-♻RetweetBurned Alive, a Story of Honor Killing
Mon, May 10, 2004 at 2:17:01 pm PDT
A riveting—and horrifying—first person account by the victim of an attempted honor killing in the West Bank: Burned Alive. (Hat tip: Miss Trixie.)
He came towards me and said, with a smile: “Hi. How goes it?”
He was chewing a blade of grass. “I’m going to take care of you.”
I hadn’t been expecting that.
I smiled a little, to thank him, not daring to speak.
Suddenly I felt a cold liquid running over my head; I was on fire. I slapped at my hair.
I screamed. My dress billowed out behind me. Was it on fire, too?
I smelt the petrol and ran, the hem of my dress getting in the way.
Did he run after me? Was he waiting for me to fall so he could watch me go up in flames?
I’m going to die, I thought.
That’s good.
Maybe I’m already dead.
It’s over, finally.
My name is Souad. My story began almost 25 years ago in my native village in the West Bank, a tiny place, in a region then occupied by the Israelis. If I named my village, I could be in danger, even though I am now thousands of miles away. In my village I am officially dead; if I were to go back today they would try to kill me a second time for the honour of my family. It’s the law of the land. It’s because I am a woman.
Read it all; here’s her account of witnessing the murder of her sister by her own brother, in a cold-blooded, planned act of culturally-sanctioned savagery:
I haven’t seen my brother Assad for 25 years, but I would like to ask him one question: “Where is our sister, Hanan, who disappeared?” Hanan was a beautiful girl, very dark and prettier than me, with thick hair and heavy eyebrows that joined above her eyes. She was not thin like me. She was dreamy and never very attentive to what was said to her. When she came to help us pick olives, she worked and moved slowly. This wasn’t usual in my family; you walked fast, you worked fast, you ran out to bring the animals.
I was in the house one day when I heard shouting. My little sisters and I ran to see what was happening. Hanan was sitting on the floor, arms and legs flailing, and Assad was leaning over her, strangling her with the telephone cord. We pressed ourselves against the wall to make ourselves disappear. Assad must have heard us come in because he yelled “Rouhi! Rouhi! Get out! Get out!”
When my parents came home, my mother spoke to Assad. I saw her crying, but I know now she was just pretending: I’ve come to understand how things happen to girls in my land. It is decided at a family meeting, and on the fatal day the parents are never present. Only the one who has been chosen to do the killing is with the intended victim.
I don’t know why Hanan was condemned to die. Did she go out alone? Was she seen speaking to a man? Was she denounced by a neighbour? It doesn’t take much for everyone to see a girl as a charmuta who has brought shame to the family and must die to restore their honour — as well as that of the entire village.



