"I ran away from home at 16 because I didn't want to marry a stranger" - Jasvinder Sanghera CBE, Author and Activist

"We all have power. I’ve sat with many politicians and prime ministers, and when I do I’m advocating a cause on behalf of men and women. When I speak, I’m speaking for those who are more vulnerable than I am. There’s a deafening silence in the community, nobody stands up to say that forced marriage is wrong. I did, and the more I spoke, the more people shouted against me…"

Like many migrants, my father came to the UK from India in the late 50’s, looking for work. He was hoping to make a better life for his children and he saw England as the land of opportunity. My mother joined him later on and I was born in Derby, one of 7 sisters and a brother. Growing up, one of the things I quickly understood was that we were all expected to behave in such a way so as not to bring shame and dishonour to the family name. With girls it was, and is, particularly important. Honour and shame are linked to our sexuality and our virginity, which has to be protected and you, as a female, have a responsibility to the family in terms of how you behave.

There were very strict rules. In the extreme, I knew that if I didn’t conform to this honour system, I would be harmed and at risk. I knew families that would kill. You live every day with this threat, but although you may grow up in this environment, you’re still like any other adolescent girl, and all you really want is to be like your mates. By the time you get to Year 11, you understand that you can’t talk to boys, or look at them, or date them. You can’t cut your hair or wear make-up, because you have to dress modestly. You have to be chaperoned on the way to school and back. You can’t even go into town on your own! I have met many victims that have never even been out of their front door and to their own hometown. All of these behaviours are deemed to be dishonourable. I found myself leading two lives – one life in full view of my family and one behind closed doors, so as not to shame them in public. Equally, what I understood is that if I did do any of those things that bring shame to the family, I put myself at risk. The punishment could be physical, emotional, or a trigger for an arranged marriage. I had to be very mindful of that.

That said, I questioned everything. I broke a lot of rules because I saw the hypocrisy; I was physically chastised for disagreeing, hit by my mum. My sisters didn’t question it - I saw them being married off into unhappy marriages rife with domestic violence which went unchallenged.

I ran away from home when I was 16, because I didn’t want to marry a stranger. Of course, my parents saw it as beyond shameful – they gave me two choices, to come home and marry and conform, or to be disowned. They made it clear that I’d be dead in their eyes. But, whoever we are in our life, we are the sum total of the choices we make, and I had a choice. Life outside the family would be difficult, but I’d have independence, the right to be educated and to choose who I wanted to marry. I chose freedom.

Overnight, I lost everything I’d ever known. I was 16 and homeless. I ran away with an older friend who helped me - it wasn’t Romeo and Juliet, but thankfully he didn’t ever take advantage of me. I lived in a car for a while, or on park benches, washing my face in public toilets. I had a massive hole in my heart because I missed my family. I wanted them to say, ‘it’s OK, come back’.

I attempted to take my life twice. I took overdoses, became incredibly depressed and had a breakdown without realising it, developing agoraphobia and OCD - these are all triggers for dealing with trauma. You internalise guilt, shame and the feeling that you’re not worthy, that you’ve done this to your family, that you’re the perpetrator. My mother said to me: “I hope you give birth to a daughter who does to you what you’ve done to me, and then you’ll know how it feels to raise a prostitute.”

It took a long time for me to own the fact that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I had to learn new ways of living. Becoming a mother was one turning point, and another was the death of my older sister, Robina. She suffered horrific domestic violence in her arranged marriage but, true to form, my family and community encouraged her to go back to her abuser. I’d say to her, “come and live with me, I’ll protect you,” and she’d say: “it’s alright for you to say that, you don’t have to think about honour.” I was on the outside of that, but she was putting it before her own life. In the end, she committed suicide by setting herself on fire.

Nobody in the family told me about what had happened. Someone that knew my family came to me and told me to call home because something had happened to Robina. I remember as if it was yesterday – I called home, my mother answered the phone, and told me that she’d died and how. I told my mother I was coming to the house to mourn, but she wouldn’t let me. Eventually she agreed to me visiting when it was dark so that nobody would see me. Even a tragic event didn’t change anything for her - she didn’t care about either of us.

I didn’t start campaigning publicly until my parents died. Somehow, I thought I owed them that. They could never have welcomed me back because the community would have disowned them in turn. I set up my charity, Karma Nirvana, in 1993. I couldn’t get anyone to listen to me in the early days, up until 1996. I raised my children, studied, and developed the charity, receiving no pay for it at that time. I cleaned toilets, I worked in a bar, I lived in a bedsit. But I had a vision and it was in Robina’s memory. Back then, nobody was talking about forced marriage and honour abuse, I was a lone voice. I was driven by the belief that this was wrong. I set up a helpline in my front room and for many years not one person called it! I knew the women were out there, but they didn’t know about me. Our biggest achievement was campaigning for the government to recognise that this helpline is essential. In 1998, we got it funded. It’s now a national service funded by the Home Office and in the decade between 2008 and 2018, we had 68,000 calls to the helpline, and they are increasing. I was awarded a CBE for services to victims of forced marriages and honour abuse.

I campaigned for laws against forced marriage for 10 years – it became a criminal offence in 2014, finally. We kept pushing and pushing, and finally David Cameron said that I’d turned his head on the issue. We all have power. I’ve sat with many politicians and prime ministers, and when I do I’m advocating a cause on behalf of men and women. When I speak, I’m speaking for those who are more vulnerable than I am. There’s a deafening silence in the community, nobody stands up to say that it’s wrong. I did, and the more I spoke, the more people shouted against me.

I have received death threats. We had panic alarms installed in the house. One day I called the police to inform them that I had received information that there was a bomb under my car. I was on the train and they arrived to meet me, and then afterwards they taught me how to check for explosives. This is something nobody should need to know! Even now, today, I have CCTV around my house because someone scratched CUNT into my car. When I published my book, ‘Shame’, my sister started to send letters to my publishers, calling me a liar. I’d long ago removed any expectations that my family would ever be warm to me again, but after all that time, discovering that they still wanted to make my life difficult, even from afar, was incredibly painful.

My family didn’t physically end my life, but they killed me in a different way. For my children, there’s a total blank on their mother’s side. I’m 54 now, I’ve fought for my independence, and as a result my children have the right to grow up and marry who they choose, the right to be educated. But as a consequence, they don’t have grandparents, cousins, aunties or uncles on my side of the family.

Although I’ve had that life struggle, I’m incredibly fortunate. For the majority of my life I have been a resilient survivor. If you have a position of power or privilege, then you have a greater responsibility. I’ve worked hard to move beyond the mindset of powerlessness. My family set me up to fail, but I used the energy of Robina’s death and the fact that I wanted to remove the silence around forced marriage as my strength. Times are hard wherever you are, but finding purpose gives you strength. For me, it was my charity and my children. That’s how I got through everything.

If you’re a person that wants to get out of an abusive relationship – know that you are strong. It takes courage to stay and courage to leave. There are options, choices and people to help you. Know that there is another way and there is more, you’re not alone. Your decision isn’t a selfish decision, it’s one for your future and all the other people in your future. Stepping away from someone you love is the most difficult step you can take, but I’ve learned not to make excuses for abuse, especially for mental abuse and from those that are meant to love you the most – family.

My children are grown up now, I’m a grandparent. I’ve been divorced twice, and I’ve finally started to love myself and to understand who I am, to take care of myself before others, because I matter too. It’s taken me a whole journey to start thinking about myself without feeling guilty. I left the charity after 25 years because it was a 24-hour job that often consumed me, so it was time to step away. It’s my turn now, I’m doing things for me. I’m in a beautiful relationship where I experience mutual respect, unconditional love and regard while I remain an independent person. I’m sane, I’m here, I’m a human being and I know my worth.

This article was originally featured in Issue 2 of Ash Magazine.

Jasvinder Sanghera was interviewed by Charlotte Ruth (@charberto)

Illustration by J C Cowans. Click here to see more.