Content warning:
This passage includes sensitive content about sexual violence and may be triggering for some readers.
Rani’s story is a powerful reminder of why older women’s voices matter. From isolation and violence to homelessness, her call is simple but powerful: believe us, support us, and help end the silence around older women’s experience of domestic and sexual violence.
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I spent most of my young life in remote areas of Australia—working on cattle stations and living in Aboriginal communities.
At the time, I was married to a policeman. In that relationship, I witnessed a lot of violence—not just at home, but also in the community. I saw sexual violence and violence between Aboriginal people, as well as from police towards them. I was only 18, and it was a real eye-opener.
I’d come from a suburban background, and suddenly I was in this other world. There was no internet back then. I’m 63 now, so it was a long time ago. I married young, and I didn’t know anything about domestic or sexual violence. I was sheltered as a child.
When you’re young and isolated like that, you don’t know how to get out. There wasn’t support like there is now—though even now, there’s still not enough. Back then, there really was nothing. So, we didn’t talk about it. It got swept under the carpet.
Even now, I find people still don’t want to normalise talking about domestic or sexual violence. It’s hush-hush. But it needs to be spoken about, openly and safely. Back then, there was a lot of judgment. And where do you go when you’re being violated by the one policeman in town, and the only car is his?
I stayed longer than I should have, because I thought that’s what you did—put up, shut up, get on with life. I eventually got out when we moved to a less remote area where I could finally escape.
Later in life, I met someone else—someone I loved deeply. But he turned out to be a control freak, which you don’t see at the start. He had been in high-powered jobs and didn’t handle retirement well. He needed to be the boss, and when there was no one else, he bossed me.
I left everything behind to move interstate with him. I had worked hard and saved, and I had dreams for retirement—trying new things, meeting people. But he didn’t make friends easily, and I think my plans made him feel threatened.
Within six months, everything changed. I ended up locked in a bedroom for five and a half years. No phone. No internet. No contact. He told everyone I’d had a breakdown. Because I had experienced depression, people believed him. He even said I was like my mother—who had mental health issues.
I was physically and sexually abused, locked up, and isolated. I was pushed off a cliff and never received medical care for my broken leg. It healed wrong. I survived day after day of horror.
Two years ago, things escalated. He started smashing furniture. He was very materialistic, so I knew it was getting worse. He kept me padlocked in a room. Watched me go to the toilet. Watched me shower.
One day, he left the bedroom door unlocked while he showered. I made my move.
I couldn’t get out the front door—it was locked. But I found one window without a security screen and smashed it with a chair. I jumped from the window. The house was raised, and I fell to the ground.
I didn’t care about injuries. I knew he had guns. I crawled through paddocks full of cow dung and blackberry bushes. I heard bullets whistling past. I found a stormwater drain and hid in it for two hours.
When the bus came, I dragged myself out, covered in mud. No money. No mask. No phone. The bus driver looked at me like I was crazy. I told her someone was trying to shoot me. She let me on and took me to town.
I thought I’d get help in the city, but I had to live in a park for three weeks. I had nothing—just a dress, undies, thongs, and no toothbrush.
I went to every agency—City Mission, Salvos, Anglicare, Vinnies. Everywhere I was told: “You need an appointment.” I’d think, who wakes up and decides to be homeless today?
As an older woman, I found shelters said, “You don’t have children, so we can’t help.” I understand that kids need homes, but what about us older women who’ve worked, raised families, done it all? People assumed I had family. I don’t. My only sibling has died. Don’t assume.
I was 61, with no super, because I used it to renovate the house. He controlled all the money. At Centrelink, telling a stranger your story is humiliating. They look at you like, “How did this happen?” Then they ask, “Why didn’t you escape?” I didn’t have a phone. I was locked up.
The questions should be: “How can we help?” “What do you need?” “I’m sorry this happened.”
I remember being given a tin of spaghetti when I hadn’t eaten for three days. I said I had no can opener. The worker said, “You’ll figure something out.” That was it. I felt so small.
People ask, “Did you go to the police?” But in our town, the only two police were his mates. I once asked one for help. I had black eyes, bruises. He said, “You need to get your head read.”
Once someone has control over you, there’s no “fixing it.” He hated how I breathed. How do you fix that?
Even now, I worry he’ll find me. But I’d rather die free than go back.
Being told when you can shower, shave, go to the toilet—it’s degrading. You stop questioning it. You just do it to avoid a flogging.
People say, “Didn’t you see the signs?” I did. But we’re taught not to be alone. Especially women without children. So you think, “I’ll settle.” But I didn’t think I was settling. I thought he was the one. Looking back, there were signs. But the bad stuff starts slow. Once a month. Then once a week. Then every day. You’re locked in your room before you realise.
I’d had a good job. I wasn’t ready to retire. But he was older, wanted to move and retire. Everyone said, “How good is retirement?” You can’t say, “It’s hell.” You just pretend.
People’s opinions do matter to us older women. We were raised not to speak up. What happens in the home, stays in the home. My grandparents raised us. Everything was hush hush. You didn’t complain.
Now, even though times are changing, it’s still hard for older women to talk about sexual violence. There’s shame. There’s doubt.
When I got out, I went to a women’s health centre. They said I should get tested for STDs. I thought, “What? I’ve been locked up.” But he hadn’t. The thought shattered me. I defended him. But I got tested. Thankfully, I was clear. But the shame… even though it wasn’t my fault.
My advice to services—from Centrelink to housing to doctors—is this:
Be compassionate. And if you can’t, don’t work in those roles.
Be kind. Believe us.
I once went to a place offering free breakfasts, but because I wasn’t in a shelter, they charged me $5. Even though I was sleeping in a park. These rules? They’re rubbish.
Don’t assume people are lying.
We need to normalise talking about domestic and sexual violence. You never know who is living in fear and needs to feel heard.
If an older woman tells you her story—part of it or all of it—believe her.
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