Children Living with Domestic Violence
– when the home loses its sense of safety
Some texts are not written.
They insist on being written.
This is such a text.
Because domestic violence is not, first and foremost, about concepts, definitions, or statistics. It is about lives lived in silence. About children carrying what no one sees.
And perhaps this is where practical philosophy begins:
not in what we can explain,
but in what we cannot turn away from.
What is violence?
We may try to define it.
Violence is any act that harms, frightens, or violates—an act that makes another person do something against their will, or prevents them from doing what they want to do.
But language does not reach far enough.
Because violence is also what remains unseen.
What is left unsaid.
What settles into the atmosphere of a home.
A look.
A pause.
A tension that needs no explanation.
Violence is power.
Violence is control.
Violence is the slow erosion of another person’s sense of self.
The child at the center
When adults use violence, children are almost always present.
Not always in the room.
But always in the reality.
And when a child is present, something fundamental occurs:
The one who causes fear is often the same person the child loves.
This creates a fracture that cannot be repaired through logic.
The child must live with two truths at once:
He is my father.
He is dangerous.
This is not a paradox a child can resolve.
Yet it becomes part of the child’s inner world.
A meeting I never forget
Let me make this real.
I once met a boy.
He was still very young.
One day, he tried to protect his mother. His father was hitting her. The boy stepped in. He was struck in the face.
In the same room stood his younger brother.
He did nothing.
He simply stood there.
Watching.
…
But this is where we must pause.
Because he did not just watch.
He absorbed it.
He lived inside it.
He became part of it.
Over time, the younger boy became the quiet one at the back of the classroom.
His teachers noticed.
His academic performance declined.
He withdrew—restless, yet almost invisible.
The school responded as it should.
They grew concerned.
A school psychologist became involved.
The conversations began carefully.
Gradually, the boy found words.
He spoke.
About what he had seen.
About what he had felt.
About what he had carried alone.
The case was reported.
The police intervened.
The mother and the two boys were given refuge at a crisis center.
The father was later convicted of domestic violence.
…
Legally, the case came to a conclusion.
For the boys, it did not.
It marked a beginning.
The witness who is not just a witness
We make a grave mistake when we speak of children as “witnesses.”
As if they stand outside.
As if they observe from a distance.
They do not.
They live within it.
They carry the sounds in their bodies.
They read the tension before it unfolds.
They exist in a constant state of alertness.
We must therefore be precise:
Children who witness violence are also harmed.
They are participants—not neutral observers.
This is not merely a professional insight.
It is an ethical position.
The collapse of safety
A child’s development rests on something both simple and essential:
A sense of safety.
When violence enters the home, safety does not only disappear in moments.
It disappears as a foundation.
The child does not simply learn that the world can be dangerous.
The child learns that love itself can be dangerous.
And this knowledge settles deeply.
In the body.
In relationships.
In identity.
Later, we see its expressions:
- anxiety and withdrawal
- difficulties in forming trust
- physical symptoms without clear cause
- a persistent sense of unease in the presence of others
But it begins earlier.
It begins where safety should have been.
The child’s silent work
Children do not give up.
They try to understand.
They try to create meaning.
And in doing so, they develop ways to survive:
They take responsibility.
They make themselves smaller.
They become accommodating.
Or reactive.
Or silent.
Some retreat into imagination.
Others attach themselves to a single trustworthy adult.
One child once said:
“I thought I could make him stop if I was just good enough.”
Few sentences reveal more.
The silence of violence
Domestic violence thrives in silence.
Not because it is rare.
But because it is hidden.
By shame.
By fear.
By loyalty.
Children quickly learn what must not be spoken.
And perhaps most demanding of all:
They learn to appear as if everything is normal.
They attend school.
They smile.
They participate.
But they live in a different reality.
Scope – what we know, and what we do not know
There are statistics.
But they never tell the full story.
We know that many children live with violence.
We know that many more remain unseen.
Research indicates that a substantial number of children experience violence within their families, and that children are frequently present during violent incidents.
Yet the most important truth is not numerical.
It is existential.
It concerns someone.
Always someone.
Practical philosophy – standing within reality
What do we do with this?
This is not a theoretical problem.
It is an ethical demand.
Aristotle described phronesis as practical wisdom.
Not knowledge alone.
But judgment expressed through action.
Knowing when to intervene.
Daring to ask.
Remaining present when it would be easier to withdraw.
This work asks something of us:
Courage.
Attention.
A willingness to see clearly.
To see – and not turn away
The first step is both simple and demanding:
To see.
To notice the child who becomes quiet.
To notice what does not align.
To notice what remains unspoken.
And then:
To ask.
To act – without certainty
We all wish to act correctly.
But in situations of violence, certainty is rarely available.
There are no perfect actions.
Only necessary ones.
If we wait for clarity, nothing happens.
And in this space, inaction is not neutral.
It becomes part of the silence that sustains harm.
When the violence stops
The most essential intervention is also the most fundamental:
The violence must end.
Not be minimized.
Not be explained away.
But end.
Only then can something new begin.
A closing reflection
Over the course of a long life in social work, I have met many children.
Some remain with me.
Not as cases.
But as presence.
They remind me of something simple, yet demanding:
That practical philosophy is not about understanding life from a distance.
It is about remaining present within it.
And perhaps this is our shared task:
To stay human in the presence of another human being—
and not turn away.
References
Haaland, T., Schei, B., & Clausen, S.-E. (2005). Violence in intimate relationships in Norway. Norwegian Institute for Urban and Regional Research (NIBR).
Isdal, P. (2000). Meningen med volden [The meaning of violence]. Kommuneforlaget.
Kvello, Ø. (2007). Children at risk. Gyldendal Akademisk.
Mossige, S., & Stefansen, K. (Eds.). (2007). Violence and sexual abuse against children and youth. NOVA Report 20/2007.
Møller, K. (2000). The psychology of violence. (Original work in Norwegian).
United Nations. (1989). Convention on the Rights of the Child.
World Health Organization. (2002). World report on violence and health.
Personal note
This text grows out of many years of practice in the field of social work, and from conversations with colleagues, professionals, and children whose experiences have shaped my understanding. It has been refined in dialogue with OpenAI/ChatGPT, which has also contributed to the accompanying illustration.
