Honour: Keeley Hawes Leads Gripping ITV Import Exposing the Murder of Banaz Mahmod – A Chilling Reminder of Systemic Failures and Unspoken Horrors

 Netflix has unleashed a gut-wrenching true crime drama that’s not just topping charts—it’s shattering hearts and igniting urgent conversations worldwide. Honour, the two-part ITV miniseries that premiered on the streamer last week, plunges viewers into the devastating real-life story of Banaz Mahmod, a 20-year-old British-Iraqi Kurdish woman murdered in 2006 in a so-called “honour” killing ordered by her own family. With its unflinching portrayal of domestic abuse, institutional neglect, and cultural pressures, the series has left audiences devastated, one viewer confessing, “I cried… so so sad. So so evil.” As it surges to No. 1 in the UK and cracks the global Top 10, Honour isn’t entertainment—it’s a raw, essential reckoning with a tragedy that exposed cracks in Britain’s justice system.

Created by Gwyneth Hughes (The Little Drummer Girl) and directed by Richard Laxton (Mrs Wilson), Honour chronicles the desperate pleas of Banaz Mahmod (Buket Komur), a South London woman trapped in an abusive forced marriage to an Iraqi Kurd twice her age. After enduring beatings and threats, Banaz fled to her family for help—only to face rejection and violence for daring to love a man of her choice, Arin Kurdi (Nikhil Pallium). She reported her fears to police five times, even naming her potential killers, but was dismissed as “hysterical.” On January 1, 2006, Banaz vanished after a desperate 911 call: “They’re coming through the bathroom cabinet!” Her body was later found strangled and stuffed in a suitcase, transported to Birmingham for burial in an Iraqi desert.

The drama centers on DCI Caroline Goode (Keeley Hawes, Bodyguard), the tenacious detective whose dogged investigation—spanning two years and international manhunts—brought Banaz’s killers to justice. Hawes delivers a powerhouse performance as Goode, a woman whose quiet fury masks profound empathy, consulting with the real Goode to infuse authenticity. “This story shows the sheer heroism of police who felt real love for a girl they never met,” Hughes said. Supporting turns shine: Fisun Burgess as Banaz’s brave sister Bekhal, who testified against her family in witness protection; Umit Ulgen as the domineering father Mahmod Mahmod; and Talitha Wing as translator Marie, whose Kurdish insights crack the case.

Filmed in London and Birmingham, the series recreates the Mahmod family’s stifling home and the labyrinthine police procedural with chilling precision. Tense recreations of Banaz’s ignored pleas—her handwritten letter naming assassins—underscore the institutional racism and misogyny that failed her. “We must avoid suggesting Kurdish men are unusually prone to honour killing,” a superintendent warns Goode, echoing real debates that delayed action. The finale’s courtroom triumph, where five family members were convicted in 2007, is cathartic yet hollow—Banaz’s killers received life sentences, but her voice was silenced forever.

Critics are unanimous. The Guardian calls it “a moving, vital drama deftly done,” praising its “quiet authenticity.” Variety hails Hawes’ “study in controlled anguish.” On Netflix, it’s exploded: 35 million hours viewed in seven days, outpacing Baby Reindeer. Viewers are gutted: “So sad, so evil—this should be mandatory viewing,” one posted. Another: “Banaz begged for help five times. We failed her.”

Honour isn’t just a show—it’s a siren. Honour killings claim 5,000 lives yearly worldwide, 12 in the UK. By amplifying Banaz’s story—consulting her family and prosecutor Nazir Afzal—Hughes demands change. “This must never happen again,” Bekhal Mahmod said. Stream now on Netflix. But beware: some truths don’t just haunt—they demand action.