Killing for Honour Our World

Now on BBC News, Our World.

A team of Kurdish police are about to make an arrest

in Irbil, the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan.

The crime is adultery, an activity that in most Western

countries has long ceased to be illegal.

But some take the law into their own hands.

Unable to live with the shame adultery or any sex outside marriage

threatens to bring on their family.

The law says it's murder,

but so-called honour killings are still common in Kurdistan.

Forgotten victims in a place where killing for honour

is still widely seen as acceptable.

But as images of murdered women are shown around the world, has

Kurdistan been shamed into action?

We start with the story of one of the most publicised honour

killings in recent years.

The killing had all the signs of an honour crime.

Though at first the dead woman's identity was unknown.

Later she was named as 21-year-old Sunwr Omar.

In Kurdistan, where honour killing takes place,

family members normally collect the body.

But nobody came for Sunwr.

This was when Ronak Farag got involved.

For 25 years, Ronak has been trying to bring an end to honour killings.

She runs a charity that works to stop family

disputes turning violent.

Not always successful.

She keeps pictures of the women she has been unable to save.

Ronak had known Sunwr for years.

She was disgusted that no one had collected her body from the morgue.

So she pressed for its release.

I had never seen the media devote so much attention

to an honour killing.

It made me think that maybe something was changing in Kurdistan.

Today, Sunwr is to be put to rest.

There are press and TV crews everywhere.

And people are angry.

It is more than three weeks since Sunwr was killed.

In keeping with tradition, Kurds bury their dead within 24 hours.

But by not collecting her body, Ronak's family's apparent disrespect

has kept the story in the news.

It has also created public outrage.

Sunwr's father is conspicuously absent.

He hasn't been seen since the day she died.

An honour killing is always carried out by a close relative.

Sunwr had no brothers, so her father is a natural suspect.

And according to Ronak, he had never disguised his intentions.

Adultery and any sex outside marriage or even having

a relationship with a man not approved of by the family can

bring harsh punishment.

Such behaviour by a woman, or even just rumours, are seen

as shaming the entire family.

The outcome is almost always violence against the woman.

In 2007, another honour crime shocked the whole

of Kurdistan and beyond.

Mobile phones captured the murder of a 17-year-old girl called Du'a.

She belonged to the Yazidi faith but lived in a Kurdish village.

A large crowd stoned her to death because she wanted

to marry a non-Yazidi.

The footage shows local police standing by, doing nothing.

The images brought shame to Kurdistan but also a political

will to try to tackle the problem.

The government began spending money on shelters and new charities

sprang up to support them.

I wanted to know more about Sunwr's story.

She had spent her whole life here.

Her parents separated when she was a child.

And she lived mostly with her grandfather,

who owns a small shop.

When Sunwr was a teenager, she got involved with a local boy

without her father's knowledge.

The couple planned to make a life together.

Sunwr took around $2500 in cash from her grandfather's shop and gave

it to her boyfriend.

He told her he was serious about them being together.

Sunwr's grandfather told the police about the stolen money.

He insisted they press charges.

Sunwr was arrested and sentenced to a year in prison.

On her release, she came here, to this shelter for women.

It is a refuge for those who have fled their families

and are still in fear for their lives.

Sunwr's father, Omar Raza, was still threatening to kill her,

but so long as she stayed in the shelter, she was safe.

Ronak says she did all she could for Sunwr.

She even managed to get her a job in a government office.

I am told that while working there, she made friends with a colleague.

I want to ask Sunwr's friend about her.

So I am going with Ronak to the office where she works.

On our way there we're asked to stop filming because it is a government

restricted location.

Sunwr's friend is willing to talk about her and her father,

Omar Raza, on the condition we disguise her identity.

In the summer of 2015, Sunwr, now 21, gave up her job

and married her boyfriend.

But three years after she had first left home, Ronak

was convinced Sunwr's father still wanted her dead.

Her team remembered him from Sunwr's time in the shelter.

They knew he was dangerous.

But they thought they could stop him.

In these circumstances, Sunwr's death looked inevitable.

It was like a car crash in slow motion.

Ronak is about to show me where the killing took place.

On the 2nd of October 2015, Sunwr was sitting on a bench in this park.

No one knows why she had come here.

In the past, if a man killed his wife, daughter or sister

for reasons of honour, he could plead mitigating

circumstances.

In 2015, the Kurdish government changed the law.

Today, an honour killing must be treated like any other murder.

In theory, at least.

Ronak, her colleagues, people in the media,

everyone I have spoken to is certain the killer was Sunwr's

father, Omar Raza.

So why have the police not arrested him?

.

It is now two months later and Sunwr's father, Omar Raza,

remains the prime suspect.

And he has still not been seen since the murder.

I hear that the police are planning to search his house again.

It is 10am and we are heading for Omar Raza's house.

The police have agreed to let me film the raid.

We are going with a heavily armed SWAT team and eight other police

officers to the old quarter of the city.

This inspector is in charge.

At first, he thinks someone may be watching us.

The police could easily break down the door.

Instead, they choose to climb over the outside wall,

worried their man might escape.

Inside, they find a mysterious pit.

This is the third time the police have raided the house.

Once again, they leave empty-handed.

There is no sign the father has been here recently.

The inspector and his team are still looking

for Sunwr's father, Omar Raza.

The police go to the shop owned by Omar Raza's father,

Sunwr's grandfather.

At first, it looks promising.

The grandfather is at home, though he is not saying much.

The grandfather claims not to know much.

The inspector isn't convinced.

I know that Sunwr used to live here with her grandfather.

I also knew the grandfather had spoken about his son's

threats to murder Sunwr.

Ronak and I visit the shop next door to ask the owners about the killing.

As ever in Kurdistan, everyone knows about an honour

killing but no one wants to talk about it.

It is now more than a year since Sunwr's death

and despite police efforts, no one has been arrested.

But her name continues to make headlines.

The police tell me they are still hunting for Sunwr's father but many

here think there is a good chance he will never be brought to justice.

It is almost time for me to end my investigation

and leave Kurdistan.

I have met many people fighting to change social

attitudes to honour killings.

And I have also seen how the police face huge obstacles

in persecuting perpetrators.

Honour killing is so deep-rooted in some parts of Kurdish society

that ending it will take much more than a change in the law.

Before I leave, I am going with Ronak to the place

where Sunwr is buried.

Thanks to Ronak and her colleagues, Sunwr has not been forgotten.

Well, Friday was a much quieter and calmer day than what Thursday

brought, thanks to Storm Doris, but as we head into the weekend

things turn more unsettled again.

We have loads of weather systems, weather fronts, I should say,

ganging up on us, bringing bouts of rain, and isobars tighten up