Life with an addicted husband : How drug abuse fuels domestic violence against women

Sathi never imagined her life would become like this. When she married her husband, it was like any regular marriage – adorned in flowers, festivity, and cordial greetings all around. Her husband, under oath, promised to take care of her. 

There was light, camera, and witnesses. 

There was no reason to think for a moment that something that started with so much fanfare could go wrong. But it did, terribly.

At first, her husband was spotted with alcohol. For Sathi, it was like this will pass, but it was only followed by dramatic changes – for example, pills, and then he started taking stronger drugs that she had no idea what they were called.

Many phases of drugs appeared one by one – first he became forgetful, then he became angry, and soon that anger had hands too.

When interviewed by a group of researchers in Sylhet, Sathi spoke in a quiet voice when she narrated her ordeal.

"He regularly drinks. Then he becomes aggressive. He takes drugs too. After that, he would go mad and beat me. If I protest, things get more serious."

She still remembers those countless sleepless nights – sheer horror on the floor with her children, with a slim hope that her cries would drown in the noises of the neighbourhood.

She thought of leaving him, perhaps too many times, but that thought dropped in the bud. Where would she go? Who would offer her shelter?

This is not just Sathi's story. Across Bangladesh, many women live similar lives, caught in homes where love has turned into fear, much of it fuelled by addiction.

Many studies have been conducted on this. The findings show how Bangladeshi wives suffer horrific abuses when their husbands become drug addicted. A national study found that more than 74% of drug-addicted husbands had physically attacked their wives. Yet most of the women, like Sathi, stay back. 

Why don't they leave? 

This is a complicated equation driven by poverty, shame, and silence.

It is a well-known fact that most of these women entirely depend on their husbands for money, and leaving them could mean losing their shelter, food, and even children. In villages, the society rarely supports a woman who walks away. Neighbours whisper. Families sometimes push them back into violent homes "for the sake of honour." Some women also believe they have no right to complain.

Sathi's parents, for example, asked her to be patient.

"All men are like this after a long day," her mother said, perhaps she also learned through her own experiences.

In Dhaka and other cities, a few organisations like BLAST, Ain o Salish Kendra, and Badabon Sangho offer support to the victims like Sathi.

However, a vast majority of the women don't have access to these support groups or don't have the courage to seek assistance. Instead, the insecurity is so high that they would live a life in such danger rather than seeking help.

There are examples too when husbands are directed towards medical treatment through the help of various rights or support groups.  

That chance is rare, but it exists. Addiction services are growing in Bangladesh. Some NGOs now run support groups for both men and women. Others train police and court staff to better respond to domestic violence cases.

For example, UNFPA collaborated with the Bangladesh Police to integrate gender-based violence (GBV) into the national crime data management system and trained officers in 44 police stations (including in Dhaka) to handle GBV cases. 

However, the knowledge gap among women about their rights is also very high. Many don't even know that a protection law like the Domestic Violence Act exists.

Today, Sathi still lives with her husband. But again, things have changed. 

She eventually took action.

With the help of one such support group, she enrolled her addicted husband in a drug rehabilitation programme. Meanwhile, she has started sewing clothes for extra money. She still remembers the fear, but she now remembers something else too: her strength.

Her story is not finished yet. But she is no longer silent.

And perhaps, that is how change begins in homes like hers when someone, refusing to be broken, gathers strength and raises her voice. 

This article has been produced in association with Badabon Sangho.