A Question of honour,
but whose honour?

By Attiya Dawood

Karo-kari — the word that sounds the death knell for many innocent victims, most of whom are primarily women. In the last six months alone there have been 176 cases of karo-kari recorded. In most of the cases further investigation usually reveals that women are the hapless shield used by the men of their own families to fend off disputes of land, property and money— women are merely the alibi of a more devious design, which goes beyond any claims of honour that the tribes and villagers uphold. As accusations don’t hold in court despite legal reprisals, a timeless tradition continues on its bloody axis of death...

A girl of about thirteen or fourteen, thin and scrawny, her head covered, one hand placed on the hips, her dupatta pushed aside, asked in a contemptuous tone, “what is there to my body? Does it have the feather of the proverbial surkhab or is it studded with diamonds and pearls? My brother’s eyes forever follow me. My father’s gaze guards me all the time, sternly, angrily... then why do they make me labour in the fields? Why don’t they do all the work by themselves? We, the women, work in the fields all day long, bear the heat and the sun, sweat and toil and we tremble all day long, not knowing who may cast a look upon us, we stand accused and condemned to be declared a kari and murdered.” Her words barely concealed her bitterness shock, anger, humiliation... She had a story to tell. “In the small village close by, there’s an old man called Karim Dada. As a little girl I used to play in his lap. He is known and respected by my family. The other day I was working alone in the fields. Dada Karimoo passed that way. I called out to him, Dada help me lift this crate of tomatoes and place it on my head. I have to carry it.” He said, “You are like one of my daughters and very dear to me. But you should never call out to me, never speak to me. Your brothers are extremely cruel. If I help you put the crate on your head, somebody looking from a far might suspect something else. Together with this old man, your precious little life will also go to waste.” Angrily she said, “I cannot even talk to men who are old enough to be my father or grandfather. Is there something special in me?”

She looked at herself with flaming red eyes as if she wanted to spit out her body. As if her body was a heap of dust and ashes and she wanted to wipe her hands clean. Tainted body...

This was Meeran who lives in Khosa Goth, a small village in Kandiyara and Darbelo in district Naushehro Feroze. This is the village where a 13-day-old girl was recently declared kari and put to death. In a nearby village, two young men, real brothers, were declared kara and put to death. We had gone there to collect more information. “Meeran, please tell us. This girl who was called a kari, was she really in love with a boy?”

She burst into tears. “She was a close friend of mine.” Another woman Zainab, began to speak “She had never even looked at the face of those two boys.” We were sitting on a charpoy in the verandah of the simple home and all round us, women spoke at the same time. Nafisa Shah and I were asking questions with tears welling in our eyes. “Tell us about the day the murder took place where was the girl, what was she doing?” “She was here with me and we were playing with our dolls.” A bright smile lit up her face. she wiped her eyes with her dupatta. “First we played <\#145>house’ and after that we were playing with our dolls. It was then that her brother Barkat came in. He asked Meeran to prepare tea for him. She went inside to make tea. After that Umar (who is the son of her father’s brother) came in, carrying a gun. Barkt also went inside and came out with a gun. Then Barkat put his hand on Meeran’s head for a brief moment and went out with Umar.” “You did not suspect anything when they walked out carrying guns?” we asked the women. “No, because they often carry a gun on themselves,” said a woman sitting in the crowd. “What happened next?” we asked Meeran.

Tears began to flow once again down her cheeks, “after that, Sarah’s mother called out to her, to help clean the wheat. She sat down and began to separate tiny stones and chaff from the wheat to be stored.”

Another woman, Fatima, spoke up. “At that time I was washing clothes. Suddenly we heard gunshots form the village nearby. We were frightened. The children began to cry. We had no idea what had happened. Suddenly Umar and Barkt came inside. Sarah was already mortified with the firing, she looked at her brother’s eyes and was alarmed. She screamed and hid her face in her mother’s lap. Barkat pushed his mother side. Mother got up and fell on her son’s feet, <\#145>don’t kill my daughter!’ she implored but Umar fired immediately. Sarah was dead in front of her mother’s eyes.” “Dead!” the women began crying once gain. One of them said, “She was an innocent child.” “What happened next?” we asked. “Umar and Barkat ran away. Sarah’s mother became crazy with grief. She was talking incoherently. Her maika-wallahs (father’s home) took her away to try and console her.”

In this mohallah (neighbourhood), there was a single courtyard and each family had separate rooms, but there was no wall demarcating one household from the other. One woman pointed to the little baby in her lap, “my two-year-old became frightened after the firing and spilling of blood. She runs a temperature and does not take any food, we have to force-feed small amounts of milk with a spoon.”

I looked at the girl. She was staring at everybody wide-eyed. I wondered if I could recite to her the poem that I had written for my daughter, “Even if they declare you kari and put you to death, don’t hesitate to fall in love!” I thought of the poem and burst into tears. The women began to comfort me.

Afterwards, we met the mukhiwadera of the village. He told us, “the girl was innocent. The boys who were killed were good boys. Umar and Barkat were scoundrels. They would not listen to anybody’s advice. Now they are absconding. Police has taken away Nazir, who is innocent.”

Then we went to the neighbouring village where the two boys had been killed. It was some ten minutes away. We talked to the men in the autaq. They told us, “the people in that village were our cousins. Umar and Barkat were childhood friends of our boys, Imtiaz and Arshad. They used to visit our autaq and sit and chat for hours. But later on Umar and Barkat began keeping bad company and then our boys stopped going out with them. There is a small piece of land which belongs to us, but Barkat and Umar claimed possession. Sometimes hot words were also exchanged. But we had never imagined that they would kill our innocent boy and their own little sister. On the day of the murder, they came to our autaq with a gun in their hands. We were sitting here on these very charpoys (beds). Imtiaz and Arshad were sitting here, reclining against these pillows with their backs to the wall. We did not suspect anything and when they came in, we greeted them and asked them to sit down, instead they started firing. Imtiaz and Arshad died on the spot. We were to stunned. They made good their escape. Later the simple, cold-blooded murder was registered as a case of karo-kari for which they put their sister at death.” “Did you lodge a complaint with the police?” asked Moazzam, an HRCP representative. “ Yes, we did. But the SHO himself is corrupt and is drunk most of the time. We are very poor people but we visited the police station many times. Our village is far way from the city. Sometimes it gets late while returning from the thana. Our work gets disrupted and we are nervous too. When we get down from the bus and have to walk to the village, we fear that Umar and Barkt may be hiding there to attack us.”

We went inside the house. Women in mourning were crying and wailing. The two young widows, who were sisters too, had been married three months ago to Imtiaz and Arshad. Two young women in white were quietly staring ahead. Perhaps they no longer had the courage to cry. Imtiaz and Arshad’s sister showed us their photographs. They were faces that belonged to twenty-year-olds. Their mother and grandmother were inconsolable. We could not ask them any question.

We went to another village Moorath, where a karo-kari case had occurred recently. The murdered man Amanullah’s sister told us that her brother loved his wife very much but she did not feel the same for her husband. She would not even make roti for him. He did all the cooking himself. Actually, we found out much late that before the marriage, she was in love with her cousin Nazeer. “They why didn’t she get married to Nazeer?” we asked. “Nazeer was already married. He has eight children. So our sister-in-law’s family could not accept his proposal. My brother was a thorough gentleman. We knew nothing about out sister-in-law’s affinity for this man so we sent a proposals for our brother. They thought, even if Amanullah comes to know, he won’t say anything. Before he could, they had already decided to get him out of the way. Amanullah went to water his land when Nazar ambushed and killed him. Nazeer then came home and killed his innocent sister so that this murder could be called karo-kari, question of honour, and he could avoid the death penalty. This is exactly what happened. He served a brief sentence, then bribed the police and soon was out of jail. He then got married. His first wife is heart-broken.”

Then we went to the Kandiyaro sub-jail and we met the mukhtirkar. He told us that karo-kari cases are on the increase. People consider these to be a question of honour. This becomes a case of section 302. Many case are not even registered. People decide on their own and take revenge. Actually, what lies behind such cases are real quarrels caused by land, water, possession of property or old enmity.

We were going to the Kandiyaro sub-jail to meet the murdered Gurmanani who had “killed to save his honour.” This case had become well-known and recently a number of Sindhi newspapers had written editorials about it. What actually happened was this, an educated young man had committed suicide by thrown himself under a bus. There was a letter in his pocket which said: I am committing suicide. This is my protest against the cruel tradition of karo-kari.’ this letter had been widely published in newspapers.

We went to the ward to meet Gurmanani, whose sense of honour’ was the cause of the death of three innocent people. He was a tall, well-built and fair-complexioned man with eyes burning with hatred, and a cruel expression distorting his face. The mukhtirkar told him, “these people have come from a human rights organisation and want to talk to you.”

He got up to face us. “Why did you murder these people?” we asked him directly. “I have not committed any murder. When my nephew asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, I refused because I wanted to have her married to my brother’s son. My refusal angered him. He killed my daughter and wife, then he wrote this deceitful letter and took his own life.”

I asked him, “So when he asked for your daughter’s hand, did you ask your wife and daughter what they wanted?”

He was taken aback by my query. His eyes burning with anger, his face turning dark, he seemed to be on the verge of shouting. “What sort of questions are you asking?” whispered my friend.

But he didn’t scream. Perhaps because of the mukhtiarkar. With trembling lips,he asked me, “why would I do that?” “Why not? Religion allows this,” I shot back. “Our sense of honour does not accept this.” He looked at the mukhtiarkar and said, “but it is my nephew who committed these murders.” “Do you have other children?” I asked him. “Yes, seven. Two daughter and five sons. One daughter lost her life. The youngest was one-month-old at the time of her mother’s death. The children are with their mother’s sister. But the poor woman can hardly take care of them. Why don’t you help me? Get me out of here. My children must be warned.”

I thought of the one-month-old baby girl who had to spend her life with him; with one who snatched way her loving mother and sister, who has to live and breathe in the face of hatred just because she has a woman’s body. She has to grow facing this question of honour. But she can only be happy, when her father wills it. When he does not want it, her growth will cease, her life will be cut short, the continuity of breathing be broken.

 Published in DAWN, THE REVIEW  Translated by Asif Farrukhi