Honour & Shame
One Sunday morning I was driving my children back from their regular soccer game. It was a warm summer day, sun shining ever so brightly, making the uneven town picturesque. As I drove along in my Holden with rigid brown seats and the windscreen wipers that didn’t work, I looked over to my sixteen year old daughter sitting next to menodding and shaking her head rhythmically to, in her words, ‘legendary’ music band One Direction. An image of Asreen flashed through my mind…
…“Kiran?” the voice on my mobile phone was barely more than a whisper. “Kiran? Is that you?” .The train ride back home was a typical for Friday eveningIt was very busy Friday evening train ride back from work, “Are you able to speak up a little?” I asked, raising my own voice overagainst loud chatterschatters from fellow passengers and rattling noise from the train.
“I found your number in Indus Age, My - ” the line went suddenly went dead. Indus Age is a local monthly newspaper. iIt has largest circulation to Indian and South East Asian community in the country. I was interviewed a week ago concerning about my plight with honour based violence. After two years of lengthy legal proceeding over evidence of injury which included tampered medical records I managed to get a divorce. I was sure that such crimeshonour based violence against women was prevalent and practiced behind closed doors, after my divorce I wanted to assist other women in similar situation and have my phone number published in the newspaper.
I thought I lost her but then, few minutes later, she was back. “Sorry I had to hang up I thought someone was coming. My parents are forcing me to marry a 35 year old man who I don’t even know. I am a prisoner in my own house. I can’t take it any longer. I need help.” She stopped for breath. “Please help me,” she said in a trembling voice. She sounded frantic; it seemed that she was at the mercy of her family.
I didn’t know who I was talking to but I knew I had to help. I spoke
…“Kiran?” the voice on my mobile phone was barely more than a whisper. “Kiran? Is that you?” .The train ride back home was a typical for Friday eveningIt was very busy Friday evening train ride back from work, “Are you able to speak up a little?” I asked, raising my own voice overagainst loud chatterschatters from fellow passengers and rattling noise from the train.
“I found your number in Indus Age, My - ” the line went suddenly went dead. Indus Age is a local monthly newspaper. iIt has largest circulation to Indian and South East Asian community in the country. I was interviewed a week ago concerning about my plight with honour based violence. After two years of lengthy legal proceeding over evidence of injury which included tampered medical records I managed to get a divorce. I was sure that such crimeshonour based violence against women was prevalent and practiced behind closed doors, after my divorce I wanted to assist other women in similar situation and have my phone number published in the newspaper.
I thought I lost her but then, few minutes later, she was back. “Sorry I had to hang up I thought someone was coming. My parents are forcing me to marry a 35 year old man who I don’t even know. I am a prisoner in my own house. I can’t take it any longer. I need help.” She stopped for breath. “Please help me,” she said in a trembling voice. She sounded frantic; it seemed that she was at the mercy of her family.
I didn’t know who I was talking to but I knew I had to help. I spoke