down to have supper at the table in the hall.

After supper, my father ordered us into the dining room, where my mother's open coffin was draped with a red cloth. My brother, sister and I begged my father not to remove the cloth, but when we closed our eyes for a moment to say a prayer for her, we opened them to be confronted by her pale face. I vividly remember that there was cotton wool sticking out of her nose.

Every night, we would stand vigil over my mother's body, and every night she would be exposed to the humiliation of having her children see her visibly decomposing. At last, six days later, my father buried her.

I left home the next day and only saw him once more - when I took his ashes to my mother's grave in 1982.

I only decided to talk about my traumatic childhood last week - on a BBC radio programme called The House Where I Grew Up - but I decided long ago I would not repeat the toxic lessons I learned as a child. Instead, I would become a survivor.

Feminism, I realised, was a lie. Women and men are both capable of extraordinary cruelty. Indeed, the only thing a child really needs - two biological parents under one roof - was being undermined by the very ideology which claimed to speak up for women's rights.

This country is now on the brink of serious moral collapse. We must stop demonising men and start healing the rift that feminism has created between men and women.

Harriet Harman's insidious and manipulative philosophy that women are always victims and men always oppressors can only continue this unspeakable cycle of violence. And it's our children who will suffer.

The Kinsey Coverup

The Kinsey Coverup

More:  Kinsey, Alfred:  Rockefeller Research in Pedophilia and Falsified Reporting

Nancy Schaefer on Child Trafficking at CPS

Nancy Schaefer on CPS

Exposing the Women's Shelter Industry, Canada Courtwatch

Exposing the Women's Shelter Industry One Video at a Time! from Canada Court Watch 

THE PLANNED DESTRUCTION OF THE FAMILY, ERIN PIZZEY

Just recently a 'battered woman,' for that is how she saw herself, came to me for help. Her lover, who lived apart from her and her children, had beaten her up badly and she was forced to go to the hospital. He then took her back to her own house and stayed with her in order to look after her while her wounds healed.

'You are not a battered woman,' I said with a sigh. I define a battered woman as a woman who is a genuine victim of her partner's violence. 'You are a violence-prone woman, a victim of your own need for violence.' I sighed because those two sentences uttered twenty-five years ago in my early work at Chiswick caused me to be hated and despised. I became the nation's conscience. I dared to say publicly that women can be as violent as men and that women were a great deal more psychologically violent than men. In this woman's case we have a great deal of work to do and he needs to find himself a good therapist.

In 1971, inspired by the promise of women journalists and other media-manipulators, I decided to join the newly founded Women's Movement. 'Sisterhood is powerful' they chanted. 'Sisters unite, no more competing, women helping women.' It all sounded too good to be true. My first meeting filled me with doubts. It was held in a very middle-class home in Chiswick and I gazed at the Mao posters on the wall of the drawing-room. When asked why I was there by the hostess, I replied that my husband was a television reporter and was very rarely home and I felt lonely and isolated with my two children. 'Your problem is not your isolation but your husband. He oppresses you and he is a capitalist.' I pointed out that she too had a mortgage so she therefore was a capitalist, and far from oppressing me my husband was baby-sitting so that I could attend this meeting. Her husband was out at a Union meeting organizing the Brentford Biscuit factory with the help of his degree in Political Science, to prepare for the forthcoming revolution.

What the woman didn't know, was that I was the daughter of a diplomat. I was born in China, and traveled the world with my father. I also-worked in the Foreign Office and was well aware of the atrocities both in Russia and in China. Then over cups of tea, we were assured that women were a minority group. I pointed out that women made up fifty-two per cent of the world's population. I was given Mao's little red book and SHREW magazine. I took it home and was horrified at the hatred it spewed against men.

I decided that this organization needed looking at. With both children in school and time on my hands I went to work for The Women's Liberation Workshop in Shaftsbury Avenue. I witnessed the women working there tearing open letters and pocketing the three pounds ten shillings that desperate women were sending in to join the movement. I tried to answer as many of the letters as I could. Some of that money went into buying explosives.

Terrorists in the Women's Movement blew up the BBC van outside the Miss World Contest and the top off the Post office tower. I called in the police. All this rubbish and rhetoric was to culminate in the up-rising of the 'working classes' and the death of Capitalism and the destruction of all men. Needless to say there were virtually no working class women in this movement. Most of the revolution was fought around middle class dinner tables in grisly Islington.

By now I was very firmly 'the enemy.' Men, at this point, took the whole movement as a joke but it was no joke, as many homeless men deprived of their children will tell you. Savaged by feminist lawyers and therapists, men have routinely been deprived of their homes, their children and their incomes.

I knew that I wanted to fulfill my original dream. Women working with women in co-operation with men. The idea that we should work with men was anathema to these women. The Women's Movement was dominated by the Radical Separatist Movement. They not only hated men but heterosexual women as well. I saw through their very hidden agenda. I stood on platforms saying that if I had to pay three pounds ten shillings, meet in cells and call my friends comrade, then they were asking me to join the Communist Party, which was fine, but don't lie. Don't collect money under false pretenses. I had plenty of good Communist friends, I wanted a movement that truly represented women. Not tired hacked-to-death male politics.

The early collective meetings and conferences involved hundreds of women, mostly middle-class women bored with their life-styles and they were terrifying. Anyone brought up in a girls' boarding school as I was, knows how violent and manipulative women can be. The bullying in the collectives was unabated. No lipstick, no high heels, no deodorant, I broke all the rules. 'Why do you wear men's suits and ties,' I asked. 'if you so hate men?' Silly question I suppose. 'We are wearing the symbol of our oppression,' was the humorless reply.

By now I realized through reading the Women's Movement literature that those thousands of women working in all caring fields, the journalists, the television makers, were determined to destroy family life in England. [See Communist Manifesto —WHS] 'Make the personal political,' was one of their many banners. So thousands of violent and very disturbed women attacked normal happily married women and our traditional way of life. Secret meetings were held (everything was done in secret) and I received a letter '.....and the collective decided that until the whole matter is sorted out, and you have given a statement of this position to a woman-lawyer, or someone in the N.C.C.L., you should no longer work in the office or attend meetings of any of the collectives.'

Profoundly depressed by my experiences in the movement, I went off to do what I always believed would liberate women. A place to gather and to work together in co-operation with men.

Soon beaten and battered women with their children were coming to me for help. There was no literature on battered women, so I wrote 'Scream Quietly Or The Neighbors Will Hear.' I was immediately in trouble because the book was not 'politically correct,' it discussed family violence and I refused to let the Managing Director politicize my book. By now I was giving the figure of 62 women out of the first hundred women who came to the refuge were as violent or more violent than the men they left. Also many were prostitutes taking refuge from their violent pimps. This infuriated the Women's Movement. I knew that as soon as I attracted publicity and funding, the Women's Movement which by now attracted neither, would be beating on my door. When I called a small conference to help other groups get started, several hundred women with feminists and radical separatist feminists invaded my conference. They started their usual bogus rubbish trying to appeal to my mothers, making much use of the phrase 'working classes.' My mothers were not impressed. One of my closest friends at Chiswick said 'there isn't a working class woman amongst you.' Another slightly bolder yelled 'go home and get your dildoes.' We left them to battle it out by themselves. They then formed The National Women's Aid Federation.

This delighted my many enemies at The Home Office and The Department Of Social Security. My chief enemy at my first meeting was a member of the sisterhood. 'How will you pay for your refuge?' she sniffed. 'I shall pray,' I said. I did all the time and it was our prayers that sustained Chiswick for all those years. The Federation used all their contacts in the media (many of them were journalists) to rubbish me and my work. By now I was writing at home at night. They came to interview me about my books but the books were never discussed, only how fat I was or how belligerent I was.

I recently asked The Home Office for their latest report and I was not surprised to see that my name and 'Scream Quietly,' the first book in the world on wife battering was missing. I knew from other writers that editors in the publishing world of London were themselves radical feminists and it was their habit to dictate their themes to desperate writers, who were then coerced into writing the editor's book, knowing that should they disobey, they would not be published. My brother Danny always wrote what he was told to write. He complained down the telephone to me and finally, just before he died, he said bitterly 'I have no contracts and no film deals in sight.' He rewrote the four hundred page synopsis for his book four times to suit his agent and his publishers.

Throughout all the fighting I kept preaching that family life was and always will be the foundation of any civilization. Destroy the family and you destroy the country. I warned that of the violent women with their children coming to me, virtually none used contraception. My mothers had an average of 5.1 children, meanwhile non-violent families had a 2.5 average. I wrote reports, I drafted memos, all to no avail. Nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. In the back of 'Scream Quietly' I listed all the agencies that had failed my families. I wrote that I was not seeing social workers, I was seeing political activists with social work degrees. The same went for teachers, and probation officers, editors of books and magazines. Like a giant cancer this movement dug its crabs legs into anywhere they could wield their power.

Many women, assisted by weak men, sought to destroy me and my work and I knew that finally having fought court cases that involved disobeying judge's orders to save children's lives, I knew I would be ousted from my own refuge. A few men bravely tried to make their voices heard, realizing the dangers. They too were excoriated by both men and women. Businessmen in the media, managing directors of publishing houses, never understood that their editors were lying to them. Playing the numbers game. 'Who do you think you are?' screamed one feminist editor. 'I must be somebody,' I replied. 'After all I'm in Debrett's and Who's Who. You're nobody in publishing.' Another said...'Why can't you write the sort of books you know I like, Erin...... books about women loving women?' 'I can't,' I replied. 'I'm a heterosexual writer and all my books celebrate family life.'

Because men looked upon the refuge movement as a 'woman's issue', newspapers sent women journalists to attack me. I addressed a conference of radical feminists and asked them why, when I respected their right to practice their politics and define their own sexuality they denied me my rights to my heterosexuality, my right to live and work to preserve family life and to enjoy being at home with my family. That I think being a mother and a grandmother has given me more joy than any other achievement. I was screamed down and met with utter hostility.

When I published 'Prone to Violence', a book about my work with violent women and the children in the refuge, I was picketed by hundreds of banner-waving women. 'All men are bastards!' read some of the banners. 'All men are rapists!' shrieked another. 'If those banners said Jews or black people, you would have arrested those women,' I told the policeman who had come to say that I had to have a police escort all around England for the book tour.

For more, follow ...  http://fathersforlife.org/pizzey/destrctn.htm