I’d been forced into marrying a man against my will, but it took something horrendous for me to find my freedom. By Payzee Mahmod, 37
In our shared room with posters of S Club 7, Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys on our wardrobe doors, my sister Banaz and I danced around and sang along to the pop songs we loved.
When the CD finished, I turned to Banaz.
‘Tea?’ I asked.
Downstairs, we grabbed our mugs of tea and a packet of biscuits and sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, chatting and laughing until our cheeks hurt.
‘You two are giving me a headache,’ our mum joked when she passed.
We’d moved to London from Kurdistan, in Iraq, when I was 11.
It was a completely different world from what I knew.
Our parents were strict, not allowing me and my four sisters to socialise outside school or talk to boys, so it was difficult to make friends.
But it didn’t matter, because I had Banaz, who was only 17 months older.
While I was a chatterbox, Banaz was more reserved with a shy, cheeky smile, but we were so close.
Then, after Banaz turned 17, she told me: ‘I’m getting married.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
She explained that Dad had arranged for her to marry a man 10 years older.
Just weeks later, I was styling Banaz’s hair for the ceremony, which was being held in our parents’ garden.
Nervous, she kept biting her lip and she was sweating so much, I had to keep straightening the curls around her face.
No one had told me that after the wedding, Banaz would move away to Birmingham to live with this stranger, her husband.
Looking at Banaz’s empty bed that night, I missed her terribly.
A week later, we visited, but I barely recognised her. She’d lost weight and was wearing a dress for mature women.
Where is my sister and best friend? I thought.
A couple of months on, I was sitting on my bed when Mum came in and said: ‘A man has approached us about marrying you. Your dad thinks it’s a good match.’
‘If that’s what Dad wants, I’ll do it,’ I said, knowing I didn’t have a choice.
The next thing I knew, my husband-to-be was in our living room. I was just 16 and he was 30.
I was advised not to talk or look in his direction while my parents assured him I’d be a good wife.
Six months after Banaz’s wedding, I was married too. While everyone celebrated, I just felt sick and confused.
That night was the first time I’d ever been alone with a man, and I was so terrified, I wouldn’t let him near me.
I texted one of my sisters saying: I’m ready to go home.
Don’t be silly, she replied.
But it was like living with a monster. He’d drink a lot, was moody and would easily snap.
Two months later, I was pregnant.
I’d never had sex education, so I didn’t understand how it had happened.
‘If you have a baby with your husband, you’ll love him more,’ Mum told me.
'I’ll be a terrible mother,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll abandon the baby.’
Unable to face the thought of being tied to my husband forever, I confessed to a nurse that I was pregnant against my will and successfully had an abortion.
As Banaz was also struggling in her marriage, Dad and our husbands decided it would be better for us to live together, so they could keep an eye on us.
Being with her when the men were out was like old times. We’d sing and dance together, just like before. But I also realised how violent and controlling her husband was.
One day, they argued and he threw a cup at her.
‘I’m not going back to him,’ she said, moving back to our parents’ home.
We stayed close and one day, after meeting up at college, I went back there and we drank tea on the kitchen floor until my husband messaged saying: I’ve finished work, I need you at home.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I told Banaz.
As I gathered my stuff, she said: ‘Text me when you’re home. See you later.’
Only next morning, Banaz wasn’t at college and didn’t reply to my messages.
Worried sick after three days with no word, I went to Mum and Dad’s. Moments after I arrived, four police officers turned up.
‘Your sister’s missing,’ one told me, as they arrested Dad.
Shock floored me as I struggled to understand what could’ve happened.
I clung to the hope she’d run away to start a new life and was OK, but months passed with no word.
Then one day, the police arrived with devastating news.
My beautiful sister Banaz had been found buried in a suitcase in a garden in Birmingham.
After moving back home, Banaz had fallen in love with a man called Rahmat Sulemani.
As she was still married, they’d tried to keep their relationship secret, but were spotted kissing in public.
Police believed my uncle, Ari Mahmod, decided Banaz needed to be killed for shaming the family.
He and Dad then recruited three men, Mohamad Hama and cousins Mohammed Saleh Ali and Omar Hussain, who’d gone to my parents’ home the day after I’d last seen Banaz and had brutally raped her, then strangled her to death with a bootlace.
It was Rahmat who’d reported her missing.
Devastated and scared of suffering the same fate, I embarked on a mission to escape my own marriage.
The month I turned 18, we held Banaz’s funeral, and I got divorced.
Afterwards, grief overwhelmed me. I couldn’t say Banaz’s name without bursting into tears.
Instead, as I went to university, I created a new persona for myself and didn’t tell anyone what had happened.
When I met someone and fell in love, I told him: ‘My family are close, my parents are a dream couple, and my mum is my best friend.’
It couldn’t have been further from reality.
In time, my father Mahmod Babakir Mahmod, 54, and uncle Ari Mahmod, 51, appeared at the Old Bailey in London and after denying Banaz’s murder, were found guilty and jailed for life.
Hama, 30, had already pleaded guilty to murder, and later, Ali and Hussain, both 28, were also handed life sentences after being convicted of murder too.
It wasn’t until 10 years after Banaz’s death that I confessed the truth to my partner.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed about,’ he reassured me.
Two years later, as I read a story about another woman who’d been murdered by her husband, the parallels to Banaz lit a fire within me.
I joined a campaign by the IKWRO Women’s Rights Organisation for a bill to outlaw child marriage and five years later, a law was passed to raise the legal age of marriage to 18.
It felt amazing to do that for Banaz and my younger self.
Now, I’m a mum to my two-year-old son.
He’s a blessing, but motherhood has opened a lot of old wounds.
I look at him and cannot fathom how anyone could hurt their own child.
Banaz wanted children, so sometimes I feel guilty that I’m experiencing this and she can’t.
But my son will grow up knowing about his beautiful auntie, and we often put flowers on her grave.
There’s still a lot I haven’t dealt with, and it will take a lifetime to process.
I’m currently working on a campaign for housing for women fleeing violence, as I find it empowering to use my voice to make change and help others.
Everything I do is for my sweet sister Banaz, who I miss every day.