Shaflea Ahmed was a slim, dark haired young woman who loved poetry, loved walking the streets of her English town, chatting with other young men and women. She was enthralled about the joy of life, the joy of companionship, and the joy of being part of modern multicultural society. Her parents, Iftikhar and Farzana were products of a rural village in Pakistan which they left in order to secure a better life in Western society. Unfortunately, they brought westward values of the east.
Her parents beat Shaflea, they tried to marry her off to a man in Pakistan, and they subjected her to daily brutality. Her parents forced brothers and sisters to disown their sister and turn their backs on the fact she was being tortured in modern England. Finally, one day, in front of the children, the parents suffocated the child and then dumped her body in a remote area.
Shaflea once wrote: “I don’t pretend we are a perfect family, no more desire to live is burning my stomach, all they think about is honor.” She was part of life, she had friends from all backgrounds, all symptoms of her refusal to adopt the ideas of a rural Pakistan village. Honor, honor, the last refuge of murderers and haters.
Oh, Iftifkhar had such strong sense of honor that he dumped a wife and son in Denmark and went to England. Honor for all too many rural Muslims entails cheating on spouse, provided you are a man and she is a woman.