Why does a man murder his wife?

From "honour killing" to "family annihilation", the underlying causes are often the same

In the UK we are increasingly familiar with reports of so-called “honour killings.” Taslima Nasreen, the exiled Bangladeshi poet, describes honour killings as follows:

An “honour killing” is a murder carried out by a family to punish a female family member who has supposedly brought dishonour upon the family, the acts which are the cause of dishonour can be:

- refusing to enter into an arranged marriage
- being the victim of a sexual assault or rape
- seeking a divorce, even from an abusive husband
- committing adultery or fornication
- pre-marital sex
- falling in love with men outside her tribe/caste
- flirting /chatting with men on Facebook

The mere perception that a woman has behaved in a way that dishonours her family is enough to trigger an attack on her life.

Historically, honour crimes featured as part of Greek and Roman culture. In today’s society, honour and provocation remain valid defences to murder, codified in law, in many cultures including South America. In the UK, we tend to associate these crimes with South Asian, North African and Middle Eastern cultures and to some extent with Eastern Europe.

There has been much discussion in the women’s sector and among police as to how separate a category of murder it is or should be. After all, it is murder and it is not helpful to exoticise or glorify it. On the other hand, there is a need for some specialist knowledge and expertise to be able to identify high-risk situations and respond appropriately.

There had been incidents of “honour crimes” where the police were criticised for their poor response or lack of one and so they embarked in a laudable attempt to improve their understanding of such cases. They situated so-called “honour killings” as murder like any other. Drawing on expertise from women’s rights experts however, they established some additional and particular characteristics relevant to prevention, policing and methods of investigation including the existence of complicity among much of the wider family and community in the rationale, execution and cover-up of the crime.

There are two key distinctions highlighted here. First, the perpetrator is not limited to the intimate partner or ex as is commonly seen in domestic homicides but can include the wider family or community. Second, the wider family, community and culture may approve, to some extent, of the murder. The implication of this latter point is that in other domestic homicides the crime is condemned, abhorred and incomprehensible.

Indeed there is an encouraging and understandable horror and rejection of the term “honour killing” in several parts of society. At the same time, there has been an association with these crimes as foreign, barbaric, primitive and alien. This has perhaps led to over-focusing on the perpetrators’ ethnicity. Picking out key identifying factors is undoubtedly helpful to the police in identifying, preventing and investigating such crimes and should be welcomed. But it causes us to lose sight of the fact that while the manifestation of the crime may differ slightly, its motivation is the same. It also obscures the fact that our own wider society also shares in empathy with the perpetrator for such crimes as is evident in their treatment by the media and the online comment pages.

In France, although the defence of “crime passionel,” commonly used to explain violence against women where infidelity is suspected, was abolished; it is still a term commonly used in domestic homicides.  Similarly in the UK, despite the fact that in 2010 the provocation defence was abolished and replaced with “loss of control” there is still acceptance of a wife’s infidelity as material to whether a finding of murder or manslaughter will be made. Take the case of Jon Clinton who bludgeoned and stabbed his wife to death after he learned of her affair. He was originally sentenced to 26 years for murder but in January 2012 the appeal court quashed the conviction and ordered a retrial saying that his wife’s infidelity was material to his “loss of control” defence and so he should have been allowed to be tried for the reduced charge of manslaughter. (Interestingly at his retrial for manslaughter he entered a surprise plea of murder accepting that there was no excuse for his conduct).

In a judgement in July 2012, David Leeman, who had shot his wife six times after learning of her affair, was cleared of murder and convicted of manslaughter. In 2008, Wayne Forrester was convicted of murder after he hacked his ex to death when she changed her Facebook status to single after they split up. While, in his case provocation was rejected, he had argued in his statement his sense of humiliation as material saying he felt “totally devastated and humiliated by what she had done to me”.  The comments under articles describing this case included some to the effect that she should have realised how her actions would provoke and upset him. In all three of the British cases the relationship was controlling and violent. In all of the cases the relationship was breaking up whether from infidelity or not. 

Recently, commentators have noted an apparent increase in the number of cases across Europe of men killing their children, sometimes their partners and sometimes themselves.  The Americans call it “family annihilation", a term catching on over here. In that the end result is the destruction of large parts, if not the entirety, of the “family unit”, this may be accurate but the appropriacy of the term is questionable as it does not reflect the motivation. In all of these cases there are two over-riding factors.

First, there is usually some tension around the relationship as in the cases above. This may be that the marriage/partnership is breaking down, the man is controlling and jealous, the man fears or learns that she is having an affair. Maybe the woman wants a divorce or after splitting up the woman has started a new relationship.

It often coincides with some other dents to his status as “a man”. Maybe he has lost his job, his health and strength or his business are failing, he is facing bankruptcy or he is about to shamed and exposed for criminal or fraudulent activity. In each case his role as the head of the family, husband and father, the breadwinner, a strong protector and defender and a fine upstanding man are under attack. He feels himself disrespected and “dishonoured” and chooses to expunge any or all who could testify to this. To that extent one could call it an “honour crime” even though the perpetrator is the immediate partner.

In the media reporting of the cases there is often considerable focus on the alleged infidelity of the woman or suggestions that she was a bad wife, bad mother or that she had upset and provoked him, resulting in a degree of victim blaming. The reports also focus at length on the man, his career, his achievements and on what a lovely family they were and what a great Dad he is, resulting in a degree of empathy with him and his reaction to his shame and fallen status as “a man” – or his “dishonour”. This may not constitute utter approval of the offence but it is illustrative of a degree of tolerance, understanding and empathy and at odds with any sense of universal condemnation for it.

“Domestic homicide”, “murder”, “family annihilation”, “honour crimes” – there are a multiplicity of names and manifestations but the unifying factor is the underlying cause. Society has created gender roles in such a way that a man’s sense of his identity, status, power and role  – his “honour” – depends on it being propped up and reinforced by the compliance and conformity of those, particularly women, around him.

When the Pakistani women’s human rights lawyer and activist, Hina Jilani says, “The right to life of women… is conditional on their obeying social norms and traditions”, she may have been talking about South Asia but its application is universal.

Heather Harvey is research and development manager at Eaves for Women
 
A protest against honour killings in Lahore (Getty Images)
Hamzah al Zobi
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Meet the Syrians using education to escape the refugee camps

On the bus to university with Syrian refugees in Jordan. 

The bus to Zarqa University leaves Jordan’s largest refugee camp at 7am sharp. The journey is one of the day’s highlights for the Syrian students who ride this route - a chance to plan weekend get-togethers, bemoan heavy course loads and even enjoy the occasional school-bus style sing-along. It’s also their daily ticket out of Za’atari camp and a means of escaping the dreary realities of refugee life.

“We are the lucky ones. Most had to give up their dreams of higher education” says 19-year-old Reema Nasser Al Hamad, whose family fled to Jordan five years ago when bombs destroyed her home in Dara’a, Syria. She shudders to think of the alternatives: aimless days spent sitting in a crowded caravan, or early marriage. “After the war, students in Syria lost their cities, their opportunities and their futures, so many of the girls just married when they got here. There’s a huge difference between the lives of those who study and those who don’t.”

Despite missing two years of school, Reema (pictured below) was able to pass her exams before securing a Saudi-funded scholarship to study Pharmacy at Zaraq’ University. “In Syria, I’d planned to do medicine and be a doctor because I always had high grades. There are fewer choices for us here but I’m happy to be studying at all,” she says. Hamza al Zobi, who’s studying Pharmacy on an the EU-funded EDU-Syria programnme, says young Syrians are hungry to learn. “We all have friends and relatives who didn’t get this chance and we feel so upset for them. If they’re not well educated, how can they go back and do the right thing for our country?”

More than a quarter of 18-24 year olds in Syria were enrolled in higher education when the war broke out. “Based on data provided by UNHCR we assess that around 20,000 young Syrians in Jordan would qualify for vocational education and higher education,” says Job Arts, Programme Manager Education and Youth, EU Delegation to Jordan, which is supporting some 1800 Syrians and disadvantaged Jordanians on degree courses in Jordan.

“While the number of places for Syrian students to pursue their education has increased dramatically over the past few years, there are still many more interested students than spaces available for study,” says Sarah Dryden-Peterson, non-resident Fellow at the Center for Universal Education at the Brookings Institution. “Without these possibilities, young Syrians will lose the kind of hope that is essential to productive futures.”

According to the Jordan Response Platform for the Syria Crisis, 1,250 Syrian youth were in higher education in Jordan in 2016. Building on commitments made by the international community at the London Conference on Syria last year, the Jordanian government hopes to secure funding to increase access to tertiary education and vocational training at the upcoming conference in Brussels this April.

“Jordan views higher education from a strategic point of view, specifically in terms of providing the Syrian youth with the education, skill and knowledge that will allow the opportunity to be part of rebuilding their country once the current situation comes to an end,” says Feda Gharaibeh, Director, Humanitarian Relief Coordination Unit at the Jordanian Ministry of Planning & International Cooperation.

Reema plans to return to Syria when the war is over. “After graduation a lot of students want to go to Europe. That would be fine for me too if it’s just to do a masters or doctorate, but then I want to go back to Syria and use what I’ve learnt to help my people.” Now four semesters into her course, she is making good progress but says adapting to the Jordanian education system was a challenge. “It’s really difficult for us. Classes are taught in English and the teaching style is different. They also have a lot more exams here.”

Only the brightest stand a chance of securing a scholarship but many young Syrians have seen their grades plummet after missing years of schooling. For, some, it’s too late to catch up. Accountancy student Ibrahim Mohammed, 23, came to Jordan in 2013 with his younger brother Khalil, now 19, who works in a print shop. “He stopped studying when he was 14. He didn’t even have a chance to get his high school certificate,” says Ibrahim.

Attempts to bridge the gap through open and distance learning programmes aren’t always effective. “It’s not a tool that is frequently used in the education environment in the Middle East,” explains Arts. Refugee students' access to electricity, internet connections, computers and space to study can be in short supply. Moreover, many students seek the escapism that a university education offers. “In our dialogue with parents and students, we often hear the phrase ‘being normal again’,” Arts adds.

Hamzah tries to help fellow students achieve this in his role as representative for the Syrian community at Zarqa University. He and Reema are part of a team that offers advice to new students and support for those from poorer families living in the camps. “There are 900 Syrian students here and each one has a different story of suffering,” says Hamzah, who organises group trips to restaurants and fairgrounds, helping to create a sense of regular student life. “It makes us forget what we are,” explains Reema.

During term time, she prefers to stay with her uncle in Mafraq, a city nearby. It’s hard to study in Za’atari. As soon as the power comes on at 5pm, her brothers switch on the TV, making it difficult to concentrate in the cramped caravan they share. There’s nowhere else to go; the camp is dangerous at night, particularly for young women. It’s even more crowded since the arrival of her baby sister. Reema remembers how her mother sobbed when she learned of the pregnancy, worried about bringing another child into the makeshift world of the camp.

But in five years a lot has changed. “In Syria, I had never left my village; now I feel there is another world to know,” says Reema. Like many Syrian students, she worries about life after university, particularly if they stay in Jordan where employment opportunities remain restricted for Syrian refugees. “It seems like work is forbidden to us Syrians and without a job we can’t take control of our lives. We’re studying hard but with no prospects,” says Hamzah. Few can see beyond graduation. “The future is opaque for us,” he adds, “We’re just living day by day.”

To date, the Jordanian government has issued some 39,000 works permits out of the 200,000 it pledged to make available for Syrians during the London Conference last February. However, with these opportunities built around low-income roles, primarily in the construction, agriculture, and textile manufacture sectors, the way for Syrian university graduates in Jordan still seems barred.

“Jordan is a small country with limited job opportunities,” says Ghaith Rababah Head of Projects & International Cooperation Unit (PICU) at the Ministry of Higher Education & Scientific Research. “Maybe the market will be better able to absorb educated Syrians at a later stage.”

In the meantime, higher education offers young Syrians a semblance of the security and stability their lives otherwise lack, Rababah continues. Given the opportunity to “use their talents for something good”, he adds, young people placed in difficult situations are less likely to fall prey to extremist ideologies and be “tricked into committing terrorist acts".