Top: Suarez lights two candles for Roya Mohammadi, who would have turned 32 years old on April 16. Bottom: A message to Mohammadi from one of the attendees. Lucy Gellman Photos.
The messages hung from the branches of a redbud tree, fluttering among the small, coral-colored blooms. You should be here, read one. We will continue to work for your justice, read another. On a third nearby, in neat Farsi characters: 'Til forever, your name will not leave my lips. Around them, a beat dropped on Valy's "Dokhtare Afghan." On the steps nearby, two purple candles flickered, as if their flames were dancing to the lyrics.
Grief, bittersweet celebration, and a renewed call for police and municipal accountability came to West Haven City Hall Monday night, as members of Vivan Las Autónomas held a press conference and vigil for the late Roya Mohammadi just two days before what would have been her 32nd birthday. Through tears, fiery remarks and statements from Mohammadi's family, Vivan founders Vanesa Suarez and Nika Zarazvand pressed for greater transparency around Mohammadi's case, which the West Haven Police Department opened two years ago last month.
They also mourned the deaths of 19-year-old Hailey Miller and her son, two-year-old Ta’naj Fletcher, who were killed in West Haven earlier this year, allegedly by Miller’s partner.
Vivan Las Autónomas is a New Haven-based advocacy group that fights for victims of femicide in Connecticut, where an average of 14 people are killed by intimate partner violence each year (87 percent of victims are women; read more about Vivan's work here and here). Midway through the evening, the group went inside to give public testimony and present postcards signed by Connectucut residents to the West Haven City Council, to which West Haven Mayor Dorinda Borer responded in a phone call to the Arts Paper Tuesday morning. More on that below; watch the full meeting here.
Nika Zarazvand, who with Vanesa Suarez has advocated for Mohammadi through the group Vivan Las Autónomas.
"We're really gathering here because Roya's family continues to speak out about what is happening to them, and they are sending out a formal appeal saying they no longer trust the West Haven Police Department to be able to do a thorough investigation," Zarazvand said, remembering the 29-year-old Mohammadi as a bright light who was devoted to the community around her. "This is what happens when United States criminal law and its prosecuting institutions are not able to carry out their due diligence, they're not able to get us progress on an investigation."
"Do not trample on Roya's rights," said her mother, Lailoma Mohammadi, in a statement in Dari translated by the group. “Investigate her case, and keep fighting for her. If Roya were alive today, she would be 32 years old and we would be celebrating her happiness and her successes, and now that she is not with me, my whole life without her will be very difficult and painful."
In part, her family's request—which criss-crosses geographic boundaries and includes hours of phone conversations, voice memos, voicemail messages and written statements—is driven by two years of seeking answers around the disappearance and untimely death of their loved one. In March 2023, the West Haven Police Department opened a case after finding Mohammadi's lifeless body in the West River.
On March 2—one day before police discovered her—her colleagues at Havenly, a New Haven-based restaurant and job training program for immigrant women, had reported her missing after she did not show up to translate for an exam. Even then, her colleagues suspected that something was deeply wrong: it was not like Mohammadi to fall suddenly out of touch.
In the days and weeks and months afterward, her death shook multiple communities, from her first home of Kabul, Afghanistan to Pune, India to New Haven and West Haven. Since that time, a steadfast group of advocates has pressed for answers in her case, from pulling police reports to asking why her family members were not able to access prompt Dari translation services when they came forward. In particular, Suarez said that there were multiple "missteps" early in the case, like phone records and video footage that the police did not access for months.
Eli Calhoun, who has been part of the fight for Mohammadi "pretty much since the beginning," they said. They are a former paralegal at IRIS. Beside them is Melanie Gonzales, a poet and artist who has become part of Vivan's monthly healing art circles.
Advocates including Mohammadi's family members suspect a history of domestic violence that may have led to her death. In the years before Mohammadi died, she lived in an apartment with an aunt and uncle, the former of whom was killed in a 2023 hit-and-run shortly after a vigil and march for Mohammadi in West Haven (her aunt, Khurshda Mohammadi, was an early member of Sanctuary Kitchen at CitySeed, where her path crossed with Zarazvand’s).
According to both her mother and police reports, Mohammadi reported verbal and physical violence from her uncle to the West Haven police multiple times. In these reports, she reported feeling afraid for her safety, having her phone taken away by her uncle several times, and being punched in the face (read previous coverage about that here). He was arrested twice, according to police reports and court records: once in July 2022, and again in April of last year.
"However, the West Haven police did not advance the investigation to the point of resolution, and the case remains unsolved," Lailoma Mohammadi said in her statement, a voice memo played in Dari and read aloud in English Monday night. As Suarez played the message over the corner of Main Street and Campbell Avenue, attendees could hear every pause, every breath, every catch in Lailoma Mohammadi’s voice.
Two years after Mohammadi’s death, Monday's rally included a list of demands from her family members, including a thorough investigation, independent review of the case, and international protection from "further harm" to the family, wrote her brother, Mohammad Fayaz Mohammadi. Since coming forward to advocate for Roya in 2023, he and members of the Mohammadi family have said they have faced intimidation, questioning and scrutiny from the Taliban, ultimately fleeing their home country of Afghanistan for Tajikistan.
Vanesa Suarez reads the statement from Mohammadi's mother, Lailoma Mohammadi.
"We fled with nothing, leaving behind our entire lives, only to find ourselves in yet another country where we are treated as outsiders—where we face extortion, discrimination, and the constant fear of deportation," Fayaz Mohammadi wrote in a grief-stricken letter with a list of demands (read it here). "The Taliban has targeted us, questioning and detaining my father for weeks, torturing us mentally and physically. They demand answers about Roya’s case as if she were guilty of a crime—when in reality, she was the victim."
"We have lost everything," he added. "Roya fought for our survival, and now we are fighting for hers—for her dignity, her truth, and her justice. Our family is physically, mentally, and emotionally devastated. There is no safety for us where we are now. There is no future for us unless the world recognizes our suffering and acts."
This week, members of Vivan Las Autónomas also intend to file a formal complaint with the West Haven Police Department "documenting negligence and misconduct" during the first months of the investigation and asking for greater municipal oversight and accountability. The overall hope is "for conditions to improve for all West Haven city residents," Zarazvand said.
"We want other, future deaths to be prevented," she added. "And the position that the City Council has taken on that matter is that it is not the city's responsibility to respond to these kinds of events. It is not the municipal government's responsibility to invest money in these issues."
“This Is A Very Complicated Case”
Borer with members of the West Haven City Council. "A lot of the things the advocates [from Vivan Las Autónomas] are speaking of, the police can't disclose," she said.
West Haven Police did not respond to multiple requests for comment. In a phone call Tuesday morning, West Haven Mayor Dorinda Borer pushed back against Zarazvand's assertion that the city has failed to take any legislative or financial responsibility for identifying and curbing domestic violence in West Haven.
"Let's first talk about the case, which is ongoing and active," Borer said. Since taking office as mayor in January 2024 (she was elected in November 2023, prior to which she served in the Connecticut General Assembly), Borer said she has met with both Police Chief Joseph Perno and the Special Victims Unit to discuss the case and "ask what steps we're taking." What she and the department have been able to share with the public is limited because the case is still active, she said.
"This is a very complicated case," she said. "A lot of the things the advocates [from Vivan Las Autónomas] are speaking of, the police can't disclose."
In the meantime, she insisted, the city has taken action. Since Borer began her tenure, West Haven has put additional funding into its Youth and Family Services Department, creating a coalition among the Health Department, Board of Education, Youth and Family Services and West Haven Police intended to "specifically work on intimate partner violence and relationships starting as early as fifth grade."
This includes three new, fully-funded and permanent positions: a youth services coordinator, social worker, and community health coordinator. The police, who have "a very specific protocal that they follow on a [domestic violence] call," have also expanded their relationships with the West Haven based nonprofit Umbrella Impact and a local rape crisis center.
Nika Zarazvand and Eli Calhoun with Kubra Ghaznavi,.
In addition, $100,000 in West Haven's American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA) funding has gone directly to community outreach, including written materials in English and Spanish and funding for department liaisons at public gatherings like festivals and fairs.
"We are continually, proactively educating folks," Borer said. She acknowledged that there is room for improvement: there are currently no anti-violence materials in Dari, Pashto, or Arabic, nor are there resources for preliterate women—women who cannot read or write, which was anathema to Mohammadi’s experience, but is common among Afghan refugees—who may be experiencing domestic violence.
Since last year, Borer added, she has worked to build and fund updates for the West Haven Police Department, including new software monitoring and phone tracking systems. The department has also been expanding its presence on social media, using platforms like Instagram and Snapchat "to see what's going on," she said.
It is an approach that puts its trust in law enforcement, instead of leaning on trauma-informed responders or funding emergency housing (Mohammadi, for instance, stayed with relatives because she could not afford her own place) as a first line of defense. Last year, a peer-reviewed study from the Columbia University Mailman School of Public Health showed that policing of intimate partner violence “may result in adverse consequences for survivors.”
While she appreciates the passion and steadfastness with which Vivan members advocate, Borer added, she has invited them to stay for a discussion at the end of City Council meetings where they regularly testify (those meetings are sometimes long; Monday's ran over two and a half hours). It is at the end, she explained, that she and others have the chance to respond to public comment.
"They come to every meeting, they videotape themselves and then they leave," she said. "They never stay."
“What Number Do We Have To Get To?”
"What number do we have to get to?" she said. "What number do you think is an acceptable number of women to be killed in West Haven? I'm a woman. If I were to move to your city, I'd like to know what my chances of staying alive are ... I don't know how many women you expect to die before you make this a priority in West Haven."
Suarez, an artist and activist who has fought for victims of femicide continuously for five years—and for victims and survivors of sexual violence for much longer—began her testimony by handing out postcards to Borer and members of the City Council, each bearing the signatures of a city or state resident that heard about Mohammadi's case, and was moved enough to sign on with their support.
"Femicide is not just impacting your constituents," she said. "The reality is that there was a murder that took place in your city that is impacting a family overseas ... on top of grieving the loss of their loved one, a family is being tortured, is escaping persecution, is fleeing, and is not currently not safe where they're at, because a family member who died here has not gotten justice."
Back outside, Suarez and Zarazvand seemed to breathe more easily for the first time that evening. In the fading light and cool, suddenly windy air, Suarez lit two mauve-colored votive candles, cupping her palm around one flame to protect it from the wind. A playlist with some of Mohammadi's favorite music, from Michael Jackson to the Iranian musician Farzin, swelled over the steps, weaving around a framed photo of Mohammadi. Melanie Gonzales, who has started attending Vivan's monthly healing art circles, began to write a message.
Attendee Kubra Ghaznavi, who moved to West Haven from Turkey nine months ago, took a seat on the stairs, lifting a marker and blank tag to write a message to Mohammadi. Like Mohammadi, Ghaznavi grew up in Kabul, but left the city close to a decade ago with her family. After several years in Turkey, they came to the U.S. last year. She's now a student at CT State Gateway, where she is studying biology. She'd seen a post for the vigil on Instagram, and decided to come because Mohammadi felt like a fallen sister.
"Girls are not safe in Afghanistan," she said, writing the words You always will be on my mind in neat, light blue Dari script. "I'm sad. She should be with us here. Her educational journey wasn't easy. She was alone. Being away from family is so hard."
Imani Jean-Gilles, a former Integrated Refugee and Immigrant Services (IRIS) employee who now leads Nou La Nou Pare, said she was there to support the work of Vivan Las Autónomas. In 2023, she learned about Mohammadi's case for the first time when Vivan members held a rally outside West Haven City Hall in late June. Then earlier this month, she and Suarez reconnected when both received grants from the International Association of New Haven.
"This is just trying to keep her memory alive," she said. "This is honestly very disturbing, to say the least, to see that it is happening in Connecticut. It's very disturbing to see that these cases aren't taken seriously a lot of the time."
"I think a wish for her [Mohammadi] is to find peace," she added, taking a notecard on which to write her message. "And for there to be justice."
Around her, it seemed that even the wind could hear her: a breeze picked up, rustling through the branches as notecards flapped and twirled among the blossoms. Beneath the tree, the striped fabric on half a dozen miniature American flags swayed their assent. As music flowed from Morteza Pashaei to Googoosh back to Michael Jackson, the notes multiplied, written in a mix of English and Farsi.
Suarez, who had taken a beat before writing, gently tied an electric tea light to the tree, the light soaking the branches in a honeyed, gold glow. Then, beside it, she tied a note mourning her premature absence. When she thinks of Mohammadi, she said, she thinks of her older sister, who also turned 32 this year.
"I can't imagine a world without my sister," she said. "If Roya was my sister, there's no question what I would be doing. I can deeply understand and feel the pain and desperation of a family that is carrying so much ... it's our duty to uplift their demands."