Three weeks. That’s how long I was separated from my daughter. No trial. No crime. No violence. Just a single sheet of paper — a Protection from Abuse Order, or PFA — a civil court order meant to prevent harm, often issued on little more than an accusation. It can strip someone of contact with his or her children, home, and firearms — without a criminal charge. That paper took my daughter away from me.
I was only 23.
My daughter was just a few months old. I was still learning how to be a dad — still learning the rhythms of fatherhood. Then she was gone. A sheriff handed me the order at my front door. I knew I was in for an uphill battle.
Over the next three weeks, I scrambled to find an attorney, build a defense, and dig through evidence to prove my innocence. Those weeks didn’t just take away my daughter. They took away my dignity. My voice. And for a time, my will to speak.
The State of Exception
Legal theorist Carl Schmitt once wrote: “Sovereign is he who decides the exception.” In other words, the true power of the state lies not in making laws, but in deciding when the law no longer applies. The sovereign is the one who can suspend the rules in the name of security, order, or necessity. Philosopher Giorgio Agamben built on this idea, warning that modern states increasingly rule through exceptions — moments when the law suspends itself in the name of preserving order.
Most people think of these exceptions in cinematic terms, such as Abraham Lincoln suspending habeas corpus during the Civil War, the War on Terror and Guantanamo Bay, lockdowns during the Covid-19 pandemic.
But a quieter kind happens in family court every day. No headlines. No outrage. Just a form, a sheriff, and silence.
That’s what a PFA is. It suspends due process, assumes guilt, and punishes before harm occurs. It creates what Agamben called a “zone of indistinction” — where someone is both inside the law and excluded from its protections. The man served a PFA becomes what Agamben called the Homo Sacer: not just punished without trial, but guilty until proven innocent.
This isn’t tyranny in jackboots. It’s softer. Bureaucratic. A form, not a trial. Control, not compassion. It’s preemptive punishment.
Hellbound and Down 