longer.blue

A few days ago, a 35-year-old man doused his 41-year-old wife in accelerants and set her on fire in cold blood. He had previously been convicted of domestic violence against the same woman—he had kicked his heavily pregnant partner in the stomach and knocked out her teeth. Since April, the perpetrator had been on prison leave, serving his sentence at home. Ironically, that home was with the very woman he had attacked. We all rightly ask: how on earth can something like this happen? We often think of intimate partner violence as a modern issue—something our laws and institutions are meant to solve. But people in the past struggled with the same questions: What do you do when you suspect violence? What if it happens right in front of you? And most importantly: when do you intervene? A remarkable case from the 16th century shows that this moral struggle is timeless—and that we can still learn from it today. Timeless questions In 1532, Colin De Sobre from Beaumont, Hainaut, submitted a petition for royal pardon. His daughter was married to Adrien Bonnet. One day, Colin heard from a neighbor that Adrien was abusing his daughter—dangling her out of a window and beating her repeatedly. Colin hesitated to intervene. Neighbors came to him five times, saying: “Are you a man of honor if you let this happen?” Eventually, Colin sent his wife ahead to try to calm the situation. Then he went himself—and was threatened by his son-in-law. In the chaos that followed, Colin wounded Adrien with a sword. Adrien died the next day. Even then, partner violence was a social issue. While it was socially accepted that a man might give his wife a “corrective slap,” there were clear limits. Beating a woman black and blue or causing open wounds was not tolerated. Authorities and courts regularly dealt with domestic violence—and sometimes took effective action. It was not a lawless era. On the contrary, there were legal frameworks and moral norms. The power of bystanders Recent research shows that the legal system of the time was far from perfect. Sometimes, partner violence was tolerated—especially if the woman was seen as “misbehaving” or “immoral.” That’s why family, friends, and neighbors often took matters into their own hands to prevent worse. It was the neighbors who first reacted with outrage. They saw the violence, heard the screams, and decided to act. Not once, but repeatedly, they went to the victim’s father. “Are you a man of honor if you let this happen?” they asked. Their words weren’t just concern—they were a moral indictment. They demanded that he take responsibility and stop the abuse. The outcome was tragic, but the case reveals something fundamental: it was the bystanders who refused to normalize the violence. Who didn’t look away. Who confronted the father with his duty to protect his daughter. Even in a time when women had far fewer rights, there was a clear sense that excessive violence was unacceptable—and that silence made one complicit. Silence is a choice Today, we live in a society with more resources, laws, and institutions. And yet, we often remain spectators. We hear, we see, we suspect—but we hesitate. We avoid conflict and hope it passes. Or we think: “It’s not my place.” But just like in 1532, silence is not a neutral choice. It’s a choice that allows violence to continue. That leaves victims alone and gives perpetrators space. Femicide is not a tragedy of fate. It is the endpoint of a chain of signals, warnings, reports, and disturbing facts. Every time we look away, we strengthen that chain—until it’s too late. We must learn from the past. Not because it was better or worse, but because it confronts us. If neighbors raised their voices in 1532, why do we so often stay silent in 2025? Of course, we don’t always know the full story—not even that of the neighbors in Houthalen-Helchteren. But that’s exactly why reflection is needed. Not to point fingers, but to ask ourselves: What would we do if we suspected something? Silence is not an option. Not for the neighbors. Not for the family. Not for the institutions. Not for me. Not for you.