I was watching The Push on ITV the other day. It’s a docu-series based on a true story about a newly married Muslim couple and the coercion and abuse that went on in their marriage.
They used a term that struck me — it also threw me. It was called Honour Based Abuse.
I’ve heard of honour-based killing and used to think to myself, Eeeeek, escaped that one. After five children, I don’t think my parents had enough energy for that. And my mum — mostly unbeknownst to her — was a staunch feminist.
Me? I was going to break the patriarchy and pave a different path for me and the millions of women who would walk it after me.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
At most, I created a stepping stone.
The first time i heard term honour-based abuse it made me really curious. I felt the same when. I heard people discussing boundaries. In my 30s, I thought to myself: Boundaries? I want some.
Honour-based abuse is often thought of as a ‘cultural’, ‘traditional’, or ‘religious’ problem.
My parents always held our behaviour as the root of their honour. Their values were mainly around making sure we said hello to everyone in the appropriate, respectful way. Ensuring that we helped out — offering to clear dishes, make tea, and tidy. We were also monitored on whether we initiated friendly conversation with everyone, from the old to the young.
It was never about stupid things like what we wore. I mean, we had to dress appropriately for the occasion. If we went to the Gurdwara, we made sure we weren’t wearing skirts or shorts and that our heads were covered. That was about respect.
On several occasions, my parents have actually fought for my rights when a comment was made about my clothing.
I went to the Gurdwara recently in 30-degree heat in the middle of July. I was wearing cotton trousers and a high-neck tank top. As I was walking in, a lady told me I wasn’t allowed to come in — nor was my 14-year-old son, because he was wearing shorts.
Genuinely shocked (and hot), I asked her where these rules were written. She took me to a big sign they’d created outside to highlight the allowed attire. There was a big cross over tank tops (showing shoulders) and on shorts.
I told her my son was a child and the rule was ludicrous. Nowhere in our holy book does it say what our attire should be. I also said I would cover my shoulders with my chunni.
I was getting frustrated.
I saw my dad, who clocked my face immediately and came over. I told him they weren’t allowing us into the temple. My dad said, “Just walk in with me and see if they have anything to say to you.”
I did.
They didn’t.
This was a lesson I had learned some years ago. If my parents were alright with it, and believe me they have been tested. Then people in the community could not say a thing.
When I got married, things changed. It was like a shift in the wind. I couldn’t quite describe it. I just didn’t feel right — I felt like I was being controlled and I didn’t feel protected anymore.
The definition of honour-based abuse continues with:
It can lead to a deeply embedded form of coercive control, built on expectations about acceptable and unacceptable behaviours. Control is often established without overt violence against the victim.
This was the unease. It had started before I got married. In the form of advice, about my clothing. Who I should interact with at family occasions. And the rule that any social interactions with their family should be through my sister-in-law. There were also frequent reminders about what a good girl looked like.
Naive me thought it would stop once I was married — because I was married, innit?
No. No, it didn’t.
It just escalated.
On my wedding day, after the doli, i went to my to my in-laws.
Then I heard her — the lady who lived accross the road.
The woman was a cunt. She looked like an owl with a permanent bitch resting face.
I’d heard her comments before, poisoning the air. Once she was fishing for information about how we’d met.
When the discussion turned to university — that’s when the digs began.
“University? Oh, you must be one of those modern girls allowed to study. Did you commute from home or did you live out?”
“Lived out? When there are so many good universities within commuting distance? Why? Why was that?”
Me being me, I answered honestly — I said I wanted to be by the sea.
To this, she scoffed.
My answering back, speaking out loud, only highlighted how Charlark I was (meaning clever — not in an academic sense, but sly, calculating). Lines were drawn.
On my wedding day, this lady pipes up:
“Don’t just give her (my husband’s grandmother) a hug. Bend down and touch her feet.”
I froze. This was something we’d discussed before I got married. It was clear — this was never an expectation in my family and it is not something i would be doing.
My mother-in-law was standing nearby and said, “Yes, you should.”
I didn’t want to. I hesitated.
At which point my husband’s grandmother put me out of my misery and said,
“No daughter has ever done that in her house before, and no girl will now.”
After we got married, I moved in with my in-laws — allegedly something my MIL really wanted.
However, her behaviour did not reflect this.
The week after we married, I came downstairs to find the lady across the road and my MIL talking.
I was sorting out an outfit to wear to one of the numerous post wedding dinners we were invited to. I greeted owl lady and then asked my MIL if she would be able to tie my sari later on. My MIL agreed.
The lady across the road pipes up:
“All this university education and you can’t even tie a sari? I heard you can’t even cook.”
Is this the kind of nauh (DIL) you have? (Clearly insinuating I was faulty goods.)
My MIL sat there like the ladybird that doesn’t say a word.
I tried to explain that I had tried, but my hands start to cramp up when doing the pleats, so I found it difficult.
Yeah I know, the same does apply for hand jobs. Mera hath phaṛ janda – My hand seizes up!
My mum suffers from the same ailment. Maybe it is arthritis or our brain is sending messages to our hand saying this is NOT fucking worth it. Pay someone to do this task for you.
At this point, Owl Face starts scoffing — bits of biscuit spraying from her mouth as she laughed.
“Well, now I’ve heard everything. What use is this university education?”
I started seeing red mist.
Never in my whole life to this point had anyone spoken to me like this.
My parents would have stepped in by now. Their method would be placate.
This was not a skill I had practised. I wanted to set fire to stuff.
I could hear my husband calling me from the kitchen, with urgency in his voice.
He knew this kind of talk would press all my buttons.
BTW he went to university and couldn’t tie a fucking sari either.
But his competence was not up for discussion . Mine was laid out like a fucking car boot sale.
Any fucking person could pass by, manhandle the wares, and pass comment and judgement.
I took an inhale. No. This bitch needs a lesson first, and ignored my husband.
I tried to muster up my sweetest voice and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine in life. I have a great job, which pays really well. I can afford to get take-out and pay someone to tie my sari.”
(and hand jobs)
Then, in my most measured voice and face, I asked her how her son was.
Now, her son was a testimony to her.
We had all spent the evening together the night before — post-wedding dinner. He had been talking about his future bride.
He told me his mum was finding his wife in India.
He said his parents were picking the girl. If it didn’t work, he could just send her back and get another one. It didn’t matter.
I asked him if he thought this was in any way a respectful way to talk about his future wife.
He just smiled idiotically.
I carried on, asking Owl Face if her son was okay after his ‘incident’ at work.
He worked in a car park.
His job was to operate the buttons for the barrier at the exit.
At that point, the request from the kitchen to help with the tea became more urgent — from my husband.
I got up and left. Walking to the kitchen i had visions of grabbing the back of her stupid owl head and smashing it on the table. Without any coasters.
That should fuck them both off!
What was the incident, you ask?
Her son had managed to smash a car in half with the barrier at work.
This bitch-arse owl lady was questioning my competency when she had passed a moron from her vagina?
This lady never spoke to me like that in front of my parents — she knew I was well protected.
I find people like her only come after you when you are vulnerable — like a hyena.
Stupid and foolish, yet powerful and potentially dangerous given the right environment.
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