Show Notes
“My name is Roia Atmar, and—in my after—I made it a mission that other women find proof of their own. Proof that there is no uncomplicated route, that fear and shame lives in the most dubious of places, even still. That abuse does not end with the last lighting of a match, with the last foul insult, with the last bellow of a man—or ten—as they stand on the dusty steps of a court, the same court where women wanting nothing more than justice stand, holding space for any semblance of pride they can muster. Women that fight for their very own afters.”
In the sixth and final episode, My Name is Roia Atmar, she battles through the family court system as she is confronted not only by her abuser, but by the loud and obnoxious presence of “Men's Rights Activists”. As she fights to keep herself and her children safe, Roia reflects on the ongoing nature of healing, survival and hope.
Co-producers: Madison Griffiths and Beth Atkinson-Quinton Lead Storyteller: Roia Atmar Sensitivity Editor: Shakira Hussein Assistant Producer: Danae Gibson Sound Designer and Engineer: Jon Tjhia Guest in this episode: Samantha Jeffries, Amani Haydar and Ashlee Donohue
For episode transcripts and more information visit our website and stay in touch across Twitter, Instagram and Facebook at @broadwavepods, and @tenderpodcast on Twitter.
Tender season two is Broadwave podcast supported by the Victorian Government through Creative Victoria, and proudly sponsored by the Victorian Women’s Trust.
More from Tender
A little look behind the scenes of Tender season two with creators Beth and Madison.
“Abuse grows where love once could have. Interpersonal violence is a double-edged sword. And this, this tense and dangerous phenomenon, makes any sort of court proceeding incredibly hard. A webbed thing. The end, or so it seems, of a terrible, loveless promise.”
“Working in the sector, and simultaneously existing as a survivor, means being looked at: being perceived, even if the woman on the other end of the line, or sitting before you, isn’t aware of your past. It means being an image of recovery, whether that image feels fully-formed or not.”
“Over the span of my life, I had to get my nose re-pierced five times. It was a no-brainer: I was obviously going to do it. And, in a way, there was something quite powerful and commanding about my body’s insistence when it came to healing itself. Just this time, they were my wounds: and the sort that allowed me to bedazzle myself, time and time again, bleeding but adorned.”
“Given the way my burns creeped over my neck and side, it meant I physically wasn’t able to move in certain ways. I was a walking, talking, breathing conundrum of sorts: presented with this hopeful newfound agency having just left my abuser, but still restricted entirely by his doing, a prisoner in my body.”