A haunting account by Liana Aghajanian about domestic violence in her East Hollywood neighborhood provides another testament to the fact that attention and support are greatly needed to address this terrible problem.
The palm trees were swaying gently when the sounds came crashing down on them. There was a bang, a slam and an endless cacophony of emotionally charged jargon in a foreign language that filled the night; bursts of anger that illuminated the starless sky.
Except it was in a foreign language that I understood, and in a stupor, I climbed out of bed at 3 a.m. to understand what the trouble was with the Armenian neighbors I had come so fondly to know by the volume of their arguments and the depth of their insults.