By JESSICA BROADBENT
Recently, I was at Southern Cross station in Melbourne. From the platform I was on, I could see a young boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, making a bit of a fuss with his mother.
Then, it suddenly became much louder, attracting attention from everybody in earshot. I watched, separated by the railway tracks, as this young boy began to strike out at his mother, and to verbally abuse her. She held his arm firmly, trying to move him towards another area of the platform.
Off to the side, an older lady, perhaps the grandmother, waited, with a little girl in a pusher. They both seemed patient, resigned even. I averted my eyes, trying to give the family some privacy to deal with the meltdown.
But as I looked away, I wondered. I had no idea if the story I created in my head was true, or even close to being true. I was sure that the woman with him was his mother, and that he was simply overtired, or perhaps autistic, or had just had too much chocolate and was acting out – but how sure was I?
As I started to think about how to get involved, a station worker walked past me and we made eye contact. We exchanged cautious smiles and I even made a joke – that I was glad I wasn’t a parent. But I didn’t ask him to report it. I didn’t report it myself. I heard the announcement for my train and I stood up and got on it and rode away.
There have been a number of incidents recently which have been reported in the media and led people to wonder, “why didn’t someone intervene?”
Top Comments
I've been in a lot of intervention situations and I've intervened in most of them. I am a health care professional so I think to myself that it is expected of me to intervene. I don't have a hero complex either. But for instance, I've witnessed major vehicular accidents, it would be almost morally negligent if I didn't use my skill/education to save a life/put another person out of harms way.
There were times as a child when I was in public with violent parents "berating" me, for a soft term, times when I was crying and asking for help. There was a time I was thrown out of the house in t-shirt and underwear and walked 3 blocks to a friend's house crying, passing many people. I lived in a nice neighbourhood. My parents and I seemed nice, normal, well-educated.
If you ever saw me, I wish you'd asked if I was okay, or called the police - I can't recall that ever happening, and I didn't know how to help myself.