Back at home in Australia, murder is afoot.

As I left the disappearance of Samantha Murphy, a woman my age in Ballarat, a town only an hour from me, had disappeared. An extensive search seemingly resulted in nothing, until the arrest of a young tradie who has been accused of the murder, the son of a footballer, the boyfriend of a young woman his age. Hundreds of woman joined a run to finish the route she started.

He still hasn't given up the whereabouts of the body. Maybe he never will. Maybe it's about shame, or power.

Many think she could be in any number of hundreds of disused gold mines across the area.

Meanwhile, only a few kilometres from my house in a rural street the body of a young woman was discovered in a wheelie bin. The size of these green rubbish bins seem to be good for bodies. Woman's bodies, in particular.

We heard less about her, probably because she was Indian, and her husband had admitted to his stabbing of his wife when he fled to his father's in India.

In the streets of Medina Sidonia, I learn about a woman from centuries past who met her death in prison cell. History whispers of her as a political pawn, given against her will to the king of that era's Spain by a French monarch. The circumstances surrounding her demise are vague — was it due to her perceived lack of chastity, him loving another, or the failure to receive an expected dowry?

Whatever the truth, her story serves as a haunting reminder of the injustices endured by women in ages past, as well as a reminder that it is always woman who suffer the rage of men.

I had begun writing this a few weeks ago but it's sat in my drafts unfinished. This morning I read of another woman in Ballarat killed by her 21 year old ex, her body found in a burnt out car in bushland.

I read a tweet by a woman who argued that at service stations, men can simply fill up petrol. Woman need to check who are watching, who might be following, hold their keys tightly, check their escape routes, call on a friend to meet them at the car when they park. Thirty years ago a man got my number because he saw me at a petrol station and asked his mate at the car registration office to give him my details.

There are thousands and thousands of these stories.

It is hard to even imagine a world where the cry of 'enough' is heard.