No matter how many soothing ‘yoga breaths’ I take, my heart is jumping. Yet, for everyone else in the airport, it’s business as usual. A middle aged man comes out of the arrivals gate, near to where I’m hovering, and heartily slaps his friend on the back. Flight attendants laugh as they breeze past. Toddlers follow their parents, tugging along miniature animal-shaped suitcases. On the surface, it’s a normal day. Still, looking around, I worry that other people are waiting here for Maya*, too. Is there a spy lurking among the bored-looking taxi drivers holding signs? Could someone have intercepted her journey? Will she even make it through the arrivals gate?
At just 12, Maya was sent abroad by her mother to marry under the guise of it being ‘honourable’, and so that her family would be given money as a trade-off. But Aklima Bibi – a British-Bangladeshi activist, author of The Londini Bride, lawyer and survivor – heard of Maya’s situation and stepped in. She’s standing beside me at the airport, and I’m trying to use her track record to soothe my racing heart. She has, to date, coordinated the rescues of over 100 trafficked women and girls who’ve been forced or groomed into getting engaged or married against their will. A violent forced marriage (not to be confused with a consensual arranged marriage) is something that Aklima has lived through herself. Now, she fights for others.
To help Maya, Aklima first made contact with the British government but, after feeling that it wasn’t moving fast enough, she reached out to her contacts (including border patrol staff and social workers overseas) to help smuggle Maya out of her family’s home and put her on a flight back to the UK, funded from her own pocket. Now, all we can do is watch the gate, in the hope that Maya will walk through those doors and on to Aklima’s ‘saved’ list.
Slavery in plain sight
It could be easy to think that because many of the marriage ceremonies take place abroad, forced marriages aren’t a big problem here in Britain. But they are. And cries for help are on the rise. Recent UK government stats show its Forced Marriage Unit (FMU) responded to almost 300 enquiries in 2022, and Karma Nirvana, a national helpline that supports forced marriage victims, dealt with 42% more calls between April 2022 and March 2023 than it did in the same period two years before. While it’s mostly girls and women at risk, boys and men can be coerced into marriages, too – especially if they have learning difficulties and can’t consent – albeit in far smaller numbers. Those who are LGBTQ+ are also especially vulnerable.
Almost a third of recorded cases involve a forced bride or groom under 17 – a driver behind the recent law change to raise the legal age of marriage to 18. But, once a victim is 18, forced marriage still isn’t legal, it just moves into a different category of law: domestic abuse. The government acknowledges that these figures don’t show the full extent of the problem: forced marriage is often a hidden crime, carried out within the high walls of tight-knit communities, so it’s impossible to know the full scale of the abuse. Anecdotally, Aklima says she personally receives requests for help nearly every day.
So, what’s being done to stop this rise of forced marriages? A government spokesperson told Cosmopolitan, ‘Our dedicated Forced Marriage Unit provides support and advice for anyone in the UK,’ and added that the unit helps ‘British victims overseas return to the UK, always acting within the domestic laws of the relevant country’. The spokesperson noted that the ‘safety of the victim is top priority, and no two circumstances are the same. We work with expert local organisations and train professionals from social workers and teachers to police and Border Force officers [on how to spot the signs].’
They added that the government also part-funds charities such as Karma Nirvana and Southall Black Sisters, which help victims of forced marriage who’ve returned from overseas. But it’s this ‘acting within the domestic laws of the relevant country’ that independent interveners such as Aklima take issue with, feeling the government is too timid in its approach. She believes that some authorities are reluctant to get involved with what they can deem to be a ‘cultural issue’.
To an outsider like me, it feels like the solution (surely?) is for the government to just kick down doors and drag young girls to safety. However, the FMU explains that it’s not that simple, as each country has its own laws and procedures – and this can be even more complicated when the victim is a minor and needs permission from all those with parental responsibility to travel. Essentially, our police have no jurisdiction in another country, much like officers from elsewhere have little to no power here in the UK. Sometimes, they add, it can be more dangerous just to steamroller in.
Aklima is more of the door-kicking persuasion. And as we stand in Heathrow together, I witness first-hand how it can pay off. ‘She’s here,’ I hear her say, as a delicate, bird-like Maya walks through the arrivals gate. Her dark almond eyes dart around until they land on Aklima, who waves her over. ‘Get the camera out,’ Aklima tells her daughter, who accompanies us, and who starts recording, ensuring the ‘Heathrow’ sign is visible in the background. ‘Thanks to an all-women team, Maya is here safely at Heathrow airport,’ Aklima says proudly, placing an arm around Maya’s shaking shoulders. The clip is then sent to a social worker back in Bangladesh, who risked her life to help Maya, and who has since had to flee her own village for safety, knowing Maya’s family could become violent if they heard of her involvement.
I look at Maya, who is unable to make eye contact with me, knowing her story isn’t an isolated one…
‘Brown women and girls aren’t prioritised in a western world’
Aklima Bibi, 52, has been helping to rescue trafficked girls and women forced into marriage for over a decade…
Most days, I’ll receive a WhatsApp, email or knock on the door from someone worried about a sister, friend or cousin. Some haven’t yet been sent away to marry by their family; for others, it’s too late and they’re suffering. It’s not just the forced marriage itself, but the power imbalance between men and women that leads to violence and abuse. People tend to hear about me through the grapevine, and when anyone asks for help, I can’t say no – although, truthfully, I sometimes wish I could. I’ve been doing this since 2010 and I’m exhausted by this unpaid work and the emotional toll it can take.
Charities and domestic violence centres have amazing people within them who want to help, but they’re underfunded and I feel the government and local authorities simply aren’t doing enough to help. After rescuing Maya, I hoped to have her stay with me. But after I’d taken her to the GP for a check-up and told the FMU, local police and the relevant authorities that she was safely back in the UK, Maya was then placed in care. I’ve had other similar situations where the young girl is even placed back with the family who tried to send her away. [Editor’s note: each case is complex and when local authorities become involved, a risk assessment is carried out, which includes consulting the victim. These assessments take in a number of things, from the victim’s age to their wishes.]
Once I refer the people I’ve helped on to others (for example, to the likes of the Legal Aid Agency), I let them know I’m still here for them on an emotional level. I share my own story with all who come to me, too – of how I represented myself in front of a judge in a sharia court in the UK and was successfully granted a divorce from my violent husband. Of how I had to fight hard for that freedom, and how they now have to fight, too. It’s not only young teenagers I assist, but women who’ve been trapped in violent forced marriages for years and can’t cope any more.
Growing up, I dreamed of finding true love, but as soon as I turned 16, I was coerced into boarding a plane from England – to ‘protect the family honour’ – and was told I’d be marrying a member of my mother’s family, who lived in Bangladesh. One of the big perks he’d get from the marriage was a British passport. To me, it felt like a death sentence. On the day itself, I screamed, threw glasses, did all I could to stop it, but nothing made a difference. Guests still said, ‘The bride looks beautiful!’ In their eyes, as some girls are married off as young as nine, I was a grown woman.
My wedding night was the first time I was assaulted. Yet, despite our ‘marriage’ being official, my husband wasn’t instantly granted citizenship in the UK. It took until I fell pregnant for that to happen – and we could show the Home Office that we were a ‘happy family’. Once I was pregnant, the passport was issued and we settled in Luton together. But after my first child, a son, was born, I slowly managed to start fighting back. I began to study law in secret (alongside having a part-time secretary job, which I took to try to earn my own money) while my husband was out at work. I hid my law books inside a hole I cut in the base of our bed.
When my husband found my legal textbooks, he punched me so hard in the eye that I had to call an ambulance; paramedics then alerted the police, who took him into custody. However, while I was in hospital, my husband’s parents ensured a gang of local ‘community leaders’ visited my mother and father, pressuring them to have me drop the charges. I did as they wanted – but something in me had changed.
I took a better-paying job, cut and dyed my hair and started martial arts classes. The next time my husband hit me, I fought back. Hard. The innocent teenager had morphed into a desperate fighter. One who filed for – and was granted – a divorce. My story, sadly, isn’t an isolated one. Too many believe a ‘good woman is one who can cope with a bad husband’. My own mother even used to say, ‘Your heaven lies under the feet of you husband,’ and that I should be the man’s slave. I have to remind so many girls and women that they have the basic right of freedom.
From where I’m standing, brown women and girls aren’t prioritised by the western world; we’re seen as second-class citizens. The government, in my eyes, is failing to deliver. Girls can be groomed from birth into these life-destroying situations and, even though the legal age of marriage has risen to 18, that’s nothing. We need to do more before it gets to the marriage stage. The tiptoeing around this as a ‘cultural issue’ or a ‘cultural norm’ has to stop – we’re dealing with rapes, violence and abuse, plain and simple. If you think forced marriages no longer exist in 2024, you couldn’t be more wrong.
‘Technically, I’m still engaged – and could be found and harmed at any moment’
Six months ago, Zainab*, 25, arrived back in the UK after being kidnapped and subjected to years of torture in Afghanistan
I sat in the back of the car, head resting against the window, tears streaming down my cheeks. Outside, I could once again see the safety of tree-lined British streets, the cream-coloured houses and road signs in English. It all looked the same as before, but this time, 10 years on, everything felt completely different. I was finally free. I looked across to my older sister, with my baby niece on her lap, and thanked god we had made it; just 24 hours earlier we were hiding in a women’s refuge in Pakistan. A soulless, dark place that we’d been trapped inside for 10 months, having escaped from the families our mother promised us to without our consent.
I was born in Afghanistan, but we fled to the UK, where my mother had some family ties, after she decided it wasn’t safe in the country after my father’s death. I was seven years old when I arrived in Birmingham in 2005. I joined a local primary school and immediately fell in love with art. Painting allowed me to escape from all the problems I was having at home, of my mother hitting me and my siblings for any minor ‘disobedience’ or locking us in storage cupboards. Because my English was very weak, I loved that you didn’t need words to communicate in art classes.
After a year in Birmingham, we moved to Leicester and, again, on the surface, I seemed normal. I wore the same uniform as everyone else, but when the bell rang and it was home time, our lives couldn’t have been more different. Three years into us being in England, my brothers disclosed what was happening to a teacher and we were placed in care. However, my mother fought the case and, instead, we were assigned a new social worker, Helen*. My mother apologised and, foolishly, I believed she’d changed, so I told social services I wanted to return home.
After five years in the UK, my mother planned a ‘holiday’ to Pakistan. Before we flew, Helen told me I shouldn’t trust her or go on the trip, but she’d been acting so sweet, and I wanted to believe she’d changed, so I went. I wish I could go back in time and change that moment. My mother’s abuse quickly started up again once we were in Pakistan. For the first month, we stayed with a family friend, but when my mother said she’d found a place to rent, I knew we’d never be going back to Leicester. I thought of my paintings still in the art classroom and felt my heart break. My education was over.
When my brothers heard the plan, they both ran away. I haven’t seen or heard from them since, but my mother later said they were killed by a suicide bomber; I’ve no idea if that’s true. My sister and I were then told to get to work creating garments that my mother then sold – something we did until 2017, which is when my mother accepted a marriage proposal and we moved to Afghanistan. Straight away, our new ‘home’ was miserable, and I was blamed for everything, such as burning the dinner, even if I’d not cooked it. There were physical attacks, too, from my stepbrother.
It was at my mother’s walima (the marriage banquet of an Islamic wedding, which happens after the ceremony), that she first announced to everyone that I was engaged. To the stepbrother who made my life hell. It felt like a fever washed over my entire body, I couldn’t stop shaking. This man had never said a kind word to me. I knew that the abuse I was already enduring would only get worse once I officially became his ‘property’. My sister was also made to get engaged to another cruel family member and we were separated. Life felt so oppressive I began to self-harm and even attempted to end my life. Time melted into itself as the years dragged on. All I did was clean, wash clothes, cook and cry.
In May 2022, while fasting for Ramadan, I sat in the shade to wash clothes in the garden. My stepmother told me I wasn’t allowed to sit there and forced me back out into the heat, and then she and my fiancé beat me so badly they tore chunks out of my hair. The following day, Eid, I went to stay with my aunt, and my sister was there for the celebrations, too. We made plans to flee, helped by a sympathetic person, who met us a week later to drive us across the border to Pakistan and gave us money to travel by bus to the British Deputy High Commission in Karachi.
Initially, they refused to help us as we had no evidence of our British nationality, and so we had to travel to another embassy in Islamabad. My sister’s baby cried the whole time. Thankfully, when we arrived, we were assigned a case worker, who confirmed that we were eligible for help. They sent us to hidden emergency accommodation, then booked us flights back to the UK in September 2023. The Forced Marriage Unit then connected us to an amazing organisation, Southall Black Sisters, who helped us to find temporary accommodation, bought us winter clothes, applied for passports on our behalf and have given us so much emotional support.
Now, my hair is growing back, along with my spirit. I no longer want to wear a hijab and I’ve put blonde highlights in. I love wearing dresses and painting my nails, too – right now they’re pink and sparkly. My dream one day is to be a dentist, but I can’t afford to study that right now, so I’m planning to do a beauty course soon instead. I still massively struggle with the trauma I’ve experienced and each day I don’t know how it might affect me.
Technically, I’m still engaged and there’s a risk that I could be found and harmed at any moment. That risk will never go away. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married, but if I do it will be my choice. My focus now is on spending time with my niece; she’s a very happy, energetic little girl despite her difficult start. I want her to have a free life. Like we all deserve.
* Name has been changed. Other details, which do not impact the story in a significant way, have also been obscured to protect identities as necessary
If you or someone you know is being forced into marriage in the uk or overseas, you can contact the Forced Marriage Unit’s public helpline for advice and support on 020 7008 0151 or email [email protected]. In an emergency, call the police on 999. You can also reach out to Southall Black Sisters on 020 8571 9595 or contact Aklima via the details listed on her website.
Jennifer Savin is Cosmopolitan UK's multiple award-winning Features Editor, who was crowned Digital Journalist of the Year for her work tackling the issues most important to young women. She regularly covers breaking news, cultural trends, health, the royals and more, using her esteemed connections to access the best experts along the way. She's grilled everyone from high-profile politicians to A-list celebrities, and has sensitively interviewed hundreds of people about their real life stories. In addition to this, Jennifer is widely known for her own undercover investigations and campaign work, which includes successfully petitioning the government for change around topics like abortion rights and image-based sexual abuse. Jennifer is also a published author, documentary consultant (helping to create BBC’s Deepfake Porn: Could You Be Next?) and a patron for Y.E.S. (a youth services charity). Alongside Cosmopolitan, Jennifer has written for The Times, Women’s Health, ELLE and numerous other publications, appeared on podcasts, and spoken on (and hosted) panels for the Women of the World Festival, the University of Manchester and more. In her spare time, Jennifer is a big fan of lipstick, leopard print and over-ordering at dinner. Follow Jennifer on Instagram, X or LinkedIn.