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is a victim/survivor of a/an
Addtional information
Date of birth:
Aug 25, 1959
Village/Town of birth:
Confidential
Province of birth:
Confidential: Confidential
Gender:
Male
Ethnicity:
Pashtun
Education:
Bachelor's degree
Date of the main incident:
January 26, 1984
Place of the main incident:
Confidential
Related incident:
Incident description
Pro-government forces attacked our home on a late night in the fall of 1984. On the night the attack happened, I was at home with my brothers, one of whom was killed while the other and I were injured. I was 20 or 21-years-old at the time. It was night time and I couldn’t recognize the type of gun I was injured with. But it was obvious that we were killed and injured by Russian guns because all pro-government forces used Russian weaponry.
AHRDO Archive
Alleged type of harm
Alleged type of crimes
Province:
Nangarhar: Kuz Kunar (Khewa)
Latitude:
34.5962325495757
Longitude:
70.5749975498388
Latitude: 34.5962325495757
Longitude: 70.5749975498388
I Returned to the Country…
Name and Last Name: Aziz Ahmad Arif
Date of Birth: 25 August 1959
Date of Injury: 26 January 1984
Type of Arm: Kalashnikov bullet
I was student at Kabul University during the rule of Noor Mohammad Taraki and Hafizullah [of the Afghanistan People’s Democratic Party (PDPA) that had ceased power after a bloody coup in 1978]. Kabul University students demonstrated in opposition to the regime. Like hundred of other students, I was one of the demonstrators. In response, the government arrested about one thousand students. When freed from jail, they had to either leave the country or live a hidden life. I was put into jail several times at the time of Taraki and later when the country was occupied by the Soviet forces.
When I was freed from jail in 1984, I was persuaded that living in Kabul was impossible for me anymore. I left Kabul for my home village, Khiwa, in Nangarhar Province in eastern Afghanistan. Our district in Nangarhar was not yet occupied by the government and Soviet forces.
The time of peace did not last long. Pro-government forces attacked our home on a late night in the fall of 1984. On the night the attack happened, I was at home with my brothers, one of whom was killed while the other and I were injured. I was 20 or 21-years-old at the time. It was night time and I couldn’t recognize the type of gun I was injured with. But it was obvious that we were killed and injured by Russian guns because all pro-government forces used Russian weaponry.
The regime had created local militias who worked based on the order of the government and were advised by Russian advisors on how to carry out their military operations. They were tasked to assault places where the residents were opposing the regime. Most of these ground attacks were carried out during night time.
It was winter and the weather was very cold. Bullets had pierced my leg and I couldn’t walk. There were also bullets that tore through my chest. One of my brothers who had undergone medical emergency courses bandaged the open wounds and then they took me to Peshawar, Pakistan. We went through mountainous terrain sometimes on his back, sometimes on mule or donkey.
I was hospitalized in Peshawar in a hospital run by the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) for 9 months. I suffered a lot in that hospital. It was terrible. My wounds were opened and tied so many times. The wound on my chest went under operation 13 times.
After 9 months, I was still in a critical situation. My friends helped me travel to Germany for better treatment. It took almost two-and-a-half years in Germany till I fully recovered. But those wounds affected my whole life and I still bear the scars on my body. During the recovery period, I used to play football in order to help recover like before. But, unfortunately, one of my legs never recovered fully and there is a part still numb. However, a proverb says: “Till roots reach to the water, there is a hope.” I believe while we still breathe, we have hope to live for.
When living a period of time, we experience both happy and bitter moments which form our memories of life. There are some experiences that affect your life till the end. My whole life was affected by those wounds and I never experienced a peaceful life in Afghanistan after that. That’s why I cannot forget that memory. I may forget this memory for moments, but, it is not like a pencil’s mark on paper that can be easily erased. After a while, the memory is refreshed.
When I was under treatment in Germany, all my expenses were covered by my German friends. When I recovered, doctors insisted I stay in Germany. But I did not accept and returned to my country because I felt my friends and my country need me. I preferred to return among my friends.
Latitude: 34.5962325495757
Longitude: 70.5749975498388
Pro-government forces attacked our home on a late night in the fall of 1984. On the night the attack happened, I was at home with my brothers, one of whom was killed while the other and I were injured. I was 20 or 21-years-old at the time. It was night time and I couldn’t recognize the type of gun I was injured with. But it was obvious that we were killed and injured by Russian guns because all pro-government forces used Russian weaponry.
I Returned to the Country…
Name and Last Name: Aziz Ahmad Arif
Date of Birth: 25 August 1959
Date of Injury: 26 January 1984
Type of Arm: Kalashnikov bullet
I was student at Kabul University during the rule of Noor Mohammad Taraki and Hafizullah [of the Afghanistan People’s Democratic Party (PDPA) that had ceased power after a bloody coup in 1978]. Kabul University students demonstrated in opposition to the regime. Like hundred of other students, I was one of the demonstrators. In response, the government arrested about one thousand students. When freed from jail, they had to either leave the country or live a hidden life. I was put into jail several times at the time of Taraki and later when the country was occupied by the Soviet forces.
When I was freed from jail in 1984, I was persuaded that living in Kabul was impossible for me anymore. I left Kabul for my home village, Khiwa, in Nangarhar Province in eastern Afghanistan. Our district in Nangarhar was not yet occupied by the government and Soviet forces.
The time of peace did not last long. Pro-government forces attacked our home on a late night in the fall of 1984. On the night the attack happened, I was at home with my brothers, one of whom was killed while the other and I were injured. I was 20 or 21-years-old at the time. It was night time and I couldn’t recognize the type of gun I was injured with. But it was obvious that we were killed and injured by Russian guns because all pro-government forces used Russian weaponry.
The regime had created local militias who worked based on the order of the government and were advised by Russian advisors on how to carry out their military operations. They were tasked to assault places where the residents were opposing the regime. Most of these ground attacks were carried out during night time.
It was winter and the weather was very cold. Bullets had pierced my leg and I couldn’t walk. There were also bullets that tore through my chest. One of my brothers who had undergone medical emergency courses bandaged the open wounds and then they took me to Peshawar, Pakistan. We went through mountainous terrain sometimes on his back, sometimes on mule or donkey.
I was hospitalized in Peshawar in a hospital run by the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) for 9 months. I suffered a lot in that hospital. It was terrible. My wounds were opened and tied so many times. The wound on my chest went under operation 13 times.
After 9 months, I was still in a critical situation. My friends helped me travel to Germany for better treatment. It took almost two-and-a-half years in Germany till I fully recovered. But those wounds affected my whole life and I still bear the scars on my body. During the recovery period, I used to play football in order to help recover like before. But, unfortunately, one of my legs never recovered fully and there is a part still numb. However, a proverb says: “Till roots reach to the water, there is a hope.” I believe while we still breathe, we have hope to live for.
When living a period of time, we experience both happy and bitter moments which form our memories of life. There are some experiences that affect your life till the end. My whole life was affected by those wounds and I never experienced a peaceful life in Afghanistan after that. That’s why I cannot forget that memory. I may forget this memory for moments, but, it is not like a pencil’s mark on paper that can be easily erased. After a while, the memory is refreshed.
When I was under treatment in Germany, all my expenses were covered by my German friends. When I recovered, doctors insisted I stay in Germany. But I did not accept and returned to my country because I felt my friends and my country need me. I preferred to return among my friends.
AHRDO Archive
