Banaz was always very calm and kind. She never spoke in hate, she did not know how to. I loved that she was so sweet, bubbly and wore her heart on her sleeve.

She was very innocent. What she wanted more than anything was to be a mother. She wanted to love and to be loved, her deepest desire was to have a family of her own.

She really was better than anyone of us. She gives me the strength to carry on and not give up. Her death is not in vain.

This is a quote from the book I wrote about me and my sister. This is the last time I saw her, after being separated for years and it sums up our relationship.

‘Nazca,’ I said, using Banaz’s nickname, which means beautiful and delicate in Kurdish. Banaz gasped and turned. ‘Bakha [my childhood nickname], oh my God, is that really you?’ she said. I spread my arms wide, nodding, tears and snot streaming down my face. ‘Banaz, my love,’ I said, and we came together in the tightest hug you could ever imagine. I kissed her wet face all over, sobbing. I kissed her neck and inhaled her flowery scent: Kenzo, her favourite. She used to have to hide the bottle at home. Banaz kissed me too, both of us saying, ‘My darling, my love, my beautiful sister,’ over and over through tears.