I don’t hate my son’s killer. But I’ll never forgive him

As CEO of the Homicide Victims’ Support Group (Aust), Martha Jabour has received many awards, but nothing sparks pride quite like the arrival of a birthday, wedding or christening invitation. “They’re all signs that life has begun seeping back into someone’s world,” Jabour explains. “When people are feeling stronger, there’s often a tendency to want to give something back to the organisation or the people within who have helped them to reimagine and recreate a new life without their loved one in it.”

Jabour has headed HVSG, an organisation that provides support, education and advocacy for families of murder victims, since it was founded in 1993 and says it’s been her experience that grief after murder is never “one size fits all”. “Some are comfortable being stuck in their grief, some will partake in small projects, some will turn to organisations such as ours and ask to assist with our newsletter or volunteer in our New Leaf Op Shop because they know doing good will help them to feel good in turn.”

And some others? They go ahead and create whole movements.

“Hate only hurts the person doing the hating”

Ken Marslew, 80

“It took me a couple of years to go from wanting to get even to wanting to make a difference.” Credit: WonderLight Photography

“The cops who turned up at my door in 1994 weren’t much older than Michael, my son who was then 18. I was confused at first, unable to understand why they were telling me about a shooting during an armed robbery in Sydney’s south. Even though his mother and I had split up several years earlier, Michael and I had enjoyed a great relationship. He had a playful spirit and loved live shows, so we used to get a real kick out of staging family dress-up nights. To be told he was gone was unfathomable to me; this was a kid who had just finished his first year of uni, where he was studying to become a primary school teacher.

Ken Marslew’s son, Michael.

Overnight, I became the angriest person you’ve ever met, hating everyone and everything. I was motivated by revenge and considered hiring a contract killer to take the lives of those who took my boy. I tried counselling but it didn’t work. I raged against the idea that I was a victim, too. A victim is someone who has no choices: Michael was the victim here. The minute you understand you have a choice and you choose to play ‘victim’? That wasn’t for me. The Homicide Victims’ Support Group was helpful, but it was the night I met Sandy McGregor – whose three daughters were murdered in 1987 at their mother’s Sydney home by a schizophrenic – that changed everything for me. I thought, ‘Well if he can get through that, I can, too.’

It took me a couple of years to go from wanting to get even to wanting to make a difference. Enough is Enough was initially born out of that desire to help others who’ve lost a loved one navigate the system. The organisation evolved after I asked myself what we could do to stop people from becoming victims in the first place.

I started learning about the power of restorative justice and getting involved with juvenile justice, and now Enough is Enough works across many different areas, providing support for victims of violence and road trauma, running stress and anger management programs, providing therapy sessions for both victims and perpetrators, and providing food prep for the underprivileged. We’re in schools and in prisons, but we only have a couple of full-time staff. Government won’t give us the funding to do our job, so we rely on the kindness of volunteers and community.

I’ve been doing this for 30 years now, and I often get asked whether I’ve forgiven Michael’s killers. I haven’t, and I have no intention of doing so, but I’ve learnt to let go of the hate. Hate only hurts the person doing the hating, and why would I want to continue hurting myself? I want people to know it’s not what happens to you in life, but what you do when it happens that counts.”

“We were able to take our hurt and use it to help others”

Atena Abrahimzadeh, 38

“I spent the first few days convinced I was stuck in a nightmare I’d wake up from at any moment.”

“The things I remember most about my mother was how affectionate, easy – going and positive she was. Mum [Zahra] loved a laugh and lived to take care of her kids. Her death might have been public, but she was incredibly private about how much she suffered at the hands of my father; most of her friends only found out the truth when he stabbed her to death in 2010 at the Adelaide Convention Centre, where we were celebrating Persian New Year.

I spent the first few days convinced I was stuck in a nightmare I’d wake up from at any moment. After Mum’s death, a social worker assigned to our case helped us move to a safe house, and I had to focus on the practicalities of looking after my sister, Anita, who was 12 at the time, getting through the trial, my university studies and work.

Atena Abrahimzadeh’s mother, Zahra.

Only once this was behind us and we were settled into our new lives did my siblings, Anita and my brother Arman, and I, along with the guidance and support of Women’s Safety Services SA, start talking about how good it would be to establish an organisation to support women who have fled abusive relationships and were ready to rebuild their lives. We knew from our own experience how difficult it was for women – particularly for those of different cultural backgrounds – to start afresh.

The Zahra Foundation Australia was established in 2015 to economically empower women who’ve fled domestic and family violence, have settled into a safe place and are ready for the next stage in their lives – whether that’s completing their education or gaining employment. We offer pathways to encourage these women into further education as well as workshops by trained professionals to upskill; we also provide financial counselling and a support network where they can meet other strong women who’ve been in their shoes. Mum was always proud of her children – anyone who met her would immediately understand that we were the centre of her universe – and I know if she could be here to see what we’ve managed to achieve, she would be thrilled.

Pouring our energy into taking something horrendous and galvanising it for positive change has been healing in many ways for my siblings and me. Having a role in establishing the foundation was helpful in that it allowed us to feel that her death was not in vain. We were able to take our hurt and do something with it that Mum would have wanted for others: a chance to live a happy life, free from violence. If she was looking down on us today – and I firmly believe that she is – I would say, ‘Mum, not only are we surviving but we’re thriving, and it’s all thanks to you and your legacy.’”

“Helping others is a form of therapy for me”

Louiza Marras (née Toumazis), 48

“The grief never goes away but doing positive things for others has allowed me to build a life that’s good.”

“Kris was all the things you could ever want in a brother; he was kind, gentle and endlessly cheerful. Born three years apart, we remained close as teenagers, often taking long drives together, going out to events, and spending long hours talking about issues we were having in our lives at the time. He was my best friend and I thought we had all the time in the world.

I woke up the morning Kris died in 1998 with a sense of dread I couldn’t place, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I called home and my younger brother George told me that there had been a shooting outside an inner-Sydney nightclub and that Kris had been killed.

Louiza Marras’s (née Toumazis) brother, Kris.

Grief has a way of turning you inside out. I remember a thousand people – friends, family and reporters – descending on our home. Loved ones – no matter how well-meaning – couldn’t provide us with the support that we needed to get to a lighter place because they couldn’t understand what we were dealing with. Martha Jabour from the Homicide Victims’ Support Group was there from the get-go, telling my parents, ‘I’m going to help you.’ She’s never stopped helping.

Joining the Homicide Victims’ Support Group was the best thing we could have done for ourselves, as well as for Kris’s memory. You can destroy yourself or cry 24 hours a day, but that’s never going to bring your loved one back.

As a family, we decided to get involved in everything we could: organised Christmas parties and cooked for 300 people, attended HVSG support meetings, got involved in different HVSG fundraising opportunities and met other families going through a similar situation to help them through. To be able to turn something truly terrible into something good is a form of therapy for me. The grief never goes away but doing positive things for others has allowed me to build a life that’s good and sturdy.

To commemorate the 20th anniversary of Kris’s death, we held an event which enabled us to raise almost $100,000 towards the building of Grace’s Place, a world-first HVSG community facility in [Sydney’s] Doonside that provides refuge for children impacted by homicide. It opened in 2023 and offers a residential arm, as well as programs, support and counselling, that will give these kids a second chance at life. What we don’t want is for these kids to start hating the world, stop loving or stop trusting; the space has been designed to feel like a big hug, full of warmth.

Some days are harder than others, but there isn’t a day that goes past where I don’t look at a photo of Kris and let him know that he is loved, that he didn’t die for nothing and that his family are keeping his memory alive through helping others. Generosity was at his core; he would have loved that.”

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