Content warning:
This passage includes sensitive content about sexual violence and may be triggering for some readers.
Hang’s story shines a light on the barriers faced by older women from diverse cultural backgrounds. Through her insight and advocacy, she reveals how language, culture, and ageism intersect to silence many women’s experiences. Her message is clear: real inclusion begins with listening, respect, and meeting women where they are.
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I’ve spent many years volunteering with organisations that support women and communities, including the Older Women’s Network. I’ve also worked with groups helping culturally diverse communities and an Aboriginal-run service that provides disability and wrap-around supports. Before that, I had a long career in corporate human resources and later taught psychology at TAFE and university. My life has always been about equality—gender, race, and opportunity.
Australia is a deeply diverse country, but we often pretend everyone’s experience is the same. It isn’t. For older women from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds, life can be far more complicated.
Ageism mixes with culture, language barriers, and confusion about how systems work. Many women simply don’t know where to go for help. I’ve met women being abused by their own family members who stay silent because they can’t navigate Centrelink or housing, or because they don’t have the language to explain what’s happening.
Our support systems make things harder. Services are too general, and people are pushed from one place to another, repeating their story over and over. A woman might need housing, visa advice, Centrelink help, and food all at once—but instead she’s sent on a merry-go-round between agencies. I know women who’ve been turned away by more than a dozen services. Most of us would give up after two. We need one-stop centres where someone sits beside you and helps you find what you need, not another referral slip.
Language adds another barrier. During COVID, I remember government leaflets that were translated so poorly they made no sense. Some translations were even dangerous—turning “Have you been jabbed?” into “Have you been stabbed?” Many older women were never formally educated; they can’t read complex materials in English or in their first language. We can’t rely on pamphlets alone. Information has to come through trusted people and community spaces, not bureaucracy.
Real outreach means going where women are. In every neighbourhood, older women gather in parks to watch grandchildren, in community halls, in faith spaces. That’s where conversations should start—gently, in language, with compassion.
When it comes to sexual assault, shame plays a huge role in keeping women silent. Younger women raised in Australia might speak more openly, but many still hide abuse from family. In South Asian and other cultures, shame and “honour” weigh heavily. If something happens, it’s seen as the woman’s fault—her clothing, her behaviour, her timing.
The fear of judgment runs deep. Women also fear being labelled “mad” or “unstable,” and that stigma could affect their children or grandchildren. In some families, if people hear you’ve struggled with mental health, they believe it runs in the family. That fear silences generations.
Religion can add another layer of silence. Many women don’t want to bring “shame” on their community or faith. I’ve seen how deeply this is internalised. Some will only talk about it as “bad experiences” or “family problems,” never naming it as sexual assault.
Often, the only way in is through practical support. Women might come seeking help with housing, finances, or visas. Once you sit with them, listen, and show respect, the deeper story emerges. Gentle, non-judgmental support opens the door much more than formal therapy ever could.
Many older women carry trauma from long ago. Something might happen—a health scare, a conflict at home—and it reawakens memories they’ve tried to bury for decades. They still don’t want to talk about it, but you can see it in their bodies, in the tension they carry. Some fear that speaking up will bring violence or retaliation from family. Others turn their attention to their daughters and granddaughters, determined to protect them from the same pain. For many, that feels safer than confronting their own trauma.
In aged-care settings, I’ve read reports claiming that sexual assaults of women with dementia cause “no serious impact.” I find that appalling. Even if memories fade, the body remembers pain and fear. A person living with dementia still feels distress and deserves safety and dignity.
When I think about what older women need, it isn’t complicated. They need consistent, compassionate support—someone who checks in, listens, and reminds them that they matter. Not everyone wants counselling, but everyone needs to feel seen. Mental health struggles often show up as physical pain or fatigue. The mind and body are connected. Stress and fear live in our muscles, in our stomachs, in our voices.
What saddens me most is how older women are treated as if life is already over. Too often, we only talk to them about loss and death, not about living. In some cultures, women in their fifties already call themselves “retired,” sitting at home believing their useful years are behind them. But I don’t accept that. I’m seventy-six and still going strong. There’s so much to give and so much to gain.
Older women can be powerful teachers and protectors. When they’re given tools and knowledge to help their daughters and granddaughters stay safe, they come alive again. Helping others helps them too.
If I could give one message to services and communities, it would be this: meet women where they are, listen with respect, and believe them. We all carry stories. Some are painful, but every story shared makes another woman braver.
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