In a square in central Sydney on a warm evening in late November 2018, one rose is laid for each woman killed by domestic violence this year in Australia. So far, there have been 63. Different country, I think, same rotten feeling. I am practised at citing such numbers: 137 women are killed every day by an intimate partner around the world; one in three women in my home country of Aotearoa New Zealand will be subjected to violence at the hands of their partner; LGBT+ folk are at least twice as likely to be subjected to sexual violence by an intimate partner than their heterosexual counterparts, but are less likely to seek help for fear of discrimination. The numbers are practically etched onto my skin. There is a pressing need to create a more just world for women and gender minorities. The numbers alone support that conclusion. But the numbers, while shocking, can feel impersonal. The jolt from numbers can quickly pass. A moment of disbelief, or pain, or maybe even anger. Then gone. Violence might as well be woven into the very fabric of our societies. It is vital to see that each number is a person, and each person is a history; a community; a society; a story. I carry these stories in my bones.

Yet, I cannot think of the dead without remembering those who work to find them justice. They stand before me laying roses as pedestrians pass by to signify that these deaths are a social shame; they march in the streets with placards stating ‘I can't believe I still need to protest this shit’; they sit with victims in the family court; they meet with government representatives; they sit around tables in cold, damp offices making collective decisions; they demand workplaces take responsibility for their employees. Mostly, I think of the buzz of an open-plan office first thing on a Friday morning. I think of my voluntary work alongside one collective of feminist anti-violence activists. I think of women shouting to one another. Laughing with one another. Having serious whispered conversations. Closing doors.