In Drama, just like in Kalamata a week earlier, two women were murdered by their husbands inside their homes, both sustaining multiple stab wounds according to forensic findings. In Drama, the perpetrator, a police officer who is reported to have previously threatened to kill her, was later found dead, while the perpetrator in Kalamata was arrested. These cases reached Cyprus as new shocking incidents. “Family tragedy,” “he was excessively jealous,” wrote several Greek media outlets, in reports that were republished in Cyprus.
Each time a woman is murdered by her husband, partner or former partner, public discussion seems to follow the same, almost predictable path. First comes the shock. Then the details, often presented in a raw, almost chilling way. And then, almost mechanically, come the words that soften the crime. “Family tragedy,” “crime of passion,” “in a moment of rage,” “he was jealous”, “he couldn’t handle the separation,” “he loved her intensely.”
But these words are not innocent. They do not simply describe. They interpret. And often, without saying it directly, they shift the weight from the act of the perpetrator to his emotion. From the woman who was murdered, to the man who “lost control.” From violence, to a supposed “love” that got out of hand. From responsibility, to impulse.
This is the next step we need to discuss. Not only that femicides must be condemned. That should now be self-evident. The issue is how we speak about them. Because when a femicide is presented as a personal breakdown, as a momentary loss of control or as the result of jealousy, it no longer appears for what it is: the extreme outcome of a relationship defined by power, control and a sense of ownership over a woman’s life.
Jealousy does not kill. Separation does not kill. Rejection does not kill. What kills is the person who believes they have the right to punish a woman because she left, because she resisted, because she decided her life does not belong to him. And that difference is not a detail. It is the essence.
When we say “family tragedy,” we hide the perpetrator within the family. When we say “crime of passion,” we dress violence in emotion. When we say “he loved her too much,” we distort love and turn it into an excuse. When we constantly search for what led him there, we risk forgetting who did not have the chance to leave, to survive, to live.
Language holds power. It shapes social tolerance. It influences how we understand the crime, the perpetrator and the victim. If every femicide is described as an isolated outburst, then we fail to see the pattern. We fail to see the warning signs, the threats, the control, the escalation of violence, the moment when a woman is at greatest risk precisely because she is trying to leave.
And this is why attention is needed. From the media, from the state, from all of us. Femicide is not a “bad moment.” It is not a private matter that went wrong. It is not the tragedy of a couple. It is a social and political issue. It is the most violent expression of a culture that still struggles to accept that a woman has the right to say “no," to leave, to separate, to continue.
If we truly want to stand against femicides, we must begin with the obvious: to name them correctly. Not for reasons of political correctness, but because only when you name violence correctly can you confront it. Because every time we call a femicide a “tragedy,” we remove something from the responsibility of the perpetrator. And every time we fail to call it by its name, we leave space for the next silence, the next tolerance, the next woman who will not have the chance to be saved.
