They Have Not Acknowledged His Death Yet; They Think Hussain Is Stuck in A Traffic Jam on His Way from The Educational Center

Narrator: Sayed Mohammad Hussain Sajjadi

Victim: Sayed Hussain Nawroozi

Date of the incident: 24 October 2020

Location of the incident: District 13, Kabul City, Pul-e Khoshk, Dasht-e Barchi, Kausar Danesh Educational Center

I am Sayed Mohammad Hussain Sajjadi, a cousin of martyr Hussain Nawroozi and his brother in-law. You may wonder why an immediate family member isn't here for the interview. In the previous session, my wife was interviewed by Miss Fatema Alavi. However, she was unable to continue due to the profound distress it caused her. As I was present in most interview sessions, I am familiar with the process.

I hold a Master’s degree in TESOL, teaching English, and am 33-years-old. I spent most of my life in Iran before moving to Kabul two years ago. I had a close relationship with Hussain Nawroozi’s family. I got married seven years ago, during which time I visited Kabul but returned to Iran. For the past seven years, I have maintained close contact with this family. I was born in Waras District in Bamyan. About 32 or 33 years ago, my family immigrated from our village to Iran. Like many other immigrants, we faced restrictions and struggled to obtain immigration cards and passports to enroll in university. After earning my Master’s degree and entering university, the situation improved.

I visited Afghanistan several times before relocating here. My first visit to Kabul was in 2011, where I stayed in search of opportunities for eight months before returning to Iran. During that time, I got to know my uncle’s daughter. In 2014, I returned for marriage, and we agreed. Subsequently, I came back in 2017. After multiple visits, I decided to move to Kabul, and I have been working in the Toefl House for two years now. I initially worked as an English Language teacher in an educational center and later became the manager of the English department in one of the branches. Currently, I serve as the academic coordinator of all branches of the Toefl House. Presently, I live on the edge of Barchi, towards Bist Metra, Qala-e Naw, near my father in-law’s house. I am blessed with two daughters.

My wife is the eldest child of the family, 22-years-old. Her family lived in Bamyan until she was seven or eight before moving to Kabul, where she completed her schooling. I believe Hussain Nawroozi began attending school in Kabul around that time.

Hussain Nawroozi spent his first 5 or 6 years in Bamyan, in Borlak village. They moved to Kabul by the time he had to enroll in school. He attended Barch schools from grade 1 until the time he was killed. The last school he attended was Homayoon Shahid. He died aged only 21. His focus was on his school activities. Besides attending school, like many youths in western Kabul, he spent day and night going to educational centers. I believe he began learning the English language when he was in 7th or 8th grade. He graduated from the Star Educational Society. I think he spent four or five years learning English, including the teacher training course.

When I got a job at Toefl House, Hussain’s family requested that I refer him as a teacher to Toefl House. We asked him to take a test. Someone else was serving as General Manager. After assessing his language capabilities, he was approved for his English skills, but it was noted that he was only 21 and needed to spend some time at the institute before taking on a teaching role. We organized a series of capacity-building classes. I was at Salim Karwan English Department of Toefl House. I invited him to join the teachers and take capacity-building courses to learn teaching methodology and other skills. He participated in a few sessions but mentioned that it conflicted with his time at Kawsar Danesh. I suggested he change his schedule. He used to get dismissed at 5:30 or 6:30, so I encouraged him to come earlier so he could attend the class at the Institute. Unfortunately, it was either the first or second day after he rescheduled his classes that the incident happened. It has been very difficult for me. I wish I had not asked him to reschedule his classes. I could not share my sense of guilt with the Hussain's family. I did not want their feelings for him to change. I shared it only with my wife. I told her I felt so guilty for asking him to change his schedule. I try to calm myself by justifying that I made the best decision under those circumstances as he needed a job, and I was trying to help him. Feelings don’t conform to logic. In a deep emotional crisis, reason fails, and emotion prevails.

I feel guilty without having fault; don’t the people who committed the crime feel guilty and sinful?

This has been bothering me. My goal in sharing this story is that Hussain was just beginning to travel the path that every young man takes to build a career. It makes it more difficult to cope as I think that he was not an ordinary person. He was a driven young man: preparing for the university entrance exam, learning English at a young age, and his struggle to get a job. The saying applies here: “nature is brutal and takes away what is best.”

On the day of the incident, I was at Salim Karawan School. My wife called me to say there had been an explosion at Kawsar Danesh, and Hussain was not picking up his phone. She asked me to call him and find out what was going on. I called him several times, but nobody picked up. I got anxious. Most teachers at Salim Karwan knew Hussain because they had become friends during capacity-building training. They, too, were worried. I had another class to teach, and I asked a substitute teacher to take over. I got a car, and along with some other teachers, we departed for Barchi.

On the way, Hussain’s father called and said he had been taken to the Alimi Hospital, Hussain was uncouncious and that I had to get there quickly. That hit me so hard. I dont remember the road we took, as we passed Bagh-e Bala, Silo Road, and Barchi. At Haji Nawrooz Square, my wife called me and said I should not worry; Hussain was fine, they had taken him home; she said he had injuries on his hands. I was happy but I could not understand why my father-in-law had said something so different. I thought to myself that he might have been under shock and given me the wrong information.

I ran from Haji Nawrooz Square to Rasoul-e Akram Mosque where their home is located. I thanked God that Hussain was okay and I was happy. As I entered the alley, I noticed the crowd. The door was open. It appeared like there was a Quran recitation ceremony going on. It dawn on me that something terrible had happened.

Hussain’s father works in the Shahrak-e Etifaq neighbourhood, at a wood and coal selling point. He said he received a call from home and was told there had been an explosion at Kawsar Danesh and that Hussain was not picking up his phone. My father-in-law, who is also my uncle, got a taxi from Shahrak-e Etifaq to go to Pol-e Khoshk. On the way, he noticed the crowd in front of the Alimi Hospital before reaching the educational center.

He got down there instead to see if he could find Hussain. But he could not find him among the wounded, and found him among the dead. He had recognized the Hussain by his shoes. Unlike other families, his father located our martyr quickly. In the meantime, his mother and siblings were on the way to the hospital. His father went to the hospital and found some relatives standing in front. He asked them to not let Hussain’s mother and siblings in, but to say that he is only injured and Hussain will be brought home. It was at the same moment that my wife called and told me Hussain was only injured. So, that is why I got two different stories.

You might wonder why I'm taking my cousin's death so seriously, considering I only lived with him for seven years and not since childhood. Hussain was related to me in several ways: first, he was my brother-in-law; second, he was my cousin, and most importantly, he was supposed to be my colleague. Working together can bring you closer than being family members. Being colleagues often leads to friendship. When I compare my life with that of his parents, I realize they're going through an even tougher time.

When I saw the martyr's body, all his body parts were intact; there were no injuries or burns. This indicated that shrapnel had hit him from the front in critical areas like his chest, kidney, and other parts. On the front, the injuries were small, about the size of shrapnel, but on the back, they left larger wounds. The shrapnel seemed to have been spinning. I believe that's what caused his death.

I heard that he was alive until he reached the hospital and was crying heavily. I wish we could go back to that moment. The most important thoughts cross our minds at that last moment. I can't imagine why Hussain was crying; surely, it wasn't because of pain, perhaps he had wishes and unfinished tasks. It could be a lot of things that made him cry.

Civilians had taken him to the nearest hospital, Alimi, before the military and doctors arrived at the scene. From the extent of the injuries, I imagine that Hussain had likely survived no more than 10 or 15 minutes after the explosion, due mainly to the wound in his heart. One of his friends, named Sadiq, is paralyzed on one side of his body and remains at home.

Hussain was laid to rest in the public cemetery located in Haji Nabi Township, and not on the hill known as Tapa Shohada where other martyrs were interred. Whether the notion of a collective burial for martyrs was discussed but poorly coordinated or simply overlooked remains uncertain. In such moments, coordination is complicated.

I'm not portraying him as a legend, but one of his aspirations was to support his father financially. He always had this goal in mind, feeling the responsibility of being the man of the household, especially since his father worked as a laborer at a wood selling point. He wanted a professional career and he likely saw my path as an example to follow. With his strong English skills, our conversations often revolved around teaching methodology and related topics. I have several photos of his writing reflecting his dreams, both in English and Dari, which I will gladly share with you. Additionally, I plan to photograph his books and notebooks, as they offer insight into his aspirations and thoughts.

Character-wise, he was always calm, although he appeared less social compared to his classmates. However, this same quality endeared him to his family members, as traditional communities prefer that over those who are more adventurous.

Our region did not witness a civil war, but like all Afghans, we were impacted by the broader conflict. However, Hussain was shielded from direct exposure to war. For our family, he marked the first casualty of war. While our fathers had experienced war during their military service, this was the first time our family felt its direct effects. Reflecting on his journey from a Hazarajat village to Kabul University prompts questions about the transformative power of education. I often tell my daughters about the importance of education, using various examples and providing them with storybooks and animations to instill the right mindset. Yet, it's perplexing how a child raised in rural areas, amidst hardships and limited amenities, develops such a strong desire for education. Observing the youth in western Kabul, one sees a profound commitment to education from an early age.

The life story I have shared resonates with many in our community. It's rare to find a young person in western Kabul who idly waits for their father to provide for the family. I would estimate that 70 to 80 percent of youth in our area are actively engaged in household chores or supporting their families financially. For instance, my uncle's wife ran a bakery, while Hussain and his siblings were involved in carpet weaving at home. This paints a vivid picture of the challenging circumstances faced by families in western Kabul.

Unfortunately, my mother-in-law developed throat issues, likely exacerbated by exposure to oven smoke. She underwent surgery in India, but the procedure near a sensitive neck nerve has left her susceptible to emotional distress.

While we often romanticize our martyrs, Hussain was an ordinary young man from western Kabul who understood the importance of providing financial support to his family. His life was not marked by revolutionary ideas. This reality makes his loss even more difficult to comprehend. Unlike those with radical ideologies, Hussain simply focused on his education and contributing to his family's well-being, only to tragically lose his life at the educational center.

Hussain had three sisters and three brothers. He was the second child of the family, and my wife is the eldest among all siblings. Hussain was always the one who fixed issues with our mobiles and computers. His interest in technology began early and flourished when he moved to Kabul. He had a passion for computer science and the English language, and he likely wanted to study computer science. Like many young men in Kabul, he applied for several scholarships, particularly for computer science programs in India. He was eagerly awaiting a response.

Hussain's father feels remorseful when he thinks about his son's ambitions and the level of support he could provide. He regrets not being able to buy his son a computer sooner or do more to support his English courses. Despite providing some support, he still feels a sense of guilt. There's always a complex dynamic between the eldest son and his father, often involving a mix of love and competition. My uncle, who is not much older than me, wishes he hadn't disagreed with Hussain, recognizing that he wasn't like other boys who might smoke cigarettes or be aggressive. Hussain was different, and today my uncle regrets their disagreements.

Hussain’s absence has undeniably affected our family. Hussains mother, as I mentioned earlier, is not in good physical health. Even before this incident, a minor argument could elevate her stress levels due to her surgery. She would experience chronic severe headaches for 2 to 3 days. Since the incident, she has become anxious.

My three-year-old daughter believes Hussain was killed by God. She recites a poem criticizing God; I'm unsure why her young mind has reached that conclusion. It's intriguing how such complex philosophical questions arise in the mind of a three-year-old child. Concepts like death and God are part of her daily conversations.

Hussain’s younger brothers, aged 4 and 7, believe Hussain is delayed returning home due to traffic. Being boys, they may take longer to grasp the reality of his absence. Thankfully, his older siblings have found a stronger motivation to pursue education. It's noteworthy that his sister, Khadija, who is two years younger, and his brother, Musa, continue attending Kawsar Danesh. Memories of Hussain sitting in those classrooms serves as a source of encouragement for them. I remind them that they should stand out from other families because they lost their brother in pursuit of education, making it a matter of identity for them.

During meetings attended by families of martyrs, the focus is often on seeking accountability. They engage with authorities, demanding explanations for the incidents. However, they have encountered challenges in urging for a thorough investigation. Unlike in some other countries where families receive support, here, the burden often falls on the families themselves. I participated in numerous coordination meetings, questioning the necessity of our constant pursuit. But this systemic apathy extends to larger corruption cases in Afghanistan, overshadowing the significance of investigating incidents like these. It's disheartening to see that the responsibility for registering such cases often falls on the families themselves. In many instances, their efforts are met with rejection, with authorities citing arbitrary criteria for recognizing martyrdom. This mockery of justice has left me disillusioned with the entire process.

Hussain was laid to rest in the public cemetery located in Haji Nabi Township, and not on the hill known as Tapa Shohada where other martyrs were interred. Whether the notion of a collective burial for martyrs was discussed but poorly coordinated or simply overlooked remains uncertain. In such moments, coordination is complicated.

To whom should I address my request? With the government's practical absence, seeking assistance from an entity that does not acknowledge our existence seems futile. Turning to the international community raises questions as to how we can effectively present our plight. One reason I continue to engage with your office is my hope that the petition for recognition of the Hazara genocide will find its way to the International Criminal Court with Mr. Marefat's guidance. It is imperative that the crimes committed by certain tribal groups are officially acknowledged and documented by an international tribunal, even if punishment remains uncertain.

My primary request is for the acknowledgment of the ongoing genocide in Afghanistan. This tragedy, dating back to the rise of certain ethnicities to power, has unfortunately become normalized. By shedding light on these atrocities, we can ensure that future generations understand the plight of our people and the need for justice.

Secondly, I seek to preserve the legacy of our martyrs. While national recognition may be elusive, local efforts, such as those of AHRDO, can help safeguard their memory. Whether through documentation on platforms like Google or the creation of books and museums, preserving their stories ensures that their sacrifices are not forgotten.

These requests are not just for us but for the generations to come. As my daughter Zainab grows up, I want her to have access to her uncle's story and to be able to share it with others. The actions we take today will have a lasting impact, shaping the future for those who come after us. Thank you for considering these critical tasks.