Human flesh was everywhere, there was blood everywhere

Narrator: Rohullah Raha (brother)

Victim: Enayatullah Hooman

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My brother was 25 years old. We are four brothers and he was our third brother. He was born in Malestan, in the remote district of Ghazni province, and he completed high school in the same district. During his school years, the quality of schools and education was low. He completed his schooling with a lot of difficulties; there was no classroom or proper facilities they attended school under a tent, and, all the while, he had to work. Since he was young, he was very interested in theatre and writing; he always tried to write or even perform in theatres. He wrote several plays and performed many of them. I have them recorded.

He was very interested in Dari literature and was a very quiet and good-natured person. When someone spoke at home, he would actively listen. He had a good sense of humour. Even now, after his martyrdom/death, my grandmother remembers him and says: “whenever I was sad, he would sit next to me and say something to try to make me laugh.” My grandfather and parents, always reminisce about his kind personality and sometimes miss him very much.

We used to move back to our village in the winters when boys would come together. He was charismatic because you could see all the boys gather around him, and they were all talking happily. He would joke with some and have fun with others. In short, I could say that the people of the village were very fond of him and his kind manners and became very attached to him. After his martyrdom, an elderly man from our hometown would tear up every time he saw me or one of my brothers. With a lump in his throat, he would say that he remembered Inayatullah whom he loved more than his own son. The man recounts how he use to try to be the first one to visit Inayatullah every time he would come to the village.

My brother was fond of volleyball and was always eager to write. That is why he was admitted to the literature department of Herat University. As he studied at university in Herat, he also worked as a teacher in a private high school called Resalat. He would frequently mention his interest in studying and teaching literature. Sometimes he wrote poems and short stories. After he graduated, for he searched for a good job in Kabul for a few months, but unfortunately, he did not find a good position, so he returned to Ghazni and started teaching in a school near our hometown. After a year, my father insisted Inayatullah return to Ghazni. My father believed that he should study a more practical trade, as there was not a lot of demand for a Dari literature specialist. He was interested in studying dental prosthodontics and was interested in getting a scholarship to study abroad. Unfortunately, he did not achieve any of his goals.

He was not very interested in social issues, but when he moved to Kabul, he became more aware the cruelty and injustice inflicted on our people and the need for justice. So, he always tried to participate in the meetings of the Light Movement. He not only participated in the events organized by the Movement but also encouraged his friends to take part in them.

The night before the demonstration, he learned through Facebook that the demonstration of the 23rd of July might be canceled. He kept following the news until 1 or 2 am. I woke up at 12 am and noticed that he was awake. I asked him why he was not sleeping. He said he should find out whether there will be a demonstration the next day. He called me early in the morning and told me to get up, and have breakfast so that we all attend the demonstration. Looking at my busy schedule, I was not interested to participate in the demonstration but, because he insisted, I chose to participate.

He was very happy that day. When Martyr Inayatullah, my niece, and I arrived at the Mosala, he expressed his happiness even though there were few participants; he said we will remain at the protest until the very end. We had put on yellow hats with “Balanced Development and Justice” labeled on them. From the moment we moved from Mosala to Baba Mazari Square, he kept taking photos and posting them on his Facebook page. By the time we arrived at Dehmzang Square, it was very hot and most of the protestors were tired. I told my niece and Inayatullah that I wanted to go to my room to have lunch. I invited them to join me and said we would come back after lunch. No matter how much I insisted, Inayatullah refused and said that he would get a burger and stay with the protestors. When I got to my room, my friends learnt through Facebook that an explosion had happened in Dehmazang. I kept calling my brother but he did not pick up his phone. My friends called me when they heard the news, they were very worried. I started making my way back to Dehmazang. The worst memory I have from that day is that when I arrived there, human flesh was strewn everywhere although the wounded had already been transferred to hospitals. There was blood everywhere and pens stained with blood could be seen on the road.

This tragic incident took away an enlightened and educated generation. Someone called me from the hospital and said: “your wounded brother is in the hospital, get here immediately”. The situation was chaotic; cars were not moving, I had to run all the way to the hospital. When I got there, many people were standing behind the hospital gate and no one was allowed to enter. Some people started shouting and we forced our way into the hospital. The first thing I saw was the list of wounded people pinned on the hospital door. I read the list three or four times to see if Inayatullah’s name was there but I couldn't find it. With great difficulty, I entered the building and searched every single emergency room, but I could not find him. I don't remember exactly what was going on. I noticed they were transferred a body to another room, I followed them and found 16 bodies there. At this point, I had probably only seen a single dead body in my life, but there seeing 16 bodies was horrifying. I checked the bodies of the martyrs three or four times, but I could not seem to find my brother. Just as I was about to leave the room, I noticed his clothes; his phone and other belongings had been placed on his chest. It is hard to describe how I felt. I recognized his body by looking at a pack of chewing gum. He bought it in the morning, gave some of it to us, and kept the rest for himself. His face had not changed much; it had become paler. It was easy to notice that he had lost a lot of blood. After we received the body from the hospital, we transferred him to Ghazni province. We moved and buried him in Malestan district out of insistence by my grandparents.