The faded photograph shows Sarb Athwal and her sister-in-law, Surjit, a captured moment of joy before a darkness descended. It’s a darkness Sarb has spent decades fighting to illuminate, a fight born from a chilling silence and a system that initially refused to listen.
In 1998, Sarb penned a desperate letter to the police, detailing her fears for Surjit’s safety. She knew, with a growing dread, that Surjit was in danger from those closest to them – family members enforcing a twisted code of ‘honour’. The letter, a plea for intervention, vanished into the bureaucratic machinery of the police station.
When Surjit disappeared, Sarb repeated her warnings to officers, but her initial letter was nowhere to be found. A missing persons investigation began, then stalled, then closed. Sarb was left to endure seven agonizing years, living amongst the very people she suspected had harmed Surjit, constantly fearing for her own safety.
The turning point arrived with a terrifying illness. Bedridden and fearing she wouldn’t survive, Sarb finally confided the full truth to her father. He, in turn, took the information to the police, and this time, the case landed on the desk of Detective Chief Inspector Clive Driscoll, a seasoned investigator known for his relentless pursuit of justice.
“It shouldn’t take three investigations to believe one person,” Sarb remembers telling Driscoll, her voice thick with the weight of years of frustration and fear. She had become a victim not only of a potential crime, but of a system that seemed determined to dismiss her concerns.
Distrustful after years of being ignored, Sarb initially asked her father to relay her story to Driscoll. But the detective insisted she speak for herself. When she recounted writing the original letter, the question was always the same: “Where is that letter?” Sarb’s despair was palpable – she had tried to warn them, and they hadn’t believed her.
Then came a breakthrough. Driscoll, meticulously combing through mountains of archived files, unearthed a nameless, unsigned letter. He asked Sarb if she recognized it. It was her letter, the one she’d written in 1998, discarded and forgotten in a box, a testament to the initial indifference she faced.
In September 2007, justice finally arrived. Bachan and Sukhdave Athwal were sentenced to life imprisonment for their roles in Surjit’s death. It was a landmark case – the first ‘honour-based’ killing conviction in the UK without a body ever being found. Yet, Surjit remains missing, her fate still unknown.
Today, a new statutory definition of ‘honour’-based abuse is being introduced through amendments to the Crime and Policing Bill. Minister for Violence Against Women and Girls, Jess Phillips, emphasized that “there is no honour in ‘honour’-based abuse,” and that these new laws aim to protect victims and bring perpetrators to justice.
Sarb welcomes the new definition as a step forward, but stresses the urgent need for broader police education. “The police need to understand it’s not the same as domestic abuse,” she explains. “It’s not just partner against partner, it’s an entire community, an extended family, enforcing control.”
Her story is a stark reminder that recognizing and addressing ‘honour’-based abuse requires a fundamental shift in understanding, a willingness to listen to victims, and a commitment to dismantling the cultural norms that allow such violence to flourish. It’s a fight Sarb continues, driven by the memory of Surjit and the hope that no one else will suffer the same fate.
