Today, Rosie Batty praised the 29 recommendations made by the coroner and the findings of the inquest into her son, Luke Batty’s death – and I still don’t know whether I can read more than the headline.
Eleven-year-old Luke was murdered last February at the end of an afternoon training session on a cricket field in Melbourne, during pack-up time. His father, Greg Anderson, killed him with a cricket bat.
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When the news broke last year, every single thing I knew about the event came from people around me talking about it. Getting a coffee in the morning, the barista shook his head and said he couldn’t believe it, he felt sick. Friends were teary as they recounted the brutality and the fact that this 11-year-old boy was happy to see his father drop in to his cricket practice; Luke asked to have a few minutes catching up with his dad at the end of training. It was the first thing discussed in the morning hellos and how are yous at work.
In those first few days every time Luke was mentioned, I’d stop breathing and channel my energy into not crying. I ended up simply walking away from the Oh My God conversations. It was too hard.
And after I avoided the stories of Luke, and hurriedly clicked off the images of Rosie smiling in her bathers as her beautiful, happy son held a cake and sat on the arm of her chair by a pool, I would feel guilty. I can’t even read about this, yet this woman has to live it. This little boy. This woman. The pain and suffering. They joked about his hair getting long the morning he was killed.
When she was made Australian of the Year in January, I didn't read or listen to her speech. I couldn't. And throughout her tireless campaigning where she spoke about the "epidemic" of domestic violence in Australia I would make myself forget the reason she was speaking, the reason she had a platform in the first place. I made it about this other thing, over there.