From loss to law

Much of the legal debate on intimate partner violence (IPV), coercive control, and femicide ignores a crucial element: children. In abusive relationships, they are often used as instruments of coercion, forcing women to choose between their own safety and protecting their kids.

The silent heroism of victims, choices made at the edge of life and death to protect loved ones, rarely appears in public narratives. These acts are not submission, but rather strategy, endurance, and moral courage under extreme danger. Recognizing them does not glorify violence; it exposes institutional failure and the systemic dilemmas that leave many women unable to exit abusive relationships safely.

The instrumentalization of motherhood is a central risk in IPV and coercive control. Protective protocols must ensure a woman’s safety without compromising her children. Ignoring this dimension leads to systemic failures in law and policy, explaining why leaving is often not a safe option.

In the case of my mother, Justice Suzy Soares, the dilemma was absolute: risk her own life or protect her children. She chose to protect us until the very last moment. This choice must be acknowledged if we are to understand the true impact of IPV, coercive control, and femicide.

My mother was a silent hero. A criminal law judge and former chief of police, she had knowledge, authority, and moral courage within the legal system. She faced a man trained not just in enforcement, but in navigating institutional procedures. My father, a chief of police, was able to bypass every protective measure she tried to put in place. 

When all of this happened 25 years ago, femicide didn’t exist in Brazilian law, IPV was a “private matter,” and coercive control was invisible to the law. Women were killed, and it was written off as a “crime of passion.”

My mother tried to leave the relationship. In the end, she was forced to choose between her own life and the protection of her children. She chose our survival, transforming her silent heroism into the only weapon capable of saving our lives.

This was not a failure of knowledge. My mother knew the law. What she faced was not ignorance of it, but its absence where it was most needed. 

This is a structural reality of violence: It is what the law has not named, and what the law has not protected. It is an acknowledgment that the absence of law can, indeed, cost lives.

Talking about this silent heroism and listening to survivors of these situations offers a unique perspective that enriches legal debate and contributes to the strengthening of laws, public policies, and protective protocols, as it is grounded in victims’ lived reality.

Reflecting reality

Many people underestimate the impact that formally recognizing a crime has on how the state and society treat it.

As someone who lived through the period before and after the criminalization of femicide in Brazil, I witnessed crimes of this nature being recorded as general homicides. Official documents sometimes reported that women had died of anemia caused by gunshot wounds. This narrative completely erased the pre-crime context: domestic and intimate partner violence, the presence of children, the history of abuse and coercive control, and the fatal culmination of the violence cycle.

Following the criminalization of femicide, the number of registered cases in Brazil appeared to increase. This isn’t an indication that the crimes became more frequent. Instead, it reflects the fact that they finally began to be properly processed and gained statistical, institutional, and media visibility.

Brazil enacted legislation in 2015 recognizing femicide as a crime, defined as the killing of a woman in the domestic sphere or as a result of contempt or discrimination based on gender. Last year, 1,492 women were victims of femicide, the highest number since the law was introduced, according to the Brazilian Forum on Public Safety. This increase represents light cast on what had previously remained in the shadows.

Reports from the United Nations confirm that home remains the most dangerous place for women: approximately 60 per cent of femicides occur within the victim’s own residence. In 2023, on average, around 140 women and girls lost their lives every day worldwide at the hands of a partner or family member. In Canada, one woman is killed every two days, and between 2018 and 2022, at least 868 children were orphaned as a result of femicide.

Distinguishing femicide from homicide is essential for the law to reflect this reality and ensure institutional responses compatible with the gravity and complexity of this crime.

Transforming institutions

The formal recognition of femicide does more than name a crime; it reshapes how the state responds to it.

In Brazil, the criminalization of femicide was followed by the progressive development of specialized protection protocols for women and children. This included the creation of specialized police units and stations dedicated exclusively to cases of IPV and femicide. These are now operating in more than 200 police stations across multiple states. The number of specialized IPV family courts has also expanded.

These institutional reforms were accompanied by mandatory training on IPV, femicide, and risk assessment for law enforcement officers, prosecutors, and the judiciary. Multidisciplinary teams, including social workers, psychologists, and victim support professionals, were integrated into police units, transforming how cases are identified, documented, and addressed.

The impact of this shift is structural: IPV is no longer treated as a private matter, but as a public matter requiring institutional intervention. 

Recognition enabled protocols. Protocols enabled prevention.

In 2023, former Chief Justice Rosa Weber of Brazil's Supreme Federal Court issued national recommendations to strengthen training and protective measures for women judges who have faced, or may face, IPV and coercive control. Her report emphasized that IPV and coercive control affect women across all social, educational, and economic backgrounds. My mother, Justice Suzy Soares, was cited in the resolution. Shortly after, Brazil enacted a law criminalizing coercive control.

Those developments demonstrate that naming a crime creates the legal and institutional conditions necessary for prevention, professional training, data collection, specialized protection, and, consequently, societal change.

Bill C-16: A significant step forward

In December, Justice Minister Sean Fraser introduced Bill C-16. Known as the Protecting Victims Act, the legislation aims to tackle intimate partner violence, coercive control, femicide, and offer better protection for kids.

This represents meaningful progress in Canada. Historically, many criminal laws undergo gradual development before being refined in collaboration with law enforcement agencies and the justice system. However, without a clear distinction of the crime in the Criminal Code, institutional inertia may persist. Making femicide a clearly defined crime, as this legislation will do if passed, is crucial, as it signals that this is not an isolated act, but a systemic issue.

In this context, Bill C-16:

1. Reinforces recognition of femicide as a first-degree murder;
2. Creates a normative foundation for future legislative expansion;
3. Signals an institutional commitment to addressing the issue.

This is a first step, not the final one. The law’s development will open space for debate, public consultation, and future amendments.

Classifying femicide in the Criminal Code beyond sentencing measures makes visible an already existing pattern, allowing the state to recognize, investigate, record, and prevent this specific and recurring form of lethal violence.

A long-term investment

Profound social transformations take decades. In Canada, women gained the federal right to vote in 1918 and were legally recognized as “persons” in 1929, but did not achieve gender parity in the Senate until 2020. These milestones demonstrate that cultural and structural change requires time, persistence, and institutional continuity.

Similarly, criminalizing femicide does not immediately reduce violence. Still, it is an essential step to protect the most vulnerable, establish clear legal frameworks, enable police enforcement to invest in training measures for IPV cases, and gradually shape social perceptions of these crimes. 

The law also serves a symbolic function by signalling what society refuses to tolerate. Each legal measure is a seed planted today to bear fruit in the future.

From loss to law

My family was devastated by a femicide in 2001. As a criminal law judge and former chief of police, my mother faced the justice system daily while enduring the injustice that ultimately claimed her life. 

As the daughter of a judge, I grew up with certain privileges, but also carried a profound tragedy. My daily life was full with school, church, piano, ballet, volleyball, swimming, languages, and therapy. But none of it could fill the emptiness of a childhood marked by loss, trauma, and a fractured family.

After two years alternating between homes and courtrooms, my brother and I were permanently raised by our maternal grandmother. For many years, I remained silent. I learned that families often function as institutions, and when something threatens their image, silence becomes a mechanism of protection. Paradoxically, it is this very silence that allows IPV, coercive control, and femicide to remain neglected globally.

I was studying law in Brazil when femicide was finally recognized in the legal system. It was a historic victory. Ten years later, protective and educational measures continue to expand across the country. Recognition of the crime was only the first step in a broader process of institutional and societal transformation that is still happening.

Years later, in Canada, I revisited this issue during my Master of Laws at the University of Toronto. I brought the discussion to a three-day Model Senate in May 2025, raised IPV and femicide during question period with Senator Peter Boehm, submitted briefs to senators while working as a special assistant and parliamentary researcher, and published legal opinions on the topic.

During this period, the mentorship program for women judges in Brazil, named after my mother, was nationally recognized, ranking third among more than 600 initiatives nationwide. It was also named project of the year for its innovative work in the judiciary. 

If someone had asked six-year-old Lais whether she imagined surviving and transforming her experience into an international legal commitment, the answer would have been no. It took years of resilience and acceptance. Today, I remain committed to a collective effort for justice, truth, and the protection of women, children, and families.