I have lost six brothers

Note: Mr. Aref has been a teacher for many years and has lost thirteen members of his family during the wars and violence in Afghanistan. He himself has the scars of violence on his body.

Narrator: Aziz Ahmad Aref (brother of the victim)

Victim: Sultan Ahmad Sohrab

Time of the incident: 1980

The place of the incident: Polygon of Pol-e Charkhi

I am 56-years-old. We were thirteen brothers and one sister. I am the ninth brother and Sultan Ahmad was six years older than me. Sultan Ahmad was born in 1953 in Kabul. He attended elementary school in Bamiyan, Parwan, and Kabul. He joined Habibiah High School in 1967 and graduated from Habibiah High School in 1974. When he was at Habibiah High School, it was considered the brilliant era of intellectual struggles and political parties of different tendencies were formed. These parties were formed in two main ways, one of which was the new democratic tendency, which founded the Progressive Youth Organization under the leadership of Akram Yari. Its members were Sadeq Yari, Engineer Osman, Dr. Hadi Mahmoudi, etc. Sultan Ahmad was also a member of this organization. Sultan Ahmad joined the Faculty of Literature and Human Sciences in 1973 and graduated from the history and geography department in 1976. When Sultan was in university, Dawood Khan had banned political activities. Also, Shoalah Javid, a political party, had split. At that time, he was a member of the revolutionary group of The Peoples of Afghanistan. In 1978, with the cooperation of Akram Yari, they founded the Organization for the Liberation of the Peoples of Afghanistan (Sorkha), which published the first night magazine and a book called 'The Growth of Bourgeoisie in Afghanistan,' written by Akram Yari. Later, almost all the members of this organization were arrested and executed in February 1978.

In June 1979, there were four left and national parties and organizations united under the name 'Afghanistan National Fighters' Front.' On 05 August 1979, they revolted against the Khalq & Percham's regime. Sultan Ahmed was arrested because they did not recognize him, but he was soon released. In 1979, he founded the Fight to Save Afghanistan organization, in which he was in its leadership. The government of that time broke into this organization and in 1980, almost all the members of the organization's leadership were arrested and sent to prison. They were first sentenced to death. Later, the death sentence was reduced to twenty years of imprisonment. I must say that one of the leaders of this organization named Hakim Tawana surrendered to the then government. When he was released from prison, he had written books against the movement of intellectuals.

Sultan had been severely tortured in prison and had spent months in solitary confinement, as a result of which his back and neck vertebrae were dislocated. In 1988, after spending 12 years in prison, he was released while we were in Pakistan. I had also been released from prison and could not live in Kabul. Sultan went to Peshawar. On January 5, 1989, after 25 days of freedom, he was arrested by Golbudin Hekmatyar kidnappers. We still have no information about him.

One of his friends wrote in his memoir: "I met Ustad Sultan in Peshawar and jokingly told him that your security situation is not good and you should go to Europe. He said with a firm tone, 'My friends are being executed one by one, how can I leave this country? I will die any horrible death you want. I will not accept this brutish life.'"

My brothers and I tried hard to find him. After a lot of research, we came to the conclusion that the Sultan was kidnapped by Hizb-e-Islami with the help of ISI, the Pakistani intelligence. Sultan had a passionate life. In addition to being my brother, he was like a leader, guide, and teacher for me, and he was a very close friend. We had a football team where we were almost all brothers. Sultan Ahmad was a master historian, poet, and professional writer. He remained loyal to his ideals until the last drop of his blood. When he was in prison, I was also in prison. Unfortunately, the conditions were so tight that I could not meet him. I only managed to meet him twice. A brother of mine named Shakur was also imprisoned with me.

We were playing volleyball in the prison, so we decided that Shakur would not play volleyball and sit in the audience [so that he could meet Sultan]. Ten minutes later, the intelligence/Khadists realized that the two people were not allowed to meet. They separate them with humiliation and punches and kicks.

Inside the prison, the prisoners were subjected to mental torture. For example, beating my brothers in front of my eyes. In addition, sleeplessness, pulling nails, and beatings with cable were considered common daily tortures. Sultan was in a solitary confinement for eight months. The lock-up cell's room was 1.2 meters. This room was humid and never had sunlight. In July 1979, four of our brothers were imprisoned: me, Shakur, Sharif, and Dawood. From the four of us, they executed Dawood, whose name is on the Exa list.

In Pakistan, Shakur, Sultan, Mahmood, and Mirwais were kidnapped by Hizb-e-Islami. Shakur and Sultan were also imprisoned in Kabul, and Karim was martyred in the attack by the Russians in Noor Valley District.

I have many memories of Sultan. We played in the same team and he was my teacher, both during education and school and in relation to political issues. I have learned many things from Sultan, from eating bread to social etiquette. One day, Sultan and I were walking in Makrorian area and it was snowing heavily. A young girl slipped and fell to the ground. I laughed. Sultan advised me not to laugh because this girl needs help now and we should never offend anyone. And always in all cases we must think humanly.

At that time, Sultan was about 25-years-old, but he adapted his approach to time and place. Sultan was always aware of all family members and took care of them. I learned from Sultan never to waste anyone's rights and how to defend my rights. Sultan taught me to know the rights of others and to defend our rights. These are a series of apparently small issues, but they are of great spiritual value. This issue of who is the main person responsible in this matter is very complicated. But as for who is to blame, that issue is as clear as day. The people objectively and mentally were not ready for the reform that the People's Democratic Party of Afghanistan had imposed. This party massacred its opponents without cause.

While in the first months we did not show any opposition, they called us their main enemy and put us in prison, tortured, and killed us. It is possible that the opposition was limited to pen and paper, but they used ropes and guns against pen and paper and killed our people. So naturally people revolted against them, which is still going on. Everyday, we witness the killing of a large number of our compatriots.

I have spent my whole life in the struggle for justice. If anyone takes a step, even a small one, I will accompany them for the right to reach the rightful. Those who oppressed/persecuted the nation should be punished. While my hand is completely empty, I am not disappointed in the fight for justice.

Another Human Tragedy Must Not Happen Again Narrator: Nik Mohammad Sharif (brother) Victim: Mohammad Dawood (28-years-old) Victim's occupation: Teacher at the Police Academy Date of arrest: August 5, 1979 Date of execution: September 1, 1979 Charge: Activity against the Afghanistan People's Democratic Republic regime and political and intellectual opposition against the regime Place and method of execution: Pul-e-Charkhi in Kabul, likely mass shooting and buried in mass graves on the site.

In May 1951, a child named Dawood was born in a home full of love for knowledge. In 1957, he started school at Bibi Mehro. From early childhood, he was serious-minded, honest, trustworthy, brave, intelligent, and committed to pursuing knowledge and education. Not only was he dedicated to his learning, but he was also a good teacher and mentor for his younger siblings. Dawood started his high school education at Ghazi High School in Kabul in 1963 and graduated in 1969. Those years were the peak of Afghanistan's intellectual awakening movement. He was conscious of injustices and considered silence in the face of injustice as a form of treason. To support himself and his family, he started different youth and adolescent sports teams, attracting many young people. He was so busy that he was rarely seen in public. His friends greatly cared for him, and he respected everyone. He was humble and debated those with opposing ideas with patience and an open mind. In 1970, Dawood entered the Police Academy. He was not happy with studying there. He had only taken the entrance exam to accompany a friend who was keen to get into the Police Academy. Surprisingly, Dawood passed the exam while his friend failed. Dawood had repeatedly assured his family he was not interested in attending the Police Academy. I remember when my father heard of Dawood's acceptance, he was so excited. A few days later, my father and I went to Kabul and talked with Dawood about continuing his studies there. At that time, unfortunately, there had been an altercation between students at Kabul University, leading to one death and causing the university to close. So, when we learned of his disinterest in continuing at the Police Academy, my father was worried about his educational future. To please my father and other family members, Dawood agreed to join the Police Academy. With his friend, who joined the following year, he graduated from the Academy in 1972. He then started working in the criminal section of a police district within Kabul. After less than a month, due to corruption in the district command, he disagreed with the head of the department and was transferred. In 1977, he was appointed deputy head of criminal investigations in Bamiyan Province. Once again, Dawood witnessed corruption. His boss, the provincial security commander, explicitly told him, "I did not come here to simply see the Bamiyan's Buddhas. So far, I have been lenient. But now we must take our due." This led to an altercation between my brother and the Bamiyan Chief of Police. That same year, he was appointed as the chief of Police Security command for Yakawlang District in Bamiyan. Unfortunately, a local influential elder named Mr. Ra'ees recruited someone to murder an innocent farmer. A few days later, my brother detained Mr. Ra'ees for his role in the farmer's murder. As Mr. Ra'ees had close connections with higher officials in Kabul, Dawood received many calls from the President's office and the Interior Ministry demanding Mr. Ra’ee’s release. Emboldened by his close ties to senior officials, Mr. Ra'ees told my brother, "You cannot keep me for even 24 hours." The next day, a telegram came from Kabul to my brother, ordering: "Release Mr. Ra'ees and return to Kabul within 24 hours!" This led my brother and our family to return to Kabul.

For a while, he struggled against the communist regime as he opposed their repressions and injustices. These activities led to his arrest on August 5, 1979, by the intelligence agency AGSA (Da Afghanistan da Gato da Saatane Adara, Afghan Agency for Safeguarding National Interest) for his ideas and political activities against the regime. We remember that he was arrested near the Radio Afghanistan building and taken away. First, he was transferred to Sedarat (premier house) in Kabul, then taken to the presidential palace where he was severely tortured. They tried to get him to identify close friends and anti-government activists, but he endured and gave no names. At the same time, my two other brothers, Aref and Shokor, and I were also held as political prisoners. I have a bitter memory of our accidental encounter in the prison. I don't remember the exact date, likely around August 10 that year, approximately 6 or 7 days after our arrest as four brothers. I coincidentally saw him as I walked passed in front of his cell. Hurriedly, he signaled me to come near his cell as we weren't allowed visits or to see each other, and our cells were far apart. I reached his cell with great effort so no one would notice our meeting or discussion. When I reached him, signs of torture and bruising were evident on his face. Without wasting time, he said, "If you show resistance during torture, they will release you. Under no circumstances mention anyone's name, not even close friends. Provide no information about them." This was the last time I was able to speak to Dawood. After that, I was no longer allowed to see or speak with him, and any effort to meet him was pointless since we were closely monitored. We were in prison for about a month. Our family knew nothing of our whereabouts or how we were treated. We were not allowed to write letters to our family or receive visits from them. Sometime later, I was released from detention with Aref and Shokor. But we had no information about Dawood's fate, and no one ever told us anything. The whole family, especially our parents, awaited his return. Our mother firmly believed that he was alive and that he would one day return home. On September 18, 2013, a list of 5,000 victims of the communist regime's atrocities was exposed and published by the Dutch government, with Dawood listed as victim number 4,102. I will never forget the day the Dutch government published that list. I was busy at the office that day when I suddenly read the news on the Hasht-e-Subh newspaper website. My mood dramatically changed, and I felt like I could see Dawood again. On one hand, I was worried to see his name on the list, anxiously checking victim names and the year of their arrest, until I saw Dawood's name. Severe grief and bitterness gripped my throat. I was completely overwhelmed. It felt impossible to have these two feelings simultaneously hit me. One feeling was happiness to finally know what had happened to him after 34 years, at least seeing his name on the list. On the other hand, I felt the old, unhealed wounds suddenly open as I saw his name among the victims list of the communist regime's crimes. I was sure my other brothers had also learned of the list's existence and its release. The next day, we were all invited to a family wedding feast. We were sitting around one table but avoided looking at or talking to each other. Maybe outwardly, we were at a happy wedding, but we were inwardly immersed in Dawood's tragic story and our family's past. Then, my eldest brother turned to the others and started speaking. He said it was good that we're together again, and said he knows everyone saw Dawood's name on the list. Instead of self-pity and silence, we should hold a memorial service in his memory and at least inform relatives and friends. We should let our mother learn that her waiting for Dawood's return was in vain. Perhaps his words were bitter and painful for all of us. But it led us to coordinate with other victims' families and, on December 10 in subsequent years, we go annually to Pul-e-Charkhi Prison, commemorating our victims' day so that history and future generations remember the past's atrocities and that this human tragedy must not happen again. We were never allowed to visit Dawood in prison after our release. He was executed by the intelligence agency AGSA in September 1979 in Pul-e-Charkhi, likely with other political prisoners, assassinated by bullets and buried in unmarked mass graves.

The Death of my Young Brother Broke my Back

Abdul Qadir Jamshidi is a man with a gray beard, whose forehead wrinkles show more than ever when he talks. He is the first narrator of the incident and he narrates what he saw carefully and in detail. He uses his hands, face, and body a lot while speaking, making his speech beautiful and spectacular. Therefore, there is no blind spot in his speech and he can very easily tell what he has seen. His catchphrase is "Insha'Allah" which is used in cases where it is thought that the sentence is wrong, but it is not and the sentence has its own meaning if it is considered as a catchword.

Narrator: Abdul Qadir Jamshidi (brother)

Victim: Mohammad Hussain Jamshidi (18-years-old)

Time of the incident: January 21, 2018

The place of the incident: Faizabad area, Haftwalaf Village, Rabat Sangi, Herat Province

Type of incident: Roadside mine explosion

I am from Herat, Rabat Sangi District, Yaka Dokan Village. My name is Abdul Qadir. I am 29-years-old. I am busy with my life and in our region, most people's occupation is agriculture like cultivating wheat and barley. My own job: I transport passengers, commuting, taking passengers, I do such things. I go from Herat to Rabat Sangi, which is my village, in the morning and return in the evening. That is my main job.

We are six brothers, our younger brother is a martyr. I am not a big brother either, I am the fifth brother. The sixth is older than us, but the martyr was our younger brother, whose name is Hussain. To support life and find a morsel of bread, Hussain wanted to go Iran, but did not cross the border of Nimroz to Iran. Recently, a new way has been opened from Islam Qala itself, which they say is on our side. From there, people are taken to Iran with a cost of 5000-10000 AFN per person.

Four of our children left the village together for Iran. They rode in a white care (a white Sarachah) from Rabat Sangi. From our village, I brought them to Rabat Sangi by my own car. I returned home and 20 minutes after their departure, we received the news of the martyrdom.

He took them on board, I said goodbye to them, they left. I returned home. Before I got home, I got a call. I did not get out of the car yet. From Sarachah, they said, 'the car of these children has been hit by a mine.' I asked where. They said in Faizabad. I did not call anyone else but my two brothers. We didn't call anyone because of the panic and fear we had.

We only meant that, God forbid, it's a landmine, if it had exploded, the car might be needed there. We should arrive sooner. God forbid, if one or two of them are wounded, they don't lose blood, and we can help them. We said it would be too late to call others in the village. We moved to Faizabad, from Faizabad to Alaf, from Alaf to down in the valley. There is a pass in the middle of Faizabad and Alaf. Going by the pass, we noticed the car. When we reached it, there were ten people inside the car.

Among the ten people in the car, there was a child, not more than ten-years-old. The child's home was in Herat. He had gone to the border area to see his relatives. Even that ten-year-old child was inside the car. One of the ten people survived. The others, nine others, I collected the pieces of their bodies myself.

People were afraid that, God forbid, we couldn't go around them as there may be mines, but we didn't know. I was thinking of getting there early to see how many people were still alive. Someone may have needed help getting the people to a car, or to the clinic, or to the city hospital. I was saying to myself and addressing the driver: "What are you crazy about? You don't have the right to go there, even the government people didn't bother themselves to go there."

They are much closer than us. Their distance [from the accident site] was ten minutes; It took us an hour to get there. They had arrived earlier than us. The government people feared that, God forbid, there were mines around or that the opponents, if we got closer, may attack us. We did not understand this. We reached the car. When we arrived, there was nothing from the car. The mine exploded in the middle of the car. There was nothing of the seat, the gate, not even the steering wheel. There was a bit of the car's pose and a bit of the trunk left. Others parts of the car were torn to shreds. Nothing was found in that car.

I looked around. There were parts of bodies everywhere. I thought that they could be not collected like that. All cars had a tarpaulin to sit on in the Sarache stall. I took it and collected the bones one by one and brought them together. Whenever a mine exploded, parts of body were thrown about one hundred to two hundred meters away. I found bodies from the waist above, while their waist down did not exist. Even one of our son-in-laws, Morteza’s father, Khair Mohammad, may God have mercy on him, only half of his face and head existed. Half of the forehead, from between of the eyebrow, the right side of head.

I didn't recognize him until I turned him around. When I turned his face away, I saw his head and brain... that this Muslim is Khair Mohammad, may God forgive him. All these nine people who had died, I collected all of them one by one. There was no car, but a flying couch. I lifted the chairs and brought them to Rabat Sanghi clinic. I said that their relatives should not go the incident site; the situation is not safe, lest there be another misfortune.

I said, since we already went to the site, let's take all of these to the clinic. It is both the base of the government and under the control of the government. Their relatives would take the corpses from the clinic. That's where we took them and went to Rabat Sangi again. Two to three thousand people gathered near the corpses of our people. It was very terrible. My prayer is that, God, no one should die young! It's hard.

Oh, not to forget, there was a second car following the car that exploded. There were all women and children in the second car. There had been distance between the first and second one. When the first car hit the mine, the second car stopped and called the relatives about the incident. A person by the name of Ghulam Nabi called me, so I went to the incident site.

Twenty minutes by car, two hours on foot. Faizabad is in the hands of the government. The same area where the incident happened is mostly in the hands of the government; Taliban traffic is very low. Be informed, they said, that the TAPI project will be passed from there. At that time, it was said that the government was looking to have that area in its hands. On the other hand, the Taliban was also thinking that it had that area in its hands. Let the TAPI project not be launched, God willing. The Talib in that area will be guided by Iran, who will lead them, and even Iran support them financially.

For this reason, they started a war, a fight, and put mines there - so that the TAPI project doesn’t start. These young people were killed by these Muslims. The government says they don't know, the Taliban also say they don't know; no one has given us an answer yet. We wandered and did not understand. We have no more prayers, God, we have entrusted everything to you. We have no strength and no force anymore. Neither Taliban nor the government took responsibility at the end.

I think 100% that if they [the victims] were government staff, the Taliban would claim that they did it to get the story to the media, and take responsibility for it. Because they were not government men, and they were innocents, the Taliban did not take responsibility. Four of these corpses were ours, which I took to Yaka Dokan with my car among my people. There were nine corpses. Five others were from Herat City, from the Babahaji neighbourhood,

It has had a lot of effects on our family. For example, we have a father who was paralyzed due to grief. Two years have passed from the incident, and my father can’t survive without medicine and without a doctor, there is no other way. Our mother is also crazy and nervous. I brought a coat, a full-blooded coat, that Mullah did not allow to be buried with the body. A piece of his clothes remained clean as it was stained with dirt but there was no blood. My mother took it and hit it on her face and head for an hour. Her nerves were broken. We haven't seen a good day in our house since the day he left.

There were six of us. Now there are five of us. After the incident, people's uneasiness has led to judgement whether we have become addicted to drugs or what other calamity has befallen us. The young men who used to be stout, now have gained strength, they don't even weigh 10 kilos. Believe me, dying young is very difficult. May God not show this calamity to anyone. Those who have young people die suffer the most. Ground from the fourth heaven, and our strength is over, and the only thing I can say is that, God, I am satisfied with your satisfaction.

My brother had very good manners. He always treated his elders with respect. If you advised him for hours, he would listen with full attention. Believe me, I had scolded my brother many times, but he always just laughed in response and said nothing to me out of respect. When we review his memories and history now, I say to myself that he was not meant to stay.

I am sure that the example of this young man is no longer in our village. The four people who were martyred were all from the same village and all of them were of the same age. Among these four people, Khair Mohammad was married and the others were single. Khair Mohammad had four children, one born after he passed. Two daughters and two sons. When he passed away, his wife was pregnant. It's been eight months since his son was born, but he hasn't seen his father's face, and his eldest son is in charge. Our family takes care of them.

My message is that until we fraternize with each other, the stranger will not. A foreign country never wants us to live together as brothers. My point is that until we unite in the name of Afghanistan, the war of fratricide and dying young will not end. My prayer is that God, if my prayer is accepted, then no one will see the death of their young family members. Our youth are our future.

For Hussain himself, I have this message: No matter how sad we are, we love you and remember you as long as we are alive. You were a good brother and good son to your parents.

Let's Never Go Back To Our Past

Narrator: Abdul Raziq Rezaei

Victims: Abdullah and Abdul Karim

Time of the incident: 2001

The place of the incident: Dahan Kanak Village, Yakawlang District, Bamiyan Province

The name of the victims: Abdullah, my father, aged 45-47 years old. I don't remember the exact age of my father. And my uncle, Abdul Karim, he was 30-35 years old. They lived in Dahan Kanak Village, Yakawlang District. They were farmers.

My father was educated from mullahs at home, he could only read the Quran. Abdul Karim had attended Dehsur high school until the eighth grade. Due to riots and wars, he had left school. Both of them were married. My father had three sons: his eldest son is me, his second son is named Samad, and his third son is named Nader. My father had three daughters: his eldest daughter is named Hanifa, his second daughter is Sima, and his third is Soghara. My uncle Karim had four sons and daughters: his eldest son is Reza, his second son is Enayat, his eldest daughter is Laiqa, and his second daughter is Sabra. All were farmers and all lived in Dehne Kanak.

It was 2001 that the Taliban came and took Yakawlang. The war ended... Khalili's forces went to Chaman. There, they burned the villages and captured my father and another person named Ibrahim, and took them to the battle in Chahar Deh. The Taliban were defeated there and came to Dahan Kanak again. They brought my father and uncle back to the village, tied them back to back under the road, and fired on them, killing them.

When Taliban arrested my father, we fled to Punjab having no news about my father. People told me that my father was killed. Although it was dangerous to go to the area, we went and took the corpses of three martyrs with a small number of friends. We could not bury them in our ancestral cemetery, so we took him to Sar-e Kanak graveyard.

During the migration period, people were vigilant as to what was happening in Yakawlang. The houses and shops were burnt down and many people were killed.

My father's body remained under the sunshine [where he was killed] for a week; no one could go and bury him. When Taliban attacked Yakawlang, my father told me to take our family members to Panjab District. He said he would come after us. He stayed because of our livestock up in Qeshlaq. We could only save our lives, not the livestock. Unfortunately, we lost our father and every other thing we had in the village.

According to my cousin, four days after we left our village, my father was killed. As said, me, my younger brother Samad, and my cousin Mohammad Rahim went from Punjab to Sarma Qol during the night. At night, we took five more corpses from Sarma Qol. We went and transferred the bodies to Sar-e Kanak. The people of Sar-e Kanak cooperated with us. Thanks to them, may God protect them. With them, we buried the corpses.

We brought the family back when the Taliban attacked the American twin towers. It was September 11th. It was the beginning of the cold season. It had snowed once or twice. We went back home, but nothing remained; our houses were burnt. With empty hands, we started to rebuild our houses.

Everyone had psychological problems. We had no one, it's very difficult to talk about it. We can't tell you how it went. It was very difficult for people to live. I had lost a father and an uncle, and our economic situation was ruined. Our cattle and property were gone. We didn't have money and our situation was very bad. I personally took care of two families with many problems. I had to leave school as it is still my responsibility to take care of the two families.

Today, my uncle's family is living separately. We divided our land; I separated my uncle's land. By the grace of God, our agriculture product is good, not bad. I ended up having a lot of trouble because at that time, people did not trust anyone. Now, it is different. If needed, people will give us a loan. At that time, no one gave a single rupee to anyone else. Why could we not borrow some money? People used to say that the situation in Afghanistan is so bad, they may not be able to pay it back.

We had this difficult situation. I couldn't bear not to say it. It is very difficult for someone to say it. Those who had a better economic situation may have lived better, but I myself, who had two families on my shoulders and was empty-handed, someone who didn't have a single rupee, this is how I lived my life.

The little money that we had was in my father's pocket, which was burnt. They had holes drilled in it. It was completely destroyed. It was out of use. My mother has endured this situation until today, and today, thanks to the grace of God, our situation is good.

I was a child who did not understand anything about what to do. I went through that difficult situation alone. We struggled with a difficult life that no one can imagine. But some people are good, maybe they can. Before the incident, I had no responsibility. But once two families were shouldered by one person without a single rupee in his pocket, imagine for yourself what the situation was like. You asked me, and told you. I could not control myself not to say.

When my father was martyred, I didn't know about my uncle. People didn't tell me anything. I buried my father. We couldn't be bothered there again, so we went to Panjab. My friends told me that I should come back. I had a bad feeling, because my uncle's family was here in Panjab. As soon as he sent the message to "come once," I fell from the sky to the ground. I said what happened and he asked me again.

I went to Yakawlang again, to Sar Maqol Village, the only place I could go. People had fled to Sar Maqol. I went there again. I asked my friends about the situation, and they said that the situation was good but that they would go with me. They told me that my uncle had been captured. Well, we went. We gathered our friends and decided to find some elderly men and meet the Taliban who captured my uncle. When we came here, one of the friends said that the Taliban had captured my uncle, taken him from my village, and killed my uncle on a pass named Larasi. They said, "Go and take your martyr from there." The people of Sangardost - one of the local Taliban - gave us a soldier to guide us there. He showed us that my uncle's corpse had dried up. We took it to Dahan Kanak and buried him there. Ah, I wish they would had killed him [only], but they had cut off his hand, cut off from here (showing his elbow), and cut off his leg from the knee. We took him and buried him in our village.

By God, at that time, we had no idea what we were doing because we were children. We had no idea what the Taliban meant or what they were doing. We had no idea, they just said that the Taliban had come and killed people. Because we were children, we didn't feel, we didn't understand what "the Taliban" meant. We thought that Talib meant "student," not more than that, right? But when they came and set fire to the houses and killed the people, we thought that a human had not come, a savage had come. What were they doing to the innocent people? With the houses? No one had anything to do with the houses, but they destroyed and burned every single house.

Yes, my mother is alive. Thank God, my mother, it was my mother who brought us to this stage. Otherwise, we would have been a bunch of small kids and children. My uncle’s children were also small. My mother gave me an arm and said not to lose myself, be strong, and work hard. My mother supported us and kept telling us to be strong. The reality is that we worked hard, suffered a lot, and thank God we are seeing the results today.

I put myself in the place of my father; I left school, I sacrificed my wishes and wants for my brothers and my uncle's children. I supported my brothers and my uncle’s children to go to school. Thank God, they are now doing well with their education and lives.

My father was a normal, calm person. He never fought anybody in the village or with family members. He had a sound personality as he never shouted at me as his younger son, never used a bad word against me. He was a religious person. He used to awake us up to pray our prayers early in the morning and advised us to take fast.

I had no responsibility and didn’t think about life’s ups and downs. Everything was on his shoulders. I don't know where he earned the livelihood to earn what he would give us, the food we would eat, and the clothes we would wear. My uncle was young. At that time, our lands were not divided, only his house was separated, and he worked as a farmer with my father. Local Taliban were good people, some were Hazaras and Tajiks. But those who came out of Yakawlang, those Talibs do not want Islam at all, they were Wahhabis. These were outsider’s men.

There is nothing notable left from my father to put in the Afghanistan Memory and Dialogue Center. My father had a Quran and a watch. I have his watch with me now in my pocket and a tape recorder named 530, an old model 60-70 years old.

These are the only things left from my father. Nothing left from my uncle but a picture. The photo is a very old one. We enlarged it and put it on the wall, so he should not be forgotten and remain as part of our memory. In reality, we have very bad memories. We never return to our past, we had such a hard time in the past that I cried. We really have a very bitter past, not only for me, but for all the victims. For all the people of Yakawlang, Bamiyan and the central regions. We will never return to our past.

We are really happy to have something lasting for us in the museum. I'm happy and, you are welcome, you are all the light of our eyes who think about us and remember us and listen to our words and take them to higher levels. Thank you.

He Was a De-Miner

Narrator: Ahmad (nephew)

Victim: Nabi

Time of the incident: 2011

Place of the incident: Kohsan District, Herat Province

My name is Ahmed. I am twenty-years-old. I live in Kamaneh, Kohsan District. I work at customs at the port of Islam Qala. I get 100-200 AFN per day.

Nabi was my uncle. He was 31-years-old. He was martyred in 2014. He was a de-miner. He normally left at four o'clock in the morning and came back at two o'clock in the afternoon. One morning, while going to the demining site, he and his colleagues were ambushed by the Taliban. It was seven o'clock when they fired on them. He and his 5 colleagues were killed while others were taken alive, though they may have been killed later.

He was an employee of a de-mining agency. They were going to explore the land. They would find mines and mark them, then report the location to an engineer, then the team would going to the site and explode the mine.

We got the news at eight o'clock and went there at nine. The driver said that there was a war over the mine cleaners. We saw five or six people lying there. Mr. Behrouz's brother was also with them. He had been shot in his stomach, right here, God forgive him.

We put the body in the back of the car and brought it back to the house. I went there. Two of our uncles also came. They live in Kamanah, their families live there. My uncle’s economic condition is good, but not that good. He has two children, one is five-years-old and the other one is two-years-old.

The demining agency has given food and non-food commodities to my uncle’s family. His wife is young, about 20-years-old, and has two children. She lives with her two children. One of her children is five-years-old and one is two-years-old. My uncle was illiterate. He did not go to school.

We went to the field ourselves and picked him up. Several others had been killed there. The corpses were in different places. One in the car, one next to the car, etc. Among them, my uncle was shot dead. Many didn't even look hurt. We went there and took him into the back of the car. We thought he was alive. God forgive him. He was martyred. We put him in the back of our car and brought him to his house, that's it.

It was also the holy month of Ramadan. Taliban had been after the director of the demining agency, and they took him away. Taliban asked him to pay, but he didn't give them any money. Then five or six people were killed like this. These people were earning a living through this job, he used to get 15,000 AFN per month.

There is nothing else to say. I don’t have any message... Look, our business is ruined, there is no work in Afghanistan, nothing. I say that someone should help us with something.

I will do whatever I can for my uncle. My uncle served us a lot. I will do anything for him, for his children, for his family. My uncle was very kind to us. He used to advise us to do good things, respect the elders and children, and get an education. I told him that I can’t go to school, I have to work because my father was killed on the way to Iran.

My father used to go to Iran to work. He was killed on the way to Iran. I was small, I don't remember how he was killed. Our family knows about it, they say he was killed inside Iran. Iranian soldiers killed him. He had gone illegally and had nothing, no travel documents.

Now, thank God, it's fine. We work. My mother is with us. We are two brothers, I am her elder son and I have a younger brother. My mother was 20-22 years old when my father was killed. She has never married again. She stayed with us. We go to work and my mother is at home taking care of things at home. Thank God, the rest is fine with us. I have this intention that God will help me to serve her in my life.

Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten

Narrator: Ali Shaheer

Victims: Haji Abdul Ali, son of Paiwand Ali (father), Haji Rajab Ali, son of Piwand Ali (elder uncle), Qurban Ali, son of Piwand Ali (younger uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of father's uncle) Mohammad Hasan (grandson of father's uncle)

Time of the incident: 1979

The place of the accident: Pol-e Charkhi Polygon, Kabul

I was a primary school student at that time. It was the night of Eid al-Adha, during the reign of Hafizullah Amin. I was not able to sleep that night because of the joy of Eid and wearing new clothes. Few families had TV at that time. We did not have a TV at home. But my uncle - who was living with his family in same house as us - whose young son owned a houseware store, brought a black and white TV for Eid nights. Their house was separated from our house by a partition. On Eid night, we went to my uncle's room to watch TV. That night, on the occasion of Eid, a movie called "Nawi da yaw Oshpe" (Bride for One Night), in Pashto language, was broadcast on TV.

At the insistence of my uncle and my uncle’s son, my father sat next to us and we watched the movie together, although he was not interested in watching TV or movies. My father knew Pashto and understood the story of the movie well. He was impressed by the scenes of kindness and chivalry in the movie and watched the movie till the end. That night, my siblings and I were eagerly waiting for the movie to end and for my father to henna our hands. After the movie, my father hennaed our hands.

It was late at night and my father was about to sleep when someone knocked on our door. At the same time as the door was knocked on, someone shouted loudly, "Who is Haji Abdul Ali? Come out of your room and open the gate." Some armed people were surrounding the gate. The voice shouted two or three times and wanted my father. Annoyed by their screams in the middle of the night, my father told them, “Keep your voices down. What's going on in the middle of the night? So much screaming! You know that everyone is sleeping! I am Abdul Ali. Now I will open the gate. What do you want me to do?"

When they entered the house, they said, "Haji, what weapon do you have at home?" My father said, “Tow hunting guns, a big and small one." Both are hanging on the wall of the house." The officers took the guns and said, "Haji, we will take you to the police station and then we will return you early morning." They took my father that night and we waited until morning for him to return, but he did not return that night.

On the day of Eid, all the family members, relatives, and friends gathered together to celebrate Eid as we waited for my father's return. It was time for lunch when the armed men came to our house again. They did not bring my father. We were very worried. This time, they took 6 other members of my family with them: Qurban Ali (my uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of my father's uncle), Mohammad Hasan (grandson of my father's uncle), and Mohammad Nabi (son of my uncle), as well as Ghulam Abbas and Ali Ahmad (grandsons of my uncle).

Fear and worry filled the atmosphere of the house. In the evening of the same day, Haji Rajab Ali, my elder uncle who was older than my father, came to our house and comforted us and said, "Don't worry, by God's hope, they will all come back. Don't worry as long as I am there." He said to my mother, "I will come tomorrow first thing in the morning. I will bring whatever food and other basic necessities you lack at home." It was as if he sensed that my father would not return soon. But the next day, my elder uncle did not come. He was also taken from his house in Chindawol that night.

The nights and days of Eid passed as we waited for my father and uncles to return. During the time of Babrak Karmal's leadership, Muhammad Nabi, Ali Ahmad, and Ghulam Abbas were released in general amnesty. But the others never came back. My brothers, sisters, and my uncle's children and I were nine in total, all small children a year apart in age. We used to ask our mothers every day why my father and uncles didn't come back. In the same way, my elder uncle had two children, a boy and a girl the same age as us. My youngest uncle, who was taken away, still had no children.

Our mothers waited that night, bitter days, and long years for their husbands. They shed tears and prayed for their return until they were old and their hair turned white. This wait lasted 35 years. When the Polygon victim list was released, we found the names of five of our family members on it. The wait was over and our hope had collapsed. All the family members were crying.

One day, we went with a number of friends and one of my uncle's sons to the hill of Polygon’s victims in Pul-e Charkhi. When I was walking on the soil of Polygon, I was busy with the question of what my father and uncles said to each other in those heavy moments before death and what their last words to each other were.

After we learned what had happened to my father and uncles, we honored them, their memories, and other victims by organizing a program with a title written in bold: "Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten."

Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten

Narrator: Ali Shaheer

Victims: Haji Abdul Ali, son of Paiwand Ali (father), Haji Rajab Ali, son of Piwand Ali (elder uncle), Qurban Ali, son of Piwand Ali (younger uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of father's uncle) Mohammad Hasan (grandson of father's uncle)

Time of the incident: 1979

The place of the accident: Pol-e Charkhi Polygon, Kabul

I was a primary school student at that time. It was the night of Eid al-Adha, during the reign of Hafizullah Amin. I was not able to sleep that night because of the joy of Eid and wearing new clothes. Few families had TV at that time. We did not have a TV at home. But my uncle - who was living with his family in same house as us - whose young son owned a houseware store, brought a black and white TV for Eid nights. Their house was separated from our house by a partition. On Eid night, we went to my uncle's room to watch TV. That night, on the occasion of Eid, a movie called "Nawi da yaw Oshpe" (Bride for One Night), in Pashto language, was broadcast on TV.

At the insistence of my uncle and my uncle’s son, my father sat next to us and we watched the movie together, although he was not interested in watching TV or movies. My father knew Pashto and understood the story of the movie well. He was impressed by the scenes of kindness and chivalry in the movie and watched the movie till the end. That night, my siblings and I were eagerly waiting for the movie to end and for my father to henna our hands. After the movie, my father hennaed our hands.

It was late at night and my father was about to sleep when someone knocked on our door. At the same time as the door was knocked on, someone shouted loudly, "Who is Haji Abdul Ali? Come out of your room and open the gate." Some armed people were surrounding the gate. The voice shouted two or three times and wanted my father. Annoyed by their screams in the middle of the night, my father told them, “Keep your voices down. What's going on in the middle of the night? So much screaming! You know that everyone is sleeping! I am Abdul Ali. Now I will open the gate. What do you want me to do?"

When they entered the house, they said, "Haji, what weapon do you have at home?" My father said, “Tow hunting guns, a big and small one." Both are hanging on the wall of the house." The officers took the guns and said, "Haji, we will take you to the police station and then we will return you early morning." They took my father that night and we waited until morning for him to return, but he did not return that night.

On the day of Eid, all the family members, relatives, and friends gathered together to celebrate Eid as we waited for my father's return. It was time for lunch when the armed men came to our house again. They did not bring my father. We were very worried. This time, they took 6 other members of my family with them: Qurban Ali (my uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of my father's uncle), Mohammad Hasan (grandson of my father's uncle), and Mohammad Nabi (son of my uncle), as well as Ghulam Abbas and Ali Ahmad (grandsons of my uncle).

Fear and worry filled the atmosphere of the house. In the evening of the same day, Haji Rajab Ali, my elder uncle who was older than my father, came to our house and comforted us and said, "Don't worry, by God's hope, they will all come back. Don't worry as long as I am there." He said to my mother, "I will come tomorrow first thing in the morning. I will bring whatever food and other basic necessities you lack at home." It was as if he sensed that my father would not return soon. But the next day, my elder uncle did not come. He was also taken from his house in Chindawol that night.

The nights and days of Eid passed as we waited for my father and uncles to return. During the time of Babrak Karmal's leadership, Muhammad Nabi, Ali Ahmad, and Ghulam Abbas were released in general amnesty. But the others never came back. My brothers, sisters, and my uncle's children and I were nine in total, all small children a year apart in age. We used to ask our mothers every day why my father and uncles didn't come back. In the same way, my elder uncle had two children, a boy and a girl the same age as us. My youngest uncle, who was taken away, still had no children.

Our mothers waited that night, bitter days, and long years for their husbands. They shed tears and prayed for their return until they were old and their hair turned white. This wait lasted 35 years. When the Polygon victim list was released, we found the names of five of our family members on it. The wait was over and our hope had collapsed. All the family members were crying.

One day, we went with a number of friends and one of my uncle's sons to the hill of Polygon’s victims in Pul-e Charkhi. When I was walking on the soil of Polygon, I was busy with the question of what my father and uncles said to each other in those heavy moments before death and what their last words to each other were.

After we learned what had happened to my father and uncles, we honored them, their memories, and other victims by organizing a program with a title written in bold: "Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten."

Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten

Narrator: Ali Shaheer

Victims: Haji Abdul Ali, son of Paiwand Ali (father), Haji Rajab Ali, son of Piwand Ali (elder uncle), Qurban Ali, son of Piwand Ali (younger uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of father's uncle) Mohammad Hasan (grandson of father's uncle)

Time of the incident: 1979

The place of the accident: Pol-e Charkhi Polygon, Kabul

I was a primary school student at that time. It was the night of Eid al-Adha, during the reign of Hafizullah Amin. I was not able to sleep that night because of the joy of Eid and wearing new clothes. Few families had TV at that time. We did not have a TV at home. But my uncle - who was living with his family in same house as us - whose young son owned a houseware store, brought a black and white TV for Eid nights. Their house was separated from our house by a partition. On Eid night, we went to my uncle's room to watch TV. That night, on the occasion of Eid, a movie called "Nawi da yaw Oshpe" (Bride for One Night), in Pashto language, was broadcast on TV.

At the insistence of my uncle and my uncle’s son, my father sat next to us and we watched the movie together, although he was not interested in watching TV or movies. My father knew Pashto and understood the story of the movie well. He was impressed by the scenes of kindness and chivalry in the movie and watched the movie till the end. That night, my siblings and I were eagerly waiting for the movie to end and for my father to henna our hands. After the movie, my father hennaed our hands.

It was late at night and my father was about to sleep when someone knocked on our door. At the same time as the door was knocked on, someone shouted loudly, "Who is Haji Abdul Ali? Come out of your room and open the gate." Some armed people were surrounding the gate. The voice shouted two or three times and wanted my father. Annoyed by their screams in the middle of the night, my father told them, “Keep your voices down. What's going on in the middle of the night? So much screaming! You know that everyone is sleeping! I am Abdul Ali. Now I will open the gate. What do you want me to do?"

When they entered the house, they said, "Haji, what weapon do you have at home?" My father said, “Tow hunting guns, a big and small one." Both are hanging on the wall of the house." The officers took the guns and said, "Haji, we will take you to the police station and then we will return you early morning." They took my father that night and we waited until morning for him to return, but he did not return that night.

On the day of Eid, all the family members, relatives, and friends gathered together to celebrate Eid as we waited for my father's return. It was time for lunch when the armed men came to our house again. They did not bring my father. We were very worried. This time, they took 6 other members of my family with them: Qurban Ali (my uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of my father's uncle), Mohammad Hasan (grandson of my father's uncle), and Mohammad Nabi (son of my uncle), as well as Ghulam Abbas and Ali Ahmad (grandsons of my uncle).

Fear and worry filled the atmosphere of the house. In the evening of the same day, Haji Rajab Ali, my elder uncle who was older than my father, came to our house and comforted us and said, "Don't worry, by God's hope, they will all come back. Don't worry as long as I am there." He said to my mother, "I will come tomorrow first thing in the morning. I will bring whatever food and other basic necessities you lack at home." It was as if he sensed that my father would not return soon. But the next day, my elder uncle did not come. He was also taken from his house in Chindawol that night.

The nights and days of Eid passed as we waited for my father and uncles to return. During the time of Babrak Karmal's leadership, Muhammad Nabi, Ali Ahmad, and Ghulam Abbas were released in general amnesty. But the others never came back. My brothers, sisters, and my uncle's children and I were nine in total, all small children a year apart in age. We used to ask our mothers every day why my father and uncles didn't come back. In the same way, my elder uncle had two children, a boy and a girl the same age as us. My youngest uncle, who was taken away, still had no children.

Our mothers waited that night, bitter days, and long years for their husbands. They shed tears and prayed for their return until they were old and their hair turned white. This wait lasted 35 years. When the Polygon victim list was released, we found the names of five of our family members on it. The wait was over and our hope had collapsed. All the family members were crying.

One day, we went with a number of friends and one of my uncle's sons to the hill of Polygon’s victims in Pul-e Charkhi. When I was walking on the soil of Polygon, I was busy with the question of what my father and uncles said to each other in those heavy moments before death and what their last words to each other were.

After we learned what had happened to my father and uncles, we honored them, their memories, and other victims by organizing a program with a title written in bold: "Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten."

Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten

Narrator: Ali Shaheer

Victims: Haji Abdul Ali, son of Paiwand Ali (father), Haji Rajab Ali, son of Piwand Ali (elder uncle), Qurban Ali, son of Piwand Ali (younger uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of father's uncle) Mohammad Hasan (grandson of father's uncle)

Time of the incident: 1979

The place of the accident: Pol-e Charkhi Polygon, Kabul

I was a primary school student at that time. It was the night of Eid al-Adha, during the reign of Hafizullah Amin. I was not able to sleep that night because of the joy of Eid and wearing new clothes. Few families had TV at that time. We did not have a TV at home. But my uncle - who was living with his family in same house as us - whose young son owned a houseware store, brought a black and white TV for Eid nights. Their house was separated from our house by a partition. On Eid night, we went to my uncle's room to watch TV. That night, on the occasion of Eid, a movie called "Nawi da yaw Oshpe" (Bride for One Night), in Pashto language, was broadcast on TV.

At the insistence of my uncle and my uncle’s son, my father sat next to us and we watched the movie together, although he was not interested in watching TV or movies. My father knew Pashto and understood the story of the movie well. He was impressed by the scenes of kindness and chivalry in the movie and watched the movie till the end. That night, my siblings and I were eagerly waiting for the movie to end and for my father to henna our hands. After the movie, my father hennaed our hands.

It was late at night and my father was about to sleep when someone knocked on our door. At the same time as the door was knocked on, someone shouted loudly, "Who is Haji Abdul Ali? Come out of your room and open the gate." Some armed people were surrounding the gate. The voice shouted two or three times and wanted my father. Annoyed by their screams in the middle of the night, my father told them, “Keep your voices down. What's going on in the middle of the night? So much screaming! You know that everyone is sleeping! I am Abdul Ali. Now I will open the gate. What do you want me to do?"

When they entered the house, they said, "Haji, what weapon do you have at home?" My father said, “Tow hunting guns, a big and small one." Both are hanging on the wall of the house." The officers took the guns and said, "Haji, we will take you to the police station and then we will return you early morning." They took my father that night and we waited until morning for him to return, but he did not return that night.

On the day of Eid, all the family members, relatives, and friends gathered together to celebrate Eid as we waited for my father's return. It was time for lunch when the armed men came to our house again. They did not bring my father. We were very worried. This time, they took 6 other members of my family with them: Qurban Ali (my uncle), Sultan Hussain (son of my father's uncle), Mohammad Hasan (grandson of my father's uncle), and Mohammad Nabi (son of my uncle), as well as Ghulam Abbas and Ali Ahmad (grandsons of my uncle).

Fear and worry filled the atmosphere of the house. In the evening of the same day, Haji Rajab Ali, my elder uncle who was older than my father, came to our house and comforted us and said, "Don't worry, by God's hope, they will all come back. Don't worry as long as I am there." He said to my mother, "I will come tomorrow first thing in the morning. I will bring whatever food and other basic necessities you lack at home." It was as if he sensed that my father would not return soon. But the next day, my elder uncle did not come. He was also taken from his house in Chindawol that night.

The nights and days of Eid passed as we waited for my father and uncles to return. During the time of Babrak Karmal's leadership, Muhammad Nabi, Ali Ahmad, and Ghulam Abbas were released in general amnesty. But the others never came back. My brothers, sisters, and my uncle's children and I were nine in total, all small children a year apart in age. We used to ask our mothers every day why my father and uncles didn't come back. In the same way, my elder uncle had two children, a boy and a girl the same age as us. My youngest uncle, who was taken away, still had no children.

Our mothers waited that night, bitter days, and long years for their husbands. They shed tears and prayed for their return until they were old and their hair turned white. This wait lasted 35 years. When the Polygon victim list was released, we found the names of five of our family members on it. The wait was over and our hope had collapsed. All the family members were crying.

One day, we went with a number of friends and one of my uncle's sons to the hill of Polygon’s victims in Pul-e Charkhi. When I was walking on the soil of Polygon, I was busy with the question of what my father and uncles said to each other in those heavy moments before death and what their last words to each other were.

After we learned what had happened to my father and uncles, we honored them, their memories, and other victims by organizing a program with a title written in bold: "Even If a Hundred Years Pass, You Will Not Be Forgotten."

They brought him covered with a shroud

Narrator: Aminuddin Ahmadi (father)

Victim: Abdul Hakim Ahmadi

The time of the incident: March 2014

The place of the incident: Grishk District, Helmand Province

My name is Aminuddin. My father's name is Ewaz Ahmadi. My son's name is Abdul Hakim. His surname is Ahmadi. He was 21-years-old when he was martyred. He was single and had studied until the ninth grade. At the time of his death, he was a school student. He was with some of his classmates and wanted to go to Iran. He did not say anything about it to me. He had hidden it from me. They were trapped in the middle of a war. He was martyred there in Helmand in Grishk District.

He wanted to go to work because our economic situation was not good. It is still not good now. We were not able to prepare stationary, clothes, and other necessities for him to go to school. He was suffering, so he left. In March 2014, it was raining. None of our family members knew that he left until he reached Kabul. He called me to stop wandering behind me, as I going to Iran.

I told him to come back. I told him in Hazaragi, "There is no bread hanging in Iran for you to collect." He said, "No, I'm going. It's difficult for me to study here." He went with three of his friends. I saw one of his friends who had come with his body. I asked him, and he said that they went to Helmand and stayed in Grishk for the night. In the morning, they wanted to go to the Iranian border. They were walking away from the hotel and the market when they heard gunfire. They walked ten steps back and then a bullet hit him. He fell and remained there.

On the day he was martyred, he remained in Grishk. His friends had called someone in Kabul, probably, as they had friends in the government. So, they coordinated the issue with them. The government brought the body to Kabul and handed him over to the governmental 400 Bed military hospital. Only one bullet hit him on the left side and it came out on the right side.

His friends told us that he was running ahead of them. They said, "He jumped to one side in front of me. I thought somewhere his leg got stuck and fell. I passed him, and I said 'get up and let's go.'" His friend said that Abdul didn't make any sound: "I came a little way back. When he was rolling, he didn't say anything to me. If he did say anything, his conversation was not understood." When they brought him to Kabul. I was in Nayak Bazaar. He had his ID card with him so a government staff member had called relevant officials in Yakawlang District and said that a person reading his name and village had been killed in Grishk, and instructed them to inform his family. I was in the market and I did not know anything about it. A shop keeper from our village called me to go to his shop. I went to his shop and sat in front of his shop.

Then he quickly told me, without introduction, that a man named Abdul Hakim, son of Aminuddin from Tajko Village, was martyred. He asked if I knew him. I said, "No, I don't know." A minute later, I stood and went to the bazaar behind the shop. One of my brothers was in Kabul. I called him, telling him the issue. I found out that someone else had called my brother before calling me, so my brother was already at the hospital. The road to Bamiyan was closed and planes are not accessible to poor people like me. After two days, they left at night. The body came to Bamiyan via Ghorband Valley. The Bamiyan governor cooperated. He provided an ambulance and brought him here. When I heard the news, I went back home. It was already morning. My wife was confused. "What happened?" she asked. "What is up? Why did you come back?" I said that I didn't want to go, and then she looked at me and said, "No, there is a something you aren't telling me." I said that nothing had happened. There is a valley behind our house. I left because she should not know about her son, but she came after me. From there, I turned left and went to my father's house. My father was alive at that time. God forgive me, when I turned left, she followed me again. She followed me and said, "Why are you not telling the truth? What is the matter? Something happened that you are hiding from me."

We were having this conversation when suddenly she fell down as she was paralyzed. None of her arms and legs were working. This was while I had not told her anything yet. You know that our people are a type of people who, when they hear a story, a conversation, they happily go to the top of the hill and shout it and spread that story. I had to say it to my wife myself, as people told me in the market. I told myself that someone may tell her while collecting water or somewhere else, which would not be good for her and me.

So I told her the news. She started crying, she cried loudly. My daughters who was collecting water heard and came to my father’s house. When they arrived at the gate, they understood the story. Whatever was in their hands dropped down and they started crying and moaning. It was a hard time. My younger daughter fell down. Her situation got worse and I had to bring her to the doctor in Yakawlang Hospital. Doctors did not accepted her and referred to Bamiyan Provincial Hospital.

We didn't tell her mother at all where she was. We brought her to Bamiyan Hospital. Bamiyan kept her in bed for three nights. After that, we brought her back. Fatiha ceremony was over. Her mother was always in pain, she was always screaming that she had a headache. We took her to the hospital in Bamiyan. My wife now had a high blood pressure, which was 230 or so. After her son was killed, her blood pressure is always high. My daughter also has a health issue now. If there is any noise, she will fall. Those are my problems.

He was still a child; he did not think about these things that one day his memories would be written. He was a quiet and calm child. If he was sitting in a meeting or in a classroom, he would not speak a single word. If anyone saw, they would think that he might have a problem and maybe he is dumb. But if the teacher asked the lesson, he would explain it the way the teacher explained it. He was extremely sensitive to lies.

We receive 40,000 AFN/year from the Martyrs and Disabled Department. To be honest, in the current situation, we do not have any expectations of government officials because they are corrupt. If you go to them, they would expect you to give them some money. What else can we expect from this kind of the government? His nine grade school books and a picture are left. His friends brought his phone too. Yes, the only thing they brought to me from there is his phone. They didn't bring us any of his clothes from there. They brought him in a shroud from there.

We gave him his clothes here. He had some kind of new clothes. I hid his phone from his mother and his sisters so that they wouldn't see it. I will keep those books and photo in the museum. What can I say about him? Nothing to say. He left us alone. May God grant him paradise. I pray for his soul to be happy.

They Were Shot in Their Chests

Narrator: Asadullah Fayzi

Victim: Baqijan Fayzi

Time of the incident: 1997

The place of the incident: Qorachin Village, Chaharbulak District, Mazar-e-Sharif

Type of incident: Gunshot

My father's name was Baqijan Fayzi. He was almost 38-years-old. He was young at the time of the accident. He had married when he was so young. I was about four or five years old when he died; I was very small. One day, I was standing at the courtyard door. I noticed that as he walked down the alley with another person, a hat was on his head, although he normally didn't wear a hat. I didn't recognize him. I said, "Hey! Hey! Who are you?" He was ahead of me. When he looked, I saw that he was my father. He smiled at me. This was very interesting to me.

My father's birthplace is Qorachin Village, Chaharbolak District, Balkh Province. As a farmer, he was busy with agriculture and peasantry.

He studied in school up to the six and seventh grades, but he had not finished school. He had two children, one girl and one boy. I was older than my sister. I am now 24-years-old. My sister, Fatima, is two years younger than me, she is twenty-two-years-old. She has finished her studies and now she is a schoolteacher. She has also studied up to the fourteenth grade.

The attack happened near our village named Qizilqala. It was Taliban’s last attack, after which the Taliban fell. I think it was 1996 or 1997.

The incident was in the morning, it was eight or nine o'clock. The Taliban came to our village and gathered the people of the village in the mosque. My father told us that he should go too. They took my father and my uncle. After three days, both of them were martyred in Qazal Qala Village as I mentioned. They were serving the people in the village. They were the elders of the village. Taliban killed them anyway. Taliban committed genocide in their first round of attack. They killed so many people in their first attack.

His family started looking for him but did not find him. In the village, someone has seen these two people who had been killed, so they told their families. My cousins, though they were small, had run away from home. They had hide in a plain. My father had told me not to go to the mosque because he was worried that I would be taken by the Taliban, but I said, "No, let them take me too." I was not afraid.

They took them that morning. I remember my father's uncle, who was an elderly person. Taliban tied his hands behind his back and carried him towards the mosque. I did not go to the mosque myself because I was small. When they were taken away, the women were crying. My grandmother was there, my mother was there, but the Taliban did not release anyone.

It was rumored that the people were tied up in a car, dragged, and later shot with bullets. The people who were from our village said so; they had seen it. There were no other witnesses except for them. They had tied my father to a car and dragged him to Qizilqala, a neighboring village. It is relatively far; half an hour away. My father's body was found by the local people. They informed us that they had found two bodies and asked if they were ours. They told me to tell someone to come and take the bodies. My uncle went to the site and recognized the corpses, so he brought them back.

They were taken and thrown in a desert. The day after they were taken, my uncle started asking about them. Where are they? Are they detained? Are they alive? Later, some people informed us that there were two bodies in the desert. My uncle went there and yes, found their bodies. They had been shot in their chests and shoulders. Their faces were destroyed. There were many wounds and scratches on their bodies. My uncle's son’s forehead was badly split. The Taliban had beaten them a lot.

Upon hearing the news, everyone was unwell. My uncle fell unconscious for a few hours out of shock. My father's death changed our lives a lot. We faced many problems. We went through a lot of hardships. Life is really hard without a father. After my father, my uncle and my mother tried to keep the family together. My mother is a seamstress, she has been sewing ever since. The Taliban will do anything for their own benefit.

They don't have much to do with other ethnicities. Charbulok Village is resided by different ethnicities, it is mixed, but they used to harass Hazara people there a lot. They asked them for bread, money, weapons. They used to say to my father, "You are the leader of the Hazara people, you have many weapons. Give us weapons." How many weapons did they give if they had them? The Taliban would come again and search themselves. Because of having [and not having] weapons, they were beaten a lot.

Yes, the responsibility of financing the house was on my father's shoulders. My grandfather was there and my uncle was there. My grandfather was an elderly man. My father was responsible to support the household financially. We all lived in the same house together. Yes, my aunt was there too. Her and her husband lived together with us. The number of family members was big, about twenty, twenty-five people in total. Now there are 9 of us. After my father, my uncles and my mother now support the family. We still live in the same house in our village. That is our own house.

Oh, I was badly affected by the incident. I got a low spirit after it. This made me personally very weak. My mother... my mother suffered a lot, for a long time she was... For now, life is good. It is normal. It's been two years that I'm married and other family members were separated from us. My uncle and his family are now in Mazar Sharif. My cousins (my mother’s brothers) are here. They are almost at the same place as us; our houses are side-by-side.

Currently, there is no war in our village. Because our village is close to Chaharbulak District - just twenty minutes away - Taliban come to our village but don’t go further. Taliban often attack from this side and the government shoots them back. A month ago, Taliban took all other villages. Only our village was left. In our village, there was a government base, but they left after the other villages were captured. Taliban come periodically, once or twice a week, and the government does not.

Although the government is close (we can see them from the village), they don't fight as much as they did in the past and don’t come to our village. Taliban take tithes and zakat from local people. Tithes is about wheat. From ten bushels of wheat, they will take one bushel. From twenty bushels, they will take two bushels. Everyone gives. If someone doesn't give, he will be punished. Taliban announced that people must wait for them to come and count the bushels of their harvest, so that the Taliban can take some right away.

Yes, there are schools. Girls go to school. The school is in our village. The girls are up to 9th grade. They say their teachers should be women. Girls were not going to school for a while when Taliban came; the schools were off for a few days. After that, school resumed.

There were many people who left their jobs in government offices due to fear of the Taliban in this district. Even the cleaners left their duties due to fear. They didn't go to the office anymore. There were a few more soldiers from our own village, they were scared because there have been so many fights. Many people were killed in the war. Soldiers managed to take a letter from the Taliban, it was a guarantee that they would not be soldiers anymore, they could go and work in their village. Although they are no longer soldiers, they could not come to their village to see their families.

There were national police present to ensure the security of Qora Chin Village. In addition to police, there were militia (called ARBAKI: local armed men) supported by the government. Arbakis were harassing people and stealing people’s property. I didn't see it myself, but people of the village say so. They have many stories. According to one story, people stopped a man on his motorcycle one night. While their faces were covered, they took away all his valuables. The Taliban is back; Arbakis don't do those things. Arbakis are also completely gone, our area has been completely cleared. It is only the district center, which is under the control of the government.

The Taliban are from the neighbouring villages. Some are from our village too. Local Talib accompany the outsiders, they are together. No, they don't harass civilians.

Our wish is peace. Since the government is there in the center, they don't want war either. Their people and many of their soldiers were martyred, they were killed. Other police bases were taken by the Taliban.

If the government fights with the Taliban, it is good to clean up our areas. Make it peaceful and calm, so that everyone can do their jobs and go to school. Our biggest wish is that there will be peace and prosperity for our homeland. Many people in Chaharbulak are complaining about the insecurity. They are tired of it. One day, people should be able to take care of their business and land properly. My father was a good-natured person. Even now, everyone who comes praises my father a lot. No, my grandmother has passed away. We buried my father in a cemetery near the village, yes, in the village of Qorah Chin.

His Body was Swollen

Narrator: Azadeh Sadat Hussaini (Daughter)

Victim: Fatima

Time of the incident: 08 August 1999

Place of the accident: Mazar-e-Sharif, Pole Merab Type of accident: Hit by shrapnel

My name is Azadeh. My mother was married several years after my father. Now my ID card is in my stepfather's name. I am Azadeh Seyyed Salman in the ID and my real father's name is Seyed Shah Mohammad. His surname is Sadat Hosseini. The victim is my mother, her name is Fatima. Fatima Seyed Nasro, her name on her NID. Surname? No, she did not have a surname.

She was killed in Pole Merab by shrapnel while fleeing in the plain. They were running towards the Charkent which is above from here. The area is mountainous. We buried her in Pole Merab. When the Taliban came in the first round and took the whole city, they stayed for a few years. It was June or July. The wheat had grown. People were running away to the Charkent out of fear. Many were hiding in the wheat which saved their lives.

Shima: There was no wheat on our side. I remember a day when the weather was very hot, many people died when they fled to the mountains.

Azadeh: What exactly happened, what happened? I don't remember much. I was married. People said that she had so many splinters in her armpit that she never recovered. My mother was 55-years-old. When she came home, she could not speak. Later, she told the story that she was running away: "While I was riding a donkey, I suddenly got some sharp objects in my body. I didn't understand where they came from. My body only felt burning and blood flowed. If I wasn't riding that donkey, maybe the shrapnel wouldn't have hit me." The iron pieces had not gone deep. Some were pulled out by hand. But there was no doctor in the Charkent. The wounds became infected and after four months, she was brought to Mazar City. We took her to a doctor, but it didn't work at all. She was scared.

We live in Pole Merab. When the Taliban came, most of the people of the city fled. But we didn't go. My husband did not go. Everyone fled to Charkent. The city was empty. People stayed there for a while until the city calmed down. Some came early, those who had problems came early, those who didn't have problems stayed even for a year. When it was completely calm, everyone returned to their homes and lives.

Mentally, one feels a lot of pain and suffering. When my mother passed away, her house and life fell apart. My father left one way, my sister went her way, she was single, but she got married unintentionally. We don't know where she is anymore. My poor father was sick, often he came to my house. I had no place for him and I was pregnant. What did I do? I found a wife for him. Yes, now he has gone back to his house and has a wife. He has many children from this wife. Well, that's how it happened, no one of us... no one left of my family. I have a sister, she was in Iran. It's been a few years since she has come. She was also not there. It was really hard for me, I was completely alone...

Taliban took [my husband], took him from the market, took him away, we were completely disappointed. Because when Talib took anyone, he never came back. But God helped, of course he had to live for a while in this world. He came back. When he came, I couldn't recognize him at all. His body was totally black; he didn't have a single white spot because he was beaten. His body was swollen. He was sleeping in front of the window and everyone who saw him was afraid. I sat one night until the morning. I dressed his severely injured body. I gave him medicine. He was moaning and could not sleep. This situation continued for several days. But when the Taliban were defeated, our neighbours said that he should not sit there like that. If the Taliban came again and saw him in that state, they would question what he did to be beaten so badly.

After that, they took him to the village. For a month, I was with my daughter, the same daughter who is here. I was alone in the house with a woman who was a neighbour. We have seen many bad days, no expenses, nothing... To survive, I had to sell the houseware to buy food items. Nothing was left for us, nothing. My poor husband became disabled. He can't work. Heavy work hurts his back. Many of us have seen bad days. It was very difficult for me. My poor husband had never used a weapon. He was a laborer and ordinary citizen. The people who had guns, power, and money went away way before Taliban came. We the poor were trampled.

I don't remember anything. He came home late at night on the same day they took him. He used to say that he couldn't come home on my foot; he walked from the city to the house like a child using his hands and knees. His knees were swollen. He said that Taliban made me sleep, one of them stood on his feet, one of them put his foot on his back, and one of them put his foot on his neck. They hit him three times with a big cable with three locks tied at the end of it. They said to give them weapons. He said he doesn't have a weapon. They said to give them a weapon soon. Helpless, he is now disabled and can no longer work.

If he finds light work, he will do it, but he cannot do heavy work. He was beaten savagely. Taliban's takeover ended up very difficult for ordinary people. No one has good memories of that time, they all have bad memories.

When I regained consciousness, one was lying on the right side and the other on the left side.

Aziza Akbari was born in Sangcharak District of Sar-e Pul Province in Tebar Village. She grew up in Balkh. She studied education in Balkh Province and studies medicine in a private university. She is a twenty-year-old and is the cousin of the victims. She speaks very slowly and describes the incident.

Narrator: Aziza Akbari (Uncle's Daughter)

Victims: Ahmad Sohail and Marhaba

Date of the incident: November 2017

Location of the incident: Mirzavalang, Saiyad District, Sar-e Pol Province

In the winter of 2017, the Taliban attack Tabar Village - my village -which was the center of several other villages. If they took this village, they would be able to increase their control and possessions over other villages. So, they would attack this village a lot. When people got info about the Taliban’s attack on our village, people would run away to save their lives. They would take only one piece of clothing and save the family members. They would close their homes and run away to save their lives. The Taliban had spies among the people.

My uncle had three sons and two daughters. He prevented his eldest son from going to school and wanted him to be a Quran reciter. He had taken him to the reciters. One day while he was reciting, his hands were on his feet. His teacher (the Mullah) had slashed him with a stick. The sick hit on one of his eyes. He had poor eyesight for one or two weeks, and in the third week, he told his father that he couldn't see with his right eye. After that, his father wanted to take him to Pakistan for treatment. He was in Mazar-e-Sharif at the time, when Taliban suddenly invaded and occupied our area. He called his family to come out of the house and told his wife to take their children and go to a safe area.

The mother takes her two daughters and one of her sons, her other son left the area with his uncle. In the third day of the war, she heard that war had ended and everybody could go home. She had gone back with her two children; one daughter, Marhaba, and one of her sons, Sohail. Unfortunately, she was trapped in the middle of war, near their house; they had heard wrong information. At the time of the incident, I was in Mazar-e-Sharif with my family. We moved here after 2016 and they were there.

She has gone early in the morning at breakfast time. They were trapped until 11AM. My uncle's wife told us that we were in the warzone. A mortar or rocket directly hit my daughter and she was martyred on the spot. I was unconscious and when I regained my consciousness, the sun was shining on my head and the Taliban were walking here and there. They did not help us. Her son had all his intestines protruding from his abdomen. It was around 12:00 o'clock - lunch time, we got the news that two of her children were martyred.

My uncle was at our home and he was informed that he should go to the site as soon as possible. My uncle's wife said that when the incident happened, it was early in the morning as there were shadows. The sun passed over our heads; it was around 12 noon. I kept calling out that my daughter and I were okay, please help my son at least. First, the Taliban were careless. After a while, the Taliban put all his intestines in his stomach and took him to the mosque, then my younger uncle took Sohail to a hospital. His situation was so bad that even my uncle could not look at him. As said, his father was here in Mazar, he wanted to go to Pakistan. When he heard the news, he moved directly from Mazar to Sar-e Pol. He had brought his wife and son to the center of Sar-e Pol. His daughter had been killed immediately on the spot, she had been hit directly. Her mother was also severely wounded on her right leg and she was operated on several times. Sohail had been taken to Sar-e Pol, then to Sheberghan and to Mazar-e-Sharif. Sohail was operated on twice in Mazar-e-Sharif.

They only operated on his stomach and did not do anything with his legs. Doctors had operated first on his stomach and moved his intestines, then wanted to work on his legs. After a few days, the poor boy’s foot became microbial.

The boy was able to chat normally every day. He chatted in such a way that we thought that no accident had happened to him at all. But he would suddenly faint; he was getting weaker every day. Finally, Sohail was taken to Kabul. They reached out to all sides and authorities. We said we should at least save the boy’s life. With a lot of effort, they reached the emergency hospital in Kabul where it is very difficult to accept such patients.

He had been to the children's hospital in Kabul. I don't know exactly. He was operated on there too. He became weaker day-by-day and in the days close to his death, he could not even speak. When doctors opened the bandage of his legs, they faced a very bad condition. After the operation, they informed him that he had died. I don't know when Sohail Jan passed away.

He was alive for about 38 or 40 days. He had been taken from one hospital to another one. He had undergone various operations until finally he was martyred.

When Marhaba was brought to be buried, none of us saw her. It was said that her scarf was not even removed from her head, but when you touched her, all her bones were broken into pieces. Her single bones were completely torn apart under her skin.

Their mother said: "It was a mortar or a rocket. When it hit, the whole place was covered in dust. I didn't see anything, I lost my consciousness... When I regained consciousness, my daughter was on my left, my son was on my right. My daughter had been martyred and my son was saying, 'Mother!' No matter how much I told the Taliban to help me to at least save my son, they did not pay attention."

They were so cruel that they didn't even pay attention to the fact that this child was lying here, and they should take him a little under the shade. She said that there were people in the houses at that time, but they could not come out to save his life. There was a person in the neighbouring house who threw a plastic sheet out from under the door to cover the girl's body, but he could not get out himself.

There are local Taliban in the village among the people. When we called them many times and begged them, they took my child to the mosque and the Taliban who were from other areas did not help.

No, no, his mother didn't have a phone. At twelve o'clock, my uncle received a call from the village that his wife and children were martyred and he must come collect them. It was still 1 o'clock when the mother of my uncle’s wife arrived at the scene of the incident and took her daughter to the mosque, and from the mosque to the district clinic.

The Taliban brought the boy to the mosque and my younger uncle took the boy. The mother of my uncle’s wife, granddaughter of my uncle, together with my aunt's husband, went to the area. They put the body of the girl inside the roller. They had taken both the boy and the girl to Sar-e Pol.

My uncle’s wife herself does not talk about her pain, she was only worried about her children's health. When they took her to Sheberghan, her leg was operated on so she had to stay there, but her son was brought to Mazar-e-Sharif. It was November, and the village was calm and quiet. Then after 30 days, she was still worried about her son and was saying: My daughter was killed, my son should stay alive." 38 or 40 days later, when she heard that her son died too, she was mentally destroyed. She sat in her place and she could not get up for almost a year. Her eldest daughter was doing her work. Only God and herself know her pain and grief.

My uncle was a very brave man, he showed his bravery here in this very difficult time as he did not raise his noise. He was a tall man who, when you look him from his back, you'd think he was an eighty-year-old man, he was bent over like that. He became like that after the incident. Now the whole area is under the control of Taliban. The center of Sangcharak District is under the government.

Before the incident, my uncle was telling his wife not to go to the village. He called her every minute saying not go anywhere and to stay at her mother's house. She had gone out at once, but she came back soon. Someone had told her that it was good she came back. But she could not wait and told her, "Let me go and check my house once, war is ended." She moved towards the house without my uncle knowing it.

People walk there and don't use cars so much. It has been an hour walk. Her family knew, but my uncle and our family did not know that they had moved to that direction. The war was going on in the village. Some say that it was the government's rocket or mortar, and some say that Taliban deliberately hit this family. It is not clear whether the Taliban hit or the government's aerial missiles hit as the war was intense at that time.

I think it was the second war in the region, after that it was always sporadic fighting. Our village was very good in every way before that, it was populated, peaceful, and green. But when Taliban captured the area, the village was not like it was in the past. Taliban were oppressing/harassing people and shopkeepers. Taliban were taking tithe based on the goods available in the shop. They charged every shop 10-15000Afn. There are many good grape gardens in our village, which produce a lot of grape every year. Grape is the main source of income of people in our village. Taliban takes tithes of these local products.

In my opinion, the incident was as a result of difference among the people. Some take the government's side and some the Taliban's side. Taliban has put a lot of pressure on the people and propagated against the government. When you go to the village nowadays, people praise the Taliban a lot. People are not united. These differences caused the area to collapse at the hand of the Taliban.

First the Taliban killed all elders, influential people, those who could read and write, or those who could speak in public. They would kill them either at night, or on their way to somewhere, or in the evening when they came out of the mosque, or when coming out of Friday prayer. They were killed everywhere. Now when you go to the village, there is not a single person left who can write or speak. Yes, they were killed in the first stage. Then, Taliban occupied the village themselves.

It has been almost ten years since we came here (Mazar City) to study. We only went for three months in winter and one month in summer because of holidays.

Currently, the mother, eldest daughter, and one of her sons live in our village, in Tebar. My uncle has taken his eldest son to Turkey to treat his eye, which was hurt by a Mullah.

Our only wish is peace and stabilization in the area. Nothing is more important than peace. When it is calm, you are fully healthy. Can you believe that when there is a war between the government and the Taliban, people leave their homes and properties? They can’t go back to the area for a long time. You know how much they would be harmed? How much they suffer? We only want peace, we don't want anything else.

I don't know whether the government is paying attention to the perpetrators of this incident or not. In my opinion, the government should pay attention to these kinds of issues, otherwise everyone will become indifferent to the government. The government starts a war for a short time, doesn't try to capture the area, then stops the war and leaves the area. Their operations must be successful. If they can’t do it, they should not do it at all. What is the point of such operations? Only civilians are killed in the war. There are no other results of their unsuccessful operations.

In this case, it is better that Taliban take the area, so that people don’t die in the war. As a citizen, I want the government to bring peace throughout the country. How long we are displaced and go from one region to another to protect our lives. We just want peace.

Taliban are very cruel people. People come from the village and tell us stories of Taliban bad behavior and cruelty.

You should wear Burqa there. Villagers say that Taliban made a pipe out of animal skin and filled it up with coins. When something is against their will, they whip the person in public. They have dangerous appearance. We cannot go out into the street. Most grown-ups have left the village and there are small people living in the community. If we go out of the house, we have to put on Chadari. For Taliban it makes no difference if you are a 12 or 15-year-old girl, everyone has to put on Chadari.

They allowed school only until the sixth grade, girls can’t go to school above the sixth grade. The situation is not good at all, people have to fulfill all Taliban expenses. They enter a mosque and say that tonight they are guests. People are poor. Those who were not poor have become poor and left the village. This is what the Taliban do.

My uncle had five children, two of them were martyred and three remain. His eldest daughter is about 16-years-old. She was a school student. She is not allowed to study anymore. His son Nurul Amin is almost 14-years-old. If children are going to school, they must wear white clothes and caps. School teachers are from the same area. They teach the children. My uncle has another daughter, her name is Nabila. She is married. It has been 16 years that she has lived in her own independent house.

My uncle was the only breadwinner of his family. He had a three tired motorcycle and a house of their own. The mental condition of the mother has not improved yet. She remembers her children, how can her mental state improve? She is withered and unwell and can't walk. She hasn't been able to walk for almost two years now. How can she forget such a heartbreaking incident where two of her children were martyred? Her mental state is very bad for now.

Her elder daughter is also not in a good state. If you call her ten times, she will not respond. She saw her brother in that situation and she witnessed her younger sister where the incident took place. She is not normal, she was also affected mentally.

Marhaba Jan was buried in the same area where her grandmother lived, and martyr Ahmad Sohail was buried in his own area.

As far as my memories are concerned, I have many sweet memories from my childhood. Because we all lived in the same village. We all gathered in one place in the evening. Sohail was a funny kid, he used to annoy us a lot, but the girl was calm. Whenever I stayed at their house, in the morning when I was sleeping - I liked this habit a lot - in the morning after the prayer call, if it was winter, she would bring warm water and wake me up to do my prayer. She paid a lot of attention to prayer and recited Quran very well.

At that age, she was very kind. She always used to wake me up in the morning when I was in their house. This was a good memory and I liked it. It is a custom that they give all their belongings to somebody. Marhaba Jan made a knitted dress for herself. I have brought that for the museum.

When I regained consciousness, one was lying on the right side and the other on the left side.

Aziza Akbari was born in Sangcharak District of Sar-e Pul Province in Tebar Village. She grew up in Balkh. She studied education in Balkh Province and studies medicine in a private university. She is a twenty-year-old and is the cousin of the victims. She speaks very slowly and describes the incident.

Narrator: Aziza Akbari (Uncle's Daughter)

Victims: Ahmad Sohail and Marhaba

Date of the incident: November 2017

Location of the incident: Mirzavalang, Saiyad District, Sar-e Pol Province

In the winter of 2017, the Taliban attack Tabar Village - my village -which was the center of several other villages. If they took this village, they would be able to increase their control and possessions over other villages. So, they would attack this village a lot. When people got info about the Taliban’s attack on our village, people would run away to save their lives. They would take only one piece of clothing and save the family members. They would close their homes and run away to save their lives. The Taliban had spies among the people.

My uncle had three sons and two daughters. He prevented his eldest son from going to school and wanted him to be a Quran reciter. He had taken him to the reciters. One day while he was reciting, his hands were on his feet. His teacher (the Mullah) had slashed him with a stick. The sick hit on one of his eyes. He had poor eyesight for one or two weeks, and in the third week, he told his father that he couldn't see with his right eye. After that, his father wanted to take him to Pakistan for treatment. He was in Mazar-e-Sharif at the time, when Taliban suddenly invaded and occupied our area. He called his family to come out of the house and told his wife to take their children and go to a safe area.

The mother takes her two daughters and one of her sons, her other son left the area with his uncle. In the third day of the war, she heard that war had ended and everybody could go home. She had gone back with her two children; one daughter, Marhaba, and one of her sons, Sohail. Unfortunately, she was trapped in the middle of war, near their house; they had heard wrong information. At the time of the incident, I was in Mazar-e-Sharif with my family. We moved here after 2016 and they were there.

She has gone early in the morning at breakfast time. They were trapped until 11AM. My uncle's wife told us that we were in the warzone. A mortar or rocket directly hit my daughter and she was martyred on the spot. I was unconscious and when I regained my consciousness, the sun was shining on my head and the Taliban were walking here and there. They did not help us. Her son had all his intestines protruding from his abdomen. It was around 12:00 o'clock - lunch time, we got the news that two of her children were martyred.

My uncle was at our home and he was informed that he should go to the site as soon as possible. My uncle's wife said that when the incident happened, it was early in the morning as there were shadows. The sun passed over our heads; it was around 12 noon. I kept calling out that my daughter and I were okay, please help my son at least. First, the Taliban were careless. After a while, the Taliban put all his intestines in his stomach and took him to the mosque, then my younger uncle took Sohail to a hospital. His situation was so bad that even my uncle could not look at him. As said, his father was here in Mazar, he wanted to go to Pakistan. When he heard the news, he moved directly from Mazar to Sar-e Pol. He had brought his wife and son to the center of Sar-e Pol. His daughter had been killed immediately on the spot, she had been hit directly. Her mother was also severely wounded on her right leg and she was operated on several times. Sohail had been taken to Sar-e Pol, then to Sheberghan and to Mazar-e-Sharif. Sohail was operated on twice in Mazar-e-Sharif.

They only operated on his stomach and did not do anything with his legs. Doctors had operated first on his stomach and moved his intestines, then wanted to work on his legs. After a few days, the poor boy’s foot became microbial.

The boy was able to chat normally every day. He chatted in such a way that we thought that no accident had happened to him at all. But he would suddenly faint; he was getting weaker every day. Finally, Sohail was taken to Kabul. They reached out to all sides and authorities. We said we should at least save the boy’s life. With a lot of effort, they reached the emergency hospital in Kabul where it is very difficult to accept such patients.

He had been to the children's hospital in Kabul. I don't know exactly. He was operated on there too. He became weaker day-by-day and in the days close to his death, he could not even speak. When doctors opened the bandage of his legs, they faced a very bad condition. After the operation, they informed him that he had died. I don't know when Sohail Jan passed away.

He was alive for about 38 or 40 days. He had been taken from one hospital to another one. He had undergone various operations until finally he was martyred.

When Marhaba was brought to be buried, none of us saw her. It was said that her scarf was not even removed from her head, but when you touched her, all her bones were broken into pieces. Her single bones were completely torn apart under her skin.

Their mother said: "It was a mortar or a rocket. When it hit, the whole place was covered in dust. I didn't see anything, I lost my consciousness... When I regained consciousness, my daughter was on my left, my son was on my right. My daughter had been martyred and my son was saying, 'Mother!' No matter how much I told the Taliban to help me to at least save my son, they did not pay attention."

They were so cruel that they didn't even pay attention to the fact that this child was lying here, and they should take him a little under the shade. She said that there were people in the houses at that time, but they could not come out to save his life. There was a person in the neighbouring house who threw a plastic sheet out from under the door to cover the girl's body, but he could not get out himself.

There are local Taliban in the village among the people. When we called them many times and begged them, they took my child to the mosque and the Taliban who were from other areas did not help.

No, no, his mother didn't have a phone. At twelve o'clock, my uncle received a call from the village that his wife and children were martyred and he must come collect them. It was still 1 o'clock when the mother of my uncle’s wife arrived at the scene of the incident and took her daughter to the mosque, and from the mosque to the district clinic.

The Taliban brought the boy to the mosque and my younger uncle took the boy. The mother of my uncle’s wife, granddaughter of my uncle, together with my aunt's husband, went to the area. They put the body of the girl inside the roller. They had taken both the boy and the girl to Sar-e Pol.

My uncle’s wife herself does not talk about her pain, she was only worried about her children's health. When they took her to Sheberghan, her leg was operated on so she had to stay there, but her son was brought to Mazar-e-Sharif. It was November, and the village was calm and quiet. Then after 30 days, she was still worried about her son and was saying: My daughter was killed, my son should stay alive." 38 or 40 days later, when she heard that her son died too, she was mentally destroyed. She sat in her place and she could not get up for almost a year. Her eldest daughter was doing her work. Only God and herself know her pain and grief.

My uncle was a very brave man, he showed his bravery here in this very difficult time as he did not raise his noise. He was a tall man who, when you look him from his back, you'd think he was an eighty-year-old man, he was bent over like that. He became like that after the incident. Now the whole area is under the control of Taliban. The center of Sangcharak District is under the government.

Before the incident, my uncle was telling his wife not to go to the village. He called her every minute saying not go anywhere and to stay at her mother's house. She had gone out at once, but she came back soon. Someone had told her that it was good she came back. But she could not wait and told her, "Let me go and check my house once, war is ended." She moved towards the house without my uncle knowing it.

People walk there and don't use cars so much. It has been an hour walk. Her family knew, but my uncle and our family did not know that they had moved to that direction. The war was going on in the village. Some say that it was the government's rocket or mortar, and some say that Taliban deliberately hit this family. It is not clear whether the Taliban hit or the government's aerial missiles hit as the war was intense at that time.

I think it was the second war in the region, after that it was always sporadic fighting. Our village was very good in every way before that, it was populated, peaceful, and green. But when Taliban captured the area, the village was not like it was in the past. Taliban were oppressing/harassing people and shopkeepers. Taliban were taking tithe based on the goods available in the shop. They charged every shop 10-15000Afn. There are many good grape gardens in our village, which produce a lot of grape every year. Grape is the main source of income of people in our village. Taliban takes tithes of these local products.

In my opinion, the incident was as a result of difference among the people. Some take the government's side and some the Taliban's side. Taliban has put a lot of pressure on the people and propagated against the government. When you go to the village nowadays, people praise the Taliban a lot. People are not united. These differences caused the area to collapse at the hand of the Taliban.

First the Taliban killed all elders, influential people, those who could read and write, or those who could speak in public. They would kill them either at night, or on their way to somewhere, or in the evening when they came out of the mosque, or when coming out of Friday prayer. They were killed everywhere. Now when you go to the village, there is not a single person left who can write or speak. Yes, they were killed in the first stage. Then, Taliban occupied the village themselves.

It has been almost ten years since we came here (Mazar City) to study. We only went for three months in winter and one month in summer because of holidays.

Currently, the mother, eldest daughter, and one of her sons live in our village, in Tebar. My uncle has taken his eldest son to Turkey to treat his eye, which was hurt by a Mullah.

Our only wish is peace and stabilization in the area. Nothing is more important than peace. When it is calm, you are fully healthy. Can you believe that when there is a war between the government and the Taliban, people leave their homes and properties? They can’t go back to the area for a long time. You know how much they would be harmed? How much they suffer? We only want peace, we don't want anything else.

I don't know whether the government is paying attention to the perpetrators of this incident or not. In my opinion, the government should pay attention to these kinds of issues, otherwise everyone will become indifferent to the government. The government starts a war for a short time, doesn't try to capture the area, then stops the war and leaves the area. Their operations must be successful. If they can’t do it, they should not do it at all. What is the point of such operations? Only civilians are killed in the war. There are no other results of their unsuccessful operations.

In this case, it is better that Taliban take the area, so that people don’t die in the war. As a citizen, I want the government to bring peace throughout the country. How long we are displaced and go from one region to another to protect our lives. We just want peace.

Taliban are very cruel people. People come from the village and tell us stories of Taliban bad behavior and cruelty.

You should wear Burqa there. Villagers say that Taliban made a pipe out of animal skin and filled it up with coins. When something is against their will, they whip the person in public. They have dangerous appearance. We cannot go out into the street. Most grown-ups have left the village and there are small people living in the community. If we go out of the house, we have to put on Chadari. For Taliban it makes no difference if you are a 12 or 15-year-old girl, everyone has to put on Chadari.

They allowed school only until the sixth grade, girls can’t go to school above the sixth grade. The situation is not good at all, people have to fulfill all Taliban expenses. They enter a mosque and say that tonight they are guests. People are poor. Those who were not poor have become poor and left the village. This is what the Taliban do.

My uncle had five children, two of them were martyred and three remain. His eldest daughter is about 16-years-old. She was a school student. She is not allowed to study anymore. His son Nurul Amin is almost 14-years-old. If children are going to school, they must wear white clothes and caps. School teachers are from the same area. They teach the children. My uncle has another daughter, her name is Nabila. She is married. It has been 16 years that she has lived in her own independent house.

My uncle was the only breadwinner of his family. He had a three tired motorcycle and a house of their own. The mental condition of the mother has not improved yet. She remembers her children, how can her mental state improve? She is withered and unwell and can't walk. She hasn't been able to walk for almost two years now. How can she forget such a heartbreaking incident where two of her children were martyred? Her mental state is very bad for now.

Her elder daughter is also not in a good state. If you call her ten times, she will not respond. She saw her brother in that situation and she witnessed her younger sister where the incident took place. She is not normal, she was also affected mentally.

Marhaba Jan was buried in the same area where her grandmother lived, and martyr Ahmad Sohail was buried in his own area.

As far as my memories are concerned, I have many sweet memories from my childhood. Because we all lived in the same village. We all gathered in one place in the evening. Sohail was a funny kid, he used to annoy us a lot, but the girl was calm. Whenever I stayed at their house, in the morning when I was sleeping - I liked this habit a lot - in the morning after the prayer call, if it was winter, she would bring warm water and wake me up to do my prayer. She paid a lot of attention to prayer and recited Quran very well.

At that age, she was very kind. She always used to wake me up in the morning when I was in their house. This was a good memory and I liked it. It is a custom that they give all their belongings to somebody. Marhaba Jan made a knitted dress for herself. I have brought that for the museum.

Mother's Breadwinner Went

Note: He has lost everything. He says, "My name is Zabihullah, son of Abdullah, a resident of 8th District, Tang Shah Shahid 1st street. Anyone who comes to the first road should ask: where is the place a suicide attack has happened? Where is Zabihullah’s house?"

Zabihullah is a disabled person who has no hands and no eyes. “I have neither hands nor eyes, and my legs are secured with skewers.” These are the same phrases that Zabijullah expresses in his introduction, and shows the summary and clear results of the war to everyone. No more explanation is needed about him. What he says is the truth that the war has put on him and his family.

The story starts from the point where we ask him for permission to film and take pictures of the interview. He gives permission and tells his story in a strange, constant, and current dialogue that goes on always between all people. A conversation between him, his sister (Zhila Abdali), and his wife (Adela), who are sitting together in the interview session, continues and forms the meaningful thread of the narrative. In addition to how Faisal and Ahmadullah were victimized, the life of the narrator is also mentioned and said. If we pay a little attention, the corner of the life of five people is expressed in a dialogue that is sometimes accompanied by anger and insults.

Zabihullah's physical condition is such that he cannot move without his wife and sister. These two women are also narrators who have their own account of the incident. Although a large part of the speech is from Zabihullah, they also speak their words, each of them recorded in their own place. We have not changed the structure of the narration, and we have recorded it in the order in which they spoke.

Narrator: Dagarwal Zabihullah

Victims: Faisal and Ahmadullah

Time of the incident: 29 March 2015

Place of the incident: Kabul City, Shah Shahid

I say, take a hundred photos, scare someone from taking a photo who really is scared of it. Today, you brothers who are working for human rights, who defend human rights firmly and stubbornly in our homeland - today you come to talk to us. You seek info about the martyrs, you interview their heirs. I thank you on behalf of the families of the martyrs of Shah Shaheed and district eight, district nine, and district ten of Kabul City. I am extremely grateful of human rights activists. I am especially happy for the branches that have opened offices in every corner of the city, making them ready to reach the problems of all districts and people of Afghanistan regarding human rights. Your efforts are appreciated.

We are the family of two martyrs (actually four martyrs; two martyrs belong to the distant past), the two school students who were killed on 29 March 2015 as a result of a suicide attack in district 8 in front of Abdul Ghafoor Nadim pharmacy. One of them was Faisal, my son, a ninth-grade student at Sirat private school. The second one was Ahmadullah, my niece, whose mother is here with us. Both of them were in the same school.

They used to go to private school at 6 in the morning and come back at one o'clock. Then they would go to the pharmacy. There, they would do their homework and work until eight in the evening. They had a 2.5 to 3000 AFN salary per month. They were killed on 29 March 2015, and the funeral ceremony was held on the 30th March 2015, at Eidgah Mosque. Then they were buried in their eternal home.

Today, when we see people shouting about democracy, they are talking about human rights. We are not pessimistic about both; we are half pessimistic. What kind of human right is this? Today, when one commits theft, looting, murder, and fights against the government, and human rights activists stand against the government and say don't torture or execute this person, don't kill them, human rights say this? Today, as a result of a suicide attack on a Member of Parliament (MP), our children were killed. How come human rights organization and activist do not investigate and ask about them? We remember the Siyasang incident; how many people were killed, how many people lost their lives. They were our brothers and they are no longer with us. We are the educated people of Afghanistan, we are matured Afghans: Tajiks, Turkmen, Uzbeks... We live under the flag of Afghanistan and are subject to one human right, not ten human rights. America has its own human rights, England has its own, Canada... Well, four continents of the world have human rights, but we only know the human rights that work on a global level. Today, we request that the families of the martyrs, those who have no home, no place, and no life, not only my children, all victims, I say, do not give me anything. Human rights organization and activists should have a consideration in this regard. Let the leaders understand that martyrs have no age, brother!

A ten-years-old, twelve-years-old martyr is the breadwinner of his family. What does the Martyrs and Disabled Ministry say? "A boy should be 18-years-old, a girl should be 16-years-old", while this is the age of marriage in the Afghan Civil law and in the Afghan Constitution, it is not the age of martyrdom?! You might have seen, among those who are killed, most of them are young children. They work as car washers, newspaper sellers, plastic collectors, or those kids who help the taxi drivers calling for passengers, calling the routes so that people know and get on board; they are breadwinners. These are the innocent and pure children who are killed by the cruel. They are killed by those who do not fear God, the foreign enemies of Afghanistan, the hundred-year-old enemies of Afghanistan; they have no mercy in Afghanistan and they are killing our people. They kill our children, kill our daughters, kill our fathers and mothers... it even destroys our journalist brothers and human rights activists. Why are human rights organizations being silent today? For the sake of God, the head of the Afghan Human Rights Commission should stand up, warn, threaten, and sit with the Secretary of the United Nations, saying that they are the head of human rights in Afghanistan and telling of the situation in the country.

Today, I speak on behalf of all the bereaved people of Afghanistan, whether it is my Tajik brother, my Uzbek brother, or my Turkmen brother; we are all Afghans. Right now, in this gathering, we are all members of the same family, we are around the same table. We request the same from human rights organizations to pay a bit of attention to this country. For what oppression and tyranny has been imposed on the people of Afghanistan, this human rights organization should send a curse on them. It should say that they are tyrant, don't fear God, and question why they kill children and their brothers. Today, human right organizations advocate for the rights of a thief, the rights of a murderer. A Muslim girl was stoned to death in Shahe Du Shamshera. Women are killed everywhere in the country.

We demand human rights organizations and activists do not defend the rights of reactionary, tyrannical, treacherous, and traitorous people. For the sake of God, defend the tribes, take our voices to the head of human rights organizations. Say that (swear on what you believe in), Afghan people demand that. Please, keep the war away from our homeland. The head of human rights should discuss this with the elders, with the leaders of America, England, France, with the Secretary General of the United Nations, the President of Pakistan, and the President of Afghanistan. How long will war and killing continue in Afghanistan? How long will mothers suffer? Let the tears dry in their eyes.

The breadwinner of the family has been killed. He had a 6000 AFN income. Their children's funeral costed 300,000 AFN, where can they get this from? Pay attention to these human rights today. We demand human rights organizations to pay attention towards of Afghanistan. We are neither happy with the government nor with human rights if this is not prevented.

This was the pain in my heart that I said on behalf of the people of Afghanistan, on behalf of the martyrs of Shah Shaheed, the martyrs of District Six and District Seven. Today, I brought their voice to you through the media, through the news, through the computer... we request the Secretary General of the United Nations; we have the same request to punish our leaders and elders of Afghanistan! Tell them, you are oppressors. Afghan children are being killed today, and you call the enemy a friend? An enemy never becomes a friend. We never befriend our enemy and never accept this friendship.

This is what we request you to convey to the head of human rights of the whole world. We have a human rights commission chief, there are human rights offices in every province, in every country, but we request you convey the same to the human rights chiefs of the four continents of the world. Come today to defend these human rights.

Don’t defend from the rights of the thief, murderer.... What young people have we not lost? See his picture there (the victim’s picture was on the wall). Just a young child, had just got a mustache, 9th grade of school. I put him to the eternal grave. I don't have anything else to say. Again, I request you and your central office, which serves in Afghanistan, to convey my message to higher levels through your organization. I wish killing and war doesn’t continue in Afghanistan. Afghanistan should not become like Iraq and Syria. We have the same request for the human rights community to make an effort to stay away from the murderers and to try to bring peace and tranquility to the country. If there is a question, I am ready to answer. I shared my pain which was not mine alone; it was from all over Afghanistan.

- Zhila: We also demand the same from human rights...

- Zabihullah: Now listen, Hamid Jan.

- Zhila: ...to stop murder, fratricide, infanticide of mothers. I had a child at the time, only one child. My guardian was my child, he was my hope. I don't have any relatives anymore.

- Zabihullah: Her husband too...

- Zhila: It has been ten years since my husband left me. He disappeared from Kandahar. I am a teacher and I live only with a small income. I have no house, no place, no life. I wonder what to do with my life. I completed the twelfth grade of school and three years in a faculty… They take me as nothing, they say I am nothing.

- Zabihullah: It was not completed well.

- Zhila: Yes, it was not complete. I got married and went to Kandahar while it was war in there. After, I became a teacher. I am a literacy teacher in the 16th district. I receive seven thousand AFN per month as salary. I can’t do nothing with that salary. I swear, my brother is a witness that my salary dose not suffice... A week ago, they cut off my electricity because I couldn't pay. There are many expenses, like food and water, electricity, school… I request human rights organizations stop these bad things. Why did those who have enemies come to the area? It was just his personal issue. Yet, if you had a meeting, why didn't you close the pharmacy and all the shops?

- Adela: They should have informed police in the area.

- Zhila: ...the oppressed and the poor would not have been killed, my thirteen-year-old child, at 7th grade, was martyred. Now I am left with two daughters who are in 5th grade. What will happen to my life? I am worried about this life every day. I am thinking about how my daughters will be. I have a heart problem; the walls of my heart are enlarged. My brothers are taking care of me. I can’t treat myself with my salary, my dear brother.

- Zabihullah's wife: There are some Members of Parliament (MPs) in Shah Shaheed, they must...

- Zhila: These MPs should leave the area.

- Zabihullah: No, the MPs have their house, they should live in their houses.

- Zhila Why?

- Zabihullah: But they should hold their meetings somewhere else.

- Adela: Should be coordinated with police in the area.

- Zabihullah: They are having this meeting again...

- Adela: Even if they hold their meeting secretly, the suicide bombers will come to them if they get news.

Zhila: Well, personally, I am not happy with this government. Because I voted for Ashraf Ghani myself, I regret that my child was killed for this vile person. Let my voice reach them, no matter if they like it or not. I am not afraid, even if I would be executed.

- Zabihullah: I served in the government for almost 28 years. In the course of my service, my hand was cut off. In the service of the Holy Askari, this leg of mine was hit by a bullet. You see, my legs are supported with skewers. This is clear, and after that I worked hard. I raised myself from the second rank of Tharni to the rank of Samunvali. In the last five years, my eyes became blind, my nerves dried up, I got heart disease, I got pollen, my nervous pressure increased, and my diabetes became severe. It's been five years since I lost my eyes during this Karzai government.

Five years ago, I worked as the commander of the 101 Asmai Zone of Kabul. I lost my eyes and after that I was hospitalized. My heart was not treated, and then I went to Pakistan. I lost my eyes while I was in the police hospital and after being treated for a while, since I was not able to see, I faced serious problems in my daily life. For example, going to the toilet. I am sorry.

They forced me to retire, I was paid 40,000 Afghanis a year, while I was included in the reform process and had succeeded it. My salary was 20 thousand Afghanis per month. They give only two months of my salary for one year, which they give now. I have no breadwinner anymore; my child was the only breadwinner. I have another son who has finished 12th grade. He is jobless. I am afraid of his future. What if he became addicted to something? What if he...

This is my wife who works as a teacher in one of the schools in Kabul. My daughter is studying in Darul Uloom Bibi Ayesha Siddiqa and my second daughter is in the 10th grade of school, my third daughter is in the 6th grade of the school. I don't have any land, house or apartment in my name, or in the name of my wife or children.

When I became disabled, no one supported us. While there were billions of monies and many houses, ah, in came the Martyrs and Disabled Ministry. They distributed houses and other supports to their friends, but we were not included.

- Zhila: We didn't see anything.

- Zabihullah: They gave those houses to the thieves. There is a person who has received six flats so far. Human rights organizations should consider this thing, the human rights of those countries that support Afghan disables through the Ministry of Disables and Martyrs. They support that disabled families live peacefully like in other developed countries of the world.

- Zhila: When we go, they don’t answer us.

- Zabihullah: You may have heard about Mr. Sarwari. He received lands for 200 houses, which were divided among ten people of his own. They have committees, they take money, lands, and flats.

- Zhila: Yes, I wrote a petition on behalf of my husband. They said to bring my husband's ID card. They didn't register anything, no.

- Zhila: He looked at me and said: get out. He said: It is fake. I said: is it fake?... I went to my brother's house and told him. My brother said: Go sister, you have honor and dignity...

- Zabihullah: This is for the sake of the children...

- [Zabihullah] I went because of my martyred child. I went to Aziz Rasa, because of him and my children.

- Zhila: I still have his number, his card.

- Zabihullah: We went there to register our petition. He said: You can go for now and come after Eid al-Adha. After Eid al-Adha, we visited him, and he said: your child was under 18 years old. Yes, he was under eighteen and was a good breadwinner for us. If he had become 18 years and beyond, he would not work at the pharmacy, wash cars, or sell newspapers.

- Zhila: Yes, wash the car.

- Zabihullah: Or stand in the square, calling out for passengers to get on the car of a certain route. For example: Kote Sangi, twenty rupees only, Kote Sangiiii Kote Sangiii. These are the children who became breadwinners. The grown-ups, who made themselves millionaires in this 13 year... Mr. Karzai started from zero. Half of Afghanistan was looted by Mujahidin. Not the real Mujahidin, I do not insult the real Mujahidin. Those who joined the real Mujahid later for their personal interests and picked up arms and looted, did not act as real Mujahidin. I have never seen the true Mujahid do bad things. I have a due respect to real Mujahid, and I am proud of them for doing Jihad. Mujahidin who gathered from the city of Kabul, from alleys and markets, stole half. Talib stole other half, but Karzai started from scratch and prepared the government.

Everybody has armored cars and armored land cruisers. The ministries, the water supply system, the canalization, and the electricity has been fixed and today the National Unity Government is ruling. Now the Government of National Unity, may God destroy the intention of those who work as civil servant... in which constitution of Afghanistan is it stated, in which law of human rights, in which civil law of Afghanistan is it stated that: the age of the martyr(boy) should be eighteen; and sixteen for girls if they are killed? We demand human rights organizations to make these things clear to the leaders. Why are ministers are doing this?

If I have 10,000 AFN, I would give it to the martyrs and the disabled. I will not see the age, neither eighteen nor seventeen. Indeed if I have ten thousand rupees.

To see my real life, I will take you to my house right now. It has been cold in the winter; we have no firewood in the house. I have three children. We have no firewood or heating, what else I should tell you from my pain? What can I do with seven thousand (my wife's salary)? The government only gives me forty thousand a year. Forty thousand! While I have spent three hundred thousand in the death ceremony of our children...

-Adela: Niece...

- Zabihullah: This amount was consumed for my niece, her mother borrowed it... We couldn't do it alone and we were six families.

Zhila: Once I pleaded with Golpacha [the MP who was attacked] that I am in debt. He is a religious person. I said, "Brother! My children were killed because of you, yet you didn't come to our house to share sorrow with us... I was like your sister... It's okay, but please support me with something now; my debtor has put me under pressure." I called him a couple of times. On the third day, he calls shamelessly on the phone, "Hey crazy! Don't call again! If you call, I'll come right now and kill you. Also, if your brother says something, we will arrest your brother and put him in prison."

- Zabihullah: This is an MP, he works in the House of the People. Please let the head of the Parliament hear that a parliamentarian...

- Zhila: ... calls me ... crazy woman. It's crazy woman that you have this power and...

- Zabihullah: Curse on you. First myself, my wife, my sisters, my brother, and my brother's wife voted for you, and made you an MP because we know you and you are our neighbour. But you threaten my sister that you will assassinate her and put her brother in prison. While you are the killer of our children, you are cause for the martyrdom of our children Golpacha Majidi!

- Zhila: Golpacha is the real killer... it was his personal matter...

- Zabihullah: He had not informed the police in the area, had not informed the intelligence, under the name of bodyguard. He receives the salary and living of twenty people from the government. He did not even take his own security measures and due to that, our children are not alive today. A suicide bomber will not come for me, who am I? I am neither minster nor an MP.

- Zhila: A thief will not enter our alley if it is open from evening to morning.

- Zabihullah: I have a good property. Let him see the house, you also come to see how I live. I am living in a heritage. My sister's electricity is cut off, my other sister's electricity is also cut off, mine was also cut off, I reconnected it.

-Zhila: My children tease me that I am living in my father's house.

-Zabihullah: But this is our father’s legacy, everyone has the right. We find some money. I have nothing else. Although I had worked with the government, I was not a traitor and I am not afraid.

Dear Hamid, the representative of human rights, who you were assigned by the head of human rights of Afghanistan to talk to us, listen to us. So these were the pains of our family, I shared them to you. These were our secrets and needs, this was my personal secret and need. And it was about martyrs; this is about our personal lives as we told you. If there is any other question, I am ready.

My dear son, Shahid Ahmadullah, was martyred in a suicide attack on March 29, 2015, at six o'clock in the evening. He was working in a pharmacy near our place called Abdul Ghafur Nadim Pharmacy. I had enrolled him in Sirat school with difficulty. I brought them up with poverty and hardship and I said to myself that if I have suffered all that poverty and misery, tomorrow my son will try hard and all the hardships I had will give results. But that was not God's will.

A Shrapnel Caused His Death

This story was recorded on April 29, 2019 in the local office of the AIHRC in Herat Province. Ms Dasta-Gul describes the story of grief, love, and the years after the loss of her husband with patience and in detail.

Narrator: Dasta-Gul (victim’s wife)

Victim’s name: Qurban (30 yrs)

Date of Accident: Summer of 1984, 11:00 oclock

Place of Accident: Kareezkhoni Village, Rubat Sangi District, Herat Province

Type of accident: bomb shrapnel (bombed by Soviet aircrafts)

My name is Dasta-Gul and Qurban was my husband. It has been 35 years since my home was wrecked. He was thirty-years-old and I was twenty-years-old in 1989. It was July, yes, it was the proper time of the year for farming. The Soviets killed him; their bomb killed him. The Soviet aircraft killed him. He was killed in Kareezkhoni Village, part of Rubat Sangi District. It was eleven in the morning. We were married for seven years; he was killed in the eighth year. We had two children, one aged 2 and the other a 9-month-old breastfeeding infant. Yes, two children. We had two children and both are sons. We were married for just 7 years.

He was a farmer and used to raise livestock. He harvested wheat and oats. Agriculture was his only profession. He had gone over to harvest wheat from the fields when an aircraft dropped a bomb. He died among the wheat crops. A lot of people, around nine or ten, were killed. In that village, around a hundred or more people were killed. The tanks and aircraft killed all of them in that village. They were all working in their fields. Those villagers who were inside their houses were also bombarded and got buried under the rubble, poor souls. Our house was far [from the houses which were bombed].

A member of my family informed us that a person has been killed in the fields, and asked us to collect the corpse [and nine other martyrs] and take them to the mosque. Yes, I saw him. The shrapnel had entered the back of his head and exited from his abdomen. That one shrapnel caused his death. I did not have anything after my husband’s death. Out of destitution, I turned to carpet weaving. Until my children turned ten years old, I was busy weaving day and night. No one helped me. No one cared for us. They did not care that my orphaned children were hungry and alone with me, who owned nothing.

Yes, the fields on which my husband grew wheat belonged to us. They [Qurban’s family] gave a plot of land to my orphaned children. My children had uncles, a grandmother, and aunts. I asked them to give only two acres of the land on which my husband worked to my boys. I worked hard by myself. I wove carpets, and went from one to the other to make ends meet. I did not have any other assistance.

I sent my boys to school. After they finished school, we came to Herat City for them to go to university. Ah, after my eldest son did not learn in university, I sent him to Iran as a laborer. My eldest son is named Nur-Ul Deen, and the youngest is named Saif-Ul Deen. They went to Iran and worked hard. They also got married from their hard work. They did not have sisters who could be married off and from their marriage’s gifts, I could have taken wives for my sons and settled them down. My poor boys worked hard and built lives for themselves. I used to live with my in-laws but they did not like me. They would always argue and tell me to give up my sons and re-marry. I told them I will not marry and even if it kills me, I will not give up my children. What can a second marriage give me when I did not gain anything from my first marriage? The marriage life which I had was one where my husband never once told me what to do or not do. God took him from me, his death came soon.

During the seven years of us being married, he never once told me to do or not to do this or that. That is because I was content with him, and until today, I have stayed in his memory and for his sons. When you are content with your spouse, even after they are gone, your heart does not allow you to think of someone else or to leave their children. My brother-in-law would bring a bag of wheat and rice. My parents also helped and asked me to bring my children to live with them. My conscious could not accept this so I worked and wove rugs by myself. I never folded the carpet loom close; it was always open as I constantly worked on weaving rugs. It was like whenever I finished one rug, I would start another the very next day. What else could I have done, I was hungry and poor, I had no other choice. I had to do it in order to make ends meet and survive absolute poverty because I had no other source of income. The situation at that time was not good, but I do not know why they bombed our village. However, the [neighbouring] village was bombed heavily. They bombed that village a lot. My husband was also killed there but I do not understand exactly the reason why they bombed. It has been thirty years since and my mind has gotten weak as well as my memory and I no longer remember why they killed our village’s people.

When my home was ruined after my husband’s death, I was twenty-years-old. I was married off at the age of fourteen. I was married for 7 years when my husband died. It has been whether eighteen or twenty years, what is the sum of seven years and fourteen years? It has been twenty years, twenty. My husband was from outside my family, I was happy with him that is why I have remained unmarried until this day in his memory. I loved him, do you understand? When you love a person, even if there are hundreds of others around you, your feelings for them will not change. This is why I did not accept anything else after him. By God, he did not have anything. My carpet was the earth underneath and my roof was the sky. I just loved him and I loved my sons. He had a good personality and a muscular figure. He was very lucky meaning when he was in a group gathering, he could make everyone laugh till tears would come out of their eyes due to his good humor and manners. But what can I do now that God has taken him from me?

When my [eldest] son was in Iran, he studied till eleventh grade and after he came back to Afghanistan, he finished his last year of high school. However, I do not know what major he studied at university. I did not ask, my dear, I did not ask him. He studies half of the day and the other half he works as a watchman for a school. He sweeps classroom floors and arranges the desks and chairs. He also has the keys to the school, as if he is the watchman of the elementary school. He gets five or six thousand Afghanis per month. My second son is also married. Thankfully, he is also married. I have three grandchildren from one son, and four from the other. I live with the two of my daughters-in-law in Wahdat Village, in the town of Abulwaleed which is part of the Injeel District of Herat Province. I am satisfied with my sons, thankfully. My sons have never ill-treated me. They say ‘dear mother’ at the beginning of their sentence and one at the end of their sentence. Their wives are not from our family so naturally, they might act irritated or say something to me, but when my sons treat me well, I have nothing to do with my daughters-in-law because my sons are important to me. Yes, my sons have a lot of respect for me; they respect me a lot. When I get sick, they borrow money for my medications and doctor’s visits so that I get treated. They borrow money from others so that their mother can get better. I have such dear sons and my heart is happy from them. One of my grandchildren passed last year and that broke my heart. He was only eleven-years-old. They said he had an incurable illness. They said he had cancer and his lungs had been destroyed. We took him to Kabul and brought his body back to Herat. He was only eleven-years-old and in fourth grade.

I am happy with my sons, my dear. My sons also love me a lot. I pleaded to God that my sons do not have a father, what would become of them? They could become addicts and junkies; they could become gamblers. However, thank God, they grew up to become really modest and decent men. My children are virtuous and chaste; they do not have any addictions, thankfully. My boys do not have any faults, they are clean and virtuous. I am thankful to God that I have good sons, they are decent people. I shall share the ache of my heart with the women of Afghanistan. I shall say how much I suffered and went through to raise my boys. I pray to God that my efforts do not go in vain and make my decent sons even more decent to people. And if they are friends, make them even better friends to others. I only want to say that. Some women ask me how my sons are and I respond that thank God, my life is completely good. I am not unhappy with my sons or their wives. Thank God, they are very nice. I have a very good life. My relatives ask how I manage with my sons and I tell them that my life, in general, is good and that I am completely content with my sons. They turned out to be decent people, they are humane. They do not bother people. On their university campus, there are around two thousand girls and boys studying, but they do not bother them or the girls there. They are such strong-willed sons.

Yes, I love my sons a lot, how can I not love them? For them, I have gotten beaten, verbally abused, and even been charmed with a talisman so I could leave my boys. They cast a magic charm on me so I would leave my sons and go back to my father’s house. By God that I am telling the truth, my dear. I went to a Hajji and he told me that I have been charmed to leave my sons and re-marry. By God, they did everything they could to me so I would leave my sons but God made my love for them so strong that nothing could separate us.

My daughters-in-law are unemployed. When we were in the village, they used to weave carpet a bit but after coming to Herat City, they no longer work as there is no work here. No one buys handmade rugs anymore. My daughters-in-law are busy with house chores and with taking care of their children. Their husbands (Dastagul’s sons) make ends meet now. I tell them that I was able to bring up two orphaned boys through carpet weaving, why do you not work? They tell me that I had the willpower and courage to do that, they do not have that. Ah! [Laughing] They tell me I had a lot of courage to do that; that I had a lot of vitamins and in comparison, put their vitamins in shame. [Laughing] They do not wish to work and cannot work. Yes, I told them I got weak because of work, my eyes lost their power, and my hands and feet don’t work anymore. I have gotten weak from all that work and now, it is on my sons’ shoulders to bring food. I can no longer work. There is a dent in my hand where I held scissors while weaving carpets. My hand has gone limp now because I would constantly work on the carpet loom and my eyes have gotten weak.

My sons tell me, “Mother! Even if we take you to Mecca [for pilgrimage], we cannot repay you even for one night of you taking care of us.” This is life. I suffered a lot, got beaten up, received verbal abuse, and heard all kinds of things. I would tremble day and night like an animal getting slaughtered for fear that someone would take my sons away from me. I suffered all kinds of pain. My sons would know my value after all. Now that they have grown up, I tell them about my suffering. They tell me that they could not have done anything because they were young and did not understand. Some mothers who raised their orphaned children were kicked out of the homes by their sons. Meaning, they kicked out their poor mother. There are children like this. There are children like this in our village.

Still, I thank God that my sons are decent men. Who knows if I will live ten more years or not? Only God knows. My youngest son says, “Mother! Do not fret. Do not worry too much. Mother! Your presence is a blessing to us. You are our hope. Your shadow over us is a blessing.” But I tell them that now that have wives and their own families, forget about my shadow over them. My sons tell me, “No, your shadow and presence are a blessing to us.” My boys did not have a father so they only had their mother, they received love only from their mother. Only we know a mother’s pain. For their peace of mind, I tell them that, God willing, I shall remain like a cloud that provides shade to you. I am very much pleased with my sons. They ask me about their father like how he looked, his height, and his figure. And no ease their minds, I tell them that their father looked like their uncles. They look at their father’s photos and constantly ask about his height and face. They tell me, “Mother, if our father were alive, God knows how much better our lives would have been.” For their comfort, I tell them their father was not the only one who was martyred. There are thousands of other orphaned children who grew up in similar circumstances without their fathers. I tell them that their father’s life was that long. Yes, sometimes they ask me about their father all day, twenty-four hours. They love their father so much that when my youngest son went to Iran, he took his father’s photo to make a bigger print and frame it. They always miss their father. Still, to ease their pain, I tell them that that person does not have a father and this person lost their father in an accident so that they do not suffer too much because of their father’s absence. Their hearts find comfort in that and they share their pain with me.

I Found Him at Dusk

Narrator: Ghulam Abbas Mobarez (Victim’s brother)

Victim: Ali Madad Mobarez (18-years-old)

Place of incident: Mirzaolang, Qul Khatoon Village, Sayyad District, Sar-e Pol Province

Time of incident: During Soviet occupation 1979 to 1989

On the day of my brother’s martyrhood, I was somewhere else. Our martyred brother Ali Madad Mobarez was harvesting wheat somewhere at the time when the Soviets attacked and killed civilians. He was harvesting on the fields and at around noon, they took a break from work when the Soviet aircrafts came. There are a lot of juniper trees in Mirzaolang. The trees are really massive and he was sitting under their shade. While the aircrafts were flying over, he had come out from under the trees to look at them. It was at this moment when they were spotted and shot at. They fled to another area while injured. They took refuge there and then started towards their home when the aircrafts saw them and fired again. He was about half an hour away from our home when he was spotted. He had fallen on the ground right there.

At first, my brother was just injured and, in that state, had fled the area. He had gotten himself close to our home when he was spotted once again and they fired at him. After that, he had fallen on the ground and we knew nothing about his situation or whereabout so that we could have checked up on him. The day went by and by sunset, we were waiting for him to come back. We kept on waiting but there was no news of him. I went out to look for him and after walking for a bit, I saw him on the ground. He was right across the fields in Mirzaolang, we farm in this area. It was at dusk when I found him. I saw him on the ground but he was still alive. I grabbed him by his arm but I could not lift him up. He was not skinny like myself; he was a lot heavier and twice my size even though I was older than him. No matter how much I tried to bring him back home, I could not carry him. Finally, he told me, “Go and bring a donkey.” I came back home. My parents asked me, "What happened? Is Ali Madad not coming?” By God, I could not tell them anything. Instead, I told them, “He will come from the back [of the house].” I took a horse and left. I did not say anything at home but went to my neighbour to inform them that my brother has been injured by the aircraft and we need to bring him back home on the horse. By the time I arrived, he had already passed away and became a martyr. Now we were forced to carry his body back home on the horse. Sadly, my parents did not know anything so when I brought [my brother’s dead body] home, they were devastated. My father collapsed. My mother also collapsed. Basically, both of them lost consciousness as my brother had left home healthy and well in the morning but at night, his lifeless body came to them. We brought him back and buried him after people gathered. After that incident, we left Mirzaolang, specifically the area we lived in which was called Qul Khatoon. We left that area because my parents could no longer bear living there. After my brother’s martyrdom, we migrated to the Mirzaolang Valley itself. In short, we experienced so many changes after the incident. It has been twenty years since but I do not remember the exact date when it happened.

After my family, many of our neighbours also migrated to the valley but this time, the valley was captured by the Taliban. This time, the Taliban killed people and looted their property. Afterwards, we came to Sar-e Pol and currently, we live in Mazar. They [the Soviets] had come with helicopters and fired. There were bullet wounds in different areas of his body. A bullet had hit his hand and another his leg. The last bullet had entered from his back and existed on the other side of his abdomen. After his funeral ceremony, when we came back on the fields, there were bullets on the ground.

Areas such as Mirzaolang, Sar-e Pol, Saidabad and Charbagh, had Mujahidin fighters whom fought with the Soviets. For this reason, the Soviets would kill anyone part of the Mujahidin or the residents of those areas. Although my brother was just a farmer, they had shot him under the suspicion that he is a Mujahid fighter or might become one.

Two or three months after Ali Madad’s death, my mother fell sick but did not recover from it and passed away. Two years after that, due to my brother’s grief, I lost my father. My sister got married. I also got married. Basically, life was very difficult. My brother had good manner. He respected our parents and me. Although I was older, he was a lot bigger than me in size and always took care of the heavy labor. He used to say, “I am strong, I can do it but you are weak, so you cannot.” There were around 400-500 families living In Mirzaolang. Around us, everyone was Sunni Muslims and we had no way out. There was only one route to Sar-e Pol. When the Taliban captured Mirzaolang, the residents there made a lot of complaints to the government. In response, the government sent four tanks in support of the people. The tanks could not hold up and as a result, fled towards Sar-e Pol.

The people lost their morale and while the Taliban had captured from Sar-e Pol to the valley, only very few people were fleeing the area. There was so much bullets being fired that people no longer cared. They would say, “If we are going to die, let us die and if we are going to live, let us live, but we do not want to be captured alive by the Taliban.” At night, everyone fled. Whether it was a woman, a child, an old man; those who wanted to escape fled the area. Of the individuals whom fled around two or three in the morning, some were able to pass through and flee but some were captured by the Taliban. The Taliban killed around fifty or sixty people.

Although I was not there and have only heard from others, they say that those captured were taken back on foot around 10 minutes away from the place of their capture, and ten people were beheaded. There were old men, children aged five and six, and even women among those ten people. Women were in such a state [of terror and panic] that they were not able to take their headscarves with them. After everything calmed down in the area, people went back to recover the dead. Around fifty to sixty people were killed.

My first wife’s father, who was around 55 to 60-years-old, was beheaded during that incident. He was a farmer but he was beheaded. I do not remember exactly, but we buried his body maybe ten to fifteen days after – after the Taliban had left the area. He could not be identified by his face, we identified him through his clothes.

The Bloody Wednesday

Enayatullah Naseeri is the brother of Rahmatullah Hasib Nasiri. He was born on August 26, 1986 and finished school in 2004. He has a Bachelor of social sciences from Kabul University and works as a journalist in a weekly newspaper called “Rewayat Emroz,” and as a researcher at the Pursish Research and Studies Institute. Hasib was his older brother and both were really close and had strong emotional attachment to each other. Enayatullah Nasiri has written this story and sent it to us. He says about his brother, “We used to joke around with each other. But he was my most important financial and emotional support during my school and university years.”

Narrator: Enayatullah Nasiri (brother of the victim)

Victim: Rahmatullah Hasib Nasiri

Date of the incident: May 31, 2017

Place of the incident: Zanbaq Square, Kabul

May 31 at 8:23 AM on a Wednesday; I still think about that moment. I felt as though hot lead had been poured on my heart and burned my whole body. I still cannot believe that Hasib is gone and is no longer with us. I still longingly gaze at the entrance gate thinking he might enter with a smile on his face. The sounds of car horns have startled me many times because I think it might be him wanting us to open the gate for him. Whenever he reached the gate with his car, he would always make his presence known with a different pattern of honking. It was the beginning of Ramadan. As usual, Hasib would call me on my phone to wake me up while having his sahari. We ate our food and after a bit of chatting, everyone went back to their rooms. No one knew that it was his last sahari and the last conversation we would share.

We did not see each other that morning. Before that, he would always come to my room to say goodbye before leaving for his office. He was an employee of Roshan Telecommunication Company and worked in the head office located near Zanbaq square. That day, I had slept in longer than usual because I was awake a bit later after sahari. When he had left the house, I was still asleep. When I woke up, the clock showed a few minutes before eight o’clock. I laid down on my bed and started reading a book. Minutes later, the sound of a horrible explosion shook my heart. I got worried. I picked my phone and called Hasib but he did not answer. Previously, if he did not answer the phone, he would quickly send a text that he is busy and will call later. On that day, I waited for a few moments to receive his text but there was no text from him. I tried again and called him several times but he did not answer.

I opened Facebook. Everyone [on Facebook] thought the explosion was near their location because the explosion was extremely strong. For this reason, the [Facebook] users thought the place of explosion was in different places. Among them, one person had posted that “the explosion happened near Zanbaq square in Kabul.” I got worried. Just as the pictures of the explosion in Zanbaq square and the surrounding areas were passing by my eyes, the door of my room slammed open. It was my sister-in-law and she said, “There has been an explosion in Wazir Akbar Khan area and Hasib is not answering his phone, that is why Arezu, Hasib’s wife, is crying.” Although I was feeling restless and worried, I went to speak with them and comfort them. I told them, “Pray, inshallah, that Hasib is okay and nothing has happened to him.”

With apprehension and a heavy heart, I left the house. I saw my mother enter the house after dropping Hasib’s son to school. Apparently, she was not aware of the explosion. I passed by her in a hurry. I was near Maidan Shaheed Mazari when she called and sadly cried out that Hasib’s colleagues answered his phone to inform that he has been injured and they have taken him to the hospital. My worry increased tenfold. The traffic around Maidan area was unbearable for me. I got out of the car. I spotted Hayatullah Bayan’s car on the other side of the road. I went to him and saw that he was not in good condition. The driver was sprinkling cold water onto his face and hands.

I said, “What happened? Is everything okay?”

He replied, “I was very close to the explosion, I feel faint.”

I said, “Hasib has been injured and transferred to the hospital.”

Bayan got shocked. He got up from his place and told his driver to start toward the hospital. I went toward Emergency Hospital. The police had blocked the road in Shar-e Naw. I got out of the car and ran toward the hospital. The city had been out of breath and had turned into a ruin. A large crowd were going in all direction with worry and panic. The windows in buildings were all broken. Everything was covered in broken glass. The city was filled with sorrow and smoke. The police were removing people from the middle of the street and near buildings left window shards fall on them. The front of Emergency Hospital was filled with the wounded. The sounds of wailing and groaning which I heard on that day still haunts my ears. Many were running here and there with their bloody clothes. Sounds of ambulance passing through to transport the wounded could be heard every moment.

We reached there around thirty minutes after the explosion. Black smoke was still visible in the place of the incident. I saw a few employees of Roshan Telecommunication Company running around in a panic. We were looking for any news about Hasib. The list of wounded that were admitted to the hospital was still not posted. The discussions surrounding the number of casualties of the incident filled everywhere. I asked about Hasib from any employee of Roshan that I met there. I comforted myself with the thought that he has only been injured. This was not the first time which I went to Emergency Hospital to look for those injured by explosions. Last year, as well, two of my friends named Bismillah Alizada and Sayeed Madadi, who were injured in the explosion targeting the protestors of the Roshnayi Movement in Dehmazang, were also brought to this hospital.

Inside the hospital, my eyes fell on a young man who had a Roshan ID card lanyard around his neck. I asked him about Hasib but he did not recall. I explained that Rahmatullah Hasib Nasiri, Roshan’s finance controller, was one of their colleagues. He let out a big sigh and asked, “What relation do you have with him?”

I said, “I am his brother.”

He paused a bit and said, “He is wounded but he is well so do not worry.”

Before I could ask more questions, he apologized and walked toward the ambulance.

A number of my friends including Hussain Hazara, Qayum Surosh, Mahmood Muhammadi, Ehsan Safdari, Bismillah Alizada, and Juma Khan Rahyab also reached and got busy searching for the list of the victims. They tried coordinating to go inside the hospital and inspect the wounded. I found another employee of Roshan; he was one of the people who had transported the wounded to the hospital. I first enquired about the condition of Omid Faizi, Hasib’s colleague. He said, “Faizi is in a good condition. Only his hand sustained a small injury.” Then, I asked about Hasib. He said, “Wallah, he was injured a bit more but do not worry; he has been transported to the hospital. Inshallah he will get better.” Despite getting really worried, I asked about the condition of Mohammad Azeem Rizayi, one of our relatives who had been recently appointed in Roshan. He said that no one had been injured from their section and he was well.

My phone was ringing every second; my friends and family were continuously calling to ask about Hasib. My mother called once every two minutes. Although her throat felt tight with grief, she would ask, “Did you find Hasib?” Then she would make a request, “give the phone to Haseeb just once, I want to hear him say even one word.” I would comfort her and say, “Dear mother, I still have not found him but as soon as I do find him, I will definitely call you.” My father called several times and said that he will come to the hospital after us, but I requested that he stays at home and take care of my mother and the rest of the family. However, Ahmad Jawed, Hasib’s friend and coworker, had come to our house after finding out about the explosion and was bringing my parents with him to the hospital. My mother had gone to the hospital twice and the second time, she had even gone to check the morgue. When she came from the hospital exist, she was completely broken and crushed. She was crying from the depth of her heart and sat on the ground by the hospital entrance. She had not found her son there.

After we were certain that Hasib was not in the Emergency Hospital, we informed all our friends to thoroughly search other hospitals around the city. I tried several times to get myself close to Hasib’s office at Roshan’s head office which was also near the place of explosion. I was told that there was a first aid clinic inside the company building. I thought Hasib might be there. The thought of Hasib stuck under the rubble and wounded even crossed my mind. I thought to go to rescue him and bring him to the hospital. However, all of the paths towards the office were completely blocked and the police did not allow people to pass through. When I looked at the buildings impacted by the blast from afar, I saw nothing expect ruins and smoke. My heart would tremble and to hide from my terrifying thoughts, I returned to the hospital to continue my search.

On that day, we search all of the hospitals until two in the afternoon but we did not find Hasib. It was close to half past two when one of my friends called that a number of critically wounded have been transported to the Emergency Hospital just now. Those of us who were there decided to split into two groups; one group would go to the Police Hospital in Afshar and I, along with few others, would head toward Emergency Hospital once again. When we reached the hospital, my companions went toward the entrance gate and checked the list of the wounded. But the moment I saw that the path towards the place of the explosion was open, I ran towards it. I passed by the street when I heard Mahmood’s voice. In hopes of hearing news, I went to him. I noticed Surosh who was crying while leaning on the wall of the hospital. Worried, I asked Mahmood, “What happened?” He replied, “They found Hasib.” Again, I asked with a trembling voice, “Is he alive?” With tears flowing from his eyes, he replied, “Hasib is no longer with us.”

My body went cold. I lost feeling in my arms and legs. With the help of my friends, I dragged myself toward the wall of the hospital and dropped to the ground. After that I do not know what happened or how we got from emergency Hospital to the mortuary of Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital. I saw my father there. He had dropped off my mother back home after quickly searching Ali Abad Hospital and got himself to Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital quicker than us. With two people holding him from his shoulders, he slowly started walking towards me. When he reached my side, he took me in his arms. He put his head on my shoulder and started crying quietly. Then he lifted his head up and let out a loud sigh after drying his eyes with a handkerchief. He turned to my friends and said, “I saw Hasib but my eyes went dark and I collapsed. You first make sure whether he is our Hasib or not, then we will inform the others that we have found him so that they do not become bothered more than this. Please ask them to gather in Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital.”

I wanted to go and see Hasib, and tell him, “Get up, brother, the grief of your absence is heavy and breaks my spirit. Get up because I cannot return home without you.” I remembered his dreams and my dreams which were destroyed in a blink of an eye. I got up from my place and walked toward the mortuary but others stopped me by my shoulders and requested that I be patient. They told me that when everyone else comes, all of us shall go inside.

Slowly, everyone gathered. They also took me to check the body. After the door of the fridge swung open, my eyes fell on Hasib’s pale and bright body. The whole world turned black in my eyes. Yes, the body kept in the drawer of a mortuary fridge in his bloody and dusty clothes was indeed was our Haseeb. My mother, Hasib’s wife, and his son. Oh God! How could I tell them that Hasib is no longer with us? It was decided that the news would be broken to them slowly; my father would go back home and tell them that Hasib is injured but Surosh and I are by his side. A group of my friends and I went to Bayan’s home to plan for Hasib’s funeral and burial.

My mother, my elder brother Asad, my younger brother Ehsan, and other friends, which were not informed, would call me every second to ask about Hasib. I was scared of answering them and each call startled me. Especially when my mother would call, I tried my best to talk calmly and not let my voice tremble lest she finds out about what had happened. I am still scared of my phone ringing. I have jolted awake at night several times after hearing the sound of my phone ringing but then realize that it is the middle of the night and I am in a world without Hasib. Ah!

Instead, my father calling me gives me comfort. The patience and strength which he displayed after coming to face with Hasib’s lifeless body also gave me strength. That night, around ten, he called to tell me that I need to get myself back home no matter what because my mother was not in a good condition. She had become suspicious of our behavior and had suspected that Hasib is no more but she was also scared that something must have happened to me as well. I got worried and quickly started toward home. I got myself home but that night, the atmosphere inside our home was very strange. Everyone was awake and waited for Hasib. After I got back home, my mother said, “Hasib left me, did you also want to leave me now?” Everyone was worried that something would happen to my mother after hearing about Hasib’s passing because she had high blood pressure. For this reason, we tried to not tell her at once and suddenly. But I was surprised to find that my mother was quite strong that night. She would comfort me and tell me to have patience. My father paced the room that night until morning. Sometimes, he would come by my side and comfort me and some other times, I would talk with him. Each moment passed heavily and bitterly. Everything felt bothersome and unkind.

The following day, early in the morning, we went to Hasib once again. The mortuary of Wazir Akbar Khan had a busy day ahead. From that early in the morning, we saw large crowds of people who had come to collect the bodies of their loved ones. We, too, collected the lifeless body of our beloved and went toward Forensic Hospital. That day and the day after it when we brought Hasib’s body from the Forensic Hospital to the mosque, I took a long look at him. Even when I was by his body, I felt calm. Asadullah, my elder brother who lived abroad, wanted to come to the country for the funeral. He was able to reach Kabul around one in the afternoon on Friday and we decided to hold the funeral at two o’clock on the same day. That day when we brought Hasib to the Mosque from the Forensic Hospital, I saw that Asadullah was impatiently waiting for his brother. He had come to the mosque directly from the airport. I went to his side. He took me in his arms. The hug of a brother is so warm and calming! I became alive once again and took refuge in his arms. That day, I was stronger than the day before because Asad was by my side and Hasib was also in front of my eyes. Around three o’clock, all of us said farewell to Hasib and sent him to his eternal home. The ground became heavier after swallowing so many bodies but the world above it turned empty for us forever with the absence of Hasib.

Hasib is currently living in the memories of us, many of our friends, colleagues, and relatives. Rahmatullah Hasib Nasiri was born on August 26, 1986 in Shaki Nawka of Qarabagh District in Ghazni Province. He finished school in 2004. He had a Bachelors in Certified Accounting Technician (CAT) from Bakhtar Private University and held a post-graduate degree from a Malaysian university in ACCA (the Association of Chartered Certified Accountants). He was an instructor at the American University of Afghanistan and had previously worked with Care International in Afghanistan, Actionaid Afghanistan, and finance initiative of the United Nations. At the time of his death, Hasib was an employee of Roshan Telecommunication Company as the Finance Controller of the company and was a member of the High Board of Accountants of Afghanistan. He was a hope for his family and country which was lost and is no longer with us. Like thousands of other innocent souls of this country, he became the victim of extremism, violence, and terror.

I Identified Her from Her Ring, Earring, And Skirt

Maryam Hussaini was born on June 26, 1994, in Zardney Village, Shahristan District, Daikundi Province. She is five years younger than her sister, Najiba, who she looked to as a role model. Maryam has a BA in environmental studies from Kabul University and a BA in computer science. Currently, she is working with the Health and Social Care Organization in Daikundi. This narrative has been recorded by Afghanistan's Human Rights and Democracy Organization (AHRDO). Maryam had to search for her sister among tens of dead bodies. Therefore, she cried several times while narrating this narrative.

Narrator: Maryam Hussaini (victim's sister)

Victim: Najiba Hussaini

Date of incident: July 24, 2015

Venue of incident: Sar-e Kariz area, District 3, Kabul City

I am Maryam Hussaini, sister of Najiba Hussaini. I am 24-years-old and five years younger than Najiba. When the incident happened, Najiba was 28-years-old. She was born in 1989 in Shahristan District, Daikundi Province. She was the first child of my parents. I was born five years after her, and then my five brothers were born. Najiba was martyred in the incident on July 26, 2015, in the Sar-e Kariz area. When such an incident happens, the Taliban or Daesh usually take responsibility. But no one knows who is responsible for this attack.

Najiba was not supposed go to her office that day. She had taken leave from her office. Her passport was expired. She was supposed to apply for her new passport as she was planning to go on a trip abroad. In fact, she left home that day with such intention. I had left for the university an hour earlier than Najiba. At the university, I heard the explosion from Sar-e Kariz, District 3, Kabul City. When I heard the explosion, I thought that Najiba should not have been on her way to the office at this time along with other employees. I thought she would leave home later as she was planning to follow up on her passport renewal. I called her, but her phone was off. You know, it is a usual reaction for us Afghans to call our loved ones as the first thing after an explosion to make sure none of our family members are hurt. So, the first person I called was Najiba, as others were either at home or were not at that route at that time.

The second person I called was Mr. Rezaie. I thought he might know about her. When I called Rezaie, he had just left home for his office. He said that, unfortunately, he did not know either. He said that he knew there was a suicide attack but did not know about Najiba.

We went to different hospitals. I was hoping that she might have been injured or simply that her mobile phone was not working as it was common after such incidents. However, I could not think that such a significant incident had happened.

It was 7 am when we started searching for her, hoping that she might be injured or her phone was lost. We thought we should rush and take her to a better hospital if she was injured. The last hospital that was searched was the Police 200-Bed Hospital. It was around 11 am that we found Najiba's body there.

I was at the university when the attack happened. The first hospital I searched was Muwla Ali Hospital, the closest hospital to the explosion’s site. We were also told that the wounded were taken to that hospital. We found an injured person called Najiba on the list of that hospital with no severe injuries. As we searched further, we found that there were two martyrs in the same hospital. The hospital’s steps were covered with blood. It was the first time that I saw humankind's blood. For the first time, I saw pieces of human bodies. This was very difficult for me.

We searched many other hospitals afterward. But we could not find Najiba. That injured person, also called Najiba, was a school student. Najiba's body was not identifiable in the hospital where we found her. I identified a hand cut from her body and a silver earring in her ear. A part of her face was fused. The other thing we could identify was a piece of her clothes that she had worn at her MA graduation in Japan. That day, she wore the same clothes. It was tough for me. At the hospital, the officials did not let the extended family identify the corpse. It had to be someone from their immediate family. As my mother was living in Daikundi, it was only me. My aunties were there, but the hospital officials were not letting them go and identify the corpse. They were saying it had to be her sister. My brother first went to see the corpse. When he saw the corpse, he was shocked. I took him to the hospital. Then it was only I who had to go and identify the corpse. This was my first time and worst memory of seeing pieces of human bodies. I kept opening the coffins to find my sister. It was very difficult for me. I identified her from her ring, an earring in her ear, a part of her face that was not damaged, and a piece of her skirt.

All my hopes were destroyed there. There was no hope of searching for other hospitals. I opened the coffins three times. The doctors insisted to make sure we were not taking the wrong corpus. They were saying: "You must be very careful. You must be very strong and precise so that, God forbid, you do not take the wrong corpse instead of your sister's corpse." Therefore, I had to search the corpses three times. I was sure for several reasons. First, her hand was cut at the explosion site and it was intact, and I identified her from her ring. A piece of her skirt was also beside the coffin, and her earring was fused on her face. These clues made us sure that it was Najiba.

As our family members, colleagues, and friends got the news of the incident, everyone gathered and started searching for Najiba. We were divided into different groups. I was with Mr. Rezaie and some other relatives. We went to every hospital in Kabul, and there was a possibility that the injured ones might have been transported there. So the first thing we would do was to list the injured ones. We visited all these hospitals but could not find Najiba's name among their injured person list, except a Najib, who was 16-years-old and was a school student. First, we hoped that she would be our Najiba. But unfortunately, she was a Najiba of another family. We are happy that at least that Najiba was alive. When we could not find our Najiba in the list of wounded persons, we were forced to search among the martyrs and the torn bodies of martyrs. When I went to morgues, at the same time, an incident had happened in one of the provinces, and there were so many corpses of policemen. There were so many corpses, and it was very difficult for me. I had not seen a human corpus before; forget about bodies fused and torn into pieces.

I visited every coffin three times in search of Najiba, and then, I was sure. I told them it was her and did not know what happened next. I do not know how long I was unconscious at the hospital, for example, when they decided to transport the corpse. Once I opened my eyes, I realized that we were transporting the corpse to Daikundi. And it was very difficult that while searching for Najiba among the corpses, my father and mother kept calling me. I told them that there was such an incident and that they should pray that Najiba's car had not been the target. But they were distraught and wanted to ensure that Najiba was not among the incident's victims. It was very difficult for me to tell my father and my mother that such a horrible incident had happened. Finally, when I was sure it was Najiba's corpse and she was no longer alive, I had to tell my mother to prepare her. When my mother called me for the last time, all I could say to her was that Najiba was no longer among us. I do not know what else I told her. That is the toughest thing I ever told my mother. So that is how it happened. A year and few months after the incident, we still must deal with it.

Najiba and I were together in Daikundi only during our childhood and teenage years. After she finished school, she went to Bamiyan to give the university entrance exam and then moved to Kabul to study languages. So we were separated when I was in the seven or eight class of school. However, my mother always says that we were good during our childhood. She says we were very close and kind to each other and that she does not remember if we ever argued about anything.

Our childhood and teenage years were excellent. After Najiba moved to Kabul, it was the winter that year when she got a full scholarship in India as she had held the first position in all her school. We did not know that Najiba had the first position in her school. After that, she got a scholarship, and we understood that she had held the first position in all her schools, from first class to 12th class. Therefore, she was nominated and won a scholarship in India.

So Najiba moved to India, and I stayed in Daikundi with my mother. Najiba returned to Kabul after three years and completing her studies. I also came to Kabul to continue my education here. At the time, I was in 11th class. So it was the time that we reunited after almost four years. But our family was still living in Daikundi, and it was only us residing in Kabul.

Then, Najiba got a job at the Ministry of Mines. I was busy preparing for the university entrance exam and my school studies. After three years, Najiba won a competitive scholarship to study for a master's degree in Japan. So Najiba went to Japan while I stayed in Kabul and continued my studies. At that time, I was studying at Kabul University.

We both hoped and insisted on studying the same field. Our dreams were always the same. Najiba had studied Computer Science and I was accepted into Geology. So I also enrolled in Computer Science at a private university. I finished it this year.

Najiba got her MA in Computer Science and Information Technology. When she returned to the country in 2016, we reunited after almost three years. We, two sisters, had a happy and good life. It is a calm life. I am not saying it was a luxury. We were enjoying our simple lives and were moving to reach the peak of our happiness. We were getting close to our goals. Najiba had almost already reached her goals. I was trying to get there as well.

Najiba had only lived in Afghanistan for seven months when this attack happened. She was preparing for her wedding those days. We were planning to hold her engagement party in Daikundi a week or two after the incident. We mourned for the 40th day of her killing exactly when we planned to celebrate her wedding. Unfortunately, this incident happened. I have good memories with her. We went to Daikundi for the 2017 Eid. All the family members were together. On the second day of Eid, we traveled to Nili, where my aunt lived. My father was driving, and we, two sisters, were busy photographing and creating memories. Then, we traveled to Band-e Amir, Bamiyan. It was for the first time that we visited Band-e Amir.

It was very hard to deal with this incident for my mother. I was seriously sick after the incident, I was hospitalized, and had two operations. It was very difficult for my mother, who had already lost one daughter and was preparing to lose the second one. Even she had forgotten Najiba's death.

I hope and pray that no other family becomes a victim. Today I am telling this story and hoping it reaches those who commit such horrible crimes. At least with our repeated voice, their consciences trail them and stop them from committing such crimes against any other family. And no one mourns for the loss of their loved ones. So I am hopeful for that day and pray peace comes.

We do not know whose hands were behind the incident. The Taliban and Daesh usually take responsibility after each incident, whether big or small. And we also know that the Taliban and Daesh are fake. So probably, someone else's hands are involved behind the scenes. I hope the day comes that these people will be held accountable in front of their consciouses and that their consciouses are awake and do not let them commit such a crime against any other family whose members have not committed any sins. At least, they do not take their happiness.

No statement

No statement

No statement

He Died From Gunshots

Narrator: Hussaindad Tabish (victim’s nephew)

Victim: Mohammad Alidad

Date of incident: 2000

Place of incident: Sauf Valley Market, Samangan Province

My uncle’s name is Alidad and he did not have any surname. I do not remember his birth year but the year he died. He died twenty years ago, in the year 2000. He was born in Bamiyan and he was a farmer in Bamiyan’s center called Dehzardak Shaidan Town. He also used to live there. There were no schools back then but he had studied a bit under a cleric. He knew just enough to be able to read.

He had not married and was single. He became a martyr in 2000 at 20-years-old, but the exact date is not known. I was a kid back then and at that time [time of incident], I was not there. It was during the Taliban regime. We are originally from Shahidan. But when the Taliban came to Shahidan, they looted and took everything. All our possessions and our cows, everything we had, they took it all.

The men fled Bamiyan Province. I do not remember these incidents, but these stories are what I have heard from my father and grandfather. When the Taliban came, they took all our property and possessions. Other than that, our people fled the area towards mountains and deserts. After they [the Taliban] left, the people came back and took their belongings to migrate towards Khakdu, Zardakao, and Sauf Valley. After coming to Sauf Valley, we resided there for a while. My uncle went out to the market to buy groceries but he was killed on his way.

The Taliban were responsible, yes! It was almost in the afternoon. My uncle was alone when they shot him. A bullet struck his shoulder. I think he fled to the jungle to hide among the trees but he was sprayed with bullets and died from the gunshots. The place of the incident was the market itself, Sauf Valley market.

The Sauf Valley market was completely under the control of the Taliban. It was under their total control. Although I do not have precise information, it was surely taken [by the Taliban]. They must have controlled all of the market or a large portion of it. For instance, the Taliban went to and from that area. At that time, my uncle went to the market and even got bread or something similar, but he was killed on his way back. At that time, all of our family was in Samangan.

A person named Aziz Rahimi broke the news of his death. At that time, Aziz Rahimi was a commander or something of the same effect, I think. He almost had a sort of kinship with my uncle and he broke the news of his death to us. Unfortunately, I do not remember the name of the area we lived in. All I know is that it was in the surrounding areas of the Sauf Valley market. We got the news at night. Aziz Rahimi had not brought his body, he was only informed that Alidad had been killed. They took the body directly to the mosque and from there, to the cemetery. So my father, Aziz Rahimi, and some other local people went to the place of the incident. Without a doubt, the death of a person, whether they were young or old, is painful. Especially, for Alidad – though I do not remember and this is what my family says – who was a calm, kind, well-mannered, and good young man. While at home, he always treated everyone well, like his mother, grandmother, my father, and other family members. When my grandmother heard the news, she collapsed. She fainted several times and from then on, she has become ill. There has never been once (since the incident) when she has been well and healthy; she could not regain her health. She is always unwell and there is always someone who helps her get up and go around. She is not able to get up on her own. She always thinks about my martyred uncle. She says if only Alidad had a son, or wishes that he had been older, but they lost him when he was so young.

[Alidad’s death was difficult] for the rest of the family members. For my father, it was very difficult because after we lost our uncle, my grandfather also passed away and he was left in all the hardships of life alone. This was also when we had nothing left. The Taliban had looted all our property and cattle. They took everything we had. We could only save ourselves from that place. Other than that, we did not have anything we could use for charity and other commemorative ceremonies after the funeral for my uncle and grandfather. We could not afford that. Those times were truly difficult for my father. When you think about it, it was like he would leave his bed and go out several times at night just to cry. My uncle provided for the family, along with my father, as farmers. He would work actively as a breadwinner.

There was no fighting when we were in Samangan, but before this incident, there used to be fighting. It was around afternoon when my uncle had left toward the market to buy bread or something similar. Possibly, the Taliban were in those areas. After he went to the market, got the bread, and was coming back, they spotted him and fired at him. There was no fighting there. There were no intense fights, but those areas were under the control of the Taliban. The fighting had just stopped but it did not make a difference to the Taliban whether the person outside is a civilian or not, because no one left their homes out of fear. He had only gone out to get food so that we do not starve to death. His grave is still there in Samangan but sadly, it is too far from us. It is really far from our place. My grandmother always wishes we were closer so that she could visit his grave one more time.

My grandmother is still alive but she is very weak. She could not recover from my uncle’s death, although she is not very old. My grandmother only had two sons: only Alidad, my uncle, and the other is my father. After my uncle died, she said that her life became incomplete. Since then, she has been bedridden and sick. She is still alive but she is very weak; extremely weak.

I have [paternal] aunts, yes! I have four aunts. All of them are married. At that time, we were around eight members in our family when my father and uncle worked. We have our own home in Bamiyan. When the Taliban came to our areas, they pillaged, plundered, and set fire to everything. They took our possessions and cattle with them. After that, we left that place and came here. We did not know anything here. The houses which we lived in, no one has told me whether they were rented or not, so I do not have any details on that matter.

A very long time ago, I am not sure when but long ago, my grandfather used to assemble people for fighting. In one of those fights, my grandfather was injured and lost one leg. After that, he was unable to provide for the family so all the responsibility as the guardian fell on my father’s shoulders.

As far as I can remember, my grandmother has a handkerchief. She had gotten my uncle that handkerchief when he used to work somewhere. He had bunched up the handkerchief into the shape of a ball and used to play with it as a ball with us and anyone else that was at home. When he would come back home, we used play with the ball-shaped handkerchief. That handkerchief is still with my grandmother back home. My uncle also used to love to read and write. I have some of his notebooks and similar things with me. It has been many years that we have preserved them with us. They are very dear to us. Very much dear to all of us. But if the place (War Victim Museum: Center for Dialogue and Memory in Afghanistan) is safe, we will surely send it [to you]. We would definitely give them to you as a way to commemorate him but if it gets lost or misplaced, for example, then we cannot give them to you unfortunately.

There has not been any instance when they tell stories about my uncle to us because after every time there is a mention of him, everyone becomes absolutely silent at our home. But yes, the things that are mentioned very, very, very much are his good behavior and manners toward others. They say he had a lot of respect for elders. At home, he was always good to his mother. He always treated his mother, father, brother, and sister-in-law very well. One other thing that they mention is that he had a keen liking to me. Whenever he would come back home, he would hold my hands and lift me to play with me, whether I was asleep or awake. Also, he would lift me from where I was sleeping to wake me up to spend time with me.

God bless and thank you for your program. It is a very interesting and good program. Truly, no family wants to be away from the memory of their lost loved one. Their good manners and behaviors, and all of their characteristics are always remembered. They are always remembered by the family and after I heard about your program, I became really happy. I thought that this program will commemorate the victims for centuries, and we can see all of the things that occurred many years ago. It is possible that everything that he left behind, his pictures or pieces of writings, could be lost, torn, or misplaced at home, but here it will be preserved. I am happy with your program. Thank you and best of luck.

We Still Have Father’s Bullet-Torn Blanket

Jaweda is a student at Bamiyan University. She is sharing the story of losing her father based on how her mother had narrated it to her. She retells the story of hardship that her mother experienced after she lost her husband.

Narrator: Jaweda (victim’s daughter)

Victim: Sayed Mohammad Alam Hussaini

Date of incident: 1998

Place of incident: Bamiyan

His name was Sayed Mohammad Alam Hussaini and he was 23 or 25-years-old. Yes, he was very young. He died on the year as I was born, in 1998. His place of birth and residence was Bamiyan Province and he belonged to the Bedmishkeen area of Yakaolang District. He had studied only until second or third grade. Due to some problems, he was not able to continue his education. He was a farmer by occupation but in his free time, he usually read books and could write as well. After my father’s death, we migrated to Iran for three years. My father died on December 30.

When we migrated to Iran, we did not take any of his belongings or writings with us. After we came back, none of his possessions were there either. I do not have any brothers. It is just my mother and three of my sisters. We did not have anyone to help us so we had no other choice but to leave for Iran. That is why we do not have any of my father’s possessions that I could bring here today with me. There is only one blanket left. When the fighting happened, [my father sent] all of us to the mountains to flee from danger. My mother, three sisters, and I were in the mountains when my father had gone to bring a blanket to keep us warm. It was winter so it was cold. He was moving toward the mountain with the blanket when he was shot at. The bullet struck his back and left a hole through the blanket. I have brought the torn blanket with me today. After going to and coming back from Iran, we no longer had my father’s personal items with us. He had many diaries filled with his writings but he did not have anyone else here to preserve them. He only had us but we had left to Iran at that time.

It is mountainous here and he was struck with a bullet while he was walking towards the mountain. My grandfather and cousins brought us and my father back from the mountain. Afterward, I think my father was alive for one more day because there were no hospitals back then advanced enough to treat a bullet wound like that. Yes, they did not exist back then. After one day, my father passed away in our home in Bedmishkeen area. They [grandfather and cousins] had brought him back home since if he had been shot in his abdomen, he could not be saved. They did not take him to the hospital. He was alive for one day before passing away. Only the families of my cousin and mine went to the mountain, but there was another woman from Bedmishkeen coming toward the mountain with my father. However, she survived and is still alive today. Only my father was lost. We did not stay in the mountain after that. Only my father died.

The first time I heard about the fighting, people were saying that it was not that intense and not many people had been killed. The next time, the fighting was intense [had more casualties too] and maybe that is why it was over sooner. The people returned to their homes from their places of hiding in the mountains. Maybe that is why we also came back home. My grandfather brought us to Akhundu area about one week after the attack. My grandfather, who had become our guardian after my father, along with my three uncles and cousins buried my father. We only had them. My father was buried near a shrine called “Shah Qalandar” in Bedmishkeen area.

My mother was young and she tells us about the problems and hardships that we faced [after my father’s death]. She tells us about the [difficult] life she had. Obviously, my mother was very young. She only had three daughters with only one year gap between them. My mother was very young. She said that when my father died, there were not many casualties. There was no one to emphasize with her and tell her they are with her to support her. There were no such things. My mother fought [for us] all alone and faced many hardships. She even says that we did not even have shoes. She used to patch and sew our shoes together. We had a lot of such problems. When my grandfather was alive, he took us under his guardianship and he used to provide for our living expenses. He had four wives and my father was from his eldest [first] wife. My father did not have full-siblings. He only had one full-sister who lives in Iran. As for my uncles (father’s half-brothers), except for creating problems for us, they do not provide any help. As long as my grandfather was alive, my uncles used to help us. Now that he is no more, we have no one to help us. Three of my sisters are married now. Before that, we used to make hand sown [items] and sell them in the market. Also, before we sold our cow, we used to make ends meet that way.

I do not know the details [of how the incident took place]. I don’t know, maybe when he was fleeing towards the mountain, they were there and fired at him. Other than that, I do not have any more information. My mother says she could not enjoy her youth and how it went. There is a lump in her stomach area and when we ask her about it, she responds that it is all because of grief and sadness. She tells us that it is because of stress and worry that that area has hardened and now she is unwell. Her hands and feet hurt. She has worked a lot and now her wrist joints all hurt. We cannot even afford to treat her. There are some problems which prevents us from taking her to the hospital for treatment and her betterment.

I am a university student now. When I got accepted to the university, I told my mother that I would not go because she did not have the money to give me to go study. She told me to go because God is merciful; He has helped us until now without my father and He shall continue to help us.

I currently live in Bamiyan and with the seven thousand provided for living expenses, I manage. We do not have a financial support or a brother that can work, we only have my mother and she is unwell now. She is old and cannot work to provide for me. She cannot go work and give me money. Currently, with the living allowance that my university provides for me, I manage. My father was a hard worker and used to work in the fields day and night because he was a farmer. He was young back then. I heard from many people, they praised [how hard working] my father was. He was youthful and always used to work hard to provide for his family in an honest manner. Despite that, my mother tells me that my grandfather used to punish my father a lot and used his catchphrase, “may God take you young” a lot. However, I do not know the reason why he used to say that. Even then, my father always respected my grandfather and always worked hard to keep him happy and satisfied. Yes [we have pictures of my father], which one should I bring? Yes, [we live in Bedmishkeen currently] in a single room which my grandfather had given us at that time. My uncles are fighting over that now but we still live in that home.

While in Pain and Agony, They Threw Him Among Salts

Jamila Hussaini is a 23-year-old married woman living in the Mirzaolang refugee tents. Jamila was born in Sar-e Pol Province. Until the fighting in Mirzaolang, she lived there in Naoabad’s Masjid Sarsang Village. She used to weave kilim rugs in Mirzaolang and has two sons named Binyamin and Yosuf.

Narrator: Jamila Hussaini (Victim’s sister)

Victim: Sayed Shahbaba Hussaini (45-years-old)

Place of incident: Mirzaolang, Sayad District, Sar-e Pol Province

My name is Jamil Hussaini and I studied till the fourth grade. I am 23-years-old and was born in Mirzaolang. Our village was called Sarsang. I am a housewife and do no other work except taking care of my sons. Previously, I used to weave rugs.

We are three siblings. I have two children named Binyamin, 3, born in Mirzaolang, and Yosuf, 1, who was born in Mazar. Currently, we live in rented houses in the Hassan Abad area of Mazar-e-Sharif. Before, we spent eight months in refugee tents. We lived in Sarsang Village where the fighting happened. Sayed Shahbaba, 45 years of age, was my brother and he was born in Mirzaolang. My brother used to farm in the village but he was literate.

My brother had two wives: six children from his first wife, and three daughters and two sons from his second wife. His eldest child from his first wife is Shah Jahan, 18-years-old, who studied only until the second grade. His second son is 17-years-old and studied until the eighth grade before we fled Mirzaolang. He has another son called Mohammad Ali and the name of his 14-year-old daughter is Bibijan, who does not study. Another son is called Juma Khan, 13, and the other daughter is Sumaya, 12. His children from his second wife are as follows: Zubaida (daughter), 12, Arifa (daughter), 9, Jawad (son), 7, Ruqaya (daughter), 4 and Kazim (son), only five-and-a-half years old.

My brother’s children no longer study after we fled Mirzaolang. There are either no schools here, or people do not want kids from Mirzaolang to study in their schools. The caretaker of the family after my brother was his 17-year-old son. We have left all our belongings - property, land, everything - and now, we have nothing.

When the fighting occurred in Mirzaolang, all thirteen members of the [victim’s] family were inside their home. My other brother also lived on the same property but all their finances and expenses were completely separate. My brother [victim] was the breadwinner of his family. On the night of the attack, all their property and donkeys, stacked with crops and harvest, remained in place while they fled and left everything behind.

On Sunday night, the Taliban captured the [police] checkpoints in Mirzaolang and for two nights, the people fought against the Taliban. On the third night, government forces and tanks came. The people said they would not leave until the last moment. On that last night, we were still in our village and after we came out to the streets, both the Taliban and government forces were shooting but neither side recognized the other, and everyone fled the area. Truly, life is precious. Everyone was trying to save themselves and because of the firing and tanks, all of them were separated while fleeing. We were the first to have escaped the area and it was still dark outside, but we could hear the sounds of gunfire.

My brother was separated from his family who managed to flee to Sar-e Pol with us. However, when we reached Sar-e Pol, he [victim] did not answer his phone and no one knew of his whereabouts. This is until the situation got better. After twelve days, my family went back to the area and found out that my brother had died. During those twelve days, many bodies, including my brother’s, had decomposed and became unrecognizable. My family recognized my brother from his footwear from the Panjshir area. There were around 30 to 40 more dead with my brother. Our relatives say that they could not sleep for one week after collecting the bodies because of how horribly the bodies were torn and decomposed.

Many people were wailing holding onto their father or uncle’s patho, or their mother, sister, or child’s clothes after they had returned to the area. I have videos of some of those scenes that I will show to you.

Truly, they killed the people in a cowardly manner because our area and its residents were not on the battle fronts. They held our people hostage and killed them, no matter their age. My brother’s children would always say that their father was in Mirzaolang to take care of the cattle in order to bring them to the family. However, when the news of my brother’s death reached, my sisters-in-law and their children were completely devastated as they could not believe it. They were all crying.

The children from my brother’s first wife lost both their father and mother. As for the children from the second wife, she’s the only caretaker of the family and they are not in good living circumstances. They do not have any new clothes or good food on Eid or other happy occasions. My sister-in-law (victim’s second wife) barely makes ends meet for eleven members of her family with rug weaving and doing people’s laundry. We never considered the security in Mirzaolang to be bad because all our property, land, and livelihood were there. We never thought that the Taliban would ruin our lives and make us homeless. But no, when the police checkpoints were abandoned, the Taliban surrounded the valley and fired at us. Binyamin, my youngest son, tripped several times when we were fleeing but still, because life is precious, he would do his best to run and escape the area. It was God’s will for some to die, and others to stay alive and get displaced like this.

The Taliban would always come to our village to tell us to surrender but we never did. In the end, neither the government nor the local people were able to defend [against them] until Mirzaolang collapsed and our people were killed. All of the Taliban and Daesh fight like cowards. They attack our homes, villages, and checkpoints without warning. They killed farmers, laborers, and daily workers. I wish our people had weapons to fight against the Taliban and kill them. But no, our people were all impoverished.

Our people (from Mirzaolang) tell the tale of an old man who was confident that the Taliban would not harm him because of his age. He went to the village but the Taliban did not have mercy, even to him. They injured him and afterward, while he was in pain and agony, they threw him among the salt in a salt shop. The old man died there in pain and agony. Believe me when I say that our apple, grape, and other fruits were still hanging in their trees when we fled Mirzaolang. I still cannot sleep well and remember that we would pray to die rather than get captured by the Taliban and not die by their bullet at every moment while fleeing. I still remember the Taliban noises (as a result of their attack); it is truly terrifying. I really want the government to bring my family and me back to Mirzaolang so that we live in our homes independently and not in refugee tents. We are tired of being displaced and homeless. We want to go back to our homes, lands, and its crops.

He Died from Attack Helicopter Bullets

Husniya Khademi is a housewife and is the third narrator of this incident. She is narrating from her mother’s perspective. This story tells of the massacre in Bamiyan during the Soviet occupation. Many lost their lives at that time and bodies were buried in mass graves.

Narrator: Husniya Khademi (granddaughter of a sibling)

Victim: Reza Bakhsh Zawar (43-years-old)

Place of incident: Shahidan, Bamiyan Province

Date of incident: 1979

In spring of 1979, the Soviet soldiers shot him to death in the Shahidan area of Bamiyan Province. Reza Bakhsh Zawar was born in Norka Village, Sia Dara area of Bamiyan Province. During the years of the Soviet attacks, my mother’s uncle went to Shahidan area to look after his nephew. As a result of the rounds of fire by Soviet attack helicopters on the people of Shahidan area, he, along with forty other people, were killed. One bullet hit his head and the other hit his chest. The dead bodies remained on the ground for several days until the Soviet attacks calmed down, after which the people gathered to bury all the bodies in a mass grave without any graveclothes.

My mother’s uncle (Reza Bakhsh Zawar) was a farmer. He was married with a daughter and a son. His parents had died previously and he did not have any siblings. His body was left where he had died for a week. His wife did not know about his death, but after my father went to that area and came back, he informed her. His wife left the village one month after his death. Their house, which my uncle is taking care of, is still there to this day. The widow was the breadwinner of the family and they migrated to Iran where she worked to support two of her children. Afterward, her son broke his leg in a traffic accident and he can no longer work. Also, my mother’s aunt, who had cancer, went to Iran but passed away in the spring of 2019. She left behind two sons and two daughters.

The life of Reza Bakhsh Zawar’s widow was good in Iran at the beginning, but her son’s (Asad) traffic accident has caused a toll on them. The victim’s widow passed away last year in Iran, and her daughter also passed away this year. Asad is married and has one daughter. He is forced to provide for her despite his physical disadvantage.

The Curse of Incidents Always Hit the Poor

In the dark midnight, all were sleeping. That night when the explosion took place, I imagined our home upside down. Those scenes of horror and darkness still haunt my dreams. In the dark, I tried to move and look for my family members to see who was fine and who was injured, but I couldn’t get up and move. Then I noticed that my leg felt wet. I was injured by broken glass from my house. I had lost one leg in 1989 in mine explosion. This time, my other leg was injured.

All my family were terrified. The floor was covered with broken glass. We could not see anything in the dark. After the first incident when I lost my leg, my family behaved and liked me like before. But it was painful for me because I sometimes feel that I can’t do enough with my disability. When I was injured the first time, I was treated at the government hospital. We were also provided with other assistance. After I got out of the hospital, were provided with monthly coupons along with 4000 Afghanis in cash. But the assistance our current government provides is not sufficient. I ask the government to bring peace and not forget war victims. We were disabled in this land and we are its citizens. Sometimes I hear very unfair words. They say that people like me were culprits or perpetrators and that's why we were disabled. When I hear these words, it makes me sad and my heart breaks.

We Experienced No Peace for Forty Year

This story begins in a street on a rainy day. The camera has been set up near the gate of the house and Dr. Sharif, a colleague from the Afghanistan Human Rights and Democracy Organization, is getting closer to Kabal Shah. Although Kabal Shah walks with the aid of two metal canes, he throws a glance toward the camera and enters the premises of the house. With a slight delay, Dr. Sharif follows behind him into the house through the gate.

The following scene is of the two-story cement building with a set of blue-painted stairs that take Kabal Shan to the second floor. With no side railings on the stairway, Kabal Shah has no choice but to climb it. Using the skill of climbing those stairs every, he deftly climbs them. The sound of his metal canes hitting the stair steps can be heard from afar and for a few seconds, the face of Kabal Shah’s mother appears behind the door on the second floor. After that, a child rests his face by the door to look outside. The metal door hitting the wall lets a small echo and with a single glance at the camera, Kabal Shah enters the hallway.

The next footage is a close up of the face of Kabal Shah’s mother. She is an elderly woman who has the corner of her headscarf in her mouth with tears pooled at her eyes. She holds her sob back while looking at the camera and when she talks, it can be seen that she no longer has all of her teeth. The conversation starts and a little boy sitting beside Kabal Shah, probably aged seven or eight, laughs. Life in this household is in a strange contrast between sorrow and happiness. These recorded moments in the conversation show life swinging between sorrow and happiness. The mother is sat on the right with Kabal Shah in the middle and his son to his right. His other son, maybe a year or two older, is on the left-hand side.

During the conversation, the boys do not talk. The story is told by the mother sometimes but mostly by Kabal Shah. The connection between their words and sentences works like the bond between chains. Both speak of the same incident, but what creates a difference are the feelings which the narrators express through words and the entire conversation. They fill the room. This quality exists in different parts of stories in this book. In fact, there has been a conscious effort to reflect the atmosphere created by the conversations.

Narrator: Kabal Shah (Victim’s brother)

Victim: Adel Shah

Date of incident: April 22, 2017

Place of incident: Shah Shaheed area, Kabul City

My name is Kabal Shah. I am a resident in Shah Shaheed, Etifaq Mosque area. I am fifty-one years old. The victim was my brother. His name was Adel Shah. Our father’s name was Shireen Shah. My brother was 24-years-old. The incident? I will tell you the exact date and day, which was April 22, 2017. In Shash Darak area, in front of the kiosk printing shop, an explosion happened. It was eight in the morning and he was going to work when he became a martyr.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Abdulhaq Square, right?

Kabal Shah: No, after you pass Abdulhaq Square and turn the corner towards Shah Darak, there is a street which has a kiosk shop. Yes, [the explosion happened] across that shop. He used to work there. There was a shop there in ‘Nangarhar Say’ shop area, a barber’s shop. He was a student and worked there. He was going to his work that day.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: He was the breadwinner of our family. He (points to Kabal Shah) in this condition.

Kabal Shah: That is true but I also have a store of my own and I was sitting there when I heard a loud boom. I heard the explosion.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: We also heard the explosion.

Kabal Shah: After hearing the explosion, my younger brother came to the store and I told him, “You, Suleiman, quickly call Adel.” There has been an explosion, I told my brother. My brother quickly took his phone out and called his number. His number quickly started to ring and just as quickly, someone answered the phone. The person responsible for the morgue in Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital had Adel’s phone and answered, “the owner of this phone has died.” He said that right away, by God. After he said [Adel] had died, I was shocked and did not know what to make of it. We endured so much pain that year, you cannot even imagine. From our store, we went to Wazir Akbar Khan. We visited the morgue in the hospital. They opened a mortuary cabinet and after looking in, we saw Adel’s lifeless body. He was only 24-years-old and had not married. He was not even engaged.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: He was asleep here and I was praying. I called my other son, “Sulieman Jan! Get up for the prayer.” Adel asked me, “What time is it?” I told my son it was six in the morning. He was an early bird. He would wake up even earlier, that is why I did not wake him up. When he was leaving, I told him, “Son, you did not give me money. Give me fifty Afghanis..." We have gone through very bad experiences: two people died from land mines, seven people got buried under house rubble, and he (Kabal Shah) lost his leg in another land mine. Ten people in total. Besides Adel, I have lost four other sons. And along with these four sons, I have lost two daughters. Two of my daughters died back-to-back very young. My son was also young. I took care of widows; I took care of orphans.

Kabal Shah: Yes, we also lost them. Do not talk about them because this is getting recorded.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: No, it is okay. Around 15-16 people from our family... We have lost around 15-16... we are five or six hundred thousand in debt.

Kabal Shah: Yes, yes.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Just this morning – by God, if I had a wink of sleep the night before – oh God, I said, “You want this yourself but why are you saying at one in the morning that I...” I pray this in Tahajud prayer. Their father... those are his pictures. Listen, his children were this small when I started caring for them. I made a home for them and now they live in Nawabad.

Kabal Shah: Do not say these things because they are getting recorded in the video.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: It is alright.

Kabal Shah: It is not alright.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Let me vent my heartache to them so that I let out my pain.

Kabal Shah: I don’t know. Talk about some other pain, like that person and that...

Kabal Shah’s Mother: We took care of his elder brother’s widow for seven years. His elder brother also...

Kabal Shah: He died a natural death around seven years ago.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: He left young orphans behind; his widow behind after he died. His father also passed away from the grief of losing his son.

Kabal Shah: One year after that, we lost my other brother.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: One year after. I was praying in the morning and called my younger son named Sulieman and told him to get up. Adel woke up after that and I told him, “Come and have breakfast at home today.” He responded, “No, I will go because it is late.” I asked him, “Son, do you have money?” he gave me a fifty Afghani note and said, “I earned this.” He got half of the enringing at his place because even if he earned around five hundred, he would get 200-250 Afghanis at the end. He said that that money was kept in our safe. After his death, I asked Kabal Shah how much money was in the safe and he said around 200-300 Afghanis. It was the money which he had earned. After giving a fifty Afghani note, he left and said goodbye. May God ruin them [perpetrators], so they could feel what we, widows, and orphans feel.

Kabal Shah: After that, I went to the hospital. I called my other brother, relatives, and friends, and brought his body back home.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: I did not see his face.

Kabal Shah: You would not have been able to look at his face.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: That- (weeping)

Kabal Shah: I did not bring the body back home and took it directly to the mosque. I also brought his [empty] coffin from our yard because I thought my sisters and others were here.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: One of my daughters became paralyzed because of the pain of losing him. She will be taken to Pakistan for vaccination.

Kabal Shah: Yes, all because of grief. She is about forty-years-old and has a husband.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: She is in such a state that she needs to take fifteen vaccines and each cost six thousand, although she does not have much money.

Kabal Shah: They live in Khair Khana. They live really far from us.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: They live in Khair Khana but she is in that condition now because of the loss of my son.

Kabal Shah: Yes, then we brought his body to the mosque and with family, relatives, and other people, we buried him in the Shah Shaheed cemetery. By God, his behavior with mother, brother, and everyone else was good. He was good to everyone.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: In Shah Shaheed, he worked right here in Shah Shaheed. One or two [of my sons] could not find a livelihood here, so they decided to go to Macroyan.

Kabal Shah: Yes, they went to live in Macroyan Say. If I make an estimate, dear doctor, it was 1988-89. In the winter of that year, my brother and his son went out – it was when the Soviet forces had just left the north – where the soviet used to be. They were out and about to gather wood or other things, and take them home. However, they stepped on a land mine and died. No, my nephew was single as he was only fifteen-years-old. No, we do not have any pictures of them.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: It was during the Soviet occupation.

Kabal Shah: Forty days. Only forty days went by after that incident in 1988-89 when the three-story house that we had collapsed suddenly. It was winter when the house collapsed. Seven of our family members died in that house. My mother, my sister-in-law, and five of my brother’s children were under the rubble and died. The next year, I got injured and lost my leg on a land mine. Since that time, until around 2012, when my brother drove a taxi around Sarai Shamali and Shah Shaheed, he was well. But while driving, he got a stroke and collapsed.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: It was because of the grief of losing his children. He lost four daughters and three sons under that house.

Kabal Shah: That poor man also died like that inside his taxi. Just like my other brother who died from the explosion, I got a call from Jamhoriat Hospital, “Is Khak Shah your brother?” I responded with an affirmative and they told me, “Come then. He has passed away here in Jamhoriat Hospital.”

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Just look at all this pain, brother.

Kabal Shah: Then in 2013, I lost my father. After that, one of my sisters passed away. Then again, I lost another sister.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: All because of grief and sorrow.

Kabal Shah: Then, Adel, my brother also died in an explosion. These are the problems in life. It is like this all around the world.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: I do not care if the entirety of Afghanistan (unintelligible) I do not care about it.

Kabal Shah: Changes, you ask. Except worry, pain, sorrow, and my brother’s absence, there has been no significant change, you see. By God, one of my sisters became paralyzed because of the grief of his loss, you see. As for my mother, she spends day and night crying. And for me personally, I am grappling with the debt of the money I borrowed for my brother’s funeral, which I have not been able to pay to this day. I have paid a portion of it but the other part is remaining. God willing, I want to pay the rest. There are other changes too. Life is like that, after all. No, work is not going well these days. There is much less work these days. Currently, we are five brothers. Four of us live together and the other lives in Khair Khana.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: They live in a rented house. They are struggling economically.

Kabal Shah: We have a barber’s shop and that is our profession. We make 500, or 600, or 400 Afghanis a day. Work was good previously. Work went well. These days, there is not much work.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: God knows that since I lost my son, I do not have any money. Once the life situation gets bad, you will feel sorry looking at my children. My other son became the father of few children the past few years but we still have not been able to pay our debts. He is obligated to pay the debts until now. Around three hundred thousand or so is left to be paid off. The [debtor] came after him every hour for their money, every hour. My son, Adel, was a hard worker and he could bring a bit of bread and money. If he could not bring, we would sit hungry.

Kabal Shah: No, that has not happened.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: What has not?

Kabal Shah: For example, not having food to eat or other necessities. No, through God’s grace, it has not. Adel was my third brother.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Yes, third son, after Sulieman.

Kabal Shah: By God, everyone knows that those who are the enemy of humanity, enemy of the people, and enemy of religion do these kinds of things. [About the peace process] It is good if it happens. Look at us, for example, look at what happened to us. All the things that happened in the past, let it not be repeated from no one. May the generations after us live a peaceful life, you see. May they live a good life. And if they make an apology, that will also be very good. For example, if something happens, it is said that the Taliban were responsible. There has been enough war, it should end. It has been forty years. There is no other country which is in war more than five years, six years – ten years at most – but it has been forty years in Afghanistan. During these forty years, a solution should have been found.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: We never experienced a moment without sorrow, none. In forty years, we never had a moment without sorrow.

Kabal Shah: My mother is 65-years-old.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: I was fourteen-years-old when the war began. We are originally from Bagram but after the war started, we left that place and went there. We searched for 35 houses for rent, 35. There was a small house made of mud, which collapsed entirely. When our life had gotten a bit better, God took my son from me. I am no longer happy with my life.

Kabal Shah: We have many memories, a lot of memories. Among them, there are happy ones and sad ones. But my brother... I have one memory of him that I remembered last night. One day, I got upset with him and started beating him. While I was hitting him, he looked at me and said, “I do not get hurt.” He was athletic and used to play sports. He told me, “I will not get hurt, only your hands will get hurt. There is no use no matter how much you hit me.” This is one memory that comes to my mind 24/7. Another memory of him is when he was in the store with us though I was older. He was more muscular and athletic.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Yes, he had curly hair.

Kabal Shah: No, no. The one with curly hair is my other brother.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: No, [Adel] also had curly hair.

Kabal Shah: No, he did not let his hair grow that way.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Macho, he was very macho man.

Kabal Shah: No, no, he is still here. I have other memories of him, he was my brother after all. As for bad memories, no he did not have any bad behavior and was not disrespectful towards us. I do not have any such memories. Should they take his dombra?

Kabal Shah’s Mother: His toothbrushes, all of them.

Kabal Shah: Should they take his dombra?

Kabal Shah’s Mother: As you wish.

Kabal Shah: Rabia Balkhi? Yes.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: We still have his jacket

Kabal Shah: School? No, he only studied for a year or two because it was the time of war and revolution.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: So many people’s futures were destroyed.

Kabal Shah: All of us live in this house. This is my brother’s kid and those two kids belong to my other brother. About a month or a month and a half ago, this got broken. It fell on the ground at home. Is this picture of his alright?

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Go son and bring his jacket as well. His backpack was also with us. My son took his belongings around two or three days ago.

Kabal Shah: His shoes are not here

Kabal Shah’s Mother: His socks are not here but his shoes are

Kabal Shah: He was wearing those shoes on that day

Kabal Shah’s Mother: There are there

Kabal Shah: Let me tell you another story from that day. It has been recorded but, on that day, we brought his body back home. The driver of the ambulance was a very nice and kind man. He waited outside our home for a long time. From here, he took us to the mosque and waited there. He told us, “If you want to take the body any place else, I will take you. I am not going anywhere.” Because of that, I wanted to give him five hundred Afghanis but he insisted that he will not take it. However, Adel’s shoes were there and the driver asked that if I allow it, he wanted to take those shoes. So, he took the shoes.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: He had bought it recently.

Kabal Shah: People say that a car with a foreign national was passing through. As the car was passing through, the explosion happened.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Son, throw in his shoes there as well.

Kabal Shah: The person was sat in a Mercedes car when the explosion happened. God knows, maybe Adel had stuck his head out. As a result, his head, which was unprotected, bore all the injuries. No wallah, he did not have a Tazkira ID card. No, wallah, he did not have a...

Kabal Shah’s Mother: He had a school report card but I do not know where it got lost. Maybe it was left in the school during the revolution. Moving here and moving there. We had to move a lot. We went towards north, then went to another place from there. And another place after place, and had to take all three of them to school…

Kabal Shah: Go

Kabal Shah’s Mother: What for?

Kabal Shah: His [Adel] dombra.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: Not sure if the strings are working any longer or not. I had brought this from Taj Qurghan for him. I once went to Mazar and he asked me to bring a dombra for him. So, I brought this from Taj Qurghan for him.

Kabal Shah: He liked this dombra a lot.

Kabal Shah’s Mother: wallah as for myself, I was serving as a soldier in 1989 in Unit 25 of Khost Province. During my service, I got caught on a land mine and lost my leg. My leg was torn to pieces and I was taken to Charsad Bistar Hospital. However, my leg could not be saved in that hospital and the doctors told me they had to amputate it. Thus, my leg got cut off there.

No statement

No statement

Bamiyan Exists in the Government’s Blind Eye

Mohammad Zohak, as explained in the beginning of his speech, has graduated as a sociology major from Bamiyan University. He is a calm man. While talking, he speaks in a calm manner and explains the incident in all its details from memory. He has profound respect for his uncle, Jawad Zohak, and therefore, uses honorific words such as “Eishan” and “Raees Sahib” constantly while talking about him. To avoid repetition, we have omitted these words from the text below, except in few instances. At the time of the incident, all responsibilities fell on Mohammad Zohak's shoulders. Consequently, he has experienced a difficult time. He mentions those incidents and happenings in his life with confidence.

Narrator: Mohammad Zohak (victim’s nephew)

Victim: Jawad Zohak

Date of incident: June 7, 2011

Place of incident: Pul Rangan, Ghorband Valley, Parwan Province

My name is Mohammad and my surname is Zohak. I have a bachelors degree in social sciences and have graduated from Bamiyan University’s sociology major. I was born in Qufqool Village, Yakaolang District of Bamiyan Province. I am married with one child. I am the nephew of martyr Jawad Zohak. When he passed away, he was 44-years-old. He was also born in Bamiyan’s Yakaolang District in Qufqool Village, which is part of Sia Dara. Sia Dara is a zone and Qufqool is a village.

He was the chair of the Provincial Council and the people’s representative. Jawad Zohak had studied until twelfth grade. He had participated in the night-time Kankor Examination but did not succeed, unfortunately. His place of study was in Dasurkh High School in Yakaolang District. He was married and had three children: two sons and one daughter. His eldest child was his daughter and at that time, she was around 14-years-old. His two sons were 12 and 10-years-old. His daughter’s name is Freshta, his eldest son is called Farhad, and the last child is named Milad. At the time of the incident, all three were students at the center of Bamiyan. Their residence at that time was in Bamiyan, Zargaran area of the Safa Shahrak. We were there together.

On June 3, 2011, while travelling towards Bamiyan from Kabul, Jawad Zohak was captured by the Taliban in the Sia Gard area in Ghorband District. He had just participated in a conference in Herat which was for all Provincial Council chairs. He was killed on June 7, 2011, after five days in captivity.

He left Kabul around four in the morning or even earlier. Around six thirty, he was stopped in that area by the Taliban. He was with other passengers.

It was a Friday that day. It was June 3, 2011, when he was passing by Pul Rangan. They took him to the other side in Qumchaq Village. When the vehicle he was originally traveling in reached Shaikh Ali area, then since the people knew him, they informed the Provincial Council that the chair of the council was taken by the Taliban. We were informed around seven o’clock. Half an hour. Only with a half an hour delay. They had taken him to Qumchaq Village. He was kept there until his last living days.

I was informed later since there was no network where I was. The passengers and the driver he was with informed the Provincial Council. Then, the council informed our family. In just an hour or an hour and a half, even the television networks were informed. Tolo News had a news ticker that the Bamiyan Provincial Council chair was taken by the Taliban. Some news outlets had released a short news segment about the incident. Almost all of the family and relatives got to know about the incident through TV news channels.

No, they had not taken anyone. They had not taken anyone else but him. They had stopped just the car that the Provincial Council chair was in and let all the other cars go. When I got network connection, I was informed that my uncle had been captured in Pul Rangan in Ghorband. Unfortunately, I could not take any action. Naturally, in a state where a person like him is captured – that too by a brutal, terror group – it is difficult to manage yourself normally. It is difficult to manage yourself in those circumstances. Even now that I am talking about it, explaining it is difficult for me. Later, the local people, Bamiyan Provincial Council, other influential figures in Bamiyan, and some friends gathered in a mosque and decided that a team should go negotiate with the people in Sai Gard of Ghorband District about the reason why a people’s representative was taken and what they want from him. He is neither part of the military nor the government, he is a civilian. He is the representative of the people. If they [the captors] are against the government, then he, too, as a civil activist (despite people saying all kinds of things about him) has criticized the government and called it incompetent as part of his civil activities. So... what is it that you want?

In the end, six people were selected and they negotiated for around three or four days. At first, we would get good news. The negotiating team did not hear from him [Jawad] on the first day. Until the team found the elders of their community and got in touch with them to get [my uncle] released on the second day. I remember precisely that it was seven in the morning when they said that they would return the chair of the Provincial Council. We prepared to go to welcome him back. Well, we prepared around four o’clock to go to Ghorband and bring raees sahib. However, they called to inform us that his release was delayed and it might happen tomorrow instead. The people from the team of representative that were selected by the people to negotiate my uncle’s release called, which caused our family to wait until tomorrow in hopelessness. The next day, we were told that around nine, nine-thirty, or ten o’clock, raees sahib would be released. However, just like the previous day, his release was cancelled. On the fourth day, we did not hear any news about his release. There were rumors that Zohak was not even alive and that they were lying about releasing him. He had already been killed.

The members of the negotiating team and other influential figures who left Bamiyan were assured that the chair of the Provincial Council was still alive. They once again contacted to ask what the captors wanted from them and whether it was money that they wanted. They shall give them the money. If this person [referring to the victim] has harmed you in anyway, we shall compensate the harm. This continued on until the last day, when they said they would release him. He was supposed to be released at seven in the morning but then it got cancelled to eleven o’clock. And then, it was cancelled again. They said he would be released at seven in the evening.

It was around 11:30 PM. Around that time, the news outlets announced that the Taliban killed Bamiyan’s Provincial Council chair. The next day, they had thrown his body by the side of the road and sadly, planted land mines around him. Until that time, we still had a bit of hope because we wanted to wait until the body was identified and his death could be confirmed. There were land mines around his body so no one could get close until an expert team of bomb diffusers came to Shaikh Ali area from Parwan’s military unit. The people had zoomed on his face with their camera but they said his face could not be seen so it was not clear whether it was Zohak or someone else. After the team came and diffused the land mines, they identified the body as the chair of the Provincial Council. After that, we took the body to Parwan. From there, it was transported to Bamiyan via a helicopter. It was around four in the afternoon when we brought the martyr’s body to Bamiyan.

No, they did not ask for any ransom or anything like that. Like I mentioned previously, there were days when they would say he was going to be released. Some days, they said this two times and on the last day, they said it three times. From seven in the morning, to eleven in morning, and seven in the evening, they were saying he would be released. [They said] now that the people and influential figures came from Bamiyan, we will let him go. They were killing time like this until, unfortunately, we lost him.

One of the people who negotiated with the Taliban directly – I do not remember his name – was the focal person between the people of Bamiyan and the Taliban. He would deliver their word to us and ours to the Taliban. That person used to say that the Taliban will release raees sahib. After everything was over and raees sahib became a martyr, we were told that the Taliban had asked their elders – who were either part of the Quetta Shura or something, or were inside Afghanistan - whether to release him. But they decided that he would not be freed.

The negotiating team did not meet with Zohak at all. The Taliban did not even allow the team to talk with the victim on the phone. Also, even when one person from the family agreed to go there and see the victim just once to be sure he was alive, that was not allowed. No such thing happened. They took his life in a short span of time. If they had told this beforehand, more effort could have been taken at that time. Unfortunately, as I mentioned previously, you cannot manage yourself normally in such a situation because it is very difficult. We are a big family of around 18 to 20 people living together in a house. Trying to calm his family and children and other members of the family was a difficult task.

Under those circumstances, each relative gives a certain advice and one says to do this while the other says to do that, which puts you in a crossroad. At that time, we were not able to manage the situation as we should have or would have. As a result, they [the captors] also came to the conclusion that if this situation gets dragged longer, they might get calls from the higher ups and be forced to release him. Since he was the chair of the Provincial Council and had spent admirable years during the Jihad, he also knew many politicians, be it from Tajiks, Pashtuns, or Hazaras. He had met and interviewed many politicians up the ladder in the government. He had served as the people’s representative for two terms in Bamiyan. All in all, he was well known, so that is why the captors decided to finish the job quickly.

Unfortunately, there were many injuries on his body which indicated torture. It is very difficult for me to say this. His skull bone had become completely soft. His whole body was covered in bruises and injury; he was tortured. There was bullet wound and traces of torture. His bones were broken. The majority of his face was not recognizable. He did not have any kind of animosity with the Taliban. He was the people’s representative, not police or the army. He always traveled through land between Kabul and Bamiyan, although air travel was not available at that time. The airport in Bamiyan was not like it is today and the runway was unpaved. The airlines operating in Bamiyan today did not operate at that time. There was one airline called ‘Pactech’ but everyone preferred land travel over traveling on their airplane. I also have a memory of it. I came to Kabul on that airplane. As though it was going over the land like a car. Air travel was not available at that time as it is today, except for UNAMA which had a helicopter that came to Bamiyan sometimes. The heads of provincial offices, members of the provincial councils, and parliament members travelled with the help of their colleagues in UNAMA. Other than that, there were no airline companies which had scheduled flights during the week. In general, Jawad travelled on land. In addition, there were no such incidents on the Kabul-Bamiyan, Ghorband, and Maidan Wardak routes. You could say that it was completely unprecedented and such thing had happened for the very first time. Other than that, it is not known who had reported him as everyone said something. Certainly, the Taliban have people in all the paths between one province to the other. The other passengers with him and the car which came to deliver his bag to us said that only their car was stopped to pull raees sahib out, and the rest were told to leave. They said the captors came directly towards Zohak while he was in the passenger seat. As they spotted raees sahib in the car, they pulled him out of the car and told everyone else to leave. From what the driver said, it is evident that his whereabouts were reported. It was not an accident.

[Mohamamd Zohak stays silent in response to the question about the condition of Zohak’s wife and children upon receiving his body] Well, it was a difficult time. Although death is inevitable, the sudden death of a loved one who had traveled and you were waiting for his return, is difficult. The fact that the loved one’s body is returned to you is difficult. Although I was not at home at that time, I got a call from Parwan. From what I remember, Parwan’s governor had called the family that the body of raees sahib was transported to the airport in Parwan. He had informed the family that two helicopters will bring his body to Bamiyan. After that, deputy of the minister of defense, General Jawhari – he was a deputy back then – also called that he will reach Bamiyan in an hour. We were busy with these things back then. The airport that you saw, at that time, was unpaved and a helicopter landed. From there, the people accompanied the victim’s corpse to Rahbar Shaheed mosque inside the market area. Yes, on foot... Then, it was decided to not bury him on that day. The elders of Bamiyan and the council made the decision to bury him the next day because many government officials were coming from Kabul. The president’s representative and the provincial council representatives were to come the next day. After a small ceremony, we took the body to the hospital and kept it in the mortuary fridge. By the time we got back home, it was around 7:30-8:00 in the night. It was dark outside when we reached home. The situation in our house was unimaginable and uncontrollable. I was not very old or mature when Zohak died and I became the caretaker of the family. I am around 30-34 years old and this incident took place about 8 or 9 years ago. Managing the household was difficult. His wife, sons and daughter, and my sister and mother, all of us were part of the same household. Although he was a boss and the chair of a provincial council, with his family and extended relatives, he was always like a friend. Without him, we are around 7-8 brothers. With our sisters and other family members, he was always very nice. But when this incident took place, everyone was shocked. It is hard to describe how the situation was at that time.

Still, with whatever little ability we had, we managed ourselves. That night was a very difficult night. By the next day, when the representatives of the provincial council were supposed to come, a number of representatives from Herat, Mazar, and Bamiyan came for the funeral. The next day, we were busy with the funeral and burial of our martyr. As the head of the family, in a way, all of the responsibility for the funeral and burial was on my shoulders. We had funeral ceremonies one after the other. There were ceremonies here and in Yakaolang. After the ceremony in Yakaolang, we had another funeral ceremony in Kabul. I was responsible for the family as well as all the funeral ceremonies. We were busy with those and so was the rest of the family. Well, he was an important and big person. Despite all the difficulties, his death was unbelievable for us. Meaning, it was difficult to bear it. On the other hand, we were obliged to follow the customs and traditions of our society. We were busy with these things until the fortieth day of his passing.

Regarding the reason why this incident happened, he had a saying, if you have heard it, that if the government does not have the money to pave the streets in Bamiyan despite it being an important province and the center of tourism in Afghanistan, then the people will do it themselves. He paved the street in Bamiyan’s market area, all of the streets there. This was a form of civil protest against the government’s neglect. He was protesting for the streets, drinkable water, and issues of electricity. We have a roundabout in Bamiyan called Alakain roundabout. Zohak, along with his other civil activist colleagues, decided to install a lamp so that Bamiyan becomes illuminated. He had a famous saying during Karzai’s term that went like, ‘One eye of the government is blind and unfortunately, Bamiyan exist in the side of that blind eye and that is why they get no attention from the government.’ He was always a critic of the government in a way. However, on his last trip to Herat, two representatives from each provincial council were present. The conference was important in terms of its accountability towards people. Since provincial councils are bodies that observe the government’s actions, even in the conference during his speech, there were some problems and it was about to get cancelled. That was his last engagement with the government. In my opinion, the government was capable – the government has that much power to free the chair of a provincial council from few Taliban members – to save him under those circumstances, as the protection and security of the people is the responsibility of the government. I can say in confidence that the government was negligent. They were so negligent that even the defense deputy minister had posted on his Facebook page that even foreigners were asking for the release of the provincial council chair. They had requested the government for one or two people who could rescue him as foreign nationals were not allowed to use aircrafts and send people to rescue someone who was not their fellow countryman. They had even found the place where raees sahib was held and told [the government] that he was kept in a room with another person. They requested for one or two people to be sent there via a helicopter to rescue Zohak.

The government did not respond to this matter either, unfortunately. I want to say there is a sort of collusion between the government and the Taliban. In all the issues of districts collapsing; the conflict in Kunduz; the conflict in Baghlan; in the assassination of Burhanuddin Rabbani and other assassinations; even Karzai’s brother, who was the head of a provincial council, was assassinated; in all these matters, the government is aware and there is a collusion between them and the Taliban. Those who criticize the government in any way, they are not allowed to succeed and are not tolerated. I am certain that in the assassination of martyr Jawad Zohak, there was some sort of collusion between the government and the Taliban. Both parties cooperate with each other in such matters.

The impact of this incident was that we lost our family [member], he was everyone’s hope and someone we always relied on. I can say that after losing him, our family no longer has been able to be happy in the true sense of it. We sent his wife and children abroad because guaranteeing their safety was beyond my capability, whether they lived in Bamiyan or Kabul. Although I could also go with them through their [asylum] case, I did not leave. I could not go. I could not let go of this place. [His death] definitely left a negative impact on our lives. Especially on his children, who lost their father and their friend at such a young age. The impact will be felt throughout all their lives. It is difficult for all of us, truly difficult. His children and widow do not have any financial or security problems, but we all have mother and fathers and losing such a great father in such a young age is difficult. For us, the loss of such a significant person has left a huge void in our lives.

We took a lot of initiatives, even submitted a petition to the United Nations. We also sent a copy of it to ten other reputable embassies in Kabul. I submitted the petition to the office of the president myself. I delivered the petition to the deceased former vice president, Marshal Fahim, and personally gave another copy to the second vice president, Mohammad Karim Khalili. As for human rights organizations, we sent a copy to the Afghanistan Independent Human Rights Organization chaired by Ms. Samar. This was all we were able to do but unfortunately, we have not received any response. In 2017, we submitted a complaint to the International Criminal Court in the Hague through your organization but we have not gotten any result so far. Getting a response for such an incident is difficult in Afghanistan but we will still pursue it. Although I am very disappointed, I will still pursue it. We shall participate in such issues. We hope that we will get a result, although the person we lost cannot come back to life. Still, we hope that all our effort will lead to a possibility of bringing these criminals to the court. We shall participate in that. Inshallah just as such atrocities have happened in other countries like in Europe, Latin American, and even the United States, and after years of the people advocating, the perpetrators were brought to justice. We constantly hear from the media that this dictator or that group has been sentenced to life imprisonment or death. We also hope that these people who have committed such acts shall be dragged to the court and be brought to justice. They shall be asked what right they had to make three children without a father and make a family without their guardian. Who has given you such a right? Certainly, it is not God. We are hopeful that one day they will be brought to justice. Just as you explained before and showed a video, we definitely want a part of his [Jawad's] memories to be there [in the museum] although it is part of our customs that when a person becomes a martyr, their clothes and other items are given to poor people and their personal possessions like wristwatches, rings, pens, mobile phone and such are distributed among the close relatives. The ring is given to this person and the wristwatch is given to that person, like the brother or his children. Just like that, after his passing, everything. We even sent some of his personal belongings to his sister abroad to keep as a memory. However, we have a few of his clothes which can be displayed in the [memory] boxes. We shall place his pictures there which are part of his memories. Aside from that, we have kept his shoes which he wore the very last time. It is still at home and we have not given it to anybody. Yes, we have kept it with us. We are willing to place some of his items with his pictures in the [memory boxes]. How can we not be willing?

Although Jawad Zohak was the youngest child from my grandfather, they were eight brothers in total. Only two of his elder brothers are currently with us but the rest six of them, including Jawad, have passed away. He has two sisters. One of them is here in Bamiyan and the other lives abroad, both of them were elder to Jawad. From among our relatives, only the nephews and nieces are left, two of my aunts and uncles. The country they went to as political refugees provides for their expenses. His children study and his widow is busy taking care of them. They are currently studying. One of his sons is in high school and his daughter, who is also the eldest child, is a first-year college student.

All of us had that one house and we still have it now. My grandfather’s house is in Yakaolang but after the end of the Taliban regime and start of the new government, we came here and built this house.

We remember his behavior almost every evening. He had a busy job as the head of the Provincial Council of a whole province and was occupied with meetings with government officials and the people (part of his responsibility was accountability toward the people). He was very fond of nature and even if he could not do it daily, he still took the whole family out to tour around in Bamiyan valleys whenever he had the time. Sometimes he would tour for only an hour and once time, it was just for half an hour. He was very fond of touring around. One of his best characteristics, besides loving the nature as I explained before, was that he played sports and he would always encourage all of us, one way or the other, to exercise. Although at the end times, because he had sustained an injury, he was not very physically strong and because of that injury, could not do heavy sports. He was very capable in three sports which were Taekwondo, Kung Fu, and gymnastics. In his recent times, when he could not do heavy sports, he was interested in playing tennis. He liked playing tennis but there were not many facilities at that time but there was a table tennis inside a hall in Telecommunications Directorate and he always played there. His other good feature was that he never had any bad intentions toward other people. Whenever I would say that this person is not a good person, all from lack of experience, he would tell me, “No, you might not have the experience or the age to pass a judgement on whether a person is good or bad. This might just be your opinion of that person that they are but in reality, they could be good people.” He would tell me that that person might be good but your impression of them might be bad. It is also possible that the other person also has a negative impression of you but that does not mean that either you or that person is bad. He would also tell me that these all are the judgements that we make about people. In general, he did not like improper judgements of people.

He would advise us that such a characteristic was not good. He would always want the good of the people and even today, if you ask the people of Bamiyan, they would tell you about his good behavior. Issues of language, ethnicity, and identity did not matter to him. He would say that we all are humans and that all of us should find a way to live a life that is worthy for a human being. Definitely, all people were not created in once place and all of us belong to a certain district and area, but such issues like a person’s background did not matter to him. He had good behavior. He was very kind to all family members and most of people. If he wanted someone to realize that they had made a mistake, he would do it with humor and in a joking manner. His humorous nature is well known among the politicians, whether they are in Kabul or Bamiyan.

No statement

وقتی از او یاد می‌کنند، روز روشن سرم تاریک می‌شود

راوی: محمدگل بلوچ (برادر قربانی)

قربانی: غلام‌رضا

زمان حادثه: ماه قوس سال ۱۳۹۷

مکان حادثه: در مسیر هلمند، منطقه گرشک، ولسوالی کجران ولایت دایکندی

من محمدگل از قوم بلوچ هستم. جای اصلی ما ولسوالی کجران ولایت دایکندی [است] و از قریه قلای لَش [هستم.] اسم شهید ما غلام‌‌رضا [است] و برادرم [می‌شود.] سالش؟ در تذکره‌اش، در همین وقتی که شهید شدند فقط به همین برج پنجم [بود] که این ششم برج است. شش ماه می‌شود که شهید شده‌اند. در ذهن مه نیست که در تذکریش چنده که از پیش خود من بگویم که ۴۵ ساله یه، در ذهن من نیه. تذکره‌اش همرایم هست. این‌ها که از اینجا می‌رفت، شش نفر زیر موتر شدند. از همان ولسوالی کجران بودند، جنگ بود و آمدیم ولایت هرات. نزدیک هفت هشت سال می‌شود. باز این‌ها از همین قوما-این‌طوری نیست که فامیلی نزدیک باشد- از همان قوم بلوچ بودند، سه نفر از همین قریه به همراه سه تای دیگه از مردم قندهار بود، همراه شده بود می‌رفت طرف منطقه، بالای زمین کشاورزی خود که ببیند چه هست. این‌ها به منطقه کجران می‌رفت، بلی آه. باز همین بود که در منطقه «خرخورده» این‌ها را مین بالا می‌کند. دیگه همین سه تای ما که مین بالا کرد، وقتی که ما خبر شدیم، خودم رفتم دیگه قوما هم آمده بود. دیگه در تشییع جنازه شاو ده نل (شاید منظورش شبانه است) خوده رساندم، روز که حرکت کردم شب رسیدم.

از منطقه خواهرزاده‌ام زنگ زد برایم. آن‌ها چون به کجران خیلی نزدیک‌اند. مین را طالبان گذاشته بودند، طالبان قتل کرد بخدا، منطقه کجران را قتل کرده، همین حالا منطقه جنگ است، ۲۴ ساعت جنگ است. روزی که کرزی صاحب سر تخت نشست، ۱۲ سال تاکنون سمت باغران و چارچینی حکومت نتوانسته. همین حالا جنگ روان است. دولت است، [در] همین منطقه کجران دولت است، او طرف هم طالب این طرف هم طالب. دیگه جنگ است، اردو هم است، اربکی هم است، پولیس هم است. از روزی که کرزی صاحب شیشته سنگر است، یعنی نمی‌تواند اصلا. اردو اگر نبودی همین اربکی اگر نبودی، پولیس محلی نباشه هر لحظه روی کجران جنگه. از روزی که غنی شده، نه پیش از او هم، زمان کرزی صاحب دوازده سال در باغران رفته نتوانسته. همین جنگ [است]، شب در منطقه مین گور کو، مین‌های کنترولی که هیچ مسلمان‌ها خبر ندارند. در سطح ولایت دایکندی از منطقه کجران بیش‌تر شهید نداده در افغانستان. گفتم که از فامیل خودم چهار تا شهید دادم. داماد ما شهید شده، باجه مه شهید که آن‌ها را من نیاوردم سیاه سرهایش هم آنجا هستند، که هرکدام چهار یا پنج یتیم دارند، در کجران هیچ خانوادۀ نیست که شهید نداده باشد. که چهار تا یتیم یکش دارد پنج تا هم دیگرش که یکی دامادم می‌شود دیگرش هم باجه‌ام می‌شود. منطقه کجران بی‌اعضای شهدا نیست.

امروز برای مردم خدمت می‌کنم و در هیچ مشکلات اشک مه نامده، مگر امروز که اینجا دیدم اشک‌هایم بالا آمد (گریه می‌کند) در طول عمر به قرآن اگر مشکلات سرم تأثیر کرده باشد، اما امروز عکس برادرم را دیدم اشکم جاری شد، داغ از دست دادن برادر خیلی سخت است(گریه می کند). برادرم ازدواج کرده بود، سه تا اولاد دارد که دو تا پسر است و یک تا دختر؛ اولادهایش یکی سن ۱۲ و دو تای دیگر پشت‌سر اوست، فرزند بزرگش پسر است، در همان‌جا متولد شده بود.

ما که رفتیم آن‌ها را به مسجد برده بودند. دیگه نمی‌شد، کالای آن‌ها همین پایین به بالا گوشت و خون بود. همین رواج ما است که شهید را هیچ چیز را از جانش نکشیم، با همان کالایش -مسجد خیلی خنک بود، همین تیرماه بود دیگه- ما هم رسیدیم قبر و تمام چیزها را جور کرده بود، فقط در همان مسجد داخل کفن با همان کالایش پیچ داده بود، فقط دیدارش را کردیم. از پایین به بالا دیگه خیلی صدمه دیده بود، نیاز به دیدن نبود، فقط رویش را دیدم.

برای ما که اطلاع آمد ساعت‌های یازده بجه بود، یازده صبح. برای ما از کجران زنگ زدند ساعت‌های یازده بود، که من آن را یادداشت گرفتم. اینش را نمی‌دانم که ساعت‌های ۱۰ بجه بوده مقصد ساعت یازده به ما خبر دادند که بیایید. طالبان می‌گویند ما نکرده‌ایم کس دیگر کرده، طالبان همان‌جا می‌روند و می‌آیند، موترها می‌رود و می‌آید. اگر چه تا حدی که بشناسند که ملکی است و بی‌غرض می‌باشند کاری با آن‌ها ندارند، اگر یک وقت بفهمد که برادر کسی پولیس یا اربکی است، او را می‌گیرند. چند تا که در همان وقت‌ها گرفته بود، از موتر تا کرده بود، یکی که برادرش را یوسف می‌گفت را پایین کرده بود، به یک گوشش فیر کرده و مرمی از گوش دیگرش بیرون شده بود و به او گفته بودند که چرا برادرت اربکی است.

در این شکل اگر شناسایی کنند که بشناسه که برادرش پولیس است یا اربکی یه یا مثلا چیزیه می‌کشند، اگر نشناسد بازهم غرض نداره. دیگه راهی [هم] نداره خو راه منطقه از همان‌جا است. برادرم کشاورز بود و برای کار رفته بود، زمین پدری همان‌جا است. مه خود مه نرفتم بیخی دل مه از همان منطقه سرد شده آن‌طور سرد شده که خدا می‌داند.

اگرچه که من بگویم زندگی خوبه، نه فقط شب و روز تیر می‌شه. وقتی که تو مهاجر باشی و اینجا بیایی و پول نداشته باشی، امروز در همان قریه که قریه نایبی می‌گه که همان‌جا یک‌نیم جریب زمین‌واری یه، کشاورزی یه، دیگه او تو چیزی نداره. مقصد یک روزگار میچله دیگه. خانمش بیچاره که من بگویم ماشین کار کرده باشد نه، یا گلدوزی کار کرده باشد نه، همین ماشین‌های ساده کار می‌کرد به منطقه، اینجا دیگه نه. پشم و این چیزها زن‌ها می‌آورند در قریه اما خوب معلومات ندارم. سه طفلش مکتب می‌رود، هرسه تایش به مکتب شیخ‌آباد می‌گه، همان‌جا می‌ره.

خواسته‌ام این است که خدایا مرگ زیر لحاف به مه نکنی، همان‌گونه که برادرم شهید شده، جام شهادت از خدا می‌خواهم. این آرزوی مه است در خاطره هم نوشته کردم. جام شهادت می‌خواهم که اصلا اگر خدا مره زیر لحاف می‌کند نکند، اگر مه بنده خاص تو ام، بگذار که جام شهادت را بنوشم، هرچه که شد. این آرزو را از خدا دارم.

بسیار یک اخلاق خاص داشت. همین اخلاق خاصش که بیادم می‌آید دلم آتش می‌گیرد(گریه راوی). به خاطر خوبی و مهربانی‌هایش دلم می‌سوزد، وقتی دوستانش نزد من غلام‌رضا می‌گویند و از او یاد می‌کنند، روز روشن سر من شب تاریک می‌شود، حالا از او چه بگویم، به آن‌ها نیز می‌گویم که او را نزد من یاد نکنید، قلبم آتش می‌گیرد، حالا که رفته نیست، اما غم‌هایش کمرم را شکسته است. جوان‌مرگی بسیار سخت است، ما سه برادر بودیم او برادر کوچکم بود، نزد ما بسیار نازدانه بود و او را بسیار دوست داشتیم، احترام مرا خیلی داشت، همۀ ما می‌میریم، ما هم پشت سر آن‌ها می‌رویم، لیکن همین داغی را که برای یکدیگر خود می‌گذاریم بسیار سخت است.

No statement

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His Mother Called, “Come. We Have Found Him.”

Hedayatullah Ghaznawi is a man who has lived half of his life. His hair and beard have become grey. He has a chest filled with fire and tells in a section of his interview, “a new fire has ignited.” His voice trembles during the interview and his throat tightens from grief which he does not show until the end of the interview. His cannot complete his sentences and from his body language, is it evident that the death of his son left an irreversible effect on this man’s mind and spirit. This is evident in his tone when he speaks. His catchphrase is “you understand?” which he repeats after almost all of his sentences. We have removed his catchphrase from this text to avoid repetition.

Narrator: Hedayatullah Ghaznawi (father of the victim)

Victim: Rohullah Ghaznawi

Date of incident: August 15, 2018

Place of incident: Mawood Education Center, Dasht-e Barchi, Kabul

My name is Hedayatullah Ghaznawi, the victim’s father. His name was Rohullah Ghaznawi. He was killed on August 15, 2018 in the incident at the Mawooud Education Centre. No one took the responsibility for the incident. Some say [the perpetrators] took responsibility but I personally have not seen on the TV that, for example, the Taliban, Daish or anyone else have claimed responsibility. None of them took responsibility. Before the attack on Mawoud Center, I unenrolled my daughter and son there and cited insecurity as the reason. It was his last year so he said he would go there and his friends also insisted too, so that is how I let him resume going there. My daughter finished the year before. Otherwise I would have lost her in the attack as well. It was around noon that day, and after having his lunch with us, he said he was leaving. Other days, he would say, “I am leaving.” But on that day, he said, “I am going, dad, goodbye.” This hurts me a lot. The fact that he said, “I am going, dad, goodbye.” This torments me a lot.

On that day, his uncle called from Helmand Province to inform me that there had been an explosion in Mawoud Center. No matter how much I called, he did not answer his phone. Finally, I left [to look after him]. He was such a sweet boy and since he was seven years old, he was my friend. He was my friend. he was so nice that when I asked him to come and have lunch at noon, he would say he will eat after he was done with his prayer. He was a very good son (pause) everyone has their own place [in your heart]. He was the genius in our family, a genius. He was a hard worker.

Ah, the day that this bad incident happened to me was when I had gone for biometric and all his classmates came to me. That day was a black day. I went for biometric with my daughter and all his classmates came. Then I saw that my son was not with his classmates. After that, when I took my daughter to Rabbani University for her Kankor examination, I saw his classmates but once again, my son was not among them. That encounter hurt me a lot. God is a witness but no matter how much I try and stay patient, I cannot forget him for even five minutes because he was with me since he was very little. I only spent one week with his fiancé. Ah! His fiancé is also here. She is twenty-years-old.

His place of birth was Helmand. He spent his childhood there and studied there until the tenth grade. I only came to Kabul for their [my children's] education and studies. Only because of their education. It has been around three years since we came to Kabul. Every morning, he would first do his prayer then wake his mother, brother and I. He used to tell us to wake up because the morning has come. He would first pray and then make himself tea over the gas. After having his tea, he would come up to our company office and do all the company-related work there. He managed all our lives. He would set everything up at the office and finish all his work by twelve noon. After that, he would go to school and come back to pursue his courses [at the education center]. He took up this course and that course. That was his schedule. He was my third child.

The memory of him and every moment of his life is pain to me; pain. Until this very day, I did not witness aggression from him. Whenever I was upset, he would grin at me. He would just grin at me like this. For instance, sometimes he would smile and go to his mother to say, “Take care of father.” Among all three to four of my children, he would sympathize with me the most. Whenever he came back home, he would ask for me. If I were somewhere else, he would come to me no matter where I was. I have three other sons but he was very kind so he has a special place to me.

Truly, if you come and ask my neighbours, all of them... God is a witness that the day of his burial and funeral, so many people from friends and family and neighbors around us came and lamented his loss. Whenever my neighbours saw me, their tears would just fall down. If only I had any bad memory of him, I do not have any such memory since his childhood. One time we were painting the walls at the company. The paint jar was heavy for him but he would still drag it to give it to me. He never refused anything I said and always had me in mind. One of those days, he said, “Dad!” After responding to him, he asked me to do something for him. He asked, “Make a place for me so that I can work independently. The expenses in Kabul are a lot. That way I can proudly provide for myself independently and lead my life.” He was very kind and considerate. He was a hard worker. He would not get tired. Ah, whenever he came home, his mother would ask if he was tired. He would click his tongue to mean ‘no’ and say, “what even is tiredness?” His aunts would ask if he ever gets tired but he would say, “No, a man should never get tired. I will never accept defeat in life.” He was a hard worker. After he left us, all of my life fell apart. To tell you the truth, all of my life and my home fell apart. We do not know what we are doing and which direction we are going in life. Our lives and work crumbled so hard that now we have a hard time putting the pieces together.

He had a strong and detailed management skills. He went in the morning to check the warehouses, items, and stores, and then guide the workers. Whenever I faced a problem, I would call him. He could tell me where the item was under which serial number. His memory was that good.

He could play football well and was very interested in it. He would get medals for football. No matter how much I tell you about him and how much I think about what a great person he was, what he did, what happened, I cannot come to an end. The day he was going, his uncle asked, “where is Rohullah?” He said on that day, “I am going, dad, good bye.” One day, I was at the store sorting through fruits when I asked him if he was sick and told him to get himself checked. He looked sick but when I asked him, he replied that he was well and healthy and that there was no problem. I think to myself, “My God, how did you...”

The day of his burial and funeral was a scene to remember. His mother lost herself completely. Yesterday, when we were sorting through his clothes, his mother said, “God, you know better. We surrender to your will. We have no other choice...” Life has no meaning to us anymore. Although our life is great, thank God, it means nothing to us. From the day he was born, he did not rest even one day. He would always work hard and always thought that we need to succeed in life and live with dignity. Now that his mother grieves for him, she wishes he had rested for one day. His fiancé was with him for one week. She was here when he became a martyr. Now when you see his fiancé, you might wonder what has happened. God gave him such a great fiancé. What else can I say? We had no other worry. I loved my son a lot. I loved him endlessly. No matter how much I think, every memory... sometimes I try to keep him away from my mind for five minutes. But even if I want to, I cannot forget him even for five minutes. Although I have a son in Sweden, he would barely call once in five months. Mother is mother after all. He speaks with her but not me.

If Rohullah did not see me for five minutes, he would ask for me. His mother would tell him and then he would come to me. Since he was a kid, he was close with me like a friend, a buddy, a pal. Whenever I was upset, he would grin at me. I have never witnessed aggression from him. Whenever he came home, he would ask his mother what she needed for him to bring. In Shahrak, whenever we did not have tap water, he would go to the tap, fill up buckets with water, and bring it to his mother. He was a very kind son. Whenever we mention his name, my neighbours lament his loss. If only I had a bad memory of him, I could at least comfort my heart with that. I could remind myself of that memory. But I do not have any bad memory of him.

I was informed about the attack from Helmand. I was told that there has been an explosion in Mawoud Center. I was at the store. My brother asked me if someone had told me about the explosion from Helmand. From the store, both us of ran [towards to the center] because there was a lot of traffic at that time. We went to check all hospitals. We went to some with a car, and to others on foot until we reached the hospital. What was the name? Estiqlal. From there, we went to Aliabad Hospital. We went to all the hospitals. After his mother was informed, she also got there. Finally, his mother found him in Jamhoriat Hospital. It was around three or half past three in the afternoon. I was with his uncle.

As we approach Shaheed Square, someone told us to go to Estiqlal Hospital. We went there in a taxi. When we got to the hospital, we started searching among the injured and the dead; one was missing the head, the other did not have legs... We also searched in the morgue. It was the same there as well with missing limbs and body parts. We could not find him no matter how much we searched for him. Then we went to Aliabad Hospital – we did not go to the Mawoud Center because we were told that everyone was transported from the scene. There too, the bodies were missing heads and limbs. It was like doomsday. We still could not find him no matter how much we looked. Finally, his mother called, “Come. We have found him.” She had first gone to Estiqlal Hospital but then had turned around from there and I do not know how, but she finally found him. From there, the body was transferred to Jamhoriat Hospital. The doctors said he would not make it, then two of his uncles transported him to Amniat Mili Hospital. He was kept there for around three days. It was three days, right?

Asif Akbari (uncle): He was injured on August 18 but passed away three days later on August 21. Hedayatullah Ghaznawi: Yes, that is correct. We were there by his side day and night. We held his hand. Just one shrapnel had collided with his head. The doctors said he would not make it from the first day. He was able to breathe and stay alive with the help of the oxygen tank and other medical equipment. After his uncle came, he told us that Rohullah could recover from the neck up. After that, he was in the hospital for two or three more days, then passed away on the third day.

During those three days, I was holding his hand in mine. We stayed like that. Even when I was feeling drowsy, his hand was in mine. I held his hand for the entirety of the three days. I truly loved him endlessly. Yes, we buried him in the Omid Sabz Sharak.

He would tell us to do our prayers because you cannot trust how long a person is alive. His biggest dream was to live a dignified life so that we do not become dependent on anyone else. He never accepted defeat in his life, he was a very active boy.

His mother was alone and he would tell her, “It is okay mother, you work so hard for us. I hope that one day I can repay all your hard work and take care of you. Just as you held us in your arms, I hope to hold you in my arms.” He did not have any other special dreams except these. He would say that we [his siblings] should study and receive education, and succeed in life. This was his dream.

He did not have the word ‘no’ in his vocabulary. Whatever you asked of him, he would say “yes.” Whatever we told him, he would reply with a “yes.” I was just telling my brother (Asif) that for his anniversary, we should inaugurate a library under his name in Helmand. This is my dream; we can do at least this much. My actual dream is for my son to be here with us but since he is not here, what else can we do? We shall open a library under his name and each year’s anniversary, we will do something and recite the Holy Qur’an. That is all we can do. I cannot forget him. I feel him every moment and everywhere. Rohullah was not only my son, he was my buddy.

I dug his grave a bit deeper that day and prepared everything for his burial. It was the day when everyone asked where I was but on that day, the fire had just ignited. Every moment that I remember him now, each day, the fire burns more intensely. If you see his mother, you will be shocked at her state. Everyone loved him.

The day I visited the university was such a black day for me. I told myself that my son is not there while all of his friends and classmates were there. He had one dear and close friend named Jaihoon but both of them died in the attack. They always used to play football together and they became martyrs together. God is merciful. I will make a library under his name so that his name is remembered. We cannot do anything else now. All we can do it open a library under his name. At least his name will be remembered.

Words from Mohammad Asif Akbari, Rohullah’s paternal uncle:

One of the best characteristics of a person is that firstly, their family is happy with them, and secondly, people are happy with them. No matter if he was in the street with the neighbours, or in school, or in place of work, Rohullah was one of those lucky people who the family, friends, and neighbours were happy with because of his great behavior and personality, and they maintained good relations with him. One of his best characteristics was that he was very polite and respected his elders, and he was very kind to those younger than him. He was very polite. He always maintained great relations with everyone and never let anyone become upset with him. While talking, he even considered the tone he used with elders, with children, or while he was in school with friends, everywhere...

He was enthusiastic, he was athletic, and he was a football player. He always put effort to not upset his family, neighbours, or friends. He was a very nice boy. I was responsible for his school days in Helmand. I do not have any bad memories of him or whether he had ever done something bad. I have good memories of him. That day when was injured, one of my friends called to inform me about the incident. I got up, panicked. His father asked me what had happened and I told him that there has been an explosion in Mawoud Center. We were very upset and went to search for him. The rest of the story has been told my Rohullah’s father.

The decision that his father has taken – to open a library to keep Rohullah’s name alive – is the best option and we will try our best to implement this. Also, because he was in twelfth grade and studied hard to score well in Kankor examination and get accepted in his desired faculty. I believe this library is the best option because other youngsters can also benefit from the library.

Rohullah was really interested in engineering. Besides wanting to be a good athlete, he was interested in engineering. He used to play football very well. He was – how should I put it – the glue that kept his friends together. In the school that he studied in, all his friends and buddies would gather around him and together, they created a team called ‘friendship.’ After he passed away, the team also fell apart. One interesting point here is what his father mentioned previously, that in Rohullah’s journey [after his death], he is with one of his closest friends named Jaihoon. They were classmates and played football together. They were always together and had a strong friendship. As though this was their will to not leave the other behind, both of them left this world together.

It Would Have Been Better If the World Had Ended

Yaser Qubadian is one of the war victim's family and a brother of martyr Kawsar, who was killed by a suicide attack on Mawoud Education Center on August 15, 2018. In that tragic incident, 57 students were killed, and 67 others were injured. This narrative was delivered a year after the incident at the Public Hearing of War Victims at Human Rights and Democracy Organization (HRDO) to a large group of public audiences.

Narrator: Yaser Qubadian (victim's brother)

Victim: Kawsar Qubadian

Date of the incident: August 15, 2018

Location of the incident: Kabul, Dasht-e Barchi, Mawoud Education Center

In the name of the kind and merciful God.

I am Yaser Qubadian, and I am speaking and sharing my memories on behalf of the war victim families. I should add that in addition to Kawsar, I lost my father in 2006. Around ninety years ago, my family moved from Logar to Kabul, and since then, we have been living in Kabul. After completing his graduate studies at Kabul University, my grandfather worked as a colonel during Zahir and Najeeb governments. My father was born on one of his trips to Herat province. When they moved to Kabul, my father started his studies after his military service, went to Polytechnic University, and studied engineering there.

Considering the hardship of those years, my father ended up doing military duties and, consequently, wounded one of his feet and therefore limped. We were in Kabul during the civil war, in Dasht-e Barchi. After that, my father went to Iran and Pakistan for labor work. After the Taliban collapsed, he returned to Kabul and worked with an Australian construction company between 2003 and 2006. He was working for six months and then was returning home for a while.

I was born in 2002, and Kawsar was born in 2004. On February 13, 2006, my uncle received a phone call that afternoon indicating that his brother's car had hit a roadside bomb. I was a kid [and did not understand much], but it was very hard for my family. After my father's death, it was hard for everyone as we lost our biggest supporter. My father and Kawsar are buried in the hillsides of these Kabul mountains. The hillsides are starving and are still expecting more people but are still hungry. Probably that is their nature. After 2006, our family lives leaned toward disappointment and frustration. In 2007, my mother married my oldest uncle, and we have been living together since then. Many of our family members have lost their lives in recent years in different incidents, like my father's nephews and other relatives.

As years passed, we reached the winter of 2018. I was in the eleventh class; therefore, after Ramadan, I went to Mawoud Education Center to take its courses. Later, we both enrolled at the center. However, she was more talented than me and always said graveclothes or scrubs. Probably she meant the graveclothes that took her from us.

She was always asking about our father and about whether I remembered him. I was always running away to answer her questions as I was afraid, which was difficult for both of us. She had a great personality and always told my mother and me to stay strong. I had no one in this world but Kawsar. She was calling me "mustache," and since she had beautiful green eyes, I was calling her "my greenish eye." After the martyrdom of Kawsar, I do not want to be called "mustache." That word ended for me.

She was in ninth class. But she insisted that she wanted to enroll in university entrance exam preparation. She had seen Tahmina winning the first position in the public university entrance exam. She wanted to repeat the history for the year she would take the exam. I was teasing her that we would see. So we both enrolled at the center and were going there together. The night before the attack, I remember I was awake until 2 am watching movies and entertainment programs. Then, around 8 am or 8:30 am, Kawsar woke me up and said, "Get up because if I am not here, none will make your bed." I do not know; probably, her subconscious was aware of what was to happen. She was saying if you do not get up now, I will not be free to make your bed anymore. She was speaking strangely. It was Wednesday, and we would have a quiz for tenth-class history on Friday. She gave the book to me, and I started asking questions. She answered most of the questions though she was at nine class.

After lunch, I told her that I would go to Kuti Sangi and I needed to buy something. I told her we would go to the center once I returned. I do not know what she was feeling. She said she would go to the center today and had some work at home. I told her that's no problem but talk to mom, and if she agreed, she could stay at home. So, I went to Kuti Sangi and came back home. She said our mom disagreed and told us to go to the class. So, we got ready for the course. Usually, we would use van taxis for our transport, but that day she said let's get the bus. But the bus was jam-packed, and both of us were harassed. When we took off, I ironically told her how good the bus was. She smiled and unlike other times, said nothing. This was the last time I saw her alive.

As we were entering the class, I saw Attaullah and Rahila. We had met them a day before the attack. It was just a week and four days since our class started, so we were still new and I did not notice where Kawsar sat. Unlike usual, when we would have physics, our math teacher came to class and said our physics teacher was busy with another class. We were assessed, and I answered the questions. I told [myself] once back home that I would be proud of myself as I answered the questions and would tease Kawsar. Our math teacher left the class, and I took my mobile phone out and was busy with it, and suddenly everywhere was blackened. I did not know what had happened. I thought probably my mobile had exploded. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that our class was significantly brightened, unlike usual. As I turned my face, I saw Dawood had fallen on the floor, and his foot was wounded. He did not talk. But he was alive. He did not speak. I looked to the other side and saw one of our classmates who was shocked like me. He stood up and rushed outside of the class.

I was left alone among all the wounded and martyred. My left ear was damaged, and I still couldn't hear properly. I can't tolerate noisy environments, and I hear that sound again when alone. I tried to hold Dawood, but I couldn't. So, I pulled Dawood from the door to the next house. I was terrified and knew that Kawsar should be more terrified.

She was always waiting for me on the road. I fluttered. I took my mobile phone to call my uncle. But I couldn't. As I walked, some very bad … crossed my mind. But I never thought that Kawsar might have been injured. I walked to the road and noticed that she was not there. Had the world ended, it would have been better. I rushed back to the class. I entered from the door close to the front of the class [where girls usually sit]. The blackboard was covered with blood and partly destroyed. Wherever I looked, I saw human body parts and blood. One had no clothes and lost a body organ, but no one had come to help. I was the first person to enter the class. I was looking [for Kawsar] in the third and fourth rows. I saw Rahila. She was in the third row, and her face was covered with blood but still recognizable.

I wanted to rescue her, but there were so many corpora that I could not proceed. I saw Kawsar just in front of me. I tried to put her on my shoulder, but I couldn't. She was very heavy as Dawood. Before Eid, I remember we bought her the clothes, which are now donated to Memory Box. I put Kawsar on my shoulder to run toward the road; I saw a taxi with its boot open. I put Kawsar there and thought the Watan hospital was close. But my uncle said they do not have the proper equipment and we should go to Emergency Hospital. So I told the taxi driver to go there.

I called my uncle on the way, but I do not know what I told him. The taxi driver was terrified as well. He told me to check if she was still alive. I could not think she would be dead. I checked her blood pressure and [noticed that] she does not have. I put my hand in front of her nose and did not notice any temperature. Her eyes stared at one side, but she did not know where. Her body was hit by several pieces; one at her nose, one at her neck, and several others at her right ear. Therefore, I still can not tell what side of the class the suicide attacker exploded. I told the taxi driver that I did not know, and I was not first at the scene, so I did not know if she was alive or not. The driver was driving very fast. At Naser Khesor hospital in Gulay-e Mahtab Qala, he stopped to check if she is still alive. I told a doctor to check, and when he checked, he noticed that Kawsar was not alive anymore. I could read this from the face of the doctor. The doctor then said that the wounded had passed away.

It was tough, and I do not know how much. I called my uncle and told him that Kawsar was martyred. He told me not to go home, and I must say nothing to them if anyone called from home. Many friends called on the way to the morgue, and slowly many got the news. But still, I did not know what to say when my mom called. I did not know what to do if my family asked to give the mobile phone to Kawsar. It was a time that even holding a call was very difficult. Finally, we reached the coroner. I saw my uncle waiting for us. When he saw me, he was horrified. He hugged me, and I needed the most. He asked me if I was okay. I told him that I was okay. They took Kawsar to wash her and prepare her to be transported home.

As I was waiting out of the morgue, my mom called. She asked where I was. I told her that I am in Koti Sangi. She asked what I was doing in Koti Sangi; I told her I had some work with my uncle. Then she asked where and how Kawsar was. I told her that she was okay. She said your center was attacked. I told her it was not in our center; the attack was far from our center. She did not know yet it was our center. I immediately told her that her voicing was cutting and hung up the phone. A few minutes later, my mom called again and said to give the mobile phone to Kawsar; I told her that she was not here and that she was with my uncle to buy clothes. As she overheard people's voices in the background, she insisted on talking to Kawsar and asking where she was. I told her again that Kawsar was fine. My mom said we bought her clothes yesterday, and you are lying. I told her she did not like that and had come to change it. She hung up the phone.

Kawsar was laying down silently on the coroner's bed. My uncle and I had lost all our strength. I went to see Kawsar closely and saw Kawsar and Dawood's clothes covered in blood. Meanwhile, other relatives also arrived at the coroner. I wanted to run away from them, but they kept asking what had happened, and I had no answer to their questions. They went to see their niece's corpus. Then our neighbor started calling and quizzing me. I told them I was in Koti Sangi at my uncle's clinic. Kawsar was with her uncle to buy clothes. They were asking why my uncle was not answering his phone. I understood that my uncle was unable to answer phone calls. I told them it was hectic, and he did not notice the calls. Other relatives also called. I said a mix of true and cover stories to them. We thought we should keep the corpus at the morgue for the night as it would be tough for all family members to mourn [alongside the corpus till morning]. However, our family told us we should take the corpus home, whatever it might take. I wish I had agreed with her and taken her somewhere else. The ambulance was ready, and they brought a covered piece with some blood spots. I could not believe inside that was my sister, Kawsar. As we were driving home, I did not know how to face the family and what I should do.

That day, you could hear the ambulance anywhere which were taking wounded or killed ones. Our house was close to the road, so these noises frightened them. They kept calling me and were just making covers. My relatives did not let me go home directly, saying my clothes were bloody, and asked me to change my clothes. I went to my auntie's home, which was close to us; I changed my clothes and ran to my home. Our alley was very crowded, unlike usual. The people had gathered in our house. They had laid Kawsar in a bed-like coffin. My mother was sitting there, not crying or shouting. But when she saw me, she told me: "I sent Kawsar with you apathy/zeal-less." This word was callous to me. Indeed, they sent Kawsar with me, and I could not protect her. But I had no answer and just felt shameful. I saw Kawsar's face turning yellow. She looked gorgeous in the coffin. She was tall, and her feet were taller than the coffin. I was shocked and did not know what to do. Then my mom hugged me, and we both cried a lot. I tried to comfort her, but I could not tolerate it anymore. My uncles and aunts and then everyone else was weeping. Everyone had their questions, and I had no answer.

That night went, and everyone gathered for the funeral at nine o'clock in the morning. My mom insisted that she wanted to attend the funeral and lay her to rest. I did not let her go knowing that would have been very difficult for her. My grandmom said she tolerated her father's death; she could do this as well. But the people did not let her. I shouldered the right side of the coffin, shaking. I still wonder how I could do it in that situation and why my cursed life did not end. We performed the prayer, took the corpus to the grave that was dug, and let her rest where she has been laying for the last eleven months. While laying her down, my uncle and my oldest uncle from the mother's side took her to the grave. I will not lie if I say that I laid myself, my soul, and everything else in that grave. I wish they buried me, and Kawsar was alive as she had much bigger and better dreams. With my hand, I buried myself there and put much sand that she could not get out. I could not tolerate it and secretly ran to home. I hid in my room for hours. Later, there was Fateh and reciting the holy Quran, and people came. The people think they are respecting us by coming for condolence. But I am saying I wish they did not come. For us, it was all pain and nightmares.

I am alive a year after now. I miss her terribly and do not know what to do. If I am not gone by the next year or doomsday does not come, I do not see how she would tolerate it. I visit her grave every three days. I talk to her. But she says nothing. She is probably saying, but I cannot hear as I silenced her with my hand. I pretend to be strong when I am visiting her grave, for my mother. She cries and asks me to sit next to her. I tell her that is enough, let's leave. I visit her grave alone. Now that I am visiting my father's grave, I feel like he is saying you could not protect your sister against your enemies, like my mother. The enemies that we might sign a peace deal with them and they might come with their land course cars, marching in front of our eyes, and we could do nothing. Since she passed, I have wished for death for myself every day.

When I attend the classes, I expect someone to follow me and await me on the road when the classes finish. When I go home, I expect someone to play with me. Visiting her grave, I tell her: "Get up, let's go home." However, this is our situation. My mother kept saying that I was a man and that an Afghan man could only live here if he is strong. She says you will experience more pain and problem; this is just the beginning. I tell her I can tolerate it; enough is enough. Thank you for your patience.

To the Light

Narrator: Arif (brother)

Victim: Sharif Behroz

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My brother Sharif Behroz and I studied in the same school and the same class. Sharif Behrouz was born in 1993. We were classmates from grade 1 to grade 12. Up to 9th grade, we attended the Shams Secondary School in Ghazni Province, in the district of Jaghori. In high school, we studied at the Abdul Ghafoor Soltani School. When we graduated from high school, we moved to Kabul with our family; we live here now. My brother could not attend university due to problems, but he worked hard, learned Mandarin at the Marafat High School, and obtained a degree. He took the international scholarship exam and was successful. But before he could go abroad for education, he was killed; martyred during the 23rd July protest.

I have many memories of my martyred brother. When the two of us went to Jaghori to take the university entrance exam, he started playing football with my nieces as soon as he got out of the car. He broke his arm during the game, and his arm was hanging around his neck for 15 days. All the work was left on my shoulders until he recovered and the exam was over. This is my best memory of him. On the day of the incident, he was there to fight against discrimination. The day before the incident (Friday), my brother was constantly monitoring the latest news through Facebook. On Friday, he went to Mosalla three times. Returning home, he said the meeting had not started yet. The next time he went away, he knew a meeting was being held in Erfani town and he stayed there until the evening.

My uncle and my aunt’s husband were at our house the night before the incident. Talking about the next day’s demonstration, my aunt’s husband asked my uncle if there would be a demonstration the next day and whether he would participate. My uncle replied, “Our elders are not very reliable; until now they have played with our people and done a deal over the fate of our people.” My brother Behroz told my uncle, “You chose to remain silent in your time, and thus we now see the result of your silence. We live in misery, and endure sufferings and problems.” My uncle told Behroz he should not participate in the next day’s demonstration. Nonetheless, he replied, “I will participate in the demonstration tomorrow alongside others. And I won’t be the only one; all of us, the people, should stand up and participate.” Encouraged by the Martyr Behroz, my uncle was there in Dehmazang on the Saturday.

On Saturday morning, Behroz woke up early as usual. After taking a bath and having breakfast, he took two loaves of bread, two packs of milk, and two bottles of mineral water, along with a packet of biscuits. He put them all in a tray, took a photo of them, and posted it on Facebook with the comment “to the light.” Before leaving the house, he wanted us to give him a white handkerchief to tie on his forehead. That early in the morning, there was no white handkerchief to be found, so he just said goodbye and left the house. He did find a white handkerchief during the demonstration, and tied it to his hand. He took a photo with his friends in front of Mosalla, the mark of the Enlightenment Movement on his hand. I could not participate in the demonstration because I had taken my aunt’s husband to the doctor. But I monitored the protest through Facebook. Afterwards, I went home with my uncle and aunt’s husband. At home, I continued to follow the demonstration through Facebook. Before I got home, I called my brother and he answered the phone. He told me he was fine but because there was a lot of noise, we quickly ended the call. When I called him it was 12:30, and he said he was sitting with his friends and would come home later. I then read that they had set up an advocacy tent in Dehmazang.

I was having problems with my phone as it would not turn on. After my phone turned itself off three times, I tried inserting my own sim card into my mother’s phone so I could call my brother. I kept trying, but it would not go back on. I quickly went to turn on the TV and saw that there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. I called Behroz but he didn’t answer his phone. I called again, but again I didn’t get any answer. I called Sharif, Behroz’s friend, and asked him about Behroz. He said they had become separated after taking a group photo. They did not know his whereabouts. I left the house immediately and travelled to Kote-Sangi by car, walking the rest of the way to Dehmazang. I searched the surrounding areas of Dehmzang but did not find my brother. A feeling in my heart told me that he must have been killed, been martyred. I continued to look for items of his such as his shoes, clothing, or bag, but found nothing.

Together with other people in Dehmazang, we collected the pieces of flesh and belongings of the martyrs and placed them in a corner. My other brother came from work, and we continued searching together. We went to Esteqlal Hospital, but Behroz was not there. My brother called his phone, and a doctor in the 400-bed Hospital answered the phone and said he was in that hospital. We went to the hospital but they would not allow me inside. They told us his leg was slightly injured, and there was no other problem, so I went back home. The next day, Sharif Behroz’s dead body was brought to our home. I don’t recall precisely if my brother’s name was registered in the list of martyrs or if it had been in the list of those wounded. A piece of shrapnel had hit the back of his head and another had hit his back. The strength of the blast wave had thrown him away and the skin of his hand had shriveled up. When they bathed his corpse, they would not let me stay with him any longer and took me away. We don’t know for sure whether he was killed, martyred on the square, or whether he died or was killed after he reached the hospital.

In fact, that night when we were at the hospital, my elder brother already knew that Behroz had been martyred. Because he didn’t want to upset our mother, he had not told anyone so that others could make the necessary preparations for martyred Behroz’s ceremony, and so that my parents could be informed calmly.

When we brought home Behroz’s body, the atmosphere in the house became really awful. My mother was extremely upset and we could not calm her down. The pain of losing Behroz will never leave us. As long as we live, we will carry this bitter memory with us.

Two Bullets Had Hit Him in The Back

Narrator: Hussain Farahmand (brother)

Victim: Hassan Kamali

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am Hussain Farahmand, the brother of martyr Hassan Kamali, who was an engineer. My brother was born on 28th February 1993 in Temran. He attended elementary school at Shalizar School and completed middle and high school at Temran Boys High School. When he was in 11th grade, alongside being a student, he started teaching other students. There was a shortage of teachers in that area at the time. So even as a child, he served as a teacher. In addition to going to school and teaching others, Hassan worked in the local pharmacy in the afternoons to help our father by earning money. Hassan was a very hardworking, social, good-tempered, and humorous boy. He was not obsessed with money; his only goal was to improve his life. In 2012, he passed the university entrance exam and was accepted into the engineering department of the Mining Industry Polytechnic University. My brother scored very high on the entrance exam, with a score of 322 points.

During his school years, he received many commendations from educational centres and even from the university. He came second and third in his class as a first and second-year student. In his third year of university, he worked so hard that he was the top student in his class. He received his letter of commendation in 2016 and phoned to tell me he was top of his class. I was very happy and congratulated him.

When the incident happened on July 23rd, I was in Herat and did not know the details. On the same day, I was in the park to study for my final exam. In the afternoon, I returned to my room to rest and sleep. I had slept for half an hour when my friends reported on Facebook that a suicide attack had happened among demonstrators in Dehmazang, Kabul. One of my roommates knew about it, but I did not.

One of our relatives, who worked at a money exchange office in Kabul, called me and asked, “Do you know where Hassan is?” I immediately called both of his numbers. The phone rang for about 5 minutes but no one picked up. I called my cousin and asked about him. He said that he was in his room until 11:30, and had taken an exam, and he was probably in Kote-Sangi, not at the demonstration. I called the other friends of his I knew. They also said that Hasan had not participated in the rally.

Once he had visited Kote-Sangi, one of his classmates had told him, “You and I got cards yesterday; we must participate in the demonstration."

He Was Very Sad When He Heard the Next Day’s Demonstration Was Cancelled

Narrator: Jamila Nouri (wife)

Victim: Mohammad Hassan Rahimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am Jamila Nouri, the wife of the martyred Mohammad Hassan Rahimi. He was killed at the age of 25. He was born in the village of Gardane Nouri in the Behsud District, in Maidan Wardak Province. He lost his father when he was six-months-old. He then lived with his maternal grandfather until he was 13-years-old. He went to the Mira-zar school. I don't know exactly what level he studied up to there. Later, his uncle took him to his home in Kajab, where he lived for three years. From his uncle's house, he emigrated to Iran. There, he continued going to school. Later, his uncle sent him to Pakistan to do work, such as carpet weaving and labor, but he escaped from there, and again left for Iran. He lived there for four or five years.

He was my cousin. My mother used to worry about him, so my father looked for him, and found his contact number. He called him, and when my mother heard that he was fine, she was so relieved, she was very pleased. In 2007, he called us and asked my family for my hand in marriage. We got married in 2009. He was very kind and well-mannered. He never spoke to me in a loud voice. In Iran, since he did not have an immigration card, he had been deported twice. After the second time, he returned to Afghanistan and decided to start a new business here. We had some capital and he borrowed some money from his brother and the bank. He bought a shop in Golayi Mahtabb Qala, where his main business was metal work. After eight months of working in the shop, he called me and told me to join him in Kabul. I asked him to come and get me because I could not travel alone. This is how we came to be living in Kabul together.

He had so many dreams. One of his dreams was for his children to grow up, get educated, and be able to look after themselves and their families. Before our marriage, he was very interested in politics and used to listen to the news. He always said that if his father were alive, he could have studied and become a good politician. He had not learned basic literacy skills, yet he used to analyze political issues very well. He always participated in the Baba Mazari commemoration ceremonies and was deeply attached to his people. When the subject of electricity and the discussion of the Enlightenment Movement was raised, he told me, “It is not an ethnic issue; we should demand our rights; how long should we remain silent? Whenever I see a Hazara person in markets, they are either pushing hand carts or working as shoe polishers. Hazaras have a tiny share in government and even less in private businesses. Hazara women stay at home, and our men are day labourers.” Whenever he took part in the Enlightenment Movement meetings, he would encourage the youth and other people [to join the meetings]. One day before his death in martyrdom, we visited our aunt's house. One of my cousins had just returned from Iran. He warned that it was better not to take part in the demonstration. Mohammad Hassan was upset at this and replied, "If I stay home, and if you don’t take part in the demonstration, who will? This time, the entire nation has to join in and we have to stand up for our rights.” My aunt's family insisted we should stay at their house for the night, but my husband said we should go because he had work to do the next day. He dared not tell his mother he wanted to take part in the demonstration the next day. Even I didn't know that the next day he would join the protest.

The first time he participated, I knew nothing about it till my son saw his father on TV. When he came home that night, I asked him why he did not go to work. He said, “There was no work; none of us attended work today.” Our last house was in Resalat Alley. The night before, he had been watching television until 11:00 pm, and he had been distraught when he heard that the next day’s demonstration was cancelled. We had a talk about it. I told him, “Please don't go tomorrow.” But he told me, “Certainly, I will go to the demonstration and I will defend the rights of my people.” There were three large photos of Khalili, Mohaqeq, and Baba Mazari on our wall. I removed the pictures of the two leaders and left Baba Mazari’s image untouched.

My husband was always talking about politics. I didn't know much about politics and I can’t say I like it. I had already concluded that our leaders thought solely of their own interests and never think about their people. The night before, I had tried to insist that instead of going to the demonstration, he should go to work and think about our lives. I reminded him that our children would ask him for a loaf of bread, and the landlord would ask him for rent. “What do we have to do with a demonstration and with politics?” I asked him. “It has never benefited us!” But he said again, "I will participate."

On the day of the attack, he slept till 7:00 a.m. After he woke up, I set the breakfast table. We were having breakfast when a van passed by the street, announcing that the demonstration was not cancelled and encouraging everyone to participate. He took just a few quick bites and rushed out of the house. Then he came back in and said he had forgotten his phone. I repeated that I did not want him to go to the demonstration. He said something about having lent someone money and that he was going to go get it back so he could pay the rent. He never lied to me. But when noticed how anxious I was, he told me this to calm me down. When I felt reassured, I started doing the laundry. The TV was on, and the captions were broadcasting news about the Dehmazang attack, but I didn't notice because I was so busy working. His cousin called me and asked me where Hassan was. I said he had gone out to get his money for the rent.

I got worried and called Hassan. His phone rang, but nobody answered. Twenty minutes later, his cousin, my brother-in-law, came to the house and asked, "Is Hassan home?" I called everyone I could think of, and everyone said they had been here or there, but no one had seen Hassan. Nobody knew where he was. Whoever I called answered the phone told me where they were, in such and such place. One person said he was at work and had not taken part in the demonstration, but also, he had not seen Hassan. Until the evening, I kept calling his brother and asking him about Hassan, but he kept saying he could not find him. I could not calm down, and rang his number again. This time, a stranger answered my husband’s phone and said, “Hassan is injured and needs blood; bring him blood as soon as possible.” I immediately called his brother and told him Hassan was injured and in Ibn-Sina Hospital and needed blood. Ten minutes later, I called again to ask where they were. His brother said they were in a heavy traffic jam and were on their way to the hospital. I was so upset and besides myself with worry. So, I called his brother again. He said Hassan was not in Ibn-Sina, so they were going to see if he was in Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital.

I had a bad feeling about it and called again. This time, his brother said, “Hassan is conscious and needs blood. He will remain in the hospital tonight.” I didn't know what to do with my two little children because I didn't know any place where I could leave them. That is why I called my uncle. He said, “Wait, I'll come, and we'll go to the hospital together.” I waited for a long time, but my uncle never came for me. Then I called my brother-in-law again and said I wanted to talk to Hassan. He told me they did not allow him to speak, but he was fine. A few minutes later, he called me and said they would bring him home. I became happy again and waited expectantly. But after 20 minutes, my brother-in-law called again and said, “We will not be bringing him home. Instead, we are taking him to my uncle's house in Kampany because the roads [to your house] are in bad condition, and he is injured and will be bothered.” I told him the road to Kampany was worse than the road to our house. I got very sad when they took Hassan to his uncle's house. I told myself that he had never been away from his children and from me.

At night, his uncle’s grandson came to take my children and me to their house. I told him I would not go there; he should come home. He said Hassan was injured, could not walk, and needed to rest. My heart was bleeding. I told him: “OK, I will come there tomorrow.” The following day, when I finished the housework and was preparing to go to my uncle-in-law’s house with my children, my aunt and her children came to our house and asked about Hassan. I told her the story. After a few minutes, I called my brother-in-law and asked where they were. He said they had taken Hassan to Watan Hospital to change the dressing on his wound. I got upset again and told him I knew the hospital and would go there myself. He did not want me to go, but my mother-in-law and I insisted on going to the hospital. Then his aunt and her husband prevented us from going and told us they would bring Hassan home after the dressing was changed. In the meantime, the house gate opened, and I noticed relatives gathering in the alley. My heart trembled and I was struck dumb. I hardly managed to get to his uncle’s house, and it was there that I learned that Hassan had died.

My whole world has been destroyed. My husband never stopped caring for us. Now, look at how we are left alone forever, and with no one to look after us anymore. I have so many problems. We don’t have a house and we are helpless. I am left alone with my two little children, and there is nothing we can do but place our faith in God. How can I follow in my husband's footsteps when the government does nothing for us? The government itself is involved in killing our youth.

There Were 18 Bullet Wounds on His Body

Narrator: Parimah (mother)

Victim: Qurban Ali Ahmadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the mother of the martyr Qurban Ali. He was a hard-working, decent boy who had laboring jobs. He was almost seven when I first sent him to school. After a while, he said, “Mom, I can't continue going to school because I am the son of a poor family, and I have to provide for our living expenses so our life will get a little better.” One day, he didn't come home on time. I looked everywhere but I couldn't find him.

Back then, we lived in Chindawol. I suddenly saw him sweeping in front of a shop near the Behzad cinema. I went to him and asked him what he was doing there. He said, “I have become an apprentice here.” He worked at the same shop for nine years. The shop owner was from Sheikh Ali. He was a charming and kind person. For almost nine years, he did metalwork in his shop. He had mastered the job, was working in different places, and kept telling me that I should get him a shop so that he could start his own business. But I told him he couldn't run the business alone because the rent on the property was high, we could not afford the payment, and he could lose money. So he worked with his elder brother. It had taken us a lot of effort to arrange my eldest son’s marriage. Life used to be good at that time, to some extent. Then, after being married two years, my eldest son's wife died. A year later, my husband passed away. After that, the problems followed one after the other.

As my eldest son, Qurban Ali, grew older, he became quite successful in his profession. He used to make and sell doors and rails. As a result of all his hard work, our living conditions improved. One day, I told him, “Only God knows how long I will live. So let me get you married!” I continued and asked him, “How long do you think you can live in your brother's house? It may not work out for much longer." He didn't say anything. So I decided to mortgage my land in my hometown, cashed in my savings, and borrowed two hundred thousand Afghanis from the bank. With the total amount, I managed to get him married. For a year, we lived with Qurban Ali. Then I made my sons go and live separately. I distributed the debt between them. One of my sons got a house in Chindawol, and the other lived in a different place. I was living with Qurban Ali. He worked and provided for household expenses and continued paying his debt. He always said, “I wish to pay off my debts and then send my mother to Karbala [pilgrimage] because she has worked hard for me since I was a child. Later I will rent a house so that we can all live comfortably [together].” But now, how sad it is that he has gone before his own mother. He has left me alone. I am grateful to have two more sons, but no one can fill the void he left behind.

On the day of the incident, I wanted to go to my other son Mohammad Ali's house. I told Qurban Ali to go to work, but he said he wanted to go and join the demonstration. I told him, “It is none of your business; go to work.” He told me, “I participated in the first demonstration. Last time, they placed containers on our way. I climbed up on top of one of the containers and took photos of people taking part in the demonstration.” I said, “Have you gone nuts? Why did you climb up on top of a container? How is all this even your business?” No matter how much I insisted, he would not agree. I asked him to call me and update me as soon as he got there. As I left for Barchi, I noticed the road was closed. I turned around and went to Mohammad Ali's house via another road, Chehl Soton Road. There is a mosque near Mohammad Ali's house, where I performed prayer before having lunch.

Mohammad Ali’s wife was cracking almonds, and I helped her by separating out the kernel of the almonds from the cracked shells. We forgot all about the demonstration. Suddenly I remembered that Qurban Ali was supposed to be taking part in the rally, so I picked up the phone and called him. His coworker, a Sunni man, had named him Hasib. I called and asked him, “Where are you, Hasib, my love?” He said, "I am in Dehmazang, don't worry!” and I continued working. I never imagined a suicide bomber would get into the demonstration and that my son would be martyred. In fact, I even asked my eldest son why he was not in the demonstration. He told me, “Mom, the roads are closed, so that's why I am staying home.”

I must have gone insane that day! One of my sons was killed, he was martyred, and there I am encouraging the other to go to the same demonstration! The landlord's son told my other son that there had been an explosion in Dehmezang. For a moment, I felt as if I had fallen to the ground from high in the sky. It was like my heart was being squeezed. I kept calling Qurban, but he did not pick up his phone. I told my eldest son that Qurban was in Dehmezang, and called him again, but again he did not answer the call. My eldest son said: "Mother, you worry too much. A suicide attack has happened in Dehmezang. He must be busy helping the wounded and martyrs because many people have died. Qurban Ali will be fine."

When Mohammad Ali and I called again, neither of us received an answer. I was losing my senses, I was so worried. I told Mohammad Ali that I had to go to Dehmazang myself. I left the house and went to Pol-e Khoshk. When I got there, one of my relatives saw me and asked me where I was going. I explained that Hasib had joined in the demonstration and that after the explosion, he wasn’t answering our calls. My relative told me, “Do not worry. Go back home and I’ll go get him.” He took my phone. I don’t know why, maybe he knew that Hasib had been killed. I came out of the house several times between three and six o'clock. I was standing at Pol-e Khoshk bus station and intended to go to the mosque and pray. Up to that moment, I did not remember that I had to perform prayer. I was just wandering around full of anxiety. A mother would prefer to be buried herself than to see her young child die before her.

At that exact moment, I saw another relative, named Ismail, passing by. I ran after him but could not catch up with him. He went into mosque and I entered the mosque but could not see anyone inside. I came out and noticed three relatives approaching me. One of them, named Sarwar, was not feeling well. I asked what had happened to him. He said he had been slightly injured. I asked him if he knew where Hasib was. He said he was coming with Muhammad Ali.

Women have no other resort. That's why I started crying. I was slapping myself and crying. They took me home. When I opened the gate of the house, I saw my niece clapping hands and saying, “What are we going to say to Hasib's mother?” As soon as I heard her saying that, I broke down, slapping my face and pulling my hair, and that’s when I noticed Qurban Ali’s dead body. I was unable to stand. They took him to the mosque and bathed him. Blood was flowing from the stream in front of the mosque.

My other son sat next to me and said, “Mom, please don't cry, calm down.” Eighteen bullet wounds could be seen on Qurban Ali's body. The bone on one side of his head was missing. His hair was stuck to one side of his head, and his leg was broken. It was 10 p.m., and the blood continued flowing from Qurban Ali's body. With all the shops closed, there was no cloth to make a burial shroud. There wasn't even plastic to stop the bleeding. Since the bleeding did not stop, they brought lime from outside and put it on the wounds, but no matter how much lime they put on the wound, the bleeding would not stop. As an ultimate solution to stop bleeding, they mixed cotton with lime and placed it on the wounds, and the wounds were then wrapped in a plastic sheet.

There was no cloth to make a shroud. May God bless my cousin; he brought a shroud. It was 11 pm, and the relatives who had gathered in our house said that it was not possible to bury the body at this time; they would take the body home for that night and bury him the next day. When we wanted to take my son's body home, the landlord would not allow us to take the martyr’s body into the house. So we had to bury him at 11 p.m. that same night.

We returned home at 2 am. I had nothing at home to feed people with. My son was a decent and virtuous man. May God never make any mother grieve for her young child and, for the sake of Imam Hossein, never let any family be dishonored.

Now that he is dead, his children are left without a guardian and his wife has left for her father's house. She was my niece, and her parents took her back to their hometown. The young daughter of my son is now living with me. I am sixty years old, and I take care of his daughter.

I am facing many problems, and I cannot bear the burden alone. I pray for Afghanistan to become peaceful so that I can earn a legitimate income and raise my granddaughter. I raised my son in poverty, but unfortunately he left me alone in my old age and rested in peace himself. One of my sons was killed at 18 during the war under Baba Mazari’s command. I have suffered a lot.

People’s young sons and daughters were martyred. Dehmazang had become a battle-zone in Karbala. It must have been God's will for my other child to be martyred. Once again, God put me to a tough test. I pray to live long enough to witness little Fatima grow up. She is one and a half years old now. I am apprehensive and believe that if I die, Fatima will be helpless. She will have no one to take care of her. The unknown fate of Fatima is as sad as all the sorrows of my life put together, and so is the grief of losing my son. I am just forever grateful to be alive so I can care for this innocent child. Wherever I go, she comes with me and starts crying when she is away from me.

I pray to God to have mercy on us for the sake of this innocent child. Amen.

The Phone Was Burnt in The Incident, but the SIM Card Remains Intact

Narrator: Soghra (wife)

Victim: Mohammad Jawad Alipour

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My husband was born in Mashhad in Iran. When he was 10, he and his family returned to Afghanistan, to the district of Ghorian, in Herat Province. They started working and studying in a compound with some agricultural lands attached. He lived there until he was 17, but they abandoned their land and moved to Herat during the first period of Taliban rule. At the age of 17, he traveled back to Iran and lived there until the age of 22. His family lived in Herat city, and we were acquaintances who had known each other since childhood. Later, they proposed to me to marry their son. At the age of 22, when he returned to the country, we got married immediately. Eight years have passed since our wedding, and we have three children: two boys and one girl. My eldest son is seven-years-old, my second son is four-years-old, and my daughter is three-months-old. She was born after her father’s martyrdom. In Iran, he operated rebar machinery. When he returned to Afghanistan, he lived with us for almost six months. He then joined the National Army. He served in the National Army for nine months in 2010. He was dispatched to the border with Pakistan and his work there was dangerous. Sometimes, he could not even contact us.

His father suffers from cardiovascular disease, so he was concerned about my husband’s health. Following that period of ten months, he didn’t allow his son to continue serving in the national army. Out of respect for his father, he quit his army job after he left hospital [following an injury]. When he returned home, my eldest son was three months old. Once again, my husband had to go to Iran to look for work. He stayed there almost a year and a half. Following his return from Iran, he partnered with one of his friends and started doing welding jobs, and he was still doing this up the time of his martyrdom. One of his dreams was to invent a device. He would always tell me that he wished he had studied more and that our economic situation was better. Then he would make a device that would be recorded as part of the story of his life. I always encouraged him and said, "God is great, and our living situation will improve one day."

He was very interested in reading and read many religious books. He did not have many friends and spent most of his time on Fridays with us and reading books. After finishing Friday prayer and returning home from the mosque, he would always recite the Holy Quran. He has three brothers, but they are not like my husband. Because of his good morals, his father was very fond of him; he was happy with him. When his son was martyred, he was not in a good state of mind. We even moved from the house where we had lived to a different place. His father used to say, “At the time of the morning Azan [call to prayer], I feel my son calling me for prayer and saying: ‘Dad, I have prepared water for you to do your ablutions.’”

In fact, his dream came true as he always wished to become a martyr. In his diary, he detailed the hardships and problems he faced in his childhood, for example, the difficulties he encountered when he was smuggled abroad, and the bitter times he had weaving carpets as a child. After my son was enrolled in kindergarten, my husband would always help him with his homework, despite being very tired after he came home from work. He would say that he had suffered a lot and would leave no stone unturned to help his children educated. Even though I would help my son with his assignments, he was thrilled when his father encouraged him. He would always tell me to set aside a room for our children so that they could study peacefully and become people of influence later in life. I have decided to be an excellent mother to my children until the very last moments of my life. I even try to fill the void left by their father’s death, so that they never feel unprotected and lonely. His caring nature has influenced my own behavior, and made me decide this. He never spoke to me harshly in the eight years of our married life, not even once. Sometimes it was I who was harsh, but he always stayed calm and encouraged me not to get enraged because it was not worth living a sad life.

At night, when chatting with me, he would say, “Soghra, just think for a moment about the resurrection, the grave, and the other world. This world and life are not worth being greedy for or unhappy about.” I used to tell him, “Do you act as you say?” He would say, “Yes, before I go to sleep, I close my eyes for a moment and think about the Day of Resurrection, about the grave, and about good behavior. Once I gain serenity, I easily fall asleep.” Now that we have lost him, I think of his words before going to sleep. I cry and laugh simultaneously at his simplicity and honesty. When I think about him, I miss him greatly. When I recall his words, I fall asleep despite my sadness. May God bless him. We have no bad or unpleasant memories of him; we have only good memories, a lot of them. He used to take me with him for Friday prayers, and after praying, he would call me not to go home alone. He was waiting for me when I came out of the women’s section. On Muharram nights, he would wait for me and we would walk home together, while some people used to go home individually.

On Fridays, he would take me, especially my children, to the park or special shrines to have fun. Because conditions in Afghanistan, especially in Herat, were not good. He used to advise me not to leave the children unattended in the alleyway. He used to say that the kids should have fun. Sometimes his father would worry about us. My husband would secretly take the children to parks and remote areas when it was nice weather so they would not feel distressed. In the last days of Ramadan, he traveled from Kabul to Herat and stayed at home with us for a week after Eid. A day before he returned to Kabul - I don’t know what he was thinking - he took the motorcycle out early in the morning and gave the kids and me a ride across Herat City. He told us, “I want you to see nice and beautiful places in Herat. Maybe I will never return home this time.” Lately, he talked about death and did not let us have a bad time. Every time I recall his actions and approaches, I feel sad, and my heart breaks.

Some people demonstrated in Herat in support of the mandate of the Enlightenment Movement. He wanted to participate but his father did not allow him to, saying he had a bad feeling about it, and would not let him sacrifice himself. But he told his father, “I must participate. We have to support the Hazaras. If we stay home, other people will also stay home, and then who will be at the demonstration, which is our right?” He had a book he would often read, entitled ‘Hazara History.’ He believed the Hazara should be proud.

When he went to Kabul, he didn’t tell us about the July 23rd demonstration. We did not even know he might take part in it. The only person he told that the was going to the rally was his work partner. After finishing work in Kabul, he bought a return ticket to Herat. A few days earlier, he had hurt his foot at work. At 11 o’clock on the day of the incident, I called him and asked him why he had not been more careful, and asked him how he had hurt his leg. He said: “No, it’s fine. My foot was not hurt badly, it is much better now.” He was working in an industrial zone in Kabul. When I asked him where he was, he said he was going to Dehmazang but did not tell me that he was going there to join in the demonstration. That was our last call. After he said goodbye, we never talked to each other again.

Almost 12 days had passed since we’d seen him before he travelled to Kabul, and his work was not finished yet. His cousins, who were working with him, had already returned to Herat on Friday. But he had booked a ticket to return home on Saturday. His cousins had even urged him to go home with them on Friday, but he refused to go on Friday, saying he would return to Herat on Saturday instead. Mainly, they worked in Herat, and their work included cutting, metals, PEB structural sheds, and welding. He had two cutting machines, one in Kabul and the other in Herat. He had gone to Kabul to install this machine.

Whenever he talked about martyrdom, I would immediately stop him and argue against it, saying, “Don’t yearn for martyrdom because if you die one day, what should I do with two sons and the little girl on the way?” He used to say that a person should not grow old because his sins also increase as he ages. He said my children have God, and he knows how to help them and to help me. He would tell me to think of how much he could help us if he became a martyr. He really believed it was not worthwhile living a long life.

After my husband’s martyrdom, my sons always ask about their father. I teach tailoring. On that day, I was in the classroom teaching students when my mother-in-law called me and asked if I knew about Jawad. I told her I had called him, but his phone was switched off. She asked if I had watched TV, and I said no. In the afternoon, the children sleep, and we don’t turn on the TV until their homework is finished and their grandfather has watched the news. Again, she said, go home and turn on the TV. I went home and turned on the TV. TOLO News was airing live footage from Dehmazang. I felt terrible, and my worries increased. My two sons and I did not know about his martyrdom until three days later, when his body was brought to Herat. We did not have anyone to transfer my husband’s body. His brothers and cousins had departed that night [to get his body] but they did not inform me. When I asked them, they said they had not found him. Of course, they had found him, but they wouldn’t tell me anything because of my condition. I was pregnant with my daughter at the time. I just sat all day on the dirt in the front yard, holding the phone in my hand, unable to do anything else. When I cried, my children frequently brought me water. My eldest son said, “Mom! When you cry, I get thirsty.”

When I recall those moments, my heart is on fire; I just shed tears because of this great sorrow. Once I learned about it, the family said that his children shouldn’t see him because it would impact their mental well-being, but I said that it was wrong because if they don’t see their father, they will always wait for him to come. My husband always called my children at night before they went to bed, spoke with them, and asked them what they wanted him to bring them from Kabul. They told their father to get them a bicycle. That’s why I told them it’s better to show them their father’s face.

My younger son didn’t believe that the body was his father’s. When my eldest son saw his father, he said, “Alas, my father sleeps forever.” When my eldest son completes his homework, he tells his little brother every night that their dad has become a butterfly and gone to the sky. He points to the brightest star in the sky and says it is their dad. If my little son makes noise, his big brother will tell him, “Didn’t daddy say don’t bother your mother? If you annoy my mother and me again, he will not forgive you, but since he has become a spirit, he will not return to us.” Even while eating, he says to my younger son, “Didn’t daddy always tell you that you should sit cross-legged at the table?” He recalls his father all the time, and quotes my husband’s statements to his little brother.

I was teaching tailoring from 3 to 6 pm. I got ready at 2:30 and went to the class. I was in my classroom until 5. There was an hour left when my mother-in-law called me and told me to go home. The moment she said her call [to my husband] did not go through, believe me, my hands and feet started shaking. I told my students that I was going home and left the class. When I got home, I turned on the TV. Seeing the painful scenes of Dehmazang, I was crying and kept calling, hoping that an acquaintance might locate my husband. My husband was missing for two nights. My sister-in-law is studying in Kabul, and she tried to find him through Facebook, but every time I called her, she said she did not find anyone named Jawad Hossaindad, and if she did, they belonged to other provinces. My poor son-in-law went to Kabul from Mazar-e-Sharif and started looking for him. I kept phoning his number, and kept asking him about my husband. The poor guy would sometimes not answer my calls when he started to become frustrated with his fruitless searching.

On the day of the incident, when my husband was martyred, somebody had found his phone, taken out the SIM card from his burnt phone, and put it in his own mobile phone. The only number that had appeared on the SIM card was the number of my husband’s uncle. He had contacted the number and had asked whose phone number it was. My husband’s uncle had said that the number belonged to his nephew. Then, the caller said that the phone was burnt in the incident and only the SIM card was left intact. Hearing the news, my husband’s uncle became disappointed and realized that Jawad had been martyred. After hearing the news, he informed my brother-in-law and my brother-in-law booked a ticket and went to Kabul the same night. But they did not tell me anything. Then they spent two nights in Kabul, and on the third night, they said that Jawad was fine and they would return to Herat. I was so happy. I asked why he didn’t call me or talk to me if he was okay. Why didn’t his phone ring? Whenever he went to Kabul, we had made an arrangement that he would call me at 9 in the morning because I was at home in the morning doing tailoring. Then in the evenings, at 6 o’clock I would wait for his call, and once my eldest son finished his homework, he would talk to his dad.

He was not like some other men who treated kids harshly when they got home. When he got home, he would play hide and seek with his children. Children love a happy father; they were always pleased to play with their father. I frequently told him to show some seriousness, but he would say it would be okay if children were guided to the right path through smiles and happiness since they will never be taught by hitting and cursing. One day before the incident (i.e. on Friday) he called and said he felt extremely sad. He asked his children to read him the poems they had learned in kindergarten and school. I feel despondent when I remember what he did on the Friday. When I heard about my husband’s martyrdom, I didn’t eat or drink anything for two days and two nights. When my sisters saw me, they insisted I ate something and said since I was pregnant, if I didn’t eat food, I could become dehydrated, and the baby would be damaged. I told them I had lost my appetite.

The day they found Jawad, his brother called me and said they had found him, he was injured lightly, and they would bring him to Herat. That morning, I was thrilled. I had breakfast, and it was so luscious that I still remember the taste of it. After having breakfast, as soon as I folded the tablecloth, I noticed two vehicles in front of our gate, and all our close and distant relatives were coming through our gate. When they entered, I asked my mother why they had come. My mother said they were there to visit Jawad. As soon as I had eye contact with my brother, my heart trembled. This brother of mine had been friends with my husband since childhood, and he loved him very much. My brother had cried a lot, and his eyes had turned all red. When I looked at my brother, I immediately realized the truth of what had happened. My brother could not look me in the eye. We ran towards each other when I saw him and we cried a lot. I don’t recall those moments clearly. I didn’t know where I was.

In the afternoon, the body was taken to the mosque. I kept comforting myself, hoping that maybe there had been some mistake and that this body was not Jawad. When I looked at my husband’s face, I told myself it was him, but I still comforted myself and wished it was all a terrible mistake. Even now, I think he has gone to work. I don’t believe he was martyred. I visit his grave on Fridays, talk to him and open my heart. I regularly think about the things he used to do. I comfort myself and say that it was his wish to be martyred, and that it’s good that he got what he wanted. Now God is with us. Every person, male or female, has dreams for his life and for his children. I try to fulfill my husband’s wish to educate my children. I try to provide for them through work and tailoring, until they can stand on their own two feet. So that they don’t feel that void left by their father’s death.

My eldest son is a brilliant and kindhearted child. He always talks about his father but never asks me about him. When his little brother asks me about his father, his older brother advises him that I will get upset and that he should stop talking and asking about their father. My little son asks so many questions! We buried my husband in a shrine campus in Jibra’il District. Because my husband’s grave is far from our house, my younger son kept asking questions and misbehaving. He asked questions like: “Why did you bury my dad? Who told you to put him under the ground? Dad will be spoiled there.” The following day, when we visited my husband’s grave, we found another martyr buried next to him. My younger son walked over to his grave and then jumped on his father’s grave and said, “Dad, why did you sleep under the ground? Why can’t I see your hands and feet?” He kept asking why his father’s shirt was not visible. He yelled and asked to dig up the ground and get his father out. Until Eid al-Adha, he was hopeful that his father would come back home. When my nephew talked to him about his father, my son would also say, “My father, too, will come and bring me a gift from Kabul.”

His grandfather always watches the news on TV. When my son hears news of a suicide attack, he says, “My father, too, was martyred in a suicide attack.” In the month of Muharram, when I was taking him out, he would be afraid of the police and say they killed his father. He would cry and say they had killed his father and he would hide under my chador. I have no other demands to make of the government. I just want them to know that they need to pay attention to the children of martyrs. I ask human rights organizations to assist the martyrs’ families. They should provide educational opportunities for the children of martyrs, because if they don’t have access to work and education, they may end up in adverse situations. Economic conditions are an important issue. If youth have access to employment and education, they will never turn to drugs. We all know that poverty is a crucial reason for delinquency among teenagers and youth. I hope my children can study and have a bright future. Sometimes, when I think about how I lost my husband and a life partner at 27, I comfort myself, believing I am not alone and should stay strong.

He Was Martyred for Justice

Narrator: Salman Hassanzada (father)

Victim: Nawroz Ali Hassanzada

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

We are from the province of Ghazni, in the district of Malistan. Nawroz was born in the village of Boghra, in Malistan and went to Shahid Basir High School up to 5th grade. He was a very decent and sociable boy who always helped me look after livestock and was interested in keeping sheep and cattle. We lived there for a long time. One time, he came to Kabul with his auntie and when he returned to Ghazni, he told me: “Father, let's move to Kabul.” I asked him why should we go to Kabul, as our livestock, our land, and our life’s work are all right here. He said: “No, dad. Kabul is good. The schools have better facilities, they teach better, and many people live there.” I listened to him, and then we moved to Kabul. Initially, I wanted to enroll him in the Sayyed al-Shohda School, located at the edge of Kabul’s Barchi neighborhood, but they said I had to present his school records, which I did not have. I then tried the Abdul Rahim Shahid School but they too required school records. With great difficulty and a lot of going back and forth, I finally managed to enroll [my children] in this [Sayyed al-Shohda] school. Later, we moved to the town of Omid Sabz.

There was another school there, and this time I got their school records from Sayed al-Shohda School, and they started attending their new school. My son completed 12th grade at Suria High School, and after school, he went to work in a barbershop. He gave the money he earned from there to poor people. He would not give us a penny. In the month of Muharram, he gave out tea and milk at a roadside tea stall, donating all the money he had earned to the poor.

Together with my oldest son, I took part in the Tabassom demonstration. I did not allow Nawroz to come with us, but he secretly joined the Tabassom demonstration anyway, without telling us, and on the pretext of going to his aunt's house. Even his mother believed he did not go to the rally, but went instead to his aunt's house. Later, I saw him climbing the Arg [presidential palace] wall. I was near the main gate and cried out to him, "What are you doing here?" He said, “Dad! The entire people have gathered. We must demand our rights, the rights of an oppressed people. It is right that I am taking part.” I told him to come down from the Arg gate and told him he had no business being up there. He said, “Dad! There are many more people on this side of the wall. Come and see for yourself!” I told him I could not go up there, and he had to get down quickly, or a soldier could fire a bullet. There was a soldier present who was an acquaintance; we lived in the same town. Unfortunately, he was martyred in the Pole-Mahmoud Khan incident. He told Nawroz not to move forward, and to get down immediately. But Nawroz told the police, “There may be 20 bullets in the magazine of your weapon, but you can't hit all of us. Look at the crowd of people! How many people will you hit? You can't hit all of us.” The soldier asked him what he should do then. Nawroz told him to throw his gun into the garden of the Arg and go inside with all the people. He listened to Nawroz, threw his weapon into the park, and went inside the Arg with the people.

Nawroz was brave and took the lead in everything. I was not there for the 23rd of July demonstration. Before going to the rally, he had asked my sister's grandson, a university student, what it looked like in the grave. He had informed him. Nawroz had asked again whether it was dark or light inside the tomb. This young man told him, it gets dark when they throw dirt on a person. In the morning, before going to the demonstration, he had taken a bath and had put on a white cloth. Before his death, he told a girl, who is an engineer, that he had bought an extra battery for his cell phone and if he died, she should connect the mobile phone to a charger with a long wire and put it in his grave for lighting because he is afraid of the dark. The girl had asked him why he was making such crazy and absurd statements; no one had ever done anything like that. He said that if no one else had done that before, then he would do it because he was afraid of the dark and wanted his grave to be in a high place [with lots of light].

On the same day, as he was leaving the house, he had called a little girl, Maleka, to come outside. Her sister had asked what his question was. He had said to her, “I was sick for about five days in the month of Ramadan, and I broke my fast. Please observe those days of fasting on my behalf.” Maleka got angry and asked him why he would not recompense the days himself, since he was still alive, and since nobody else may observe a fast on behalf of a living person.

On the day of the incident, when the explosion happened, I called his phone three times, and it rang. When I called him for the fourth time, it did not even ring. I called my eldest son and told him that I had called Nawroz's phone three times, and that the fourth time it did not even ring. I asked him if he was at the scene. He said he was only fifteen steps away from the place, but the police would not allow anyone to get through. I told him there were no police there earlier, and asked, “Where did they come from?” He told me, “At first, there were no police, but now there are so many of them here, and they are not allowing anyone to enter that area. They tell us, 'If you want the bodies of the martyrs and the wounded, we have sent them to Ibn-e Sina, 400-beds, Aliabad, and Esteqlal hospitals.' No one is allowed to get through.”

My eldest son came home late at night and his mother asked him where Nawroz was. He answered how could he have found him among such a crowd. According to him, he had searched a lot and asked many people about Nawroz, but had not found him. He was asked where was his motorcycle. He said it was either lost or destroyed in the explosion. Then my son-in-law, Haji Yaqoub, who had a car, and other relatives of ours started searching for Nawroz. At first, no one knew whether he was martyred or injured, or not. Someone from Qarabagh in Ghazni, a very good person and acquaintance of ours, had a car, and visited some places and eventually found him. He didn't tell us right away that he [Nawroz] was martyred so that his mother wouldn't find out and lose heart. He had told the family that he was wounded, that was all. We visited several hospitals, but he did not reveal to us what had happened to him, because he knew everyone's mental state would deteriorate.

When we were all in the hospital, one of my daughters was in floods of tears. A nurse came and asked her why she was so upset, and my daughter told her that her young brother had disappeared in the Dehmazang incident, and so far we had not been able to find him. The nurse said the names of the wounded and of martyrs was posted on the wall, and suggested we should check the list. She reviewed the list, but Nawroz’s name was not listed. As my daughter scrolled down her screen and looked at photos of Nawroz on her phone, an older man noticed Nawroz’s photo. He asked my daughter to show him the picture and wanted to know how she was related to “the boy.” She had told him he was her brother. He had asked if he was martyred. My daughter answered that he was lost and we had not yet been able to find him. The old man told my daughter, “I saw him in this hospital. His hand was tied to his neck. When I saw him, he was breathing, but had many deep wounds. He was wounded by the shrapnel and was breathing hard. You had better ask the hospital.”

We began searching immediately. We went all around the 400-bed hospital to almost every department, but he was not there. Someone said they took him to Ibn-e Sina Hospital, and another person said that martyrs were not brought to Ibn-e Sina but to the 400-bed hospital. We had not yet visited the emergency department of the 400-bed hospital. When we went there, they had placed several containers in the place, and some soldiers assigned there allowed us to search them. Inside the containers were many bodies, and it was not easy to recognize my son. The bodies were severely damaged. Some were missing arms, some had their legs amputated, and others had their sides severely damaged. The corpses were full of blood.

We searched four containers, and finally, Dr. Shahjan, a member of Parliament from Qarabagh, Ghazni, found my son’s body in the fifth container. When my brother and eldest son saw Nawroz, they did not believe it was him because the martyr's face was covered in blood. He had been close to the vehicle and to where the explosion was, and the wound had mainly damaged his back. Dr. Shahjan suggested to my brother and my eldest son that if they wanted to take him to Ghazni (to Malistan or Jaghori), he and a few other people would join them and take him there in a helicopter. But my son told them all that there was no need to take him to our hometown, since he lived in Kabul.

When he was taken to the hospital, his condition had been very critical, and he was bleeding profusely. Even on the day of his burial, his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth were bleeding, and the bleeding still had not stopped. The Mullah told us that the only way to stop the bleeding was to put a bandage on those parts. I then authorized the Mullah to bury him and delay his funeral prayer. Among the thirty-eight martyrs buried in the Martyrs Hill, Nawroz was physically very tall; he was 195 cm. When they were burying him, his grave turned out to be too small, so they had to make the grave about 50 centimeters longer, because his feet didn't fit inside the tomb. He was buried in plot 18 of the Martyrs' Hills. When they were burying him, someone had asked my brother how the martyr was related to him. My brother said he was his nephew. They asked about his age, and my brother said he was just 18. Everybody cried for him a lot and shed tears for his youth. When I visited his grave, I cried and told myself that he was a gift from God and the earth. God had given him a chance to live for 18 years but had taken back his gift.

We can never forget the sorrow we feel in losing him. His mother cries every time she thinks about and remembers him. I console her and ask her not to cry because she will get restless. I urge her to pray for him, by giving her the example of the Purified Progeny of the Holy Prophet. I tell her that if there was a way to bring them back by shedding a tear, all humanity would have wept for them. So, don't cry, I say, trust in God and keep patience, as did the Purified Progeny of the Holy Prophet. One day, they organized a public Fatiha ceremony for the martyrs in Rasoul-e Akram Mosque. When we returned home in the evening, Yunus Qanouni, along with several other people, visited our house and told us, “Such deaths do not happen to everybody. He was martyred for justice.” Now, I want to thank you for administering this program for families of the martyrs, so we can share our grief with you and other friends, and our heavy hearts can become a bit lighter.

I Will Never Stop Calling out for Justice

Narrator: Hamidullah (brother)

Victim: Shafiqullah Zamani

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Shafiqullah was born in 1997 in the Zimni Village of Daimirdad, in Maidan Wardak Province. Our father passed away when he was one and a half years old. My mother is my father’s second wife. My father had nine children: five sons from his first wife and four children from his second wife, my mother. My older brother and my mother became our guardians when my father died. My older brother tried very hard to help us progress since we were children and he never treated us like stepbrothers. He enrolled us in the Hazrat Abu Bakr Siddiq School in our neighbourhood.

Shafiquallah attended this school until 9th grade. He then enrolled in the Zeivalat High School in Maidan Wardak Province, where he completed his 10th grade. We moved to Kabul 5 years ago [in 2011]. I don’t remember that much about my brother’s childhood. After resettling in Kabul, we were enrolled in the Abdul Rahim Shahid School. Shafiqullah, and it was from this school that we graduated. After passing the university entrance exam and getting 330 marks, my brother started his studies at the computer science department of Kabul University. He was in his second year of university when he died. He studied hard and got good grades.

Although he had taken part in the first demonstration, my brother was not intending to go to the July 23rd demonstration as he had university exams. My eldest brother had called Shafiqullah and asked him not to go to Dehmazang. Because of his upcoming exam, he was at home studying in a separate room when he got a call telling him the exam was being held today. He immediately took a shower and rushed to the university. After taking the exam, he called some of his friends to say they too should come and join the demonstration to support justice and the rights of our oppressed people.

One of his close friends was Asadullah Hossaini, and they went to Dehmazang together. Some of his other friends were also wounded. Shafiqullah was a very peaceful, kind, faithful, and diligent boy. He respected everyone at home and everybody loved him. He always got excellent grades in university and at educational centres. His GPA was 92 [out of 100]. He sometimes made and sold beehives with my other brother, just to fund his education. When he was a teenager, he always said: “We must be mindful of changing our future and should try to defend our citizenship rights.” He was martyred as he struggled to defend the rights of his people. He often told my mother she should not cry if ever he was killed. “I will never stop calling out for justice,” he said.

When he and my other brother had taken part in the previous demonstration, I had not been able to join them since I was in Maidan Wardak Province at the time. Through the Movement’s announcements on social media, Shafiqullah heard that the rally the next day was not cancelled, but my other brother was against him taking part in the event. That morning, his classmate called to tell Shafiqullah that the demonstration had been cancelled and the exam would be held. Shafiqullah took a shower and told my brother: “Stay at home today and don’t go anywhere.” After the exam, his friends and classmates called and asked him not to participate in the demonstration. He replied that he would go to Dehmazang and join in the march to support his oppressed community and raise his voice for justice. He called his friends ‘quitters’ for not being prepared to get involved in the protest. “You have been silent for years and have failed to stand up for your rights. I will go to Dehmazang, raise my voice and demand my rights,” he told them. During lunchtime, some of his friends asked him to take a break and have lunch with them. He told them he would stay there until the protest ended.

Our financial situation now is not good. We rent a house with a single room and a kitchen for 2,500 Afghanis per month. We have had to live in this house for five years. I was able to get an excellent job so I could in part support the family. Our household running expenses are provided by my eldest brother, who lives separately. After the incident of the Enlightenment Movement, Mohaqeq Kabuli gave us 50,000 Afghanis. Nobody else has helped us since then. I wanted to visit the Provincial Governor’s office to get the martyrs and disabled ID card. But since the Movement has promised to get this card for all the families of victims of July 23rd, my brother did not allow me to go and ask for it myself.

Shafiqullah was closer to Hafizullah because of their small age gap. They spent most of their time together and attended courses together. He was very interested in sports, but after we moved to Kabul, he didn’t participate in any sports club activities for about a year because of the intensive preparing for exams. After that year, both of us were getting training together. He would go to the club most nights, unless he had work or a wedding party. Otherwise, he would train regularly. Also, he always performed his prayers on time. He used to get up early and after praying, would eat breakfast and then study or do some computer work before going to the university. When he returned from university, he would always engage in some work. He hated being idle. He didn’t take a class to prepare for the entrance exam, but instead studied at home. It was thanks to working so hard that he was finally accepted as a student in Computer Science at Kabul University.

Before the July 23rd attack, I was selected as a teacher in Maidan Wardak Province, where I had started working. During the holidays I would come back home and everyone, especially Shafiqullah, were always pleased to see me and would joke with me. A few days before the incident, I wanted to return home because I missed my family members. I wanted to depart for Kabul, but my busy teaching schedule did not allow me to, and I postponed my travel to the weekend. I was unaware of Saturday’s demonstration and was in class teaching when my cousin called and said an explosion had happened in Dehmazang. I asked him if everyone was okay. He too was unaware, and told me that everyone was okay. A few moments later, my uncle, who works in Sia Pitab of Maidan Wardak, called and said, “Do you know what has happened in Kabul? They say there has been an explosion in Dehmazang. Is everybody at home, okay?”

I didn’t understand my uncle’s questions at that moment. Later, I found out that he had heard about my brother’s injury and wanted to see if I knew about it or not. I told him, “Thanks to God, everyone is fine.” After I hung up the phone, I got worried and wondered why both my cousin and uncle would call. When I called home, the phone line was busy. I became even more concerned. I thought there must have been an accident, otherwise why would they ring me, knowing I was teaching class at this time of day? I checked my phone credit balance. It was low. So I dismissed my students, immediately went home, and called my mother using the home phone, but she didn’t pick up. I called several times until my brother answered the phone. He didn’t say anything at first, but he sounded hoarse. After I insisted, he finally said that Shafiqullah was injured and was in the hospital. He said, “My mother’s phone is with me, and I am on my way to the hospital to see Shafiqullah. Do not call home because our mother does not know.” I became alarmed and turned on the TV. Most TV channels were airing the Dehmazang incident. My elder brother was at home, and my other brothers were in La’al District for beekeeping. It was 5 p.m., and I got impatient and went on the road to find a vehicle. I called my cousin and he said he would wait for me in Kote-Sangi. A car came immediately. On the way, I called my uncle and asked about my brother’s condition, but he said something different each time, making me more worried. I called my cousin several more times, but he did not answer his phone. When I arrived in Kote-Sangi, my other uncle called me: “Come home and don’t go to the hospital.” I said I was going to the hospital to see Shafiqullah, but he insisted we see him together. I hung up the phone. A few minutes later, my cousin called and wanted me to go home. I asked him about Shafiqullah and told him angrily, “Shafiqullah is in hospital. Do you expect me to come home in this condition?” With a lump in his throat and a shaky voice, he said, “Shafiqullah is dead and his body is now at home.” I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. I paid the taxi fare in a disoriented state. I could not even feel my movements. Looking at my terrible condition, the driver asked several times what had happened. I could not understand what he was saying, and although the driver called me and said he would give me a ride to my address, I got out and was walking. I later got into another car and headed for home. When I got there, they had bathed Shafiqullah and were waiting for me. After bathing him, we took him to Maidan Wardak and buried him.

Shafiqullah’s mother:

My son was a man of faith, kind, compassionate, and intelligent. He performed his prayers on time and observed fasting. I am totally satisfied with him. When he was a child, he always made a toy car and played with it. He became interested in computer science when he was a teenager. He constantly stood up for the rights of his people. I remember well, 50 days ago, I was sitting in this same corridor, and he was reading a book. He approached, put his knee close to mine, and said, “If I open my heart to you, would you not be upset or offended?” In response, I said I wouldn’t be upset if it were not wrong. He said, “Mother, if one day, I am killed, and my body is brought home, please don’t lose hope; be strong. You have watched the Mokhtar tv series. Learn patience from Wahab’s mother, and don’t whimper.” He always joked with me and said education did not benefit him, so he would better join the national army. The incidents that were happening in Maidan Wardak Province upset him. Taliban were setting fire to police check posts, and many of our people were killed. That’s why he would say he should enroll in the army and help his people. Listening to him, I was worried and would advise him that he was still a teenager and should think about his studies and his life, not about those issues.

My eldest son was not at home on the day of the incident, and the other two sons had an exam. The night before the demonstration of July 23rd, there was an announcement that it had been cancelled. Shafiqullah was busy on his phone by the wall in the front yard. I didn’t know what he was discussing. His brother lighted the heater to heat the water for a bath. When the water was heated, Shafiqullah called his brother, asking him to put more water on the heater. His brother said, “There is enough hot water! Go and take a bath first, and I will be next.” One of his classmates called him to say exams was not cancelled after all, and that he should go to the university that same day to take the exam. Shafiqullah hurriedly went to the bathroom and shouted, “Mother, which clothes should I wear?” I told him I washed and ironed his blue clothes for him to wear. He came to me and said, “I took my university card, taxi fare, and mobile phone. Do you think I have forgotten anything?” I said with a laugh, “You know better than me what you need.” He went down the stairs but came up again and said, “Mother, let me tell you the truth; I have no passion for this world and I feel that the world has become small and ugly.” I became angry and asked what had made him say that so early in his youth. “You don’t hang out with people, and if you stay at home, you are busy studying and reading from dawn to dusk. That’s why you think about these pointless matters,” I told him. He responded, “Mother, I am not withdrawn. I always try to interact with people, but I don’t know why, I don’t like this world.” He said goodbye to me and left the house.

On other days, because of security concerns, I would frequently call his phone to know when he would come home and where he was. I didn’t call him that day because a few days before the incident, when he came home, he angrily said, “Mother, please don’t call me every moment; it is embarrassing for me to answer your call, looking like a kid in front of my friends. They sometimes make fun of me. They say nobody would ask about them if they don’t go home for a week, but you call me every minute and ask me where I am.” So on that day, I didn’t make a call until 2 pm. My other son returned home after taking his exam. I asked him to call Shafiqullah. He did but Shafiqullah did not answer the calls. The TV was on and I changed the channel. They were broadcasting the news of the explosion in Dehmazang. I became distraught and told his brother to go to the university immediately to discover Shafiqullah’s whereabouts. My son said the university was probably closed. I didn’t know about Shafiqullah being involved in the demonstration. I insisted he should go to the university, but my son made some excuse saying he would not find him at the university. I said that in that case, I would go there alone. He stopped me, and went out to look for Shafiqullah.

Somewhere around Pul-e-Sokhta, he called Shafiqullah’s number and a doctor picked up the phone. Before letting the doctor speak, he angrily asked why he had not answered his phone earlier. “I have called you ten times since morning. My mother is worried about you and after all this time, you answer the phone and take it lightly,” he had said. However, the person holding the phone was not Shafiqullah but a doctor. In response to Hafizullah, my son, he had said, “I am not Shafiqullah; I am a doctor at the 400-bed Hospital. Your brother is injured and is now in the hospital. Please don’t call this number. I’ll turn off his phone, you should come to the hospital.”

Hafizullah immediately called his uncles and told them about Shafiqullah’s injury, so they went to the hospital too. I wandered about in the front yard, asking myself where my son was and why he was not answering my calls. I was agitated and didn’t know what to do. I lost patience and I went to my brother’s house. When I got there, I found everyone distraught; no one was talking. I immediately called my nephew. It took some time before he answered the call. I asked him where he was and whether he knew about Shafiqullah. He said he was injured and was in the operating theatre. I left the house and saw my nephew’s brother-in-law waiting for me in his car by the side of the road. I got in the car. There was a heavy traffic jam near Kote-Sangi, and the traffic police had stopped the vehicles. We begged them to let us pass and moved on through Gardana-e Baghbala. There, too, the traffic police were not allowing vehicles to pass. I cried a lot and they finally allowed us to pass.

I searched all the rooms in the Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital to find my son, but he was not there. We went to the 400-bed Hospital and I saw my other nephew there. As soon as he saw me, he cried, “Auntie, we lost Shafiqullah.” I went through the most painful moment. Crying and lamenting, we took his body home. His friends were very sad when they came to our house. They said, “Once we had taken the exam, eight of us headed towards Dehmazang. Shafiqullah was the group leader, chanting slogans. As soon as we reached Dehmazang, the explosion happened.” My son died young and did not achieve his dreams. His struggles to build himself a life were all in vain.

Hafizullah, brother of the martyr:

Shafiqullah was born and grew up in Maidan Wardak Province. The oppression against our community always exasperated him. He needed to improve his English and was attending a course. He asked for my advice in choosing a field of study. I told him to study any field he was interested in. He chose Computer Science. He studied hard and always obtained good grades.

Ali Asghar Haidari, the martyr’s cousin:

Nowadays, life is tough, and work is not easily accessible. Shafiqullah’s family has also lost their father, and the elder brothers have to provide for all household expenses. Shafiqullah came to my house the night before the demonstration. That night, we bought a sheep for a vow. Unfortunately, there was no butcher, so he and my elder brother slaughtered the sheep. The work started at 4:30 pm and was finished by sunset. We distributed the meat among the people. Later, I heard Shafiqullah say, “I wish my uncle had cooked some of the meat and invited some close friends and relatives so that we could sit together and chat.” I regret it now so much. I wish Shafiqullah had tasted the meat. I wish we had listened to him because the demonstration happened the next day, and everybody would have been too busy to cook him some meat. Well, sometimes it’s too late to regret.

I participated in the previous demonstration. I am a civil engineer, and unfortunately, this time I had too much work to do. The night before, it was announced that the protest had been cancelled. I took care of my work. I only found out via Facebook that there was a demonstration in Dehmazang after all. Many of our people were there, taking part. When the explosion happened, again I found out through Facebook. I immediately called my sister’s home and asked if anyone from the family had gone to Dehmazang. She said that only Shafiqullah was there. I immediately called his number, but there was no answer. I called again, but it didn’t work at all. I told myself he must be injured and someone else might answer his phone. I called a few more times. Finally, a doctor picked up his phone and said the owner of the phone was slightly injured and was in the 400-bed Hospital. He asked how I was related to the wounded. I said I was his cousin.

I left the office and called my brother and some friends to go to the hospital, but the roads were closed. With great difficulty, we reached the hospital through Gardane Bagh Bala. The police were present at every intersection and did not allow anyone to pass; all roads to the city centre were blocked with containers. At the hospital, only one person was allowed to go in, so my elder brother went in and searched all the rooms but did not find him. We kept calling him and asking about Shafiq’s condition, but every time he said he had not found him yet. Finally, they said that General Murad Ali Murad had come to visit the wounded, and nobody was allowed to go in. The list of the injured was not yet available. Our phones were constantly busy; either his mother was calling, or friends and relatives were asking about Shafiqullah.

Finally, having given up hope of finding him among the wounded in the wards, my brother went to the morgue. There he found Shafiqullah’s body. I was apprehensive, so I started quarrelling and went inside the hospital, right into the cold room. There were the bodies of some of the martyrs who had been seriously injured and even torn to pieces. I saw Shafiqullah. Shrapnel had hit him in the chest and head. His feet were burnt. His university card was placed on his chest. At 4:30 in the evening, I talked to the hospital authorities. They told me they would give us an ambulance to carry the body. I spoke to Shafiqullah’s brothers and asked where they would bury Shafiqullah. They said they would bury him in Maidan Wardak Province. It was better to leave him in the hospital for the night to prevent his body from decomposing.

His mother was restless and called several times. I didn’t dare tell her about Shafiqullah’s martyrdom. Every time she called, I said he was simply injured and that they would not allow anyone to meet him. But I told myself it was not good to deprive his mother of seeing her martyred son. I called his brothers again and said that we would bring the body home so at least their mother’s heart is calmed and she gets the chance to pray for him and recite Holy Quran. We asked the hospital for an ambulance, but they said they were not allowed to give the ambulance to the families for an entire day because it belonged to the government and was meant for transporting and helping the wounded. But they allowed us to use it for transporting Shafiqullah’s body home. With great difficulty, we took him home. The roads were closed so to avoid the body decomposing, we got coolers and fans from friends’ houses and placed the martyr’s body in front of them to keep it cold. In the morning, after bathing him, we transferred him and buried him in Maidan Province.

He Rebuilt the School Building

Narrator: Amin Dadfar (brother)

Victim: Reza Ebrahimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My brother was 15-years-old when we lost our father. My other brother, Mohammad Juma, was older than Reza Ebrahimi. Mohammed Juma used to live in Iran and was the breadwinner of the family. This elder brother worked in a field in Iran two days per week and did the hard work assigned by the land owner. He worked there for four years to help the family and left for Iran at the age of 18. The journey was arduous and on the way, he was taken hostage by thieves and imprisoned in the Tal-e Siya prison near the Iran-Afghanistan border. He was kept in jail for two months. They held my brother hostage with ten other people but released his friends and told them to send money when they arrived in Iran to buy my brother’s freedom. Two months later, my brother was finally released and managed to go to Iran.

When he arrived in Iran, he was determined that all his younger brothers should attend school and live a comfortable life. He provided us with money and other necessities of life. One of my brothers, younger than Reza, was not that interested in school. But my older brother and I continued going to school. The second thing Mohammed Juma did for us was to repair and renovate our house in our hometown. During his time in Iran, he engaged in sports. Within five years, he became a sports trainer. After five years in Iran, my elder brother returned to Afghanistan and travelled to our hometown. Reza left for Europe. He traveled with five of his friends and was the group leader. During their journey, they suffered a lot. When a smuggler gave them a boat in the Greek [Aegean]sea, he had to take control of it. He was fearless and helped everyone. One of his friends had become seasick, and he encouraged him to carry on. When they had come across a whale, again, he had comforted others, and they managed to cross the sea.

When they had landed on the coast by morning, one of his friends, who had been very tired, had laid down on the beach but the tide washed him away and my brother immediately jumped into the water and saved him. Then he encouraged everyone to move away from the coast, even though they felt weak. They had to tear up the boat they had sailed in, so they were not put on board the same ship and returned if the police arrested them. When the police approached the island, my brother fled and took refuge in a green, densely wooded area.

My brother described his experience: “After the police left the area, I stayed there until the surrounding areas became quiet. Only then I noticed that a giant dog was standing near me. I stayed still; the dog stood there for 20 minutes and then went away. I was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty because I had not eaten anything at night. I was on the run when the police arrested me. They asked me where my friends were. I told them I was alone. They didn’t believe me and said you must have a companion, or maybe you are a smuggler. I was imprisoned for five days. Then, they released me and took me to Athens, the capital of Greece. After a month, I found my friends.”

My brother, Reza, was a very active person. He lived in Greece for two years and worked in agriculture. In the third year, he went to England with his three friends. On a rainy night, my brother and 15 other people, including 8 Pakistanis and 7 Afghans, tried to hide in a stream but the Pakistanis did not allow the Afghans to hide there. Angry at this, my brother threatened to beat some Pakistanis. He was athletic and strong, and when the Pakistanis saw this, they decided not to mess with him. My brother had taken his friends out of the stream and they had hidden somewhere else. Later, they moved to France and stayed there for six months. Their journey was very challenging. He said they had to cling underneath trailer trucks to hide and move from one city to another. They would use their clothes bags as pillows when they slept during the night. They had no idea where the trucks were headed: Africa, Europe, Australia, or even Pakistan. So they arrived at their destination, England. He lived in England for two years but was not accepted because he was an adult. So eventually he returned to Afghanistan. He worked hard and was always popular with people.

Reza got married in our hometown and then was nominated and elected as head of the community council. One of the public works he did for the people was constructing a road that connected our area with a neighbouring region. He also upgraded the elementary school into a high school and renovated its building. He was very good-tempered and treated people with care and respect.

One of my brothers is older than me. He graduated from twelfth grade in the same year. Reza told him to study any field he likes and not to worry about tuition. Taking part in the university entrance exam, my brother was accepted for the two-year electrical engineering course, but in the end, he didn’t enjoy it and said he wanted to work in national security instead. After two years of struggle, he was offered a job in national security and returned to Daikundi. When the incident happened on July 23, I was at the Institute. I kept calling my brother’s number, but he didn’t pick up. I called his friends, but they didn’t give a concrete answer. I left for Kote-Sangi. I then realized I should call the driver of the vehicle in which my brother rides. When I called him, he told me, “Reza Ebrahimi is with me, and I have just come out of Esteqlal hospital and want to go to Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan hospital.”

I recall him calling me several times a day for the entire year I had been in Kabul. He asked me where I was, what I was doing, and whether I had attended classes. He was very kind. I felt disappointed because he would never have left my calls unanswered, so if he did not answer, he must be in a bad way. When I arrived at Wazir Muhammad Akbar Khan hospital, his condition was critical; one of his legs was broken. I approached his bed. As soon as he saw me, he grabbed my feet. I tried to stay calm and not to cry. I told him he would be fine. Then, we transferred him to the 400-bed hospital. After he regained consciousness, he started cracking jokes with a friend of his who was a policeman, who had also been injured.

Reza asked me how I did my exams. I said I had only one exam left. He wanted me to get an inquiry letter and finish the exam. Following that, he talked to my brother, who worked in national security. He assured Reza not to worry about home. He told me I should not lose patience and stay focused on my studies after he is taken to India for medical treatment. “I have asked our brother to send you money from Daikundi.” He was taken to India with other wounded people on Friday. I was thrilled that he would recover in India. I attended classes on Saturday and Sunday. On Monday, I spoke with him. He sounded sad compared to the first days. A friend of his was with me. They talked a lot and he seemed happier talking to his friend. At 8 p.m., I went to my room; my friends had prepared food. I had dinner and wanted to call my brother Reza. I turned my mobile data on. One of my brothers, who lives in Iran with his family, was online and sent me photos of his sons. He asked me how Reza was doing. I said, “Thank God, he will be fine.”

In the meantime, my brother’s friend Abbas sent me a message asking how I was doing and what updates I had. The guy texted me again and said, “How are you? What is going on at home?” I said I was fine and so was the family. The person who was with my brother, his friend, was called Abbas. I asked him if Reza was fine. He said, “He is fine. Pray for him, and God willing, he will be fine. Make a vow for him.” I said, “I do pray, and now I will pray some more.” Following that call, Abbas’s phone and internet were turned off. Ten minutes later, a person named Hashem called me and said, “Dadfar, can I tell you something?” I said yes, tell me. With a lump in his throat, he said it was God’s wish. God took Reza Ebrahimi from us. I was shocked and immediately asked him what had happened. Hashem said, “Reza had a heart attack, and the doctors could not save him.”

I hung up the phone and informed my elder brother in Iran. He cried a lot over the phone and told me he would leave for Afghanistan the next day. My other brother, who was on duty, said he would go to Daikandi tomorrow. My other brother, who lived in Herat, only knew about Reza’s injury. He was in Iran, too, and arrived in Kabul on Monday. Upon the arrival of Reza’s body from India, we transferred it to the morgue in the 400-bed hospital because the high temperature could have impacted the body. When everyone arrived in Kabul, we moved to Daikundi on Tuesday and laid Reza to rest. He departed this life and left us alone in grief.

Abbas Was Martyred and Left Me Alone with Sorrows

Narrator: Zahra (mother)

Victim: Abbas Mohammadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Abbas always left for work early in the morning, but on the day of the demonstration, no matter how much I called him, he would not wake up. I attended to the house chores, but he still didn’t wake up. I called him again, but he told me he was tired and wanted to rest. When he woke up, he asked his wife for his white clothes, but his wife did not give him the clothes. He got angry and kicked her, saying, “Every day my mother ironed my clothes. Today she has washed clothes and is tired. ” I calmed him down. His wife ironed the clothes and gave them to him. Abbas called and said he wanted to wear the new slippers he had bought the day before. He called me and said, “Mother! If there is anything left from the Eid cookies, bring me some. I am very hungry for cookies.” I quickly brought him some cookies. When having tea, he said, “Mother, I don’t feel interested in work today.” I said it’s good for you to go to work. I gave him a new handkerchief as he was leaving the house. Around noon, we were sitting at the table and having lunch, and I told his sister in-law, “I feel very restless today. Please call Abbas.” When she called Abbas, he did not pick up the phone. A few minutes later, he called and said he was in Dehmazang waiting for the demonstration to come to an end.

We ate lunch and put away the tablecloth. At 1:24 pm, I got the news that there had been an explosion. I immediately called his number but he didn’t answer. I was beating myself and crying. His father wouldn’t let me leave the house because I could not control myself. I told him, “Let me go. My son has been martyred.” I kept crying and screaming until the next day, but it was pointless. The next morning, at 10:00 am, Abbas was taken to the mosque. I went there and saw Abbas. I passed out when I saw his body. When I regained consciousness, I asked everyone where Abbas was. They said they had taken him to the cemetery for burial. He has two children, a seven-year-old girl, and a two-year-old boy. His wife is also pregnant. Soon after Abbas was martyred, less than forty days after, his wife’s family came to find their daughter and took her away. I pleaded with her not to go. I said it is your house, and you are like my daughter, but she did not listen to me. She went and left her children behind. She said she would also bring us the new child after birth. She listened to her father, who wanted her to go to his house. We live in the same alley. Now, I feel hopeless for this innocent child crying at night and calling for his mother. I don’t know what my daughter in-law’s family told her to make her leave the children and go to her father’s house. Abbas was martyred and left me alone with such sorrows.

He Became a Victim of The Injustice of Our Corrupt Government

Narrator: Salman Ali Haidari (father)

Victim: Javid Haidari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My child was born in the village of Alghu-e Haidar in Jaghori District in Ghazni Province. Since childhood, my son has been very interested in getting an education. He was enrolled in and graduated from the Faiz Mohammad Kateb School in Jaghori District. Approximately five years ago, he started coming to Kabul for education. In the summer, he would go to Jaghori for his school programs, and in the winter, he would return to Kabul to prepare for the university entrance exam and learn English.

A man raises his child, having thousands of hopes and dreams, and struggles to help his kid achieve success, but his dreams and achievements can be shattered in the blink of an eye. It is very difficult for a person to lose his young child. One can only be patient and not protest God’s will.

He graduated from school last year and was successfully enrolled in the aviation department of the military university. My son’s enrollment in university was announced just a few days before the incident. He was informed he must register within three days to be allowed to attend classes. His university was located within the Kabul airport campus. Then the Dahmazang incident happened and shattered all my son’s dreams. I buried my youth.

He studied hard and dreamed of graduating from the military department and serving his people and country. My family and I moved to Kabul almost three years ago to live in tranquility with my son. In addition to his studies, he also played sports and was very fond of football. He was a sociable and well-mannered young man who participated in the Movement programs and believed in equal rights for people. Given the dire security situation, I forbade him from attending Movement meetings. He responded, “Dad, if I don’t take part and somebody else is afraid for their safety, who else will defend our rights and advocate for the oppressed?” On the day of the incident, I called Jawid at 11 o’clock, and updated him about Khalili and Mohaqeq’s withdrawal. I asked him where he was. He sounded sad, and said, “I am in Dehmazang, don’t worry about me, and please don’t call me again. I am fine, nothing will happen.”

Before the July 23rd demonstration, he would always say: “Hazaras are an oppressed and suffering community, and the government is trying to deny the rights of Hazaras. We shall not remain silent. We need to stand up and fight for the rights of our people.” In response, I said those words were precious to me, but in this country, to seek one’s rights comes at the cost of one’s life, so he would do better to look after his own life and his education, and avoid putting himself in harm’s way. But he insisted and said, “Dad, it doesn’t matter if our problems are not addressed today. Maybe the next generations will benefit from our advocacy and action because they will, at least, realize that we fought for justice.”

Some time ago, I spoke with my son and said we wanted to select a good girl for him to marry and start his life. He told me, “Dad, now is not the right time, I have many plans, and I had better address my personal and educational problems first.” All he was concerned about was education, but he became a victim of the injustice of our corrupt government. I gave my young son to the earth and to God. As long as I live, this sorrow will not be lifted from my heart.

Shrapnel Was Lodged Deep in his Head

Narrator: Fatema Gholami (spouse)

Victim: Naeem Gholami

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My name is Fatema Gholami, the wife of the martyr Gholami. He was 35 years old in 2016. In 2007, I graduated high school in Panjab District of Bamyan Province. In 2012, I married Gholami. My husband was 35 years old when he was killed.

When Naeem [Gholami] returned to his hometown from Iran, he started working with a civil construction company. In 2012, we were married in Panjab District and later we moved to Kabul. Two months before our wedding, Gholami rented a house with three bedrooms.

Gholami had studied engineering and worked in Iran as a civil engineer. Shortly after our marriage, he got a civil engineering job in the Aga Khan’s office and moved to Sare-Pol. However, not long after starting this position, two motorcycle riders took him out of a minivan while on his way from a project site to his residence. Armed men kidnaped him. They asked us for one hundred thousand US dollars. The Aga Khan’s office contributed fifty-thousand dollars, and we arranged the other half [of the ransom money], and Gholami was released.

That first morning, he purchased many things for breakfast for our kids. I prepared breakfast. His son and daughter were sitting on his lap, and Gholami was putting a bite of everything he ate in their mouth. After breakfast, he ironed his clothes and took a shower. After bathing and dressing, he stood in front of the full-length mirror in our room and oiled his hair, combed it, and used perfume. He got ready, kissed his children, said goodbye to us, and left the house.

I was not able to organize the clothing or the house that day. I don’t know why but I was in a strange mood from morning to night. When after lunch my children fell asleep, I thought I might watch TV, but then I said no. I was bored, and the kids were sleeping. It was 1:30pm, when my children woke up. I turned on the TV, and news of the demonstration and suicide attack in Dehmazang was everywhere. I kept calling Gholami, but his cell phone was off. I had to call my brother and tell him that Gholami’s phone was switched off. He said, “No worries, there may be a problem [with his phone].” I then remembered that his phone was not charged. I waited a long time and tried to call everyone I could think of, but got no more information. Then night came. I went to buy bread and ran towards the mosque. I prayed in the mosque for my beloved husband to be found.

My children were left unattended at home. One of my brothers came home to stay with them, and I went again to the mosque. My other brothers were searching for Gholami from one o’clock to the next day. They had searched through all the hospitals. My family in Bamiyan kept calling to check whether my husband had been found. My brother said, “I will look in the 400-bed hospital.” As soon as my brother mentioned that, I felt disheartened, and my left arm and leg suddenly became paralyzed.

My brother asked me, “Did he wear embroidered clothes?” “Yes,” I said. He asked, “Was there a scarf around his neck?” “Yes,” I said. My brother said he thought he saw his body several times, but had not recognized him. He said the body looked like the body of a young boy, even though Gholami’s face and body were not badly damaged. They had attached a label with the name Mohammad Ewaz to the body. He had severe injuries on his back and head. Shrapnel had gone deep into his head, and his back was very badly damaged.

My brother called me again and said Gholami had been found in the 400-bed hospital but was injured. I told him to stay there, and I would come too, but my brother sternly replied, “No, stay at home; come later.” I was at home, and my other brother, who had his own house, and my sister came to our house. They said my husband was seriously injured and I had to go with them to their house.

When we arrived at my brother’s house, it was calm, and everything seemed different. I was in my brother’s guest room but was feeling restless. I told them someone should look after my children, as I was going to the hospital to see Engineer [Gholami]. They said I should stay at home because my children were too young to be left alone. Finally, I realized with sadness that Gholami had been martyred. My family had bathed martyr Gholami in the Mosalla [congregational mosque] and had taken him to the hill where martyrs of the “Enlightenment Movement” were buried. He had decided to go and take part in the demonstration of the Enlightenment Movement but had not informed me just to make sure I would not be worried. He was tired of the injustices. He had also participated in Tabasom Movement.

Education Had Become His Top Priority

Narrator: Rafiullah Rahimi (brother)

Victim: Mohsen Rahimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

We are from Ghazni province, the village of Golkoh in Qarabagh district. We are four brothers. When I was born, both my mother and I were very sick. No one believed I would survive, and someone even suggested throwing “this boy” in the stream so he could die and to prevent his suffering later. My mother was operated on three times. My bones were very soft. No one held out much hope for my chances of survival.

Because of me, my mother underwent a surgical operation and had almost seven stitches in her stomach. Life was hard and people had no money. Our hometown was remote and people had to travel a long way to get to the city. We were almost three hours from the city, and people had to travel this long distance just to buy a bag of flour to feed their family. There were no shops or markets nearby. I was born into a large family. There were almost 30 of us in the one family. It would take a long time for everybody to wash their hands before a meal. Now, my elder brother tells me to thank God because life has changed. Now, I pour water for seven people to wash their hands, and I still complain that it’s a hard job! My elder brother said, “I was younger than you when I had to serve 30-40 people to wash their hands, but you think it’s hard today to serve seven people! You should know that when you work hard, it is good and rewarding.” One of my sisters died at a very young age. Before my brother’s martyrdom, my mother mourned my sister, who had died several years before. She always wished she knew where her daughter’s grave was, so she could visit it whenever she missed her.

At that time, my father used to buy and sell livestock. When he purchased livestock, he would graze them on the pastures. In this way, he would provide for our family. There was no proper schooling in our area. We went to school symbolically, as it were, and used to sit there for a while, and then return home or to the fields. At night we brought the livestock home and gave them water and fed them. But my brother Mohsen studied very hard and was top of his class in 7th grade. He then stayed at the top throughout his school years up to 12th grade and studied very hard. Education was his top priority. He did not attend too many gatherings or parties as he spent much time studying for that. Even if he did, he did not talk for long or laugh too much. He always behaved nicely with everyone. He used to read and worship God when he was alone. My father noticed Mohsen’s continued efforts, and travelled from Ghazni to Kabul, saying he would become successful and that this would be a great honor for the whole family. We remained in Ghazni while my father sent Mohsen to Kabul so as ensure he could continue comfortably with his study plans. Later, my brother became a doctor.

My eldest brother [not Mohsen] went to school in Qarabagh district up to the 12th grade. On the day of his entrance exam, war broke out on the road to Qarabagh. Due to this, they could not arrive at school on time and he was not able to take the exam. Since he was never able to take his 12th grade exam, he started to drive a vehicle. After a while, he left for Iran. My other brother, too, studied up to 10th grade and then moved to Iran. One of them lived in Yazd, and the other in Isfahan. My eldest brother was in Isfahan. One day, he informed me through Facebook that Dr. Mohsen had been injured.

My other brother, who lived in Yazd, only learned about what had happened two weeks later when he went to see my elder brother in Isfahan. Before he heard this news, he [the brother in Yazd] had called us and inquired about Mohsen. He said, “Dr. Mohsen is very busy. Where is he now?” We told him that the doctor had an exam and was busy studying. My brother insisted we should call Mohsen so he could talk to him just for 5 minutes. He said, “I have missed him a lot. Maybe he has at least 5 minutes for us?” We did not dare disclose the truth. Instead, we told him, “He does not have time this Friday. He will talk to you next Friday.”

Finally, he learned about it and became very agitated. Now, when the subject comes up, he pretends he does not know about it. He does not want to remember that Mohsen was martyred and does not even talk about it when others discuss it. He does not tell people that he is aware of Mohsen’s death. He doesn’t reveal his suffering to others and doesn’t want anyone to know about his sorrows. He sheds tears alone and keeps silent. After Mohsen’s death, when people see me, they say I should be a substitute for Dr. Mohsen and try to become someone who could support the family and his people.

As I said, two of my brothers are in Iran; they work there. One of my sisters is in grade 12 this year and is preparing for the university entrance exam. My family, friends, and relatives always tell me that I should fill his void and become a doctor. I tell them that I will never be able to fill his void, but I will try my best to work as hard as he did. When he was alive, he always told me to study and try to achieve my dreams. At that time, I was getting upset and angry and would say to him, “What does this have to do with you? Focus on your own studies.” He would answer, “I have compassion for you, you are my brother, and I want you to be successful. Otherwise, why don’t I encourage the neighbour’s son? Why don’t I encourage complete strangers to study?”

Neighbourhood boys, friends, and relatives who lived nearby would always come to him to get help with their school assignments. He used to tell me, “Look, they come to me and ask me to solve their problems in mathematics, in other subjects, and in the English language. But you, my brother, do not come to me to get your questions answered. You show no interest in education.” Now that we have lost him, I realize that he cared about me and tried his best to encourage me to study, for my benefit. But I also know it’s too late. It is too late, and no one can ever fill the void he left for my family members and me. I have just realized that sometimes it’s too late to regret, but we shouldn’t lose hope. We should try to change our lives here and now, and not to disappoint ourselves and others.

A Few Minutes Later, They Brought in His Coffin

Narrator: Sakina (sister)

Victim: Navidullah Bahadori

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My brother Navidullah attended school until 6th grade in the village of Bidshaki, in Ghazni Province, Jighato District. We then moved to Kabul, where he enrolled in the Abdul Rahim Shahid School. Besides school, he worked as a tailor’s apprentice. He was well-mannered and everyone liked him. He was sociable and friendly. Following graduation from 12th grade, he took an exam at the Afghan Korea University, where he took computer classes for six months. Later, he started learning dental prosthetics at the Razi Institute. On the morning of the incident, he was at home and had breakfast at 8 am. He intended to join in the demonstration, but my mother forbade him, citing the dire security situation and a possible incident. On that day, all my cousins went to the university to take an exam.

Around noon, he took a shower, changed his clothes, and ate lunch. He told us he wanted to go to university, but we all knew the university was closed in the afternoon, and that he intended to go and participate in the demonstration. At approximately 2:36 pm, when the second explosion occurred, my cousin called him to ask where he was. Someone else answered his phone and asked my cousin how he was related to the owner of the phone. He responded, “I am his cousin.” The man had told him that Navid was injured and my cousin had to get to Aliabad hospital immediately. My brother was alive until he was taken to the hospital but while being transferred to the emergency room, he died. My cousins searched all the hospitals and checked all the wounded but did not find him among them. Since the wounded had been transferred from Aliabad hospital to other hospitals, and because we thought he was only wounded, we continued searching the Barchi and Darul-Aman hospitals until midnight. Still, we did not find him among the injured. My father and cousins visited the 400-bed hospital the next day (day after the incident). When they got there, they saw his photo installed on the entrance gate of the hospital, and thus they recognized and found him.

They called home to say they found Navid. We were all delighted and told ourselves, as the man had reported, Navid had been taken to the hospital. Maybe his hand was severely injured or amputated, but thank God, he was alive. We went to my mother to give her the good news, but a while later, they brought in his coffin. Navid was no longer alive and this left my mother and me alone with a world of sorrow and yearning. Since Navid’s martyrdom/death, my mother is always sick. She cries in solitude and has lost her tranquility. We also cry in the other room at night, so my mother does not see our sadness. Navid, my brother, always encouraged us to get an education. When he returned home from work and school, he would always read and help us do our assignments until late into the night. Now, his absence is intensely felt. I always miss him and will never forget memories of him.

My emotional state was very bad and I didn’t know what to do

Narrator: Ishaq (cousin)

Victim: Jawad Haidari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Jawad was born in the province of Bamyan in 1992. During the period of Taliban rule, his father was hired as a farm worker in the Tah-ghar area, working only at night due to the security situation. If he worked on the farm during the day, the Taliban would kill him. One day Jawad’s father attempted to go plough his field early one morning, hoping the Taliban would not notice his presence. The Taliban saw him and took him to back his home, where they behead him. When the Taliban came, Jawad hid in a corner of the family house and his mother ran away. Four other neighbors who had worked with Jawad’s father came out of their homes, thinking that the Taliban had gone away. Unfortunately, all four were found and also beheaded.

My father and I worked as shepherds in an area called Dara-ye Nura (Nura Valley). Since the area was not secure, my father would go to the area for 20 days and farm only at night so the Taliban would not see him. I was little and fled to the mountains along with my family [after the Taliban came to our house]. We learned only three weeks later that my uncle had been killed by the Taliban. Jawad’s mother lived in my uncle’s house for 3 months until one of our relatives said: “She is a young woman. One of your brothers should marry her so that she is not without a guardian.” Then one of my cousins married her. Unfortunately, my cousin had a defective eye. He worked for a while until he earned enough money to send Jawad to school. Jawad went to school until eighth grade. At the time, conditions at school were not good, so Jawad was sent to Kabul and started working in the Now-Bahar Hotel in Kot-e Sangi. I recommended that he should work with me [as I already worked there].

After some time, in 2011, he joined the national army and worked for six months. His duty station was at the airport but he left his job due to insecurity. Later, we bought wheelbarrows and started working in Mandawi market. My wife and I got him engaged to a girl last year. A clergyman in Karte Sakhi officialized their marriage contract so Jawad could easily go to his father-in-law’s house. He had planned to hold the wedding ceremony in the fall of this year but his fiancé’s family had problems, and so he had to wait until their problems were resolved. Unfortunately, he was martyred in the summer. His family was not here - he lived with us. Only on Fridays would he go to his fiancé’s house. Due to the problems with the road, his mother came to Kabul only once, which was for his engagement party. Our economic situation was not good. In the run-up to Eid, we would try to save some money from work, and my wife and I would bring an Eid present for Jawad’s fiancé.

Jawad’s dream was to escape poverty and misery. Sometimes he would say with a smile, “Cousin, will there ever be a day when I have a wife, a life and children?” I would always respond the same way, saying, “Don’t lose hope and have faith in God’s grace and generosity.” Jawad was very honest, good-tempered, brave, and hard-working. We would participate in most of the Junbish (Movement) programs together. I had guests at my house on the day of the demonstration on July 23rd, but Jawad went to Dehmazang. My aunt had died a short while before, and some of our relatives had come to our house to pay their condolences. On the morning of the incident, Jawad went to Dehmazang along with some youths. I called him at 12 o’clock and told him to come back home because the weather was very hot and he would get sick, and he should come eat and drink water. I asked my wife to prepare more food because Jawad would also be coming home. I called him again and asked him again to come home, but he said that he was still in Dehmazang and that all the roads to the city were blocked off. I told him to come home through Guzargah. Our house is just behind Ibn-e Sina Hospital. He said he did not know the Guzargah route and that he would wait a few minutes for the demonstration to finish. I was worried and again called him to ask him where he was. He said he was waiting on the street, that people were going to eat and a few people had erected tents. We were waiting at home for Jawad before starting to eat. At around 2:30 p.m. the sound of an explosion was heard, and dust rose from the Dehmazang side. My house is near the top of the mountain, so the city landscape is vividly visible. I got out and started running towards Dehmazang anxiously, but when I neared the bridge, a soldier stopped me. I tried to pass toward the Pul-e Artal bridge when a second explosion happened. Gunfire was heard. The people around me were saying that there was fighting in Dehmazang. Yazdanparast, the representative of Chendawul, had put some injured people in his car. I asked his bodyguards what had happened. They replied that there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. However many times I called Jawad, he did not answer the phone.

When I arrived in Dehmazang Square, I saw a police vehicle picking up the injured. But Jawad was not among the injured in the police vehicle. I rushed to Ibn-e Sina Hospital but did not find him there either. I called his phone again and someone else picked up and said the owner of the phone was in Isteqlal Hospital. I called my friends and relatives and told them he had been injured. When I arrived at Isteqlal Hospital, I was very confused and in a very bad condition. I went to the female ward without realizing it.

My emotional state was so bad and I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. There were three or four dead bodies on a bed and the hallways were full of the injured and the bodies of martyrs. Of the three dead bodies on one of the beds, one had green pants. I looked at the bodies more carefully and then I recognized Jawad. There was a doctor there. I was angry with him, and said that they were playing with the life of the injured, and did not care who was alive and who was dead. The doctor said that Jawad had died even before he arrived at the hospital. There were two holes in his shoulder, his hand was wounded, and there had been blood flowing from his mouth. The hospital didn’t give me the body that night, but moved it to Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital.

The following day, I received the body at 11 o’clock and took it to the mosque, and performed ghusl (full-body ablution) at 12 o’clock. I rented a car and took him back to Bamyan where we buried him. At that time, no one was in a good emotional state and we didn’t know about Tepa-ye Shuhada (Martyrs Hill). I didn’t have money, so I borrowed 10,000 Afghanis from a relative to pay for his shroud, funeral, and memorial service. We arrived in Bamyan close to sunset and because the weather was bad, the mullah of the area performed namaz-e janazah (Islamic funeral prayer). We buried him at night.

Jawad’s mother and my uncle insisted that we bury him in our own home area and next to his father’s grave. We still go to Jawad’s fiancé's house. Unfortunately, after Jawad’s martyrdom, she suffered from deep emotional problems. She fainted constantly though luckily with some treatment, her condition is improving. If the Junbesh [Enlightenment Movement] invites me to, I will attend their meetings. We follow our martyrs’ path. Jawad’s family now faces a myriad of problems. His mother is old and they have numerous financial problems. We only received support from the Junbesh and have not received any ikramiya (death benefits) from the government at all.

He wishes the people of our district make progress

Narrator: Iqbal Ali (Father)

Victim: Aref Hussain Shaygan

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

In the name of God, the most Merciful, the most Compassionate, I am Iqbal Ali from the Pato area in the district of Jaghori, in the province of Ghazni. My son was born on Thursday night, January 1, 1991. According to the traditions in that area, they sweeten the newborn’s mouth with honey and Mohr (clay tablet) from Karbala. When the ceremony for sweetening the newborn’s mouth was over, the mullah came to our home and named him and called Adhan to his ear. I named my son Aref Hussain. He grew up day by day till he reached the age of four. In our area, there was no such thing as books to teach children with. There was only one single book, Qaida Baghdadi, taught to children. It may sound unbelievable, but one day when he was aged 4, Aref Hussain held this book under his arm and said to me: “Daddy, I go to school.” I was very surprised and said, “My good son, you have just learned how to utter complete sentences. How can you go to school?” He just replied, “It’s ok. I go to school." He was small and could not speak properly yet.

He went to school that fall. While the other boys would finish Panj Surahs in four or five months, Aref Hussain finished it in the three months of winter. What interested us all the most was his discipline. He didn’t tear a single page in the book. There were no government schools in our area and so until the age of seven, my son was taught by the mullahs at a religious school. He was very intelligent and if I had sent him to Iran or any other country to pursue his studies, by the age of 20 he could have reached the level of an Ijtihad [a jurist with the mental ability to find solution to complex legal questions].

When he turned seven, a government school opened in our area and he was admitted to second grade. I told him: “My son, I myself wanted you to become a good mullah because well-educated and knowledgeable mullahs are rare in our area.” He responded, “Father, I don’t like mullahs or want to become a mullah.” He continued school until twelfth grade and was always the top student in his class and in the school. When he was in seventh grade, he was a good reciter of the Quran in the Pato area and could recite Quran in Qari Abdul Basit style of recitation. He would be asked to moderate at various venues and was often asked to open the event with one of his recitation of the Quran.

As a child, he had a good character, so much so that he was known among local people for this quality of his. Whenever a child was born, they would come to our house and ask Aref Hussain to sweeten the newborn’s mouth so that the child would grow up to be as graceful and good as Aref Hussain. It is a tradition in our area to shave boys’ hair when they turn 6 or 7. When they shaved the boys’ hair, they would put Aref Hussain’s hat on their heads so they could all grow up as smart as him. Even from his early childhood, Aref attracted everyone due to his fine character and intelligence. He would never upset his family or others. Both men and women in Pato loved him. He was a pious and godly boy. My son studied in the Pato School till fifth grade and then enrolled in the Ustad Sharifi School in the Hutqul area. He participated fully in his classes and always achieved top marks. Every year, he would receive about 40 or 50 awards from teachers and friends. He came back to Pato for eleventh grade. When he returned, he started up some social and civil activities. He would always say he wanted the people in our district to make progress and achieve greater success. He began raising funds to establish a library in the Sang-e Masha area. Once he had the building constructed for a library, he visited mullahs and teachers in the area to ask them to donate any books they might have available at home. He told them it was a good thing to share their books so everyone could have access to them. Now the library he built is still the biggest in Jaghori. He would always encourage children to study and read. He would tell them that if they wanted to progress in life, they should read voraciously and pay serious attention to their lessons. After he graduated from high school, he passed the kankor [national university entry exam] and was admitted to study Economics at Herat University.

He studied diligently in Herat for four years. After graduating from university, he went to Kabul and lived in the Pul-e Sokhta area for two months. For four years, I had not been able to send even one Afghani to my son. Herat [University] didn’t have any dormitories and my son’s accommodation was not suitable for him, so he paid his own expenses with the help of his friends from the Hutqul area who had fled to Europe. I asked my son to come home to celebrate his graduation, but he would not come until he had found a job so that he could help us financially. He told me that he would not come home until he found a good job, since our economic situation was not good. During the two months he was in Kabul, he couldn’t find any work, and had decided to come back home. In Hutqul, his friends gathered in five or six cars, celebrating his graduation. They gave him flowers and paraded him home. He gave everyone time and attention, and thanked us with these words: “I do not want to take much of your time. Thank you for caring about me and profuse thanks also to my father who brought me to this point and worked hard for me. I won’t forget your support while I was far from home and will do everything in my capacity to serve you.”

Aref had been away from home a lot. He had spent his life moving, from school to graduating from university. Yet he remained jobless in Kabul for almost one year until he was hired by the Ministry of Justice, in the public management department. He came home for three days, then said he couldn’t stay home any longer with us as he would be marked absent in his office. He continued to strive, taking an exam for a scholarship offered by the Indian government. He was accepted to a program in computer science and was supposed to travel there to pursue his education.

Aref had an impact on the whole village. When sometimes there was a dispute among villagers over land or other issues in our area, and the dispute would linger on, Aref’s behaviour towards them would always remain friendly and considerate. That is why he was loved by so many, why all the people of the area loved him. I had trained my children not to speak ill of someone to someone else. I remember, for example, I had an altercation one day with one of my acquaintances and this man cursed me. I went home that night and related the incident to Aref Hussain. He told me: “Father, these words do not heal any pain and do not bring you any benefits, because the man is at his home.” His words were beautiful and soothing for me. My son was right. I should not have gotten angry at bygone words from my acquaintance.

But God took him back from us on July 23, 2016, and now he rests under the soil with all his dreams. Whenever he called us, we would chat to one another, and I would tell him: “You are my only child and all I have and I have no hope but in God.” He would sometimes complain about life and wished he could travel to another country so our financial situation could improve. But I would always comfort him and say he should remember that great men and scientists who had achieved their goals did so through hardship and difficulties, and that he too would achieve his dreams. Because I am his father, I perhaps praise my son too much, but you can ask our friends and neighbours.

On that Saturday night, two people came to our house and said they needed a word with me. I thought there had been a dispute in the village and that I would be asked to mediate. One of them said that there had been an explosion in Kabul the day before and that Aref’s leg had been broken. I had never heard such bad and heart-wrenching news in my life. Suddenly, I was engulfed by a terrible feeling as I suspected that something much more serious had happened.

We left for Kabul at 2 pm. Before that incident, I used to love Kabul, and my son was also happy there. The people of Kabul were lovely. When I arrived in Kabul this time, our friends there told me that Aref Hussain had passed away. Some of the brothers said that for the unity and memory of martyrs, it was better to bury him on Martyrs Hill in Kabul. I said that in 1980, one of my brothers was martyred by the Russians between “Shahjoy” and “Janda” and was buried there, but the exact location of his grave was never known. Therefore, we buried Aref’s body in Jaghori. I have kept my son’s writings and I can bring them for you. There might be more than one hundred pages.

After some time, I received a call from Junbesh Roshanai and the Ministry of Justice to go to Kabul in person. I responded to them that Aref was well-liked in Kabul, and why should I have to go to Kabul? I had an Aref Hussain in Kabul who was my only hope in Kabul, and I no longer wanted to go as I had no good memory of the place.

Then I thought to myself that this tragedy had not happened only to me. For the sake of justice and rights, since some 80 to 84 people had been martyred and my son was just one of them; I should go. I remembered the Movement’s motto, saying that this demonstration was not an ethnic issue. Rather, it belonged to all the people of Afghanistan and was for the sake of justice.

Then Dr. Sharif called me and said that in order to honour the memory of the martyrs of Junbesh Roshanai and keep their names alive, an event would be held in Kabul. The event was intended to raise the voices of the martyrs and their families, for all the world to hear. I then left Jaghori to go and join other friends and commemorate all the martyrs.

After the incident, I had locked myself up in the house for three months and lost all hope in the entire world. I still talk to myself when I walk down the street and say to myself that my son walked on this path and his youth and memories are still alive. When I went to the Ministry of Justice, I found Aref’s chair empty and sat on his chair to soothe my heart, but my heart’s peace was lost by the martyrdom of Aref Hussain.

But I will follow his path and will not allow his blood to be trampled.

I called home again, I was worried

Narrator: Ahmad (brother)

Victim: Ghulam Ali Alizada

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am Ahmad, Ghulam Ali’s brother. We are from Bahador, a village in the Nawur district of Ghazni province. The martyr was also born in this province. When the Dehmazang incident happened, I was living in Iran. I was following the news on a Friday when it was said that the demonstration scheduled for the next day had been cancelled. As on every other day, I watched the news and went to work on the Saturday. I was at work when my employer told me that there had been a suicide attack on demonstrators in Kabul. I called Ghulam Ali immediately but he didn’t answer his phone. I called him again but this time someone else picked up his phone. I asked him where Ghulam Ali was. He said, "Ali is wounded and is now in hospital but he is not in a critical condition. His leg has been slightly injured." My heart was still restless and I called home but my father did not know anything. Only my little brother knew about the incident and he had not yet told my father anything. He was waiting for the situation to calm down. I called Ghulam Ali again and the same boy answered again. The boy said that he was in Musalla and Ghulam Ali was good and safe and swore that he was not lying. My father called me at 8 o’clock and told me that he was going to Kabul because Ghulam Ali was injured. When he arrived there, he searched several hospitals for him but did not find him. My father went to the 400-bed hospital but they did not let him in. Ghulam Ali’s name was on the hospital’s list of wounded. After my father insisted that he be let in, the doctors told him that Ghulam Ali is good, that it is not time for a visit, and that he should wait outside. At about 2 o’clock, they called my father to go inside. Before he could see Ghulam Ali, they told him that Ghulam Ali had been martyred.

After a few minutes, they received Ghulam Ali’s body from the hospital and took it to Musalla. When they took Ghulam Ali from Musalla to Ghazni, no one told my mother anything. The only thing they told her is that he has been injured and hospitalized and that no visitors were allowed. There is a mosque near our house. People gather in the alley and at the mosque. They asked my mother to go to the mosque. She responded to them, asking what would she do at the mosque while her son is injured. Then they inform my mother of his martyrdom, and she passed out instantly. My other brother who lived in Nawur was not aware of the incident either. They called him to go home, and he also arrived home.

The day after the incident, I called home from Iran to check up on Ghulam Ali. They said that he was good and that my mother had gone to Kabul to be by my brother’s side. They told me not to worry as he was good. But I was indeed worried, and so I called home again after a while and asked them to send me a photo of Ghulam Ali. They made some excuse that the doctors did not allow them to take photos. I waited for a while and called them again, and this time they told me he had been taken to India for treatment. I was still in Iran and could not do anything but wait for them to report my brother’s condition to me. It was very hard for me to stay for 20 days in Iran without knowing. In the end, I ran out of patience and left my work there and returned to Afghanistan. I arrived home at night and felt the atmosphere of grief at home. My other brother was not in Ghazni either. When I asked about him, they told me he had gone to Kabul to be at Ghulam Ali’s side. The next morning, people came to visit me. I decided to go to Kabul to see my brother in-person, but my nephews gathered in our house and said that Ghulam Ali had been martyred, asking me where was I going, and told me that I should stay there.

For the Eid of Ramadan (Eid ul-Fitr) holidays, Ghulam Ali had gone home to be with my parents. He called me and asked when I would be coming home as our parents had become very old and there was no one by their side at home, as he had to return to Kabul after the holidays because he had many classes and could not travel back and forth on that dangerous route every week. I assured him that I would go home in the fall, in the month of Mizan (September-October), and he was very happy at that, and said his classes would also finish by then and he too would come home. On Friday, he reached Kabul, travelling back from Ghazni, and on Saturday he participated in the demonstration. Unfortunately, this ominous incident happened to him and left us in grief forever. He was a well-behaved and sociable boy and when he came home in the winter, he would teach the children in our area. All the local people loved him and still speak highly of him.

I can never forgive the blood of my brother being spilled. I will never forgive my brother’s killers

Narrator: Amena (sister)

Victim: Sayed Ishaq Hussaini

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the sister of Shahid (martyred) Ishaq. I don’t know his exact date of birth. He finished twelfth grade in the Waras district in the province of Bamyan. After he graduated from twelfth grade, he went to Iran for 13 months. Last year during Arba'ein (the fortieth day after Ashura), he was in Karbala. Five months ago, until Sizdah Bedar (Nature’s Day), he was in Iran, and after 13 days of the Nowruz holidays, he returned to the [Afghanistan]…from Iran. When he returned from Iran, he enrolled in some training courses.

Two days before Eid, he went to our home village to visit my parents and spent almost 12 to 13 days with them. I called and told him to come back and study for his courses as they had already resumed. On Thursday he returned from our home village and he came to our house on Friday afternoon. After greetings and prayers, we ate dinner together and chatted until midnight. Then we went to bed.

The following day was the day of the incident. It was Saturday. After he had breakfast, he said goodbye and told me he would go to his own room. Since he was a student, he had rented a room with friends. He didn’t tell me he was going to the demonstration. I followed the demonstrations on television up to the point when I saw the suicide attack. Each time I called him, he said he was in his room and hid from me…that he was actually taking part in the demonstration. After the suicide attack, I called him but someone else picked up his phone. When I ask the person where the owner of the phone was, he said the owner of the phone had been wounded and his hand was slightly injured.

By the time I found a taxi and went to the hospital, he had already been martyred (he had passed away). He was only 21 years old and had a fiancée. He would always tell me that his one wish in life was to go back to Karbala…one more time, after which if he died, he would not wish for anything more. On the night before his martyrdom/death, [my brother] related to me that he had had dreamt that he had visited Karbala. He died/was martyred the following day.

[My brother] would always offer his prayer and would always recite the Holy Quran. In the morning before he went to his room, he asked me after prayer to turn the light on for him, so he could read the Quran. When my maternal cousin learned that Ishaq had been martyred/killed, he told us that he was a faithful boy who cared about the afterlife. He was a son of the soil, and God would not let him sin. We all believe that Sayed ul-Shuhada (the Master of Martyrs) has accepted Ishaq’s pilgrimage [to Karbala]. Now, my old mother has asked us to provide her with travel expenses so she can go on pilgrimage [to Karbala] on behalf of her son.

He would not go out for no reason, and whenever he would go out, his head was down and he never harassed anyone. I have two other brothers and they are also the best, but God who created Sayed from earth, also took him back into the earth, away from us. I had already made embroidered clothes/shalwar kameez for his wedding. When he was chatting with me, he said he didn’t have enough money for the wedding ceremony and he would have to wait till the following year, though if his fiancée’s family insisted, he would have to hold the wedding sooner.

When I went to the Mowla Ali Hospital to find him, he was lying in his own blood. His head had been injured very badly. I was so heavy-hearted I didn’t know what to do. My husband and I took his body out of the hospital. None of our relatives were there and I felt very lonely. My parents are very old. We buried Ishaq alone; we had to bury our loved one among strangers. My mother still sheds tears and has become sick with grief because of losing my brother. My other brother cries when he is alone. My heart aches when I see him so restless and sad. No matter how much we console him, he cannot forget his sorrow over losing our brother (martyr) Ishaq. I myself go to the hill [the Hill of Martyrs] out of immense heartache and cry up there so that I don’t bother my husband. My brother was only 21 years old. He was martyred along with other youths. It happened as if by accident, though it may have been intentional. I can never forgive the blood of my brother being spilled. I will never forgive my brother’s killers. Ethnic leaders betrayed us and made our youths their political toys, and then they sacrificed them.

He was there Consciously, Decisively Seeking Justice

Narrator: Sultan (father)

Victim: Nabi Sultani

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the father of martyed Nabi Sultani. My son attended school up to grade 5 in Shahr-e Naw, in the Varas District, in Bamyan Province. Afterwards, we moved to Kabul, where he continued his studies until 12th grade at Sayed al-Shohada School and graduated as the top student. My son Nabi was an intelligent and diligent youth. He completed English courses and was very interested in athletics, becoming a kick-box trainer. He participated in the university entrance exam, successfully enrolled in Kabul University, and passed his first year. In his second year, he was killed during the July 23rd attack. He had earned several honours for the family. In addition to education and sports, he was also working and thus helped with some of our financial problems. He was a trainer in his own sports club, which was how we covered our expenses. However, the betrayal of ethnic elders has victimized our youth. We will never forget the blood of our youth.

His mother is still unsettled and crying. We can't do anything but be patient before God. He was a sociable and courteous boy and always tried to behave well with family members. Everyone loved him. His sisters are still grieving his loss. On the day he was killed, he was there consciously, decisively seeking justice. But his time had come, and God took his precious gift back from us. Martyr Nabi was 22-years-old. Like other young people, my child fell victim to the betrayal of our lying leaders.

He Detested Indolence

Narrator: Ali Sina (son)

Victim: Homayoun Rasikh

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My father was born in Qol Village of the Qarabagh District in Ghazni Province. He got married in his early youth at 14-years-old. He spent his childhood in that province. After American forces defeated the Taliban and during the transitional government, my father moved to Kabul and started a new life in the city. He rented a shop in the Mandavi neighbourhood and started working. He was sociable, kind, and calm. He did not argue with anyone, and always treated people with patience and kindness. The people in our community loved him very much.

He always warned us that one should not be proud of his status, worldly possessions, or even children, because this pride may cause a person to fail. It could make people hate a person, keep their distance, and not come to their aid in times of need. He was always busy doing something and he detested indolence. As I grew up, I never saw my father just going out to have fun, not even once. He continually worked and struggled to improve our lives so we would not feel underprivileged.

He was very fond of his people and always defended the rights of the oppressed. One night before the incident, I asked him why Hazaras only had the right to 3% of government posts, and why even that low percentage was currently not met. He explained that oppressed communities are always marginalized because of injustice and corruption in the country, and if we protest against the government, we will also suffer. Only education and awareness could save our people from poverty and their plight. A week before the July 23rd demonstration, his behavior with the family members changed. It was strange. He tried to take the time to speak with each and every family member. He had so many dreams for our future. He would always say: “All I want is for you to get an education and be able to help yourself, your family, and your society.” My sisters and I saw my father the morning of the attack. The night before the incident of July 23rd, I insisted that I would also go along to the demonstration. My father warned that I was inexperienced and that something could happen. He did not want me to get hurt. Also the following morning, my uncle announced that he too wanted to take part in the demonstration. But my father opposed this and said he would participate on behalf of his whole family; that that would be enough.

I go to Ghazi High School, and my sisters go to Suriya High School. I returned from school at 9 am on July 23rd and ran into my father in Karte Sakhi. I asked him where he was going, and he said he would go to Dehburi and from there to Dehmazang. He asked where I was going. I said I had been let out of school early, and I was going home. Then I would go to the shop to help my uncle. When I went to my uncle’s shop, after an hour, he told me, “You have to take some money to the Karavan Printing House in Dehmazang.” We had previously borrowed some money from the owner of the printing house, and July 23rd was the due date for repayment. I left for Dehmazang to repay the money, but it was crowded. The road was closed. I made it to the printing house with great difficulty and paid the money. The streets were closed so I couldn't get a taxi. So I walked to Karte Sakhi and arrived there by 11 o'clock. Later in the day, it was around 1:30pm and I hadn't eaten. I was hungry so I was going to eat when our shop apprentice, Abuzar, said, “An hour ago, I saw your father in Dehmazang. Now I have heard there was an explosion.” I became distraught and called my father but he didn't answer his phone. My father had a SIM card shop in Kot-e-Sangi. I called all his numbers but still got no answer. I kept on calling, but I didn't get a response until someone else picked up his phone around 2 pm. He said the phone's owner was wounded, and we had to go to Aliabad Hospital. By the time I got to the hospital, my father had died.

Some days later, I saw a video showing my father trying to get into an ambulance when he was injured but because of the horrible situation, no one was paying attention. The cause of my father's death was severe bleeding. One piece shrapnel damaged an artery, and another hit his back. When I received my father's body, I was in a terrible mental state, and did not realize we should register his name in the hospital. We buried him in Karte-Sakhi.

On the day of the incident, my father had talked to [Ahmad] Behzad just five minutes before the explosion. The explosion happened after Behzad left. This story was told by Behzad himself when he came to our house to offer his condolences. After the incident, my mother forbade me from taking part in Movement gatherings. We all believed we were risking our lives to gain legitimacy, trading the blood of our poor and oppressed people.

We received 50,000 Afghanis from the Movement and 20,000 Afghanis from Ayatollah Mohaqeq Kabuli. We did not receive any honorarium from the government. My mother visited the Ministry of Martyrs and Disabled to get a card. They said that some Movement leaders had submitted group applications for the families of martyrs and were working on it, but there have been no updates so far. I am the family's eldest child and in the 10th grade. I have five sisters younger than me, and I am now responsible for caring for the family. Now, I must study and work at the same time so that my family does not need help from others with our daily expenses. I try to fulfil one of my father's wishes, which is to serve my family.

He Used to Encourage His Friends to Stand Up for Their Rights

Narrator: Hazratullah Shirzad (brother)

Victim: Abdul Latif Zahidi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Praise to the martyrs of the 23rd of July, and greetings to you. I am Hazratullah Shirzad, brother of the martyr Abdul Latif. We come from Ghazni Province, Qarabagh District. My brother graduated from Naiqala High School during the Taliban era. Because conditions were terrible in those years, he emigrated to Iran and lived and worked there for several years. After a few years, he returned to Afghanistan. He spent some time in Kandahar Province and then came to Kabul. After he came here, he worked with me in dentistry.

I went to Ghazni this year during Ramadan and remained there until the day of the incident. My brother always encouraged his friends and us to get an education. He advised all his friends to study hard, he was a keen reader. He was 28-years-old when he was killed, and left behind two daughters and two sons. After my brother's death, life has been difficult for the entire family and for me. He was not only a brother, but also a good friend and comrade to all of us.

As I said, when the incident happened, I was in Ghazni. Someone called me to say that a suicide attack had occurred in Dehmazang, and that unfortunately, Abdul Latif was injured. They wanted me to return to Kabul as soon as possible. I didn't even know how they took him to the hospital or how he had been martyred. By the time I arrived in Kabul, it was too late. I didn't know the details of the incident, but I arrived at his funeral. I couldn't believe it. I was in a terrible mental state; it is excruciating and almost impossible to describe those moments. He always encouraged his friends to stand up for their civil rights and not allow anyone to violate them. He believed everyone should have equal rights and access to social justice. To achieve that, they must fight.

He Was Admitted to the Journalism Faculty at Kabul University

Narrator: Sayed Karim (Cousin (auntie’s son)

Victim: Sayed Mahdi Masoumzada

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Sayed Mahdi Masoumzada turned 20 this year [2016]. He was born in Varas District in Bamyan Province. He attended first to twelfth grade in Varas, and in 2012, graduated from twelfth grade. He sat the public university entrance exam but did not wait for the results. Instead, he secretly came to Kabul with some friends. One of his cousins called me and said, “Your auntie’s son has come to Kabul and is planning to go to Iran.” I quickly went to Kampany [in Kabul] and looked for him in all the vehicles there, but could not find him. I called his number, but his phone was turned off.

He called me at 10 o'clock and I told him not to go to Iran, but he refused. Since he was not listening to me, I followed him and brought him home. The next day, he travelled to Iran, but the border police harassed him. With difficulty he reached the city of Kerman but because workers’ conditions were not good there, he soon returned to Afghanistan. Later, he wanted to go to Iran for a second time, but we did not allow him to go. After some time, the entrance exam results were announced, and he learned that he had been successful and was admitted to the journalism faculty of Kabul University. He was in Bamyan and returned to Kabul after hearing the good news.

After enrolling at the university, he moved away from home to live in a dormitory. He visited our house once a month and at other times, he stayed in the dormitory. In the month of Ramadan, his father called him and told him to come home as it had been a long time since he visited. His father said it would be good for him to spend some time with the family during the days of Eid. Mahdi was not interested in going to Bamiyan, but he told me he wanted to go home because of his father's call. On the nights of Qadr, he would stay in the dormitory and rarely visited our house. I called him and asked him why he would not come to the house. He said, "I don't like to bother relatives while I'm away from home for my educational programs. I would rather stay in the dorm." He travelled to Bamiyan Province for just three days and then returned to Kabul. When he came, he took all his belongings back to the dormitory. A few days later, I called him, but his phone was switched off. I called him the next day and asked him to come back to our house. He said, “I will come to your house tomorrow night.” The day he came to our house, I was unfortunately not at home. Then the attack happened on July 23rd.

Before the incident, he had organized all his belongings in his dormitory and put them in his bag. He had bought white clothes and a white scarf specially for the July 23rd demonstration. The night before the rally, he told his friends that clothing was his shroud. He called me the night before the incident and wanted me to participate in the demonstration the next day. I called him in the morning and he said he would be coming by at 11 o’clock in the morning. But on the day of the protest, some of us who were planning to go eventually turned back at Qala-e Naw to go visit a sick family member.

It was only at 3:30 in the afternoon that we were informed there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. I called my cousin, but he didn't answer. I called his friends, and they said my cousin’s brother had already called Mahdi three times that day asking him not to take part in the demonstration. To put his brother’s mind at rest, Mahdi told him he wouldn't be joining in the march. When I called his brother, he didn't answer his phone either. Our own house is about 10 minutes from Qala-e Naw. But on that day, it took me half an hour to arrive home. It felt like ages. By the time I got home, I noticed my father and brother were not there. I asked about them and was told Mahdi was wounded, and they had gone to visit him in hospital.

When my father learned that Mahdi was injured, he walked on foot from Qala-e Maw to Dar al-Aman. Meanwhile, the wounded and martyrs had been transferred to various different hospitals. His friends searched several hospitals and could not find him. At 6:00 pm, his friends called to say that Mahdi was in Esteqlal Hospital, but they had not been allowed to go in and see him. We pretended not to know anything, because my mother was so restless. At 7:00 p.m., Mahdi's brother went to the hospital. When they allowed my brother to enter, he recognized Mahdi. According to my brother, when he entered the hospital, all the rooms, the corridor, and the morgue were full of corpses and the wounded. Part of Mahdi’s forehead had been cleaned, and that was how his brother recognized him. Several pieces of shrapnel had hit his body and he died before our family was able to arrive. They didn't hand over Mahdi's body that night, instead at 8:00 a.m. the next day because of the hot weather. The same day, we took the body and transferred it to Bamyan where we then buried him. Unfortunately, I don’t know the details since I was still in Kabul.

He Would Always Tell Me He Would Go Overseas

Narrator: Rahmatullah (father)

Victim: Azizullah Sabzo

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Azizullah enrolled in Deh Dana School at the age of seven. He was attending twelfth grade at the Mehrabuddin School in Chehel-Soton. He always told me he was interested in going overseas after finishing school. I would tell him, “My son, what are you going to do overseas? Whatever you like to do, do it in Afghanistan and build your life here.” But he would always say that it was his dream to go abroad. On the day of the incident, his friends called him: “Azizullah, where are you, brother?” He told them that he was at home. They told him to come and join them in the demonstration. “What type of a friend you are, leaving us alone?” they said.

He joined his friends in Dehmazang. Around 2 p.m., the attack happened, and my son was killed at the age of 18. We were very satisfied and happy with him. He was a calm and well-mannered boy, and I can say he was fortunate. He was very social and respected everyone.

His Mother Lost Her Sanity Balance After the Incident

Narrator: Hussain Ali (father)

Victim: Kazim Hakimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My son was born in 1988, in the Varas District. He was five years old when we migrated to the Kerman region, a part of Panjaw District in Bamiyan Province. He was very interested in school and we enrolled him in a local school, which he attended up to grade 7. But due to the lack of facilities and shortage of teachers in his school, he started to lose interest.

Subsequently, he voluntarily went to Iran, where he learned the trade of plastering. At 18, he returned to Afghanistan and married the daughter of one of our relatives. They were married for ten years. Almost a year ago, my son came to Kabul from Panjaw and rented a house in western Kabul. He has four little daughters, but life was not kind to him and his family. On the 23rd of July, he participated in the demonstration and lost his life in a brutal attack by some ungodly people.

After the accident and his martyrdom, his mother lost her sanity, her mental balance. According to the doctors, she has developed a neurological disorder. His wife and four kids live a hard life in the same rented house. I have become old and am also going through financial hardship. He was 28-years-old when he was martyred. Losing a young child breaks a person's back. We have all been downhearted since then.

He Laughed and Jokingly Said: “I Hope There Won’t Be a Suicide Attack Today.”

Narrator: Habibullah (brother)

Victim: Mohammad Sadiq Haidari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Mohammad Sadiq was born in 1986 in the village of Daba, in the district of Yakavalang in Bamiyan Province. As a child, he was taught the Holy Quran by the Mullah in the village mosque; it was in the mosque that he learned to read and write. In 1995, he enrolled in the Deh Sorkh High School in Yakavalang District. He worked hard to become a successful student. Until Grade 9, he was top of his class. He graduated from school in 1997, and was fifth in his class. In 1999, after passing the national university entrance exam, he was accepted into Mining Geology at the Polytechnic University and completed his five-year study program. After graduating from university in 2013, he founded the Bamiyan Youth Cultural Association. He conducted literacy classes in most districts of Bamiyan, including Yakavalang and Varas.

Mohammad Sadiq was mobilized by the issue of the TUTAP project [this was a multimillion-dollar power project backed by the Asian Development Bank and World Bank to make electricity accessible to more people in Afghanistan]. People standing up for their rights motivated Mohammad Sadiq. He actively participated in programs of the Enlightenment Movement. He believed that the oppressed people of Bamiyan should were entitled to their rights, because people of the central provinces lived in poverty and darkness. Sadiq had a good relationship with people and was a socially-minded individual.

No matter how much I tell you about his good qualities, it cannot be enough. My brother was older than me and always encouraged me to study. I remember well that when I was younger, I used to wake up later than him because of the cold weather, and I was a bit lazy. He would pour water on me and make me go with him to gather grass and get used to waking up early. Because of Sadiq's continued encouragement, I graduated from school with top marks. Last year, I passed the university entrance exam, and with a high mark of 284, I was accepted into Mining Geology at the Polytechnic University. Since my first choice was medicine, I rejected that offer and plan to retake the university entrance exam [to get into Medicine].

I owe all my academic success to my brother Sadiq. I used to come to Kabul in the winter to prepare for the entrance exam and spent the winter in his room. After graduating from university, he worked for a year at the Central Statistics Office. For a while, he also worked with an NGO in Ghor Province. One of his wishes was for me to study in a good field and make him and my family proud. He was very interested in politics, so he studied Law and Political Science at Rabia Balkhi University, in addition to Geology. Unfortunately, we lost him in the July 23rd incident and he could not achieve his many dreams. He did a lot of work through the association to help youth. With assistance from Haji Mohaqeq’s party, he secured Iranian scholarships for students. He did this for almost two years. He got married this spring but had no children.

The night before the demonstration, when Khalili withdrew from the Enlightement Movement, Mohammad Sadiq cried because Khalili had abandoned his people at the last moment and made a deal with the government. People talked in the Musala, saying their leader motivated the youth and manipulated their emotions by withdrawing from the Movement. After the incident, people said that Khalili had probably compromised with the government and that the killing happened because of Khalili, Mohaqeq, and Danesh’s deal. Even on the day of the funeral of the dead, Khalili and Mohaqeq did not take part in the ceremony. Instead, they sent their representatives to the Musala. Because of people’s anger and resentment, those representatives were beaten and kicked out of the place. The poor, helpless local people were outraged. After the incident, they commented that they had not been fully aware of the TUTAP issue. Their leaders had manipulated them to mobilize, and in the end had turned their backs on their own people for self-interest. They don’t deserve the people’s respect or support.

It is a bitter and undeniable fact that because of the government's incompetence, people of the central regions do not have access to electricity and spend their evenings lit by simple oil lamps. Our youth got tired of injustice and discrimination and that's why they participated in this advocacy movement, which unfortunately ended in the death of so many of our educated and hardworking youth. I participated in the first demonstration, but Mohammad Sadiq said that the possibility of an incident was very high this time. In the morning, when he was leaving the house, he returned from the front yard and kissed the Holy Quran. Before going out, he laughed and jokingly said, “I hope there won’t be a suicide attack today.” He was joking with his mother-in-law. After leaving the house, he returned home and I noticed his nose was bleeding. He washed his face. Before he went out again, I went to him and said that I also wanted to participate in the demonstration. He said no and that I should stay home. He was very interested in civic activities and serving the people.

When the Movement was launched, he worked on the procurement committee of the Movement. Sadiq's friends later recounted that they didn't have water on the day of the incident, and Sadiq had a bottle of water. He gave it to them and went to look for water. That was when the explosion happened, and Sadiq got injured. His wounds were not serious, but he died due to lack of medical attention and severe bleeding as they could not get him to the hospital. When I came home from the educational centre, the electricity was out and I hadn’t heard about the explosion. My brother-in-law is a mining engineer in Dara Suf, Samangan Province. He called and asked if someone from our family had been at the demonstration. I said Sadiq was there. I felt the worry in his voice. He said there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. He was monitoring that day's demonstration via Facebook, through which he was informed of the attack.

I went out of the house immediately and when I got close to the main road, I saw ambulances. I went to Naser Khosrow and Watan hospitals where some of the wounded were being transferred. My brother's name was not among the list of those injured. I called my cousin, and he said, “I am going to the Esteqlal and Emergency Hospitals. Maybe I will find Sadiq there.” He thought he had seen him among the wounded, but was not sure if he had recognized Sadiq. When I went to the Esteqlal Hospital, I recognized him at once. His rosary was on his chest. I spent many years with my brother, and I recognized him from his clothes and his rosary. As soon as I saw his body, I could not move. It was unbearable to see his condition.

Some representatives of the Movement said that they wanted to bury the martyrs on a hilltop, but my family and some other families from Bamiyan Province took their dead to their own home district and buried them there. Sadiq was the family's breadwinner and carried most of the family responsibilities. Our financial situation is not too bad. My father is a shopkeeper, and he provides for our household needs. My brother Sadiq used to pay for my study expenses because he wanted me to study medicine. I gave up studying Mining Geology at his suggestion and started preparing to retake the university entrance exam to achieve his and my wish. But when he was martyred, he left me alone with my dreams. When I passed the mock entrance exam, I got a good grade. So as a young elite, they gave me a full scholarship. I only need to pay for my books, notebooks, and stationery.

After the incident, no one from the government visited our home to express sympathy. Only people from the Enlightenment Movement came, which helped relieve our pain and suffering a little. One of my dreams is to study Medicine and fulfill the wish of my brother, martyr Sadiq, because this is the only thing I can do to follow his pathway for the sake of justice.

I Will Stay and Serve in Afghanistan as Long as I Am Alive

Narrator: Abdul Wahid (brother)

Victim: Abdul Aziz Rahimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am going to share the story of my martyred brother with you. He was born on the 11th of March in 1990. In 1996, he was enrolled in school in Islam Qala in Pol-e Khomri. We lived in Baghlan Province for almost ten years, after which we moved to the centre of Bamiyan, where he completed his studies in under three years.

When he took the university entrance exam, he was admitted into the Faculty of Literature of Kabul University. He began his studies in the Spanish department. He graduated from university in 2012. After graduating from university, he spent two years trying to find a job. By late 2010, the Spanish forces asked the faculty to introduce to them a few students who knew the Spanish language in order to serve in the national army. The program, led by the faculty professors, lasted for six months. During this time, my brother served in provinces such as Kandahar, Farah, and Herat. By late 2011, he returned to the university to continue his studies. He graduated from the university in 2012.

Before he graduated from university, the Spanish Embassy suggested to ten individuals, including my brother, that they could take them to Spain, give them permanent residence, and pay their expenses for six months. A month later, I asked him what had happened to that process. I told him Spain would take him there for free, so he could improve his life there. He told me: “I have studied and worked hard for 16 years while my compatriots have served us. It is not fair to abandon our people and our country to work for other countries. I will stay and serve in Afghanistan as long as I am alive”.

They had given them some money. I asked him to give us some of it to buy tires for the truck we had and to service the vehicle. He said, "I'm sorry, I can't give you even one Afghani because I am planning to get my master's degree.” In 2016, he was close to completing his master's. His thesis was focused on the environment. His work has remained incomplete and is on his computer. He wanted to publish it as a book, but death did not give him time. He was martyred in the heartbreaking attack on July 23rd, 2016.

This Incident Broke the Back of our People

Narrator: Khairun-Nesa (mother)

Victim: Mohammad Joma Abdullahi (Wafa)

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

We are from the village of Sayed Ahmad in Ghazni Province, Jaghori District. For a while, my son attended the Kharbid School in our district. He graduated from Soltani High School in Sangmash. Then he came to Kabul, took the university entrance exam, and started studying at Gawharshad University. For almost five months, he went to Iran and worked and lived with his brother there. He then came back to Afghanistan. My son was highly active. He was a front-row activist of the "Tabassom Movement," and entered the Arg [the presidential palace in Kabul], staying with the people there until late into the night. When the Shah Shahid incident took place [7 August 2015], he had helped a lot of people. He would always read books and treated everyone well. He had friends from the Tajik, Pashtun, Uzbek, and Hazara communities.

The night before the demonstration, he gathered his friends at his brother's house and encouraged them to take part in the next day’s march. His brother's wife and I were in Jaghori. He had called his sister to go to his brother's house and prepare food for him and his friends. Given the hot weather, he had put water bottles in the refrigerator in preparation for the demonstration the next day.

On the day of the demonstration, he and his brother had left the house, putting the water in a bag. His brother recalled that the weather was hot and my son joked with his brother, saying that he would not give him any water from his pack; he should drink water from the well. When his friends told him they were not thirsty but hungry, he gave them money to buy food. His friends then told Mohammad Juma that they were being sarcastic and did not need his money. While talking with his friends, he received a call. He stood up and walked a few steps away from them, and that is when the explosion happened. When I heard about the explosion, I immediately called him. He had three phones. I called all three of his numbers but he didn't answer, and his phones were switched off. We immediately left for Kabul and arrived at 8 o’clock that night. I went through difficult moments. I can never erase his memory from my mind.

My son worked hard, but all his efforts produced no result, and God took him from me. He was 26-years-old, very young. Around Eid days, he would go to Jaghori. He would then visit Malistan in Ghazni Province with his friends. From there, he would go to Alawdal and take pictures in different places to keep as a memory of the past. Then he came to Kabul and told me: “My dear mother, now it's your turn to go to Jaghori, to rest and have some fun.” I travelled to Jaghori with his brother, but it was not long before we heard of his martyrdom. He had a factory. He paid for food for his workers, except during the month of Ramadan when they did not get food. His workers and friends loved him very much. He left me alone with my grief. Every moment I remember him, my heart breaks. I cry and wait patiently, wishing I was gone with him so I do not have to bear this pain alone.

The life story of Khairun Nesa, mother of martyr Juma

I suffered so much in my life. I tried hard to ensure my child could study. I worked on people's land and endured people's taunts for the betterment of my child's future, but, in the end, the government killed our youth and ruined our lives by not protecting people’s security. There have been ups and downs in my life, but this attack broke the back of our people. In our hometown, I used to go to the plains to collect grass for animals to enable my children to study. I sent my two sons to Iran but chose to send Mohammad Juma to school. For a while, I sent him off to Kharbed. He knew that all of us had the dream that he would build his future. That was why he worked so hard and always achieved success.

I sent him to Sangamasheh in Jaghori district for a while to get an education. For university, I sent him to Kabul. He studied at a government institute and completed his studies at Gawharshad University. On the day of the incident, I was in Jaghori. They informed me that my son was wounded in Dehmazang. By the time I arrived, he had met his death. I don't expect anything from the government because the government itself is the cause of ruining our families.

Mother, I Will Sacrifice My Life for Justice

Narrator: Zakia (mother)

Victim: Mehr Ali Mohammadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am mother of the martyr Mehr Ali. He was 33-years-old. He was very interested in community centred activities such as demonstrations and ceremonies of the month of Muharram. He always tried to treat people well. I told him not to participate in this demonstration because of the dire situation. He smiled and said there was no way for him not to go. “If I don't go, you don't go, and since so-and-so are afraid to go, who will defend our rights?” he said. I argued that he was a workman, a simple carpenter, and he did an excellent service by providing for his children.

Three days before the incident, both of us had travelled to Pakistan. He kept telling me he hoped he would be alive until Saturday so that he could participate in the demonstration. I even got mad at him and told him the demonstration was none of his business.

What have Khalili and Mohaqeq done for you, a simple worker, why support them? If only they had stood by, defended their people, and served the poor.

He told me again: “No, mother, I will sacrifice my life for justice. If I am killed, I am a martyr. If we succeed, we will be holy warriors.” He did not listen to me. I am very sad, but I say that maybe martyrdom was his fate, and I should not be ungrateful. We went to my eldest son's house in Haji Nabi town on Friday. They had organized a Holy Quran recitation ceremony. I told my eldest son to stop Mehr Ali from going because he is married and has several children, and God forbid something could happen. My eldest son said, “I will participate in the demonstration tomorrow and take my son with me. Don't worry, there will be no problem.” He had also participated in the protest for Tabassum. When I called him to ask where he was, he said, “Don't worry, mother, I'm near Fawara Aab.” In the second demonstration, when I called him to ask him where he was, he said he was at Pol-e-Artal. In the last demonstration, his fate was to meet martyrdom, but we cannot do anything against God’s will. This time, when he went to the demonstration, I didn't even remember to call him and ask where he was.

At 2 pm, I received a call from Mazar-e-Sharif. My eldest daughter called me and asked, “Are your sons at home?” At first, I was not paying attention, and I said yes, they were at home. I suddenly remembered and told her that her brothers were in the demonstration. “Zia and Mehr Ali are at the demonstration,” I said. She suddently said that a suicide attack had just happened in Dehmazang.

I left the house and called my eldest son. He said, “Mother, I am at home, but I don’t know where Mehr Ali is.” My sons lived in separate houses, that's why they didn't know about each other’s whereabouts. My eldest son had gone to his place in Haji Nabi township. When I called Mehr Ali, his phone rang several times, but no one picked it up. I told myself that he was not an inconsiderate boy. If he got the news, he would immediately call us to update us about his location and not let us worry. I instantly thought that my son was martyred. We went to Ibn-e Sina Hospital, I saw the corpses up close. Like the father of martyr Qasemi, I kept cursing Khalili and Mohaqeq out of excruciating grief. But it was useless because they had deserted their people, sacrificing innocent youths for their deal. We went to the NDS (National Directorate of Security) Hospital. They kept us busy for a couple of hours and said he was there, but we could not find Mehr Ali. They called us again from Esteqlal Hospital and wanted us to go there. Mehr Ali was there. By the time we arrived there, they had already handed over the bodies of the martyrs.

I noticed all our close relatives were there. This led me to believe my son had been killed, he had been martyred. All our close relatives gathered around me and took me home. The body was taken to Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan Hospital. We brought my son's body from the hospital at ten o'clock the next morning. It may have been his fate to be martyred like this. He has four small children. I still praise God and pray for his sons to grow up and have a worthy future. The tremendous pain is that his young wife is pregnant and was widowed at a young age. May God give me the ability to support and serve them. He was 33-years-old when he was martyred. He was very sociable and kind, and all our relatives, neighbours, and friends loved him. He always treated people kindly. Whenever there was a happy or sad event, Mehr Ali would help the extended family. Whenever I called and asked him where he was, he would say, “Don't worry, mother, I am at the so and so event to serve people.” He was a very diligent boy. He had not been able finish school due to the insecurity created by the Taliban, so he learned carpentry and was highly skilled at it. Despite the grief of losing him, I am proud that he was not killed for an evil cause. He was martyred for the sake of justice, and I am proud of him. I loved him very much and will always love him.

The Third Body Was My Father

Narrator: Shafiqullah (Son)

Victim: Abdul Shakoor Karimzada

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My father was born in 1942 in Qoluj Village of Qarabagh District in the province of Ghazni. My father was martyred in Dehmazang at the age of 74. My father has four sons and two daughters. My brothers and sisters are married and all live separately. My father always encouraged me to get an education and improve my life. He encouraged my sisters to have good relations with people. To perform the prayer, he would always go to the mosque. My father had five brothers, one of whom was killed during the wars. He spent his childhood in the village. Almost 50 years have passed since my parents got married. Their eldest child is 34-years-old. My best memory of my father is related was when I managed to pass the university entrance exam. When I told him about it, he had tears in his eyes, hugged me, and was very happy. He had many dreams for his children and always said he wanted all of us to succeed. He even encouraged his daughters to get an education and said they should go to school, get good grades in university, and achieve their dreams. We moved to Kabul in 2009, following which he never returned to Ghazni. My father was a social and good-natured person who was very fond of his children and grandchildren.

My father and brothers, Najib and Zabihullah, worked for ten years in Iran. He had a cow, and he would always look after it. Later, he sold the cow and bought a cart to work as a vendor. Sometimes he would do construction work. He had become interested in the activities of the Enlightenment Movement and frequently attended their meetings. He believed that our people should stand up for justice and raise the voice of the oppressed.

On July 23rd, he left home at 9 am. I also went to Kot-e-Sangi. I did not know my father, too, would be taking part in the demonstration. When I got there, I felt that the security situation was not good, so I returned home. The university exams were coming up, so I was studying at home. The night before the incident, Negah TV announced that the next day’s demonstration had been cancelled. However, when my father heard from the Movement's announcement that the demonstration would happen anyway, he went to Dehmazang the next day.

At 2:30 pm, when I turned on the TV, news of the explosion in Dehmazang was being broadcast on the 1TV network. My mother was distraught. She came to me and wanted me to call my father immediately. She explained that he had gone to Dehmazang. When my father left the house in the morning, no one stopped him; he was participating in the demonstration of his own free will. I called his number, but he didn't answer. I called him again, and somebody else picked up his phone and said: “I am a doctor, the owner of the phone is seriously injured, come to Ibn-e Sina Hospital.” I didn't know what I was doing. I took a taxi and immediately went to Esteqlal Hospital. I called my father's number and said I had arrived at the hospital. The doctor again told me that I should come to Ibn-e Sina Hospital. The road was closed, and the police would not allow anyone to pass. With difficulty, I made it to the hospital. I searched everywhere, but I could not find my father. A doctor called me and told me to follow him. I was in a terrible mental state and told myself my father must be injured. The doctor would take me to him. Then I realized that he was taking me to the morgue. When I got there, there were other martyrs too. The third body was my father’s. My world fell apart. I broke down and felt lost and I didn't know what to do. It was a difficult moment.

My father was transferred to the Emergency Hospital. The next day, we brought his body home. After bathing him, we buried him in the cemetery of Nawabad in Deh Qabil.

I am not asking for anything from this government because this is the same government that killed our people. I am requesting human rights institutions not to let the blood of our martyrs be wasted in vain, since they gave their lives for justice. Our loved ones did not take part in the demonstration for electricity, but because the government discriminates against some of the people of Afghanistan. We must follow in their footsteps and not let their voices be silenced.

Now That He is Gone, My Sorrows Have Increased a Thousand Times

Narrator: Shirin Gul (aunt and godmother)

Victim: Khadim Hussain Hussaini

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Khadim Hossain was orphaned when he was six months old. Thenceforth, I assumed his guardianship. Years ago, Khadim’s father went out hunting with some other people and was buried by an avalanche. Only in autumn could they dig him out of the snow. His mother suffered from an anxiety induced mental breakdown triggered by her husband's death. Consequently, she also died. Since then, I had assumed guardianship of Khadim Hossain. I raised him until he was 20-years-old. He had just turned 21 this year.

Last year, his uncle [the narrator’s husband] was paralyzed due to high blood pressure. I went to all the hospitals in Kabul to find him a treatment and basically met every doctor. After we were disappointed with his treatment in Afghanistan, the doctors gave me a note to take him to Pakistan, where he could be treated. I borrowed money from my relatives and took him to Pakistan. Once Pakistani doctors examined him and conducted the initial treatment, they said he should be hospitalized for two months and would be fine after two months. He was hospitalized in Pakistan for almost 25 days. When calling home, Khadim Hussain would assure me that he, the house, and the children were all fine.

He said, “I am at work in the morning, return home in the evening, and all of us are together.” One evening, I called him, but his phone was off. I got worried and told his uncle that I had called Khadim Hossain, but his phone was off. His uncle told me, “It is okay. He is young; either his phone is dead, or he is at work and has turned it off, or maybe he has lost it.” I was still worried. I called my brother and asked him how he was. I told him I had heard there was a demonstration in Kabul. “Are you all well?” I asked. He said they were all fine. I asked him if he knew about Khadim Hossain and that his phone was switched off. He said, "Well, I don't know, sister." I asked him to call or find out why his phone was turned off. I explained that there are little children at home, it is not clear what has happened, and to let me know so that I could stop worrying. My brother said, “Okay. I will find out about him and let you know.” His own uncle was in the hospital.

During the day, I was taking care of my husband, and at night, I would stay at the house of my husband's cousin who lived in Pakistan with her family. That when, I saw on TV that smoke was rising from Dehmazang Square and numerous ambulances were carrying the wounded and dead. It was a terrible situation. Looking at that, I became apprehensive and said to myself, "God, what has happened?" From early evening, I continued calling Khadim until late at night, but he did not answer.

Early next morning, I called my brother and told him, “I tried calling Khadim Hossain's phone at night, but it was switched off. You told me you would find out about him and update me. You did not, so what happened?” He said, “Sister! Be patient. I will find out about him and call you.” Once again, I asked my brother, “Please go check the house, since there are only a few houses of our people there. There are one or two Hazara families, three Sayyid families, and the rest are all Pashtuns. Check on my children and see what has happened to them.” At around 11:00 or 12:00, my brother called back. When I picked up the phone, he said, "Sister, your son took part in the demonstration. We are looking for him but we cannot find him. It is up to you whether you come back or decide stay there." I went to talk to the head of the hospital. Although I didn't know their language, I managed to make them understand that there was a problem back at home. I said they had to dismiss my husband as we needed to return to Afghanistan. But they told me that I had to leave the patient there for two months and that I was not allowed to return to Afghanistan because the patient’s medication would not be sufficient. I went to my husband’s cousin's house and told him I had received a call from home, but the hospital won't dismiss his cousin. I asked him to go and talk to the hospital administrators to solve our problem.

He called my brother. My brother told him, “All I know is that he took part in the demonstration, but despite our endless searches after the incident, we have not been able to find him. My sister can either stay there with her husband or return.” We returned to the hospital, and my husband’s cousin pleaded with them until they allowed the patient to leave. We waited at the border crossing in Torkham for two days and then travelled to Kabul. When I arrived home, I asked my children where Khadim Hossain was and what had happened.

My eldest daughter, 13-years-old, said, “Mother! He came back from work in the evening and his employer called him to see if he had arrived home. Khadim Hossain said yes, he is at home. He woke up early in the morning and said that he was going to work. He went outside and came back.” Because he was working in a mosaic factory and his work clothes were very dusty, he had told my daughter, “Heat some water and wash my clothes, they are very dusty. I will not go to work today.”

He was having breakfast when somebody knocked on the door. Someone named Abbas, who was also later martyred in the demonstration, came to see him to ask him to go to the demonstration. Khadim asked for his clothes and got ready to participate in the rally. He said to my daughter, “Sister, if I am late, either go to your uncle’s house and tell him to come and stay with you at night, or call the lady who always visits us so that you are not alone before I arrive.” My daughter explained that they waited until evening but Khadim did not come home. “I went to my uncle’s house and said that Khadim Hossain had not come home yet. My uncle became angry with me and said, 'He will come home. There must either be a traffic jam, or he is just late from work.' I was still worried and went to the neighbours whose house is one or two buildings away, and told his wife that Khadim Hossain had not come home that night. We were all alone and, if possible, could she come and stay with us?" The neighbours knew that Abbas, the neighbour's son, had taken part in the demonstration too. Since Abbas had not returned, Khadim might not come back either.

At night, the neighbour lady stayed with my children until morning. In the morning, my brother went to our house and told my daughter to wake the children up and tidy up the house. He then went to look for Khadim Hossain. My daughter woke her siblings up and organized the house. After a while, a vehicle came to our alley, followed by a commotion. The body of Abbas, who took part in the demonstration alongside Khadim Hossain, had been found and brought to his home. Abbas's mother and wife were beating themselves, shocked by the sudden encounter with Abbas's body. My daughter explained, “I was looking at the crowd in the alley near Abbas's house when my uncle showed up and took us home, we hadn’t realized what had happened.”

When I arrived in Kabul, I met the community representative and asked the local people what had happened. They told me that Khadim Hussain and Abbas had been together, but they didn’t know if they had actually taken part in the demonstration or gone elsewhere. I called his employer who confirmed that Khadim had called to say he would not come to work that day as he planned to go to the demonstration. His employer had later tried to reach him but Khadim’s phone was turned off.

The next day, my brother and I searched the 400-bed Wazir Akbar Khan, the Aliabad, Esteqlal and Ibn-e Sina hospitals, and all the other hospitals in Kabul, but we could not find Khadim. Once I returned home, the community representative said I should consult with Motahari. When I met him, he assigned Jawhari and others to join me at the 400-bed Hospital. There was a burnt body there, but it could not be identified. There were several representatives with me. They asked me if I could recognize the body, but it was completely blackened. The only thing about the body that resembled Khadim Hossain was the height; it was not recognizable in any other respect. I told them that Khadim Hossain was heavy and fat, but this person was slim. Somebody, whom I thought was a doctor, said the body had become thin and black because it had been burned. Jawhari told them that there were pieces of the bodies that had not been identified so far. There were amputated hands, feet, heads, and other body parts. When we went there, there were just pieces of flesh. I told them that the only part of his body I would be able to recognize was his face; the rest of his body, including his hands, feet, flesh, and other parts, would be impossible for me to identify. We returned home.

When Khadim Hossain was still alive, life could go on somehow as normal. Sometimes it was good, and sometimes bad. But ever since Khadim Hossain sacrificed himself for the sake of more rights and justice, his uncle has been paralyzed, and the difficulties in my life have increased tenfold. My children have become like orphans with no caretaker because they are small and there is no one to look after them. Their faces are covered with dust. My husband waits for me to return home and give him a glass of water with a piece of bread. My children are small and have no clue. He cannot take care of his home and his children.

Most brothers and sisters who have lost their loved ones at least have the chance to visit their martyr's graves to calm their hearts. Where can we go? Should I go to Mosala or visit the Martyrs Hill, each of whom has a family and loved one who come to see them? They go through a single pain, whereas I suffer a thousand pains. In the evening, when someone knocks on our door, my heart trembles, and I tell my children to open the door. God is merciful, maybe it could be him, and we could see him again. When the phone rings, I quickly pick it up, hoping it is Khadim Hossain calling. I am stuck in aguish. I may find food for breakfast, but I might not get anything for dinner. And thus, I spend the night and day looking forward to seeing Khadim Hossain again. I am waiting for where God will lead us. Despite all the sorrows, I thank God that I have a healthy body and can work and take Halal food for my family, no matter how much or how little.

When Khadim Hossain was alive, I worked at home since he was working outside and providing for the household. He would help me move his uncle and take him to the doctor. If there was a fatiha and I couldn't attend, I could be confident that Khadim Hussain would attend in our place. He would also participate in other people's happy occasions, and so I felt reassured. Now that he is gone, my sorrows have increased a thousand times.

His Clothes and Face Were Covered in Blood

Narrator: Zaher (uncle)

Victim: Reza Akbari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am Zaher, uncle of the martyred Reza. I was working in Iran and learned through the television that a suicide bomber had attacked protestors in Dehmazang.

My nephew Reza lived with his grandfather. We live separated from my father. When I watched the news, I became agitated. I quickly called my father and asked if anyone from our family, relatives, or friends had participated in the demonstration. My father said everyone was at home except Reza, who had come home but had gone out again around noon to join the demonstrators. “I tried to prevent him from going, but he forcefully left the house and would not listen to me." He added that before leaving the house, he told him, “I participated in the previous demonstration, and nothing happened; this time, too, God willing, nothing will happen.”

About eight months ago, my father assigned Reza to be an apprentice in a car repair shop so that he could stand on his own feet and not be dependent on anyone, learn a trade and provide for his expenses and not be a simple laborer like me. Reza had lost his father in a traffic accident at the age of 8 and had suffered a lot. When my father said that, I got even more worried, hung up the phone, and called my friends and acquaintances. I was apprehensive because Reza was the eldest son of his family. I did not get news until the following day. Finally, on Sunday, my cousin called me at 10:00 am and said, "We found someone in the 400-bed hospital, who looks a lot like Reza, but I don't recognise him. If you have a picture of Reza, send it to me so I can identify him.” I immediately shared his photo. Those were terrible moments. At 11 am, he called me again and said that the body was Reza’s and that he had been killed.

That same day, I went to my employer, got some money, left my following payments unsettled, and immediately left for Afghanistan. About eight months earlier, my brother and I had travelled to Iran for work. None of us have good living conditions. Since Reza's martyrdom, my father and his family's living conditions have deteriorated too. I am now unemployed and not in a good financial situation.

Reza had been born in the province of Bamyan Province, Varas District, Shui Qol Village by Payeen Aab. He had yet to start experiencing the taste of life when troubles afflicted him and his family. Reza lost his father in a car accident and was orphaned at the age of 8. At the time of the accident, his sister was two-years-old and his brother was still in his mother's womb. Following that incident, they lived with their grandfather. Reza studied in his village up to grade 7. He moved to Kabul in 2015, worked as a hawker for a while, and then became an apprentice at an automobile repair shop and learned the job well. Some time ago, he told me, “Uncle! If possible, please tell my grandfather to get me a shop so that I can work independently.” Since I noticed his hard work, I decided to get him a shop in autumn so his business would improve.

On the day of the demonstration, his workplace was closed and he had not gone to work. My father explained to me, “No matter how much I told Reza that he shouldn't participate in the demonstration, he wouldn’t listen to me and went to Dehmazang. When I called Reza, his phone was switched off, and the roads were closed. I kept waiting for him until the evening. After we heard about the suicide bombing, I went out with three other people to look for Reza; we searched everywhere until midnight, but we could not locate him. By early morning, after the prayer, we went out again to look for Reza. We finally found Reza at 10:00 am in the 400-Bed Hospital. He was unidentifiable; his clothes and face were covered in blood. Reza came home but with his eyes shut. He has grieved me, his mother, his little brother, and his sister.” My father now lives with my other brother's family. My brother's financial situation is terrible, and my parents are old. My father is 70.

On the 40th day after the death of the martyrs of the Light Movement, which included Reza, my father was seriously sick for almost a week. He was very distressed by Reza's death and would frequently pass out. I called Mr. Behzad to explain that our situation was not good, and he called Motahari, but my father was given no help. Now, my brother has to provide for nine people. I have been unemployed since I returned from Iran, and I cannot help them. I cannot even care for my own family properly. Losing Reza was painful for all of us. My father continues to shed tears and talk about him, may his memory be a blessing. I have asked Reza's heirs to follow in his footsteps so that his blood was not spilled in vain.

My Son Was Completely Burned and Killed in The First Explosion

Narrator: Khadim Ali (father)

Victim: Bostan Ali Haidari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Martyr Bostan was born in Sorkh Parsa district of Parwan province. He was martyred at the age of 23. He finished school in Sorkh Parsa, graduating from Shahid Mortaza High School. He was a decent, friendly and sociable boy. It has been almost seven years since we moved to Kabul. We live in Barchi, Golai Mahtab Qala. Because there were no work opportunities in Parwan Province, he engaged in carpentry after graduating from school. Since the work did not turn out well, we then moved to Kabul. He was still single. Whenever I suggested that it was good to put his life in order and select a spouse, he said he was not ready to get married. He had a calm personality but had good relations with everyone.

His closest friends were martyr Mehr Ali and martyr Rahim, who were also martyred in the same incident. Before martyrdom, they worked in a market; our families used to visit each other. In addition to carpentry, he used to wrestle, and was very interested in athletics. He had been engaged in wrestling for several years. For a month prior to his death, he had participated in the meetings of the Movement. He always went to Mosala. The night before the incident, he cried when he returned home. I asked him why he was sad and crying. He said, “Our activities and efforts failed.” That night, my son and the martyr Mehr Ali went door-to-door to campaign for the July 23rd protest.

They distributed leaflets so people would go to Dehmazang on Saturday and stand up for their rights. The night before, he told us he would participate in the next day’s demonstration. I jokingly said he would do better not to participate, but he firmly stated that he had to be there.

On the day of the incident, he left the house early in the morning, and I followed him at 7 o'clock. He was near Mosala with a small number of people, 15 or 20. Dawood Naji was also there. Noticing me, he said, "Bostan’s dad, you are an elderly man. Please gather a few people to build a larger crowd.” I was holding a flag. By the time we arrived in Pol-e-Sokhta, more people had joined us. We all walked together to Dehmazang. Around noon prayer time, some people and I went to pray at Mohseni mosque, and it was then that the suicide attack happened. I was praying when an intense explosion rocked the seminary building. When I called him, Bostan’s phone was switched off. I believed something terrible must have happened.

One of his sisters lives in Barchi. She called me and said that Bostan was not answering her phone calls. When I returned home at night, I hid it from my family. I told them some protestors were arrested and taken away by security personnel. When I returned to Dehmazang, all the martyrs and wounded were picked up. My son was burned entirely and martyred in the first explosion.

There were a lot of wounded and martyrs. First we went to Esteqlal Hospital, but he was not there. We searched all the hospitals throughout the night but still did not find him. The next day, we went to Sardar Mohammad Dawood Khan Hospital. Two of his friends were there. They knew he was martyred, but they did not tell me anything. They were handing over the martyrs; two boys went in and said my son was there. I received his body at 9 o'clock. The government provided an ambulance. Many of our relatives were there, and with their help we took his body to the mosque. When we brought the martyr's body to the mosque, we showed it to his mother and sisters. I will follow the path and goal of the martyrs until the last drop of my blood. We will participate every time there is a demonstration. His brothers, too, believe that if we remain silent, the martyr’s blood will have been spilled in vain.

Unfortunately, I lost another son in the early days of Karzai's rule. It happened because my son had bought a Mazda vehicle from Herat. On his way to Kabul, robbers blocked his way in Helmand and killed him. After several days of searching, we found his body in a ruined building. Bostan, who was martyred, was my second son. My first son was married, and a year had passed since his wedding. Unfortunately, these days our leaders do not act to support their people; they have remained silent. They did not work on the Martyrs' Hill or pave it. The leaders of the Movement made these promises to the families of the martyrs. They have not done anything so far. Our only request to the Independent Human Rights Commission and the United Nations is to investigate this crime and not to ignore it. We have no expectations of the government because it placed suicide bombers among the demonstrators and killed our youth in order to scare our people and stop the protests. I went to take a lunch break and perform prayer, but did not tell him to take a break as well. Later, two doctors from our hometown said that my son and Mehr Ali had lost their lives in the blast wave, and their bodies were completely burned. He was wearing a camouflage pattern jacket. Only a tiny part was left unburnt. His face and stomach were severely burned.

The Martyrdom of Abdul Rahim Was a Horrible and Ominous Occurrence

Narrator: Mohammad Ali Alizada (brother)

Victim: Abdul Rahim Alizada

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I have three brothers. Unfortunately, we have lost Abdul Rahim and now I have two brothers. I am the eldest son of the family and the Martyr was our youngest brother. He attended school up to sixth grade in the Varas District, in the Province of Bamiyan. Back then, when we lived in Varas, the local school was not of a good standard as it lacked teachers. The martyr, Abdul Rahim, attended both modern and religious schools. His teachers were very happy with him because he was a good student in all areas. He would always get top grades at school. His hard work inspired our move to Kabul. Another reason for our move was that we did not own any agricultural land in the village and our financial situation was not very good. In Kabul, we rented a house in Chindawol, near the Ashiqan Arefan Mountain. Abdul Rahim attended the Ashiqan Arefan High School up to 8th grade. Later, he was transferred to the Abdul Rahim Shahid High School where he studied up to 12th grade. With the small amount of money we had saved through years of labor, we bought three Biswas of land (a traditional measure of land) in Dasht Barchi. Following his graduation from high school, he took the public university entrance exam and was admitted to the Law Department of Bamiyan University.

In Bamiyan, we lived together. He used to attend classes, but he was not satisfied with the classes or the teachers. One day, he told me that he wanted to return to Kabul to get a good quality education. In addition, he was worried about our parents. He was very fond of my parents and they, too, loved him very much because he always prayed on time. It may be hard to believe, but he was a young man who could complete the recitation of the Holy Quran within a week. When I discussed the matter with my parents, they agreed that we should return to Kabul.

My other brothers do not live with us; we live separately. One of my brothers has a good financial situation, and when he noticed that Abdul Rahim had talent, he enrolled him in Goharshad University, where that brother had studied Economics for four years. The martyr and I lived with my parents. Some nights, when I went out of my room, I noticed the light in Abdul Rahim's room was still turned on. When I would go to him, I could see him sitting with a blanket on his feet, reading a book. Some nights, he continued reading up until 1 or 2 am because he was very interested in education and reading. That's why we all made sure he had access to everything he needed so he could get on with his studies in peace. We all love and respect our parents, but the Martyr was very different from us. He would talk to them, listen to them, and had a very close relationship with them both.

He was a sociable and good-natured person who was loved by all his friends and acquaintances. After he completed his work and his studies, he would come to our room at night with a book in his hand. I have three children and he would help them with their school assignments, read books to them, and check their homework. He always advised them to study so they could have a better future. I have just a little education. I can only read and write. That's why he would use me as an example for them. My children attend both private and public schools. He always took time for each of them and asked them about their lessons. On the street where we live, he encouraged all the neighboring children to pursue their education.

During Nowruz this year, we suggested to him that he should get married and start a family. He refused and said, “I need to stand on my own two feet first, improve my financial situation, and find a good job. Only then could I think about choosing a wife. Furthermore, our parents have aged and need more care. I can't take care of them properly, let alone get a wife.” But our father insisted, saying, “I have lived for 93 years. I have lived my life and I wish to see you build a family and become the owner of your life. I owe you this and I want to get it off my shoulders. I have enough money to help you start a family and it would put my mind at ease.” He accepted my father’s wish and got engaged. He got married on the 15th of Sha’ban (22 May 2016). After his wedding, he tried hard to find a good job but did not find anything suitable. In the Tabassum Movement [the grassroots movement created after the execution of 9-year-old Shukria and 6 other Hazara in November 2015], he was the first person to encourage our people to come together. He said that it was our inalienable right to advocate for our innocent travelers. He started working, running a shop to provide for his family. He used to work in the shop until 9:00 PM and would come home late. After he was killed, when anyone knocks at our door at 9 o'clock in the evening, we automatically think he has come home.

Before the demonstration, Abdul Rahim had called his father in-law's house and said, "Your daughter has not visited your home since her marriage. I got a job and I'm going to Baghlan. If you are available today, come and collect your daughter." He was just kidding. His father in-law said, “Why didn't you tell me earlier, it is 12 o'clock at night, and it is not possible for me to come for my daughter today.” My brother insisted that they should come on that same night because he and his friends were planning to go to Baghlan for work the next day.

My wife recounted how he had performed ablution, prayed, read some verses of the Holy Quran, and had taken a piece of paper and written: “If I get martyred in tomorrow's demonstration, bury me on Haji Nabi Hill.” He had taken a photo of himself out of an album and had said, “print this photo on my tombstone.” He even pointed out that “Haji Hossain will not do this. When Muhammad Ali returns from Iran, give him my photo and tell him to engrave the photo on my tombstone.” He specifically asked my wife “not to tell my parents anything about this and ask my wife to live with my parents for a while and if I get a share of my father's inheritance, to give some to my wife.” My wife then got angry with him, and told him, “Have you gone crazy?” She even tore up the photo he had given her. Abdul Rahim Alizada got upset then, and said, “I am sure that, God willing, I will be martyred tomorrow.” My wife was angry and told him that instead of saying such nonsense, he should have been with his wife that night. She asked him to stop talking about such things. Abdul Rahim even told my son, “I am not crazy. Your mother is crazy; I gave her my photo to be engraved on my tombstone, and she tears up the photo. If your father calls, tell him ‘My uncle asks us to bury him in Haj Nabi Town and put his photo on his tombstone.’” My wife begged him not to join the demonstration.

I called him to tell him that there had been a failed coup in Turkiye some time ago. I told him the situation was not good, and that God forbid an incident might happen. On the day of the demonstration, Abdul Rahim left the house, pretending he was going to work at the shop. He told my father, “I am going to see my mother and nephew in the shop.” Once he was there, he asked my mother to go home and have her breakfast. When my mother was about to go home, he bade her farewell and held her hand, and told her, “Forgive my sin, my dear mother.” When my mother saw the tears in his eyes, she got angry and told him, "What is happening to you today, I won't forgive you. Go and drink tea and don't talk nonsense." When my mother moved away from him, he asked her again to forgive him. My mother said her heart was shaken. He went to my mother and she hugged him and kissed his face and said she forgave him and pardoned him as a mother. He then told my mother, “Now that you have forgiven me, I feel lighter.” Then, he and his friends went to join the demonstration.

Back then, I was in Iran. I was following the protests through Facebook. I called him at 9 am, and he answered my call. There was so much noise in the background, with people chanting slogans for justice. We were not able to talk for long, and he said, “I will call you later. I can't talk now.” We hung up the phone. I called him at 12:45 pm. He said that the weather was hot and they wanted to set up a tent. He said he was holding a tent pole in one hand and a phone in the other hand. He said his mobile phone battery was low and could be dead anytime. He said that if the demonstration continued, they would set up a tent. Otherwise, they would go home. I was working as a guard in Iran and I usually rested for a few hours during the day so that I would be fresh for the night. Just before I wanted to rest, my uncle called me and said that there had been an explosion in Kabul. I hurriedly turned on the TV, but the antenna was not working. In that moment, I sensed that I would never see Abdul Rahim alive again. I felt so helpless; I was running around speechless.

I had put my phone on charge in the room, and I was searching for it. My [maternal] cousin, who was working with me, noticed my bewilderment and asked, "What are you looking for?" I told him that I was looking for my phone as I wanted to make a call to Kabul. He told me that my phone was charging in the room. I had lost the ability to walk. I told him to bring it to me quickly. He brought my phone and I called both Abdul Rahim’s phone numbers but he didn't answer. I called my other brother but he didn't answer either. I called home but no one answered. I asked my cousin to call a travel agency and get a ticket for me. “I am going to Afghanistan tomorrow,” I said. When he saw my nervousness, he asked what had happened. He said, “You have only been here a month, why do you want to go back already?” But when he saw my distress, he called the travel agency to send me a ticket via their employee.

I was getting dressed when my [paternal] cousin called me. I was so distressed as I talked to him, he asked me what had happened. I told him there had been an explosion in Afghanistan. He said that explosions and suicides attacks were a daily occurrence in Kabul and Afghanistan. With difficulty, I managed to explain to him that there had been an explosion close to where the demonstrators were. When he heard that, he said, “I will be there in five minutes.” The employee of the travel agency brought me the ticket. My cousin arrived, took me to the terminal, and I travelled to Afghanistan.

When I reached my brother Hossain by phone, he explained that Abdul Rahim had been injured and was in the hospital. I opened my Facebook app, and noticed that one of my brother's classmates from Sarab (Ghazni), had posted a note on his Facebook page: “Abdul Rahim, one of my university classmates is injured and needs blood.” My eyes were full of tears. I could not see the mobile screen properly. My cousin took the phone off me, and when I got the phone back from him, I could no longer find that page. I asked him what he had done with that post. He said that the post itself had disappeared; he did not do anything.

I called my son. When he answered the phone, I could hear crying in the background and I knew then that Abdul Rahim was dead/martyred. After that, I don't remember how they took me to the terminal. Everything was incomprehensible to me. After some time, my cousin told me to get out of the car. When I regained my senses, I found myself in front of my brother's house. I went inside and saw a lot of shoes behind the door. I passed out then, and when I regained consciousness, I found myself in my uncle's arms. He was crying and comforting us at the same time.

The martyrdom of Abdul Rahim was a horrible and ominous occurrence for all of us because he was very dear to the whole family. My parents still cry so much when they remember him and I cannot console them. Some time ago, when I was reciting the Holy Qur'an, I found a hand-written piece of paper. I can’t read and I saw there were a few signatures on the paper. I called my son and told him, “Take this piece of paper to your uncle, Abdul Rahim, to read it. I don't know what is written on it.” My son cried out, telling me, “Dad, my uncle, Abdul Rahim, was killed and is no longer alive.” Our family will forever be in pain for losing Abdul Rahim. This pain will never leave our hearts.

That Afternoon, They Brought His Body Home

Narrator: Gholam Abbas (uncle-in-law)

Victim: Ali Ahmad Hamdard

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Martyr Ali Ahmad was a decent and well-mannered boy. He attended school up to 8th grade. Afterward, he served in the National Army for almost 12 years. He moved from Bamyan to Kabul nearly 13 years ago. He was from Bamyan province, Takht Varas region, and was nearly 23-years-old. He was a faithful boy and was martyred in the Dehmazang incident. A year had passed since his marriage, but he had no children. The living conditions of his wife are not good, but she has honored their ties and is still living in Kabul.

He has a brother who is in Iran. Everyone is busy with their own lives, and that's why his wife is living a difficult life with a salary of 5 thousand Afghanis and a rented house. However, because of the her husband’s kind treatment of her, she continues to endure all the problems on her own. We have lovely memories of the martyr. He kept everyone happy and satisfied by treating them well. He never spoke loudly or frowned at anyone. Even on the day of the demonstration, he left the house smiling and joking. But later that same day, in the afternoon, they brought his body home.

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.

He Was Hit by Three Bullets

Narrator: Qasim (friend)

Victim: M. Hussain Mohammadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

In the name of God

I am a friend of martyred Mohammad Hussain Mohammadi. He was from Ghazni province, Qarabagh district, from the village of Zardsang, known as the Faiz Mohammad Kateb village. He was born there, lived there, and was taught in a religious school until he went to school.

When he enrolled in a public school, his family moved to the city of Ghazni. He completed his schooling at the Ghazni High School. When he graduated from 12th grade, he traveled to Iran, where he worked as a tailor. He lived there as a migrant worker for several years before returning to Kabul. He started a series of other activities in Kabul. He and his brother rented a building near the neighbourhood of Kote Sangi in Kabul and started working there. After a while, they got a cosmetic shop in Zadran Market and started working there. Sometime later, he resumed his studies and enrolled in journalism at Ibn-e Sina University. Besides studying and working with his brother, he also worked at Fars News. Six months later, he took a position at the Population Registration Department and also worked for them in Herat. He was a pious, friendly, and compassionate person. He never upset anyone; he always treated people well. When he moved to Herat, he promised me that he would help me find a good job after I graduated from university. He was caring and ready to help his friends and support young people. After a while, he called me and said that a suitable vacancy was advertised in Herat, and it was fit for me. When I arrived in Herat, I called him as soon as I got close to the terminal. He and his colleague came immediately and took me to their office. I worked there for some time. During that period, he paid for all my expenses.

When he finished his work in Herat and returned to Kabul, we were in touch once or twice a week. He believed that youth should play a role in politics; that is why he participated in the demonstration on the 23rd of July, despite having his final exam that day.

That fateful day, his brother received a call saying that Hussain had participated in the rally. They didn't know about what had happened to him, but there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. When we called Hussain, his number was not in service. We called him again, and someone else picked up the phone and said the phone's owner was injured and was in the Maula Ali hospital.

I sent one of his brothers home and told him that if they asked him about Hussain, no one should reveal anything before an update was available. I went to the hospital with his other brother, but Hussain was not there, and his brother said to go look in Barchi hospital. We went to Barchi hospital but his name was not listed there either. I called his brother again, but he didn't answer the phone. A few moments later, his brother-in-law answered the call and said Hussain was in the hospital. They had found him. When I reached the hospital and saw his brother crying, and I thought Hussain must be badly wounded, but as I got closer, I saw Mohammad Hussain's coffin beside the wall. I felt terrible when I realized that I would never see Mohammad Hussain alive again.

Three bullets had hit him, and one of his hands was broken by the gunshot. It was a difficult moment. We informed the elders of the martyr's family, and after half an hour, we moved the martyr's body to Barchi and then departed for Ghazni, where we buried him the next day. Mohammad Hussain Mohammadi always said he would like to be martyred; he wanted martyrdom. On the day of the incident, he had put on his new shirt, and before leaving the house, he had said to his wife, "I am leaving the house today, but you must remember to take care of my children and yourself." He has a four-year-old son and a one-and-a-half-year-old daughter. When he was martyred, he was nearly 30 years old. He was a kind and friendly person who always encouraged us to study and was an avid reader. I have good memories of him; all his friends and colleagues loved him dearly.

My Father Became Interested in The Movement

Narrator: Qurban Ali (son)

Victim: Mohammad Juma Karbalaie

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My father, Mohammad Juma Karbalaie Mohammadi was born in 1957 in the village of Takhoi, in the Miramour District in Daikundi. At the age of 15 or 16, he migrated from Daikundi to Iran to escape poverty. My grandfather told me stories about the past. He recounted, “One night, I sent your father to a relative's house to do something, but he did not come back home that night. We searched everywhere, but there was no trace of him that night and the night after that. Then, I found out that your father had gone to Iran for work.” After my father returned from Iran, he explained how it had happened: “On a night, at the age of 16, I was sent to a relative's house to do something. From there, I got onto a truck with my friends and went to Ghazni; from there, a smuggler took us to Iran where we settled in Semnan.“ After some time, my grandfather had to travel to Iran with the rest of his family. There, my grandfather chose the daughter of one of his relatives as a wife for my father, which my father did not know about at the time.

My mother was his wife. Whenever my father talked about his happiest memories, he would recount this memory and I would listen to these stories with great enthusiasm. This is how it happened. One one day, my mother ran into my father and they both talked warmly because they knew each other and were related. During their conversation, my grandfather told my father, “This girl you are talking to is your fiancee and future wife.” My father used to tell me that he felt very shy when he heard that and that my mother’s face blushed. This meeting turned into a sweet memory. In Iran, my father first worked as a municipal employee. Later, he started working in building construction until he gradually gained credibility among people and became a skilled contractor.

My two sisters and I were born in Iran. We have both good and bad memories of living in that country. One of our worst memories of living in Iran was when my father fell from a building. It was a very serious accident and he was in a coma for a month. We prayed, cried, and lamented day and night. At that time, I was very young and I remember that every hospital we took my father to gave us a negative answer, and the doctors gave up hope of my father ever recovering. Three months after my father's injury, we got him dismissed from Imam Khomeini Hospital and took him to a relative’s house. That relative was a traditional bonesetter. When he checked my father’s head, he realised his head was injured, and told my grandfather that he would bind his son’s head. My father's condition had been very bad, but in a few days, his condition improved and God gifted my father to us once again. At that time, many of our relatives lived in Iran, and it was common that families visited Karbala. They all decided to wait until my father had recovered. After his recovery, my father was able to take us to Karbala.

I don't remember exactly, but I think it was in 2003 or 2004 when we returned to Afghanistan. I did not know anything about this place, none of our relatives and friends were there. We rented a house in the Kampany area and rented a grocery store which provided for the family's living expenses. My father worked as a supervisor in a company. Their job was to install telephone antennas in the central provinces. My father was a man of tact and foresight and he used to say that I should get a permanent job so that I don't have to worry about tomorrow. In 2010, when my sister graduated from the engineering faculty, they jointly established a construction company and were very successful in this venture. They worked with the Americans in Kandahar Province. They also had representatives in Herat and Balkh provinces. As his only son, we were very close and we always consulted each other on work issues. Then the issue of Tutap came up, when the Energy Supply Improvement Investment Program was rerouted to avoid the Bamiyan region and went through the Sailing Pass, which was seen as a discrimination against the Hazara people. My father participated in meetings of the Enlightenment Movement with great interest. He closely followed every issue related to the Movement as he sought justice for our oppressed people.

We both participated in the first demonstration of the Movement. When it was announced that there would be a demonstration on the 23rd of July, my father and I, along with a guest, were waiting for the 10:30 pm news hour on Negah TV channel. It was finally announced that the demonstration had been canceled. I was very busy in the office that day. I do clearly remember that my father went to a barber shop the night before the demonstration to get a haircut. The next morning, he woke me up early. He was wearing white clothes. I went to his office in Mosala, but I had butterflies in my stomach. That was why I would call his phone regularly and check how he was doing. At 7:30 in the morning, I called again and my father said, “There are very few participants at the demonstration. I will go back home to have breakfast, and then come back.” At 8:30, I left home and went to Mosala where I saw my father. I was keen to participate in the rally but since I had a huge workload, I could not. When he reached Dehmazang, I called him again and asked how he was. He said he was fine and I had to get him a tent, some water, and something to eat. I got a tent for him and took it to Dehmazang. He was near the hotel and was hungry. I asked him if he would like to have a kebab. He said that there were many people and it would be better to simply get him some biscuits. I bought water and biscuits for three people, gave it to them and went back to the office.

I did not hear the explosion. I was checking my phone when I saw that some of my friends had posted the news of an explosion in Dehmazang. I hurriedly called my father's number, but he didn't answer. I called one of my relatives and said there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. I said that my father was there, but he was not answering his phone. My relative said he would gather information. A few minutes later, he called and told me that my father was injured and that I had to get to Dehmazang quickly. I anxiously walked out of the office towards Dehmazang. All the roads were closed, and when I got there, I could not find my father. I called my relative again and he said they were in the Aliabad hospital and I had to go there. When I arrived at the hospital, I saw my father. A doctor was attending to him. My father was breathing through an oxygen mask. I was crying, and when the doctor noticed my distress, he said, “come and help me instead of crying.” I put my father on the bed with the help of the doctor, but the doctor's efforts were useless as my father was in a critical condition. He died a few minutes later. The hardest moment was when we took my father's body out of the hospital. We buried my father that night.

Injustice and ethnic prejudice were some of the reasons that pushed my father to get involved in the Enlightenment Movement. My father would always read books about discrimination and the monopoly of power and we enjoyed discussing these issues. I have so many memories of us. We would always try to go on business and family trips together, and more than being like father and son, we were like two companions or friends. We understood that our people’s problem is not only a lack of electricity, but discrimination against the minorities of this country and the concentration of political power. What our people demand is their inalienable right and an end to bullying. This is the starting point for a culture of equality. In this attack, we lost our loved ones, but we consider this struggle a starting point for mobilizing our people and our youth, and not a question of failure or despair.

My request to the government is that the power lines should pass through the route originally planned, because innocent people have died trying to defend their legal rights. As the son of a martyr who sacrificed his life for his people, I want us all to advocate, and in this way keep the names of the martyrs alive. As the son of a martyr, I face many difficulties. After the incident, I got into trouble with the bank. I went to the bank to get money, and they told me I should have an heirship affidavit to be able to withdraw any money from the bank. I could otherwise not withdraw money from my father's account.

The government and its bureaucracy gave us a hard time. I went to court, where they told me that I had to submit a letter to show whether the name of the martyr was registered with the relevant authority. I went to the office of the second vice president, got the list of martyrs that were registered there, and took it to them, but they refused to accept the list. Once again, I was sent back to the hospital to get a letter confirming my father's death.

Tell me, how can we trust the government and courts in this country, when they send us from one office to another for a signature and stamp, and still there is no result? When I completed all these steps, they told me I should go to the Martyrs and Disabled Department of Daikundi so that they could confirm that my father originated in that province, and so this could be registered officially. It takes time, and for me it is difficult to have time off work. Why did I have to travel this long and painful route, when it would have been possible simply to confirm my father's death in Kabul? Political leaders abused the trust of our people and abandoned us all to our fate. They are the accomplices of the massacre of our people. We will never forgive these crimes. My government and my leaders are all the traitors and murderers, of my father and of many other innocent people.

Human Flesh Was Everywhere

Narrator: Laila Kazemi (mother)

Victim: Mohammad Jan Kazemi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My son was 14-years-old. I raised him in poverty. In fact, he had just started working so we were all very happy, especially me and his father. His father used to say, “It's good that I have a big son and like a mountain, he has my back.” When his father would go to a party at night and would not return home or go on a trip, he was confident and would say, "Thankfully, my son has grown up and is there with his four sisters and his mother." For a while we lived in Taimani out of necessity. Poverty forced us to live in places where people consider my son alien. We were there for one year, and my son attended the first grade in one of the schools in Taimani. Then we moved to Guzargah, and I enrolled my son in the Abdul Ali Mostaghni school. His sisters attended the same school as it is for both girls and boys. One day in second grade, my son was walking to school alone and was brutally beaten on the street. Some people dragged him into an alleyway and beat him with an electrical cable. He was not someone who would usually complain. When he came home, he simply said to me, "Mother, I was beaten with electrical wires.” They had attacked him for being a Hazara.

I will never forget the moment he came home with bruises on his face and body, and refused to say who had hit him. After that incident, I transferred him to a different school. I enrolled him in a school near Guzargah where he studied up to the sixth grade. He tried very hard not to be a burden. I always said to myself, “Leila, look at how the difficulties of the world have affected a 14-year-old child!” When he was with us at home, he would empathise and say, “I must work to help my father. How long does he have to work? He gets work one day and has no work the next.”

To be honest, last year, Mohammad Jan had started to burn incense to earn money. He made holes in a can of paste and put esfand seeds in it. It was winter and he said he wanted to earn money by burning incense so he could get his younger sister a pen and notebook. He told us not to worry. I always told him he shouldn't do that as someone might not like incense smoke. I was afraid, God forbid, that people would beat him up again. He told me, “No, mother, I can get my sisters a notebook and pen with the ten Afghani I earn from the incense.” He used to get 20 or 30 Afghanis working and would put it in a piggy bank he had prepared. He kept the piggy bank until the new year. On New Year, when he broke it, he had saved almost two or three hundred Afghanis.

He used the money to buy a pen, a pack of notebooks, and school supplies for his sisters. The only thing he could not buy them was a bag. He reassured them that it was okay, they should not worry, he was going to keep going to school and working in incense smudging [spiritually purifying with incense smoke].

By spring, I would not allow him to continue with incense smudging any more. I told him, “My son, don't go to work. Go to school. You should study.” Just this year, when school started up again, he found a job in a tailoring shop. He came home and said that he found a job. He said he would be a tailor’s apprentice and that his salary would be 100 Afghanis a week. I was very happy and said it was better than being on the streets all day. It was good because it was fun for him and he could spend some of the money he earned on himself. With the money he had saved, he bought pens and notebooks for his little sister, whom he loved very much. He used the money he had earned to buy a birthday cake from Pole-Sorkh for his sister. With the help of his sister, he found a small table, spread a woven tablecloth on it, and celebrated his sister's birthday. Only one video of him is left on the mobile phone, in which he shouts he wants to eat the decorative flower of the cake. He repeats that, laughs, and waves. That beautiful day passed and spring arrived.

At at a young age and with very little money, he had fulfilled his sister's wish and bought her a pen and notebook. He would go to school at 6 am and would return at 10. After that, he would go to the agricultural fields. One day he came home and said, ”Mother, I have found a new job”. I asked what job. He said, “My chief is called Kaka Zalmai. I go to his lands and pick leeks. He gives it to me and wants me to take it to the back alleys to sell it and we will halve the money.” His income level varied. Sometimes he would earn ten or twenty or even fifty Afghanis. With his money, he would buy burgers or boiled eggs and bring them home and eat them together with his little sister. Ramadan passed like this. It must have been my negligence that I let him go. Then I told him not to go to the fields anymore, saying “You are still very young and not old enough to take responsibility for the household.” He was still trying to earn that little extra money. He would always do his work on time and was never lazy. He tried hard to earn even a small income to help his father, and did not stay idly at home. I did not have my dream come true. I have cursed this unjust world that has influenced a child in such a way that he felt he must work and thought about ways to earn some halal [legal] money. I always told him, “My son, pursue your studies so that you can achieve your dream.” He always said, "Mother, I am studying, then I want to join the National Army." I also encouraged him by saying that serving in the Army was good and it was an honorable decision that in the future he wanted to keep people safe and secure.

He had a pair of pants with camouflage patterns. He liked them very much, and would always wear them, and took good care of them. I still have many memories of him in my mind and heart. He was very fond of football. On the day before he was martyred, he slept from 10:00 am to 1:00 pm. When his sisters came home from school at 1 o'clock, I called him, “Mohammad Jan, wake up my son, your sisters are home”. On that day, he asked one of his sisters to cook rice for him, as he only wanted to eat rice. His sister cooked the rice, and I am happy my son did not leave home hungry or thirsty. That day, he ate two plates of rice and drank two glasses of water. Going out of the house, he had a green handkerchief around his neck. I did not see him but his sisters said he smiled when he left the house. Before he left the house, I had said to him, "Mohammed Jan, where are you going? The situation today is not good, and God forbid there could be a suicide attack.” I even locked the gate and put the key out of reach, fearing he might go outside to play football. He wanted to get out through the roof-top. Our roof is connected to the roof of the neighbor's house, and Mohammad Jan wanted to get out through their bathroom. The girls told me, “Mother, Mohammad Jan has put up the ladder and wants to leave the house through the roof.” That day, I was very sick and my blood pressure was high. That's why I was sleeping. I work as a janitor at the local mosque. Mohammad Jan took the key from where I had put it. I noticed him and said, “Where are you going, my son?” He said, “Mother, please let me go play football with my friends today.” I said “My son, your friends are not there today.” But he said, “If my friends are there, I will go and play football with them.” He even told me the names of his friends and said, “If they don't go to play football, we will just gather in the alleyway and talk together for a while.”

We live near a grassy field, and that’s where he went. Once there, he did not find his friends. Someone told him, “The Hazaras are demonstrating in Dehmazang. Aren't you a Hazara? Why are you walking around here?” He was a very daring boy, and on the suggestion of this person, he did go to Dehmazang. The moment he arrived there, the explosion happened. I felt like the glass of the room broke over my head. I quickly got up and ordered my daughters to go and see in the alley to find out where the boy was. The poor girls were afraid and checked the alley, but Mohammad Jan was not there. I put on my clothes and went to Dehmazang in a pair of flip-flops. No matter how much I looked for Mohammad Jan, I couldn't find him. It was horrible; human flesh was everywhere. I saw everything except the hands and feet. At that time, I could not understand anything because of fear, sorrow, and shock. I was just running here and there; I did not even notice a camera next to me. Later, my daughters said they had seen me on TV, running around like a crazy person who had lost her mind.

As I was searching desperately, I thought about the pieces of cloth thrown over the dead bodies. The tents of the demonstrators were lying on the street. I couldn't believe that these were pieces of human flesh, covered by a simple piece of cloth. I didn't even comprehend whether these were stones or lumps of flesh. When I passed by them, I wasn't in a normal state at all. I didn't know whether I was on the ground or in the sky. I was just running here and there, completely distraught. As I searched for my son, I started at the Esteqlal Hospital. I searched all the hospitals around Dehmazang, but I couldn’t find Mohammad Jan. I finally found him at the Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan Hospital at 11:00 PM.

Martyrdom must have been his fate. I always thank God for trusting me with the gift of a son, and I gave the gift back to him. I say to my God that he made the son of a mosque janitor meet martyrdom. I am sure he has not forgotten us. As the mother of martyr Mehr Ali says, I thank God that my son was not killed on a bad path, God forbid, for theft or adultery. He was the son of a mosque janitor and a labourer. My son had not even reached the age of prayer and had never sinned. God accepted this gift from me. But I will never forget that day and night when I had only one thousand Afghanis. I took 500 and his father took another 500. I was tormented by the idea of burying my son in such poverty and neediness in front of other people. So I borrowed seven thousand Afghanis from someone to prepare my son's shroud and coffin. I went to someone and pleaded, “For the sake of God, give me a loan to bury my son. I will pay your loan back as soon as possible.” May God bless him, he gave me the money and I used it for my son’s burial.

I will never forget the ill treatment by the staff of Wazir Muhammad Akbar Khan Hospital during my visit there. As I went there to identify my son's body, the person in charge of the morgue was opening and closing the mortuary cabinets so angrily that I lost my strength. I was overwhelmed with sorrow and I asked him to stop that behavior. I told him, “Those are the pieces of bodies of the martyrs, why are you acting like that? They, too, are the children of Muslims. So, open and close the cabinets slowly and with respect. Imagine yourself as the parents and family member of one of these martyrs. Is it right that you are behaving like this?” He didn't say anything. I found my dear Mohammad there. I brought him home alone with great sadness and with the help of his father, we bathed him. No matter how much I washed his head, the blood would not go away. His head was so badly hurt. With tears, sighs, moans, and sadness, I covered his head with plastic to prevent blood from spilling. Then I put cotton on it to reduce the flow of blood. We buried him alone and in loneliness. Our government is responsible for this great crime.

Khalili and Mohaqeq, who shamelessly encouraged the people and the youth [to participate in this protest], are the main perpetrators of this crime. They traded the lives of our innocent and educated youth and should be punished for their conduct. They must know that the curse of all of us is upon them. Now, everyday when it is the end of the school day for Muhammad Jan, the only thing I can do out of sadness is to pray for him. Even my little daughter sometimes tells me how much Muhammad is missed everywhere, at eating time, at the table. My tears are flowing, but I talk of my son as a martyr and as eternal, so that my husband does not feel too sad and to boost his spirits. Physically, my son is no longer with us, but his memory will last forever and he sees us. We must pray for him to rest in peace.

But the one thing that always bothers me is that I had dreamed of buying Mohammad Jan new clothes, which would have made him happy. This dream of mine is shattered now, with Mohammad Jan gone. I will never forget that Mohammad Jan never once tried on new clothes. He always helped and supported us as if he were an adult. He was concerned about his family's difficult financial situation. He worked so that his little sister was able to study and has a pen and notebook for school.

He Was Hit by Two Bullets

Narrator: Mohammad Arif Mohammadi (brother)

Victim: Mohammad Hanif Mohammadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

From his early childhood, Mohammad Hanif had been a very intelligent boy. My parents preferred him over us, his three brothers, because of his good manners and intelligence; they were more invested in him. He was two years older than me and the third son in the family.

We had studied a little in winter schools. In 2002, after the Taliban government fell, my father enrolled him in a high school. I don't remember exactly, but I think he was enrolled in the fourth grade. In 2004, he entered the sixth grade. At the beginning of the year, we both went to school together, but I was in the second grade.

When he graduated from elementary school, there was no middle school or high school. So, we both started studying in the same class at an institute called the Fast Training Institute, delivering fast-tracked courses. We did 6th grade and enrolled in a high school named Palej. Since it was far from our neighbourhood, we had to rent a room near the school and did the 7th grade there.

Then we returned to the countryside where there was a newly built high school an we were able to continue our studies. After his graduation, Mohammad Hanif Mohammadi taught grades 9 to 12. Because he was a very friendly and kind person, the local people and his students still remember him fondly and loved him very much. He greatly helped the students and was a capable person. This last winter, when I went home with martyr Hanif, a friend was sitting in his shop. When he saw us, he got up and invited us to have a cup of tea and called the martyr with the title teacher. I told my friend to call him an engineer because he was doing his third year in Engineering. My friend smiled and said, “He has taught our children for three years and deserves to be called a teacher.”

The martyr was very fond of sports and was a big football fan, and enjoyed playing football. When we moved to Kabul to prepare for the entrance exam, on top of his studies, he was practicing Muay Thai/Thai boxing. He continued this sport up to the time of his death. We participated in the first round of the Enlightenment Movement's demonstrations, and those days went without incident. When the Movement held meetings at night, we attended the meetings together. Both of us lived in the Polytechnic dormitory and our rooms were opposite each other. In the first year, we lived in the same room but in the second year, we lived in different rooms with our classmates. One night, the Movement organized the ‘Light Night’ event. He came to my room and wanted me to attend the event together. I agreed, and we both participated. It lasted until 10 pm and then we returned to the dormitory. Following that, we went home and returned to Kabul with our mother. One of our houses is in Daikun-di and the other house is in Kabul. We were four brothers and one sister; my two older brothers work and are responsible for the household income. The martyr, me and my sister all studied medicine; were were all students. By the grace of God, my parents are alive. That's how we all live together.

When the exams started, my mother wanted to return home. The night before the demonstration, my mother asked me to get a ticket for her so she could go back home. I called martyr Hanif and wanted us to accompany my mother back home for the night because she was traveling to Daikundi the next day and the exams were not too demanding. We both went to see my mother. The next day, when our exam was over, we returned to the dormitory and my mother returned to Daikundi. He then came to me and said, “I have a lot of work to do; I have a project and I still need to finish my typing work, so give me a hand.” That day, by chance, I had taken my exam and had free time in the afternoon. His typing work was about 200 or 300 pages. Then we both went to his room and jointly completed the work by 2 am. On the day of the demonstration, he had to take an exam and defend the project on which we had worked the night before. He departed from the Polytechnic University with the other students. I also joined a group of students and we arrived at Dehmazang Square at 11 o'clock. There, two more classmates joined us.

It was very hot. I told them we had an exam the next day, so it was better to go to the dormitory. They had had their lunch, but I hadn't. They went to their rooms and I went to the university cafeteria to have lunch. After lunch, I went back to my room, and not even 5 minutes had passed when my roommates suddenly learned through Facebook that there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. Because my brother had gone there without me, I didn't even realise that he would be there. My friends said he had had an exam and the project defence. His exam would have been over by 1 or 1:30pm. I really did not think my brother would be there. I instantly remembered that my cousin was there and I called him and asked where he was. He said that he was in the eye hospital in Afshar and next to him was so and so. I told him I would come there immediately. I called my brother's phone but he didn't answer. Since his room was opposite mine, I called him. One of his roommates said he was not in the room and that he had gone to the demonstration with his classmate Hassan.

I asked him when had he gone to the demonstration, he said, “He returned from the exam session, had his lunch, prayed, and, together with Hassan, they went to Dehmazang.” His classmates knew about the incident and took him to Aliabad Hospital. However many times I called my brother's number, he did not answer. I did not know why no was picking up the phone. At that moment, his other classmates tasked each of us to visit a different hospital. They asked me to go to the Aliabad Hospital because they knew my brother was martyred and might be there. I went to Karte Mamorin, took a taxi, and tried to get to the hospital. When I called his phone, he answered and told me to come to the hospital, but the roads near the university were closed, so I had to run to the hospital. When I got there, at first, they wouldn't let me in. I got very angry and got into a fight with a policeman, so then they allowed me to go into the hospital. I searched all the emergency rooms, but my brother was not there. We went straight to the morgue. It was full, and they had left 20 bodies on the wet dirty ground near the morgue. We searched there but did not find my brother. When I entered the morgue, my brother was on a bed. He was not hit by shrapnel but by two bullets. A bullet hit his right knee and another bullet hit the left side of his chest, exactly in his heart. They were three classmates, only one of whom survived. My brother and his other classmate were killed during shooting.

One of his classmates who survived explained: “We were not close to the vehicle or the explosion. When the explosion happened, all three of us ran to the back. We suddenly fell on the ground and then got up and started running again. I moved away from the area and did not see what happened to them next.” My brother was shot from the front, and another bullet hit his leg. His classmate was hit by a bullet in his leg and another in his back which penetrated through to his chest. Both were martyred.

My son had consciously participated…for the Sake of Justice

Narrator: Mohammad Anwar (father)

Victim: Zohair Nazari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My son was born in 1992 in Maidan Wardak province, Hesa-e 2 of Behsud, in the Kajab region, in the village of Mirazar. He attended school there up to grade 6, after which we moved to Kabul. He attended the Ghazi High School in Karte Char for three years, then we moved to Barchi. After that, he attended the Homayoun Shahid High School where he graduated from grade 12. He got his diploma from the same school. He eagerly prepared for the university entrance exam at the Nazar Zalmai educational center. After passing the entrance exam, he was accepted at the University of Education, in the Faculty of Psychology. During his studies, he was teaching at the Ibn-e Sina University. My son had deliberately participated in the Light Movement demonstration for justice and was unfortunately martyred in the tragic incident on the 23rd of July. He was martyred at the age of 24 for the sake of justice and defending his rights.

He Had Passed Away in The Hospital

Narrator: Mohammad Juma Rezaie (father)

Victim: Mohammad Naser Rezaie

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I originally come from Maidan Wardak province, in Central Behsud District, and currently live in Dasht Barchi, in the town of Mahdia. My son, Mohammad Naser, was 28-years-old and was born in the Hesa-e 2 of Behsud District in the province of Maidan Wardak. I attended religious school and was a farmer. Because there was no public school in our district at that time, we enrolled my son in a religious school at the age of 7. He studied there until the age of 19 and then moved to Iran when he was 20. He lived in Iran for almost 4 years and then returned to Behsud. Because of the dire economic situation, he stopped studying and joined me in labouring and farming. In 2006, we settled in Kabul with our family. After that, he started working in Kabul and used to attract customers to hotels and restaurants to earn money. On the day of the incident, the 23rd July, he was working in a hotel in Kote Sangi. That day, in coordination with his friends, he stopped work and went to Dehmazang to attend the demonstration. Unfortunately, my son and many other young people were martyred there by evil terrorists.

A few days before the incident, I had traveled to Behsud. I have a religious school there and had to manage the students' activities. The day after the accident, I traveled back to Kabul. My other son searched all the hospitals for his brother's body and found him in the 400-Bed hospital. The moment I got home, I was told that they had found Mohammad Nasser's body. They had not told me that he was wounded or martyred. I had not even drunk a single cup of tea when I got home. A lot of people and relatives were gathered at our house, and his mother was behaving very strangely. When I asked the family members, they told me that Mohammad Nasser was wounded. Three or four minutes later, my other sons informed us that they had found Mohammad Nasser's body in the 400-Bed Hospital. He was not killed in the explosion. Then he was taken to the emergency hospital, and it is not known if it was due to the severity of his wounds or heavy bleeding, but he died the next day on Sunday night.

My Heart Is Bleeding

Narrator: Mohammad Hasan Qasimi (father)

Victim: Jawad Qasimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

In the name of God

My son's name is Jawad Qasemi. He attended the Asif Mayel school in Nazer Qala up to the fourth grade. My son the martyr served in the sixth police district for 6 years. He did not serve for robbery and looting, but for the safety of his countrymen. He and his commander and sixty of his colleagues were assigned to maintain security during the demonstration, but then the explosion happened. The soldier who stood next to my son told me the story: “Our commander was hit by shrapnel, then Jawad fell to the ground and was martyred a moment later.” Thus, he left me, his mother, and his wife all alone. It had been only three months since the wedding and his wife was pregnant.

He had asked us to choose a girl for him from among our relatives - we are from Daikundi. At his request, we chose a girl for him from there. After my son's martyrdom, I am careful to be considerate of his wife so she does not get upset and unhappy around us. Now we are awaiting his child’s birth, so that we can raise him into a good person. He will be the symbol of my martyred son.

I have faced many difficulties in my life. I would like to thank those who organized this workshop. Here we can open our hearts and get a little bit of relief from the pain. It is not only my son who was martyred in this incident; many young people sacrificed their precious lives in this way. After Jawad's martyrdom, many problems have arisen for me. Due to the sadness of missing him, I start shouting in the front yard at night and talking to myself. When I miss my son too much, I call him but I don't hear an answer, and this adds to my grief. A while before the demonstration, he came to me to get a haircut. When I was cutting his hair, my hands were shaking, that's why I told him, “I'm old now and I don't have the strength I used to have, what will I do if you're not there?” Javad replied, “I will take care of you as long as I am alive.”

His wife had gone to the countryside to visit her family. A week in her trip, the Dehmazang incident happened. I asked her to come back home because an incident had happened to my son. She came back to Kabul with her father. A week later, my daughter-in-law’s father returned to his home. His wife is currently living with us. May God never bring an incident like this to any other family. Ashraf Ghani is our president, but he is not competent. He has sold himself and his people to America.

When the incident happened, Jawad was transferred to the Qala-e Nazer Mosque. I went to the mosque, and asked Mohseni, the mosque Imam, if they had taken my son's body there. When I saw Jawad's dead body, I screamed and cursed Ashraf Ghani, Abdullah, Mohaqeq, Khalili, and Sarvar Danesh. I cried and said, “People's children are martyred, you are inconsiderate. Why did you not ensure the security of our people? Why did you leave our people alone? Aren't you the government? Is it not your duty to ensure the security of the country and its people? You are puppets and have committed great treason against your people.” We must unite; Pashtuns, Hazaras, Tajiks, and Uzbeks must unite and not allow the enemy to divide us. If our government is corrupt, we should not allow anyone to encroach on our land. We must protect our country, which is like our honor. We must be vigilant.

See what Mohaqeq and Khalili did to their people? They spilled the blood of our young people and abandoned us. If you are currently in power, it is only because of the people's support. Sarvar Danesh was our neighbor in Daikundi and Jawad had served him, but what did he do to my young boy? I have lost my senses. I hope my story and sharing my grief does not upset you. My heart is bleeding. I lost my young boy; his wife is pregnant and she has lost hope. She is enduring hardships because of us and because of losing her husband. After Jawad's martyrdom, the government told me to bring his documents from Daikundi. On the way there, a conflict was going on between two villains named Musa and supporters of Sheikh Anwar, and yet the government did not intervene. There is no proper government in Daikundi and there, everyone is his own master. In such conditions, poor and powerless people are being abused. Thank you again for tolerating my rambling speech.

He Consciously Participated with Interest and Great Passion

Narrator: Mohammad Reza Moballegh (Uncle)

Victim: Asadullah Hussaini

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Asadullah Hussaini was born to a scholarly and religious family in 1995. He was born in Ghazni Province, Nahor District, in the village of Jerghai Borjegai. Asadullah was the second child of the family. He had four sisters and an 11-year-old brother. He graduated from the Imam Hossein High School in our village. In addition to going to school, he also attended religious studies in the mosque. I hold many memories of him because we grew up together since childhood. With the establishment of the new government, after the collapse of the Taliban, our people showed great interest in education, and Asadullah, too, started getting an education. He was very talented.

He was a tolerant, very religious, committed, good-mannered and sociable boy whom people loved deeply. Despite having limited access to facilities, he continued his studies. When I would go home from Kabul, I was very happy with his remarkable progress and would encourage him. With all the many deprivations and limitations in our region, he was able to successfully complete the 11th grade at school. His father's poor financial situation did not allow him to come to Kabul and continue his studies. So, when I went to Ghazni, I told his father that it would be better for Asadullah to come to Kabul and start preparing for the university entrance exam.

I agreed to pay the costs for his first year. My financial situation was not good either because I was a student too, but by teaching in educational centers, I used to pay for both of our expenses. Asadullah studied hard in the first year. Despite the many problems, he spent the winter of that first year in Kabul and went to Ghazni in the spring. In the second year, when he returned to Kabul, his academic progress was very good. He got a mark of 315 in the entrance exam and was accepted into the Faculty of Computer Science at Kabul University. He also worked hard at university and took his studies seriously. He was diligent and flexible and could quickly adapt to any new environment. He could easily make new friends. Asadullah and I worked together on Thursdays and Fridays to pay for our education. I would always recall the memories of the holy month of Ramadan. Both of us worked under the hot sun on our holidays to be able to pay for our living costs. In addition to his studies, he worked and even provided for his father's expenses. His father was not in a good financial situation and could not provide for him. Instead, when Asadullah earned some money, he would send it to his father.

He was a kind and understanding person. He was pained by the poverty of his father and the deprivation of his people. That's why he studied hard and encouraged young people and children to study. Naturally, when a person learns and understands more about life, he does not stop trying. As he matured, and realised the reason for the difficulties he saw around him, he decided that he should not remain silent. The deprivation of his people pushed him to participate in social and justice seeking activities. The creation of the Enlightenment Movement paved the way for Asadullah to launch his advocacy activities. He always believed that a Hazara, too, is an Afghan and should enjoy equal citizenship rights. Others should respect them as human beings and not violate their human rights. He always said: “God has created man free and no one has the right to disrespect man and his dignity unjustly.” He was very motivated to fight against oppression and injustice. He attended the meetings of the Movement and always tried to raise the voice of the oppressed people on social media. The Enlightenment Movement itself was not the main purpose; what led us to this movement was the quest for justice and the pain of the Bamiyan cave dweller who has no food. The pain of the old man who works hard from dawn to dusk to get a piece of bread for his family, with no one else paying any attention to them.

The youth who were in Dehmazang Square on the 23rd of July lost their lives for a noble cause: justice for an oppressed people. On that day, Asadullah took his exam and then went to Dehmazang. The martyr had many dreams. He always said he should serve his parents, return to his village, and help the children and teenagers, serving his people with heart and soul to repay the debt he owed them. He consciously participated in the demonstration, with interest and great passion. Even though the night before they announced that the next day’s demonstration was cancelled. We all learned that our elders and leaders had let their people down. Our youth did not remain silent, but participated in the protest with more enthusiasm. But the government betrayed our people and our leaders also abandoned us.

On the day of the incident, it was announced that some people were planning to stay the night in Dehmazang Square. Asadullah went there to get the event organizer's ID badge when the explosion happened. As soon as the suicide attack happened, the situation changed. I immediately called his number, but he did not pick up. I was very worried, so I called him again. He finally answered his phone and with great difficulty, said that he was injured and that was in the hospital. He was transferred to the Ibn-e Sina Hospital where conditions were very bad. The rooms and hallways were full of the wounded and of martyrs. It was like doomsday. No one recognized anyone, and the hallways of the hospital were full of blood. When I got to the hospital, I first mistook someone else for my nephew. The doctor told me that he needed an IV injection. I quickly ran to get the injection but when I returned to the hospital, I realized that the injured person, who was in a very bad condition, was not Asadullah. I later found my nephew but he was taking his last breaths. His condition deteriorated and he passed away.

Losing a young person is painful. This incident was very difficult; it was excruciating for us. He was a special person to his family because he did not give up despite many problems and always tried his very best. That night, we could not take his body back to Ghazni because the roads were unsafe. The next day, we, friends and close relatives, took him to Nahor, to his parents and buried him there. Clearly, what made our youth seek justice was the suffering of a nation, not the pain of an individual. The suffering caused by the circumstances and the despots who always try to suppress and intimidate our people. This is the pain of the destitute and oppressed people of Afghanistan, who have always been dominated by force and coercion. The Martyr’s family worked hard to raise their children and make a meagre living and manage their affairs. His father is now the sole breadwinner of the family and his children are mostly girls. The family's hope was in Asadullah. His father sent him to Kabul to study and change their living condition, but the incompetent government took the life of our beloved Asadullah. I wish the living conditions of my brother's family would improve.

The emotional state of his family is not good. His mother is still restless and his father sheds tears as he remembers him. I still do not dare to pass through Dehmazang Square. When I think about Asadullah, I see him in my dreams at night and relive the incident as a nightmare. We will never forget this incident and our family will mourn forever. We had many memories together. At night, when I want to sleep, I unconsciously see his image and I struggle to go to sleep, and feel restless. Our life has fallen apart after Asadullah's martyrdom and we are unable to console his parents. The life they are living now is not life but pure pain and suffering - that's it. May God bless you for working hard to fulfill this human responsibility so that the martyrs of the Enlightement Movement who went to Dehmazang Square for justice, will not be forgotten.

Abdul Rauf Nouri, Asadullah Hossaini’s friend:

Asadullah and I had rented houses in the same neighborhood. We had a cultural association in Ghazni, in the district of Nahor. We used to go there every year during the university break to organize reading competitions, sports contests, and mock university entrance exams. The martyr was an active member of this association and he eagerly taught teenagers and children. What made him dear to everyone was that he talked to everyone with a smiling face. The night before the demonstration, the wife of the martyr’s uncle had asked them not to participate in the 23rd July demonstration because there were rumours among people that the security situation might be dangerous. On the day of the incident, he had not seriously decided to participate. He was at university for the exam. After the exam, he and his cousin went to work. Both were working in a tile factory to pay for their living expenses. Asadullah went to Khushal Khan and worked until noon. He had recently bought a mobile phone and had activated his mobile internet. During work, he talked to Ibrahim, his cousin, about people gathering in Dehmazang and the ongoing protest.

After the incident, Ibrahim Hossaini recounted the story: “Asadullah was regularly checking his Facebook page and reading the news about the demonstration to me. He said, ‘I wish I was there to actively take part in it.’ After we finished work, we departed for Kot-e-Sangi. Asadullah insisted that we should go to Dehmazang and participate in the demonstration. But I told him that I was tired and wanted to go home. My mother had sworn that she would not forgive him if he went to Dehmazang. On the other hand, Asadullah insisted that we should go there. Finally, I made an excuse and said that I didn't have any change, and I had to go home, but he said, ‘Don't worry, I have 50 Afghanis in my pocket.’ Because he insisted, we got into a minivan and went to Dehmazang. When we arrived there, some people had left for home and others were away to have lunch, so the morning crowd had dispersed.”

My Eyes Could Not See and My Ears Could Not Hear

Narrator: Mohamad Ali (father)

Victim: Baqer Mohammadi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the father of martyr Baqir. We hail from Ghazni province, Malestan district, Qol Yakhi village, and belong to the Bassi tribe. Martyr Baqir attended Shindeh High School up to 9th grade. Since the quality of education was low, I advised him to go to Quetta in Pakistan and learn the English language. He agreed that he would go to Pakistan to learn English and Urdu. Pakistan is home to some of our relatives, including one of my sisters. I told him to go there; he could stay with them and carry on with his education. I even told him that when he went to my sister's house, “your food will be ready and your clothes will be washed.” He learned English and Urdu for two years. Another of my sons was in Iran. Baqir had spoken with him on the phone and he told Baqir that he could manage his life, and wanted to go to Iran. His brother agreed. The martyr moved to Iran and lived with his brother for a month. When his brother saw Baqir was not able to carry out heavy work, he felt sorry for him and suggested that he should continue his educational programs. He returned to Pakistan and called me to say he wanted to continue with his plans to study. I told him he had lost focus and would not be able to study well, and that it was better for him to come back to Kabul. He accepted my suggestion and returned home.

For six months, he helped me and his mother with work in farming and livestock. I called one of my friends and told him I wanted to send Baqir to work in Saudi Arabia, so could he lend me some money. They sent me the money and Baqir went to Pakistan, stayed there for a year, and prepared his visa and passport. He went to Saudi Arabia in 2009. In 2013, he performed the Hajj pilgrimage and lived in Saudi Arabia until 2014. Then he called me and said he wanted to come home. I agreed. Back then, we lived in Malestan. I bought a cow to sacrifice in honor of my son coming back home from Saudi Arabia. After the ceremony, I asked him if he would like to start a family. He said, “You can decide on my behalf.” I understood he approved the idea. I started looking for a good girl, and proposed a girl to him, who was from Kamrak in Jaghori district.

I asked him if he consented to choose the girl as his life partner. He went to the area by himself, met the girl, and approved her. We went there to the girl’s family to ask for her hand. After a while, they got engaged. The girl's father told me his daughter was in 9th grade and needed to complete her schooling. I told him we will talk about that at the right time. Twenty days later, I went and talked with my friend, my daughter in-law’s father. I told him, “My son has six months to stay here. He must use this time well, because then he is going back to Saudi Arabia for work.” I told him, “I will transfer my daughter in-law so that she can peacefully go to a school near our home.” Following the conversation, we reached an agreement. Within three months, I prepared all the wedding expenses and brought my son’s bride home.

My son, Haji Baqir, lived with his wife for two and a half months and subsequently returned to Saudi Arabia. In 2015, we moved to Kabul. Baqir traveled to Kabul again. We live in Barchi. He stayed home for six months. During this time, he didn't go out much; he was always at home. Later, he went back to Saudi Arabia. In 2016, Baqir came to Kabul for a six month vacation. He stayed in Kabul for twenty days. One day, he asked me if he and his wife could go on vacation to Malestan. I allowed them to go and they went to Ghazni in a friend's car. They stayed in Malestan for a month. They visited friends and relatives there. God had given him a one-year-old boy. I called him and said that I missed my grandson and it would be good if they returned to Kabul. He would always wake up during prayer time and then go back to sleep after prayer. His mother would wake him up for breakfast and we would have breakfast together. He got his ID card translated into English, verified in court, and submitted it to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. On Wednesday, he handed over his ID card and passport to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to be stamped.

After his martyrdom, I found out that he had told my niece, “Take a picture of me today, I want to post it on Facebook so that all my friends can see it.” He had seen my niece going to the educational center early in the morning. The martyr bid farewell to her and said, "This is our last meeting." My niece was with her friend and thought he said that because his vacation time was over, and maybe he would return to Saudi Arabia. We have a recitation ceremony of the Holy Quran on Fridays. After the ceremony, he went to the mosque to perform Friday prayers. He returned home at 2 pm and said, "Mother, I have not eaten." His mother went to the store, bought eggs, and cooked for him. An hour after lunch, he went to his uncle's house and returned home with his uncle an hour later. My niece had come from Quetta, so they went to my sister's house.

We used to have breakfast at 8:00 a.m. That day, he woke me up early in the morning. When I went to the table, everyone had already had breakfast. I asked how come they had woken up so early and had breakfast. He said he wanted to go out somewhere. His mother asked him whether he would like to have cheese or cream for breakfast. He told his mother that he wanted cheese. His mother was worried and asked him where he was going. He told his mother he wanted to participate in the demonstration, but his mother disagreed. She said he was here for just six more days; there was no need to go to the demonstration. But he did not listen to his mother and said, "Mother, I am not worth more than others and I am advocating for my rights."

Seeing that Baqir would not listen to her, his mother said she would go as well. I intervened and told his mother, "It is hot, you should not go." His mother listened to me and stayed at home. Baqir was with my niece. Before leaving the house, he was wearing a short-sleeved dress. His mother said it would be good for him to change his clothes because it was hot and sunny, and he might be troubled. Baqir went to his room, and after 15 minutes, came out wearing a long-sleeved dress. Before the 23rd July incident, whenever Baqir left the house, we would call him twice a day. He was going to the city, and we would call him once or twice. On the day of the demonstration, neither I nor his mother called him.

At 2 pm, a friend called me and asked about Baqir. He said there was an explosion in Dehmazang and told me to call him soon. I called him but he didn't answer his phone. I called my niece, she said, "uncle, there was an explosion. I got a slight wound, but Haji Baqir is seriously injured and is currently in the emergency room." Hearing that, the world became dark in front of my eyes. I stood up. His mother joined me, and we went out onto the road. It was hot, we got two bottles of mineral water. We got a taxi and I told the driver that my son took part in the demonstration and it is said that there was an explosion and he was injured, but I don't know which hospital he was in. The driver took us to Esteqlal Hospital. Baqir's name was not on the list in Esteqlal Hospital. They told us to go to Ibn-e Sina Hospital. The situation was horrible and the roads were closed. We got there, and the condition of the hospital was terrible. I searched the through list again and again, but I could not find Baqir’s name. My brother, too, searched the list. He may have seen Baqir’s name but he did not tell me.

Then, I saw that the martyrs were laid on the ground because the condition inside the hospital was awful. I went out of the building and I fainted in the yard. My eyes could not see and my ears could not hear. I gave the phone to my niece and told her to answer the phone calls. A few minutes later, she received a call that said Haji Baqir was injured and was in the emergency room. Then I knew for sure that my son Haji was martyred. Baqir's mother was in a terrible condition. My brother told me I should go home and they would find Haji Baqir. We got a taxi and somewhere close to the house, I saw people had gathered. At that moment, I understood that God had taken our son from us. I can't describe that situation; I can only pray to God to not let this happen to any other human being and that nobody may feel the pain of losing a young child. I am not being ungrateful. He came from God. God saw us worthy of this gift for a certain period, but then He took it back from us.

After The Mine Explosion, He Used to Draw with His Mouth

Narrator: Mohammad Ali (brother)

Victim: Shah Hussain Hamdard

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

We come from Ghazni Province, in the district of Malestan. Martyr Shah Hossain was born in 1985. He was a shepherd until he was ten-years-old. Then his fingers were severely injured by a landmine explosion and, as he used to say, he became disappointed in life. He was working at Abdul Hamid's house as a child worker. The sheep had gone to the top of a mountain and they told him to bring the sheep down so that they don't get lost. According to him, he found an object like a round tin container. He tried to open it but he could not. So, he put it on a rock and as soon as he hit it with another rock, it exploded. The explosion cut off the fingers of both his hands, the shrapnel hit him in the eye, his clothes were completely burnt, and his toe was cut off. Despite the many problems he encountered in life, he was not the type of person to easily give up; he kept trying. He started school at the age of 11 and with endless efforts, he successfully completed it. He always tried to remain strong as a mountain in the face of adversity. With great effort, he entered university and got a scholarship in India. Once he did his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go to Germany to continue his education, but death took this opportunity from him; he was martyred during the 23rd July incident.

Following his accident with the landmine, he started attending school in the third grade in Shirdagh, in Malestan District. With great courage, he did not let himself be overwhelmed by despair, and continued his studies. He attended middle school in Shirdagh and high school in Jaghori. After that, he moved to Kabul. For a few years, he studied at the Abdul Ghafoor Soltani High School. He was recognized as a disabled person by the Ministry of Martyrs and Disabled. He received a scholarship to attend an Indian university to continue his education and studied Computer Science for four years. On the 27th of the holy month of Ramadan, he graduated from the university in India and returned to Kabul. He participated in the 23rd July demonstration and was killed there.

He was a very good-natured and kind person who socialized with everyone. He had a good sense of humor. He was a joyful person. He had many friends both in India and in Afghanistan. I can say that everyone who knew him holds onto fond memories of him. In 1996, when his hand was injured by a landmine, he did not lose his spirit and started painting using his mouth and two fingers. Even in India, he was painting at the same time as doing his studies. He sold his paintings and provided for the family's expenses in this way. He lived with my mother and four sisters. I was living separately. One of my sisters had three children from her marriage; her husband disappeared after he got addicted to drugs and we still do not know what happened to him. Despite all these problems, martyr Shah Hossain supported the family financially.

On the day of the incident, he went to Dehamzang with some of his friends. They had told him that it was good to go to a hotel to have lunch as they were all hungry and it was already 1 pm. Some of his friends even went back to their homes. But he told them that if they left, the protest would lose its momentum. He tried to get everyone to stay. He told them they could ignore lunch or keep fasting, but should not leave the protest area. His friends went to their homes but he stayed there. Then the incident happened at 2:34 pm and he was killed. I have his writings and I will read you a few lines.

Hand written notes of the martyr:

Greetings from Shah Hossain Hamdard, son of martyr Alireza Haidari. I was born in 1985 to an education-loving family, in the village of Maaka Shirdagh, Malestan District, Ghazni Province. In 1990, I lost my beloved father, the only hope of my heart, my protector and guardian, in an attack by the enemies of the homeland in the Kondolo area of Khas district in Uruzgan Province. The special love and affection that my father had for me will never be forgotten. On an unforgettable spring morning, he hugged me for the last time. It was breakfast time and he held me on his lap. We were eating dried lamb together. My father used to put food in my mouth with his loving hands. I will never forget him telling me, “My little son, beloved Shah Hossain will be a great character, a man of culture, a supporter of the poor, the weak, and a just person.” I will never forget it. Every moment that passed was a new memory for me and I learned new things. In 1995, my mother asked me to tend to the sheep and I became a shepherd. By 1996, I was incharge of the sheep of the entire village. In 1997, I worked at Sayyed Sadiq’s house as a child worker. In 1998, I worked at the house of Sadeq Karimi. In the spring of 1997, I worked at the house of Abdul Hamid, the son of Haji Mirza Hussain. In May 1999, a heartbreaking thing happened to me. The incident made me feel all my wishes, desires, and ambitions now lay in ruins. This incident put my life in danger and I was overwhelmed with despair for almost two years. Then God opened another door for me: education. In 2001, I entered the third grade at the Shirdagh High School.

On top of my studies, I worked as a health worker at CHW Institute for three years. I attended Ustad Ghafoor Soltani High School in beautiful and education-centered Jaghori. After graduation, I worked for two years and a few months with the Afghan election process in Jaghori, Malestan, and Nahor districts of Ghazni Province. After graduating from school in 2011, I passed the university entrance exam, scored 273 marks, and was admitted to study electromechanics in Balkh. But I gave it up because I was not interested in the subject. In 2010, I took part in the entrance exam at Goharshad University, scored 252 marks, and was admitted to study political science. I am currently doing my second semester at this university.

My martyred brother’s wishlist: I will do my master's degree in India and my doctorate in Germany. I wish to serve Afghanistan and its suffering, impoverished, and hardworking people with honesty, courage, and bravery. Throughout their life, people are indebted to their teachers, mother, homeland, and conscience. Thank you for your attention.

Respectfully, Shah Hussain Hamdard

Because of The Explosion, He Was Hit to The Curb

Narrator: Mohamad Naeem (brother)

Victim: Shah Wali Sharifi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

The Martyr was older than me. His job was welding, a trade he had learned in Iran. I don't remember anything about his childhood because he was older than me. During the reign of Dr. Najib, he used to work as a hawker in Halabi-Sazi alley. My late father had a bakery in Deh Naw, and my father had bought a vendor cart for my elder brother and Shah Wali, and they used to sell bread. The two of them studied up to 8th grade. The government at that time provided oil to the bakeries. When oil was no longer available, my father would go to Qourigh Mountains during his free time to collect bushes as fuel. One day, as he was in the mountains to collect bushes, he was martyred by a landmine. Back then, I was very young and I don't remember anything. Following that incident, none of my brothers could continue going to school. We were eight family members, and after my father's martyrdom, the expenses of the family fell on my elder brother’s shoulders. During the civil wars, our vendor cart caught fire and our life was ruined.

To provide for the family expenses, they used to dig flume which earned them 30,000 Afghanis in old currency. They sometimes sold beetroot and sometimes sold junk items until the Taliban entered Kabul. The situation was very bad, and that's why martyr Shah Wali then left for Iran, where he worked for three years. He was unemployed for a while until the Taliban government collapsed. Then he got a job at the American Embassy, where he received 18 hundred Pakistani Rupees a day. He worked there for almost 18 days. Back then, we had a shop in Goulai Dawa-Khana. Through work and struggle, our life gradually improved and he got married. He got a construction contract; he was very skilled in welding. Since he had seen tough times and poverty, he behaved well with the workers who worked for him and they all loved him.

When my father was martyred, Shah Wali was 16, or maybe 18-years-old. He saved some money by working in building construction. He used to buy land in District 13, build a house on the land, and sell it. His work did not go very well the past year and he became unemployed. He gave me some money he had saved and told me to go to Europe. I stayed in Austria for 10 months, but he kept calling me to come back. He said the economic situation of the family was not good and he could not provide for household expenses alone. I returned to Afghanistan eight days before Ramadan; he was very happy. When he saw me, he said, "Now that you are by my side, I have peace of mind." I told him, “you insisted on me going to Europe. I do not regret coming back, because you worked hard for all of us”. Before the incident and when he saw people’s enthusiasm, he encouraged me to participate in the 23rd July demonstration.

In our neighborhood, there was a real estate agency. He used to go there and encourage people to participate in the demonstration. He even argued with someone the day before the demonstration because the other party had told him that participating in the demonstration was useless and that something bad could happen. My brother told this man, “How longer should we stay silent? We must not remain silent when people do things against us. We should raise our voices.” His wife says, “On the day of the demonstration, he woke up early in the morning, took a bath, and asked me for his white clothes. I asked him whether he was going to a wedding wearing white clothes. I didn't give him the white clothes and even made a fuss and in the end, he didn't wear the white clothes. During the demonstration, we were together near Baba Mazari intersection. Near the flyover, they asked people through the loudspeaker to wait because some people had been left behind. After that announcement, he looked back and said to me, 'May God have mercy. This time, only the youth are here, few or no middle-aged or old people are here.' After that, we went separate ways."

It was very hot. I remained in Dehmazang until 12:30 but then moved closer to Cinema Barikot to sit in the shade. People were slowly dispersing. I came home at 1 o'clock. One of my brothers in-law had just come back from Austria and it had been a while since his mother had passed away. I called Shah Wali and said that it would be good if we went to our brother in-law’s house in the afternoon to offer Fatiha. He told me, "Right now, I am having lunch in an office near Dehmazang. Once the event is concluded, we will go there at 4 pm." I started going to my elder brother's house so we could go there together. At the same moment, my brother called me from Bamyan and said that there had been an explosion in Dehmzang. Before his call was disconnected, my elder brother called to say that Shah Wali was not picking up his phone. He called me a second time and said, “a criminal investigation officer answered his phone and said that Shah Wali was injured and they took him to Jumhuriyet Hospital by Kabul Ambulance.”

We immediately started moving; we drove up to Habibiya High School. One of my cousins said that they had taken Shah Wali to Ibn-e Sina Hospital, but he was not there. We walked to the Jumhuriyet Hospital. When we entered the building, looking through the building’s large windows, I saw Shah Wali on the hospital bed. He was not hit by shrapnel, but because of the explosion, he had been thrown to the curb. The moment we got to the hospital, they took him to the operating room. He was bleeding and needed blood. People were there for blood donation and gave him a bag of blood.

When I asked the doctor about his condition, he said, “Medically, he is not well. He needs a miracle and prayers, and there is nothing else we can do.” I called another doctor whom I knew and described Shah Wali's condition. He asked me if the wounded had vomited, and I said no. He said, “Thank God, don't worry, his condition will change.” As soon as I entered the room, I saw Shah Wali vomiting blood. I asked the doctor about it.

Although the doctor was not in a good condition and was worried, he said it was not a problem. Shah Wali's condition was still not good. At 4 am, I was sitting next to his bed in the hospital, and suddenly, I noticed that the monitor above his head started beeping and that the heart monitor graph turned off. That was when Shah Wali met martyrdom. He was 39-years-old at the time of his martyrdom. His eldest son is 13-years-old, and his other son is 1.5 years old. He also left behind a daughter.

We Found Him with His Limbs Cut Off

Narrator: Mohammad Hashim (brother)

Victim: Sarwar Hasani

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

My brother was 22-years-old. Sarwar had many good qualities and always treated people with good manners. He continuously cared about his studies. When we lived in Ghazni, he lived in Kabul. He was in second grade. When we moved to Kabul, he enrolled at the Abdul Rahim Shahid School. In that school, he was always top student. Since our financial situation was not good, he also worked in addition to studying. He used to make bricks at night and go to school during the day. He attended both private and public schools and studied up to 9th grade. After that he went to Iran, where he started working in a plastering and sculpture factory. He lived there for almost three years and continued plastering work before returning to Afghanistan. He was able to resume his studies and graduated from a private school. When he was martyred, the Tajiks and Pashtuns also wept for him because he was kind to everyone, and his family and people were very appreciative of Sarwar. He worked in Shamali because our finances were bad. One day before the incident, he was in Shamali. At night, he learned through Facebook that there was a demonstration planned on Saturday. He told us he wanted to participate. We told him, "Why are you going to participate in this demonstration?" He said, “No, my friends called me to be with them tomorrow.” He didn't listen to us. The next day, he went to Dehmazang with his friends. We called him at lunchtime and told him to come home and have lunch. He said he was in Dehmazang and was not coming home. Then, his phone was switched off and we could not contact him anymore. When we learned about the incident, we searched all the hospitals. After four days and nights, we found him in the 400-bed hospital. We found him with his limbs cut off. What I remember about those moments is that he had suffered so much. He was martyred in a such a very sad way, and he left us alone.

I Wish the Light Movement Turns into An Influential Force

Narrator: Mohamad Yaseen Dawlat Shahi (uncle)

Victim: Ahmad Sharif DawlatShahi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

On 23rd July, I was preparing to take part in the demonstration. We live upstairs and Ahmad Sharif and his family lived downstairs; we all lived together. When I went downstairs, Ahmad Sharif was also ready. He had bathed, recited the Holy Quran, and offered prayers. We sat together at the table. My wife had prepared some french fries and we both ate a small amount. His mother put the remaining amount inside the bread and placed it in a plastic bag. She told Ahmed Sharif to take it with him because we would need it later. I put it in my bag, and he brought five bottles of frozen water. He joked with his mother, "Mom, do you think we are going to the desert that you put five bottles of water in the refrigerator for us?"

His mother said, “It is ok, you are not alone; others, too, may need water and drinking water may not be available at that time, so it is good to take these water bottles with you.” So, we put the water bottles in our bag and left the house. We had walked only a few steps away from the house when Ahmad Sharif looked back at me and said: "Uncle! The situation is not so good today. Try to stay close to us and not go far away." What I remember well is that he was talking like he had received information from someone indicating that the situation would turn bad that day. He even talked about death. I told him okay, Ahmad, do not worry, I will not leave your group today. We both arrived near Mosala. People had already gathered there. We were separated because someone from the People's Council of the Enlightenment Movement was looking for a person to oversee the generator they had set up for the stage.

No one accepted the responsibility Mr. Qalandari offered them, because everyone wanted to be actively involved in the demonstration. No one wanted to be inactive. I really felt sorry for him, so I went to him and said I would like to be in charge of the generator. I was stationed on the Kamaz truck from the beginning to the culmination of the demonstration, and up to the time of the explosion. It was parked close to the Dyna truck. The Kamaz truck moved two minutes after the explosion. During the demonstration, he would come to me, sometimes to drink water. Ahmad Sharif came to me about 15 or 20 minutes before the explosion and said, "Uncle, give me water." He even joked with his close friends and said, “We brought water for ourselves and we will not give it to you.” He and his friends drank the water. The event organizers were also sitting on the truck. He went towards them and said, “You sit here, all sides have been abandoned and the police have left. People are entering from every direction, and it is not clear who is who. The ice cream cart has entered the crowd. It's better that you get up and start enforcing order. God forbid, someone may get inside and decide to do something.” It was the last time I saw him. It was prayer time and Mr. Behzad passed by the Kamaz truck. Music was playing from inside the vehicle. He wanted them to stop the music and call people to gather for prayer.

Because it was very hot, there was not enough mineral water for everybody, and that's why the group suggested bringing a water tanker. They insisted that Ahmad Sharif should go for the water tanker, but he refused it because he didn't want to leave the impassioned stage of justice. Finally, they called someone else to deliver a tanker of drinking water. The water was not yet delivered when the incident happened; he was distributing food and water. When the explosion happened, some people were inside the truck. When they heard the explosion, they wanted to jump out. I told them to wait for a few minutes. God forbid, but another explosion could happen when they jumped out. People waited for a minute or two while others fled the scene. When we got out of the vehicle, an injured person near the vehicle was in critical condition. He said to me, “Please help me, I am dying.” I told him, God forbid, you won't die. I went to him, took him under his arm, and moved him to a different location, and helped him lean on something. I told him to wait there and that I would go get an ambulance for him.

I was helping the wounded and had no idea about the fate and condition of Ahmad Sharif. I was sure he had pulled himself out of that situation. After some time, I thought it would be good to call him to see how he was doing. I kept calling him, but the network said it was busy. Since he didn't answer my call, I got suspicious. I got a call from home. They said, “there was an explosion in Dehmezang, where are you?” I told them that I was helping the wounded at the site of the explosion. They asked about Ahmad Sharif. I told them I tried calling him, but he did not pick up his phone. After a while, the wounded and martyrs were picked up from the road and transferred to different hospitals. We went to Esteqlal Hospital. When I got there, I called his number again. Someone answered the phone, and I realized that it was one of the administrators of the hospital. He asked me how I was related to him. I told him that I am his uncle. He asked me to go meet him. When I went to see the person, he informed me of Ahmad Sharif's martyrdom.

Ahmad Sharif was a member and co-founder of the Afghanistan Victims’ Families Organization. He had lost his father for earning freedom. During the former Soviet reign, he graduated from one of the police academies as the top performer. Under Hafizullah Amin’s reign, he was pulled out of his house with his hands and feet tied and then killed. At that time, Ahmad Sharif was in his mother's womb and his older brother was just two-years-old. He had never met his father. The same thing happened to Ahmad Sharif’s daughter; she never got to see her father. Ahmad Sharif's 40th day of martyrdom had passed when his daughter was born. She did not get to see her father. He was the head of Afghanistan's Young Elite Generation. He was a sociable and friendly person. He was my main source of motivation in civic activities. To be honest, he would force me to attend meetings and encourage me to work for justice and peace.

Ahmad Sharif had obtained a master's degree. He studied at Ibn-e Sina and Kateb universities. It was almost three months since he had been appointed as a specialist in the Literacy Department of the Ministry of Education. After his martyrdom, all his colleagues shed tears for him even though he had just been appointed. This is the life of our people. But we are all proud, and even his mother is proud and says she is happy that Ahmad was martyred in the way of justice, freedom, and righteousness. He has two daughters named Setayesh and Parastesh. One of his friends showed me their private conversation in which Ahmad Sharif had told him, “I wish the Enlightenment Movement turns into an influential force in our society. Then, I won’t regret it if I am martyred or killed.”

Shrapnel Had Struck His Head

Narrator: Murtaza DarvishZada (brother)

Victim: Abdullah Forotan

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Abdullah Forotan was born in 1998 and turned 18 this year. He was the best tempered of all of us and the youngest in the family. My father loved him more than any of us and my mother even more so. He was superior to us all in terms of his facial features and talents. We are Hazaras, and Abdullah was very good-looking, which is why my mother gave him the title of ‘Sayyid’. At the age of six, he joined my parents on a five-month trip to Iran. He completed primary and secondary education at Ayatollah Modares High School in Jaghori. He graduated high school as the top student. Last year, he participated in the entrance exam and got the highest score in our school. He was admitted to his favorite field: the engineering faculty of the Polytechnic University in Kabul. He performed very successfully in the first semester.

The Dehmzang incident ended his opportunities. Last winter, a futsal [football] competition was held in Jaghori in which our team, too, participated. Abdullah and I were players on the same team. In total, there were 36 teams participating in the competition. At the end of two-weeks of matches, Abdullah’s performance was recognized with an Award of Ethics. He was very different from us and this makes it very difficult for our parents. The night before 23rd July, he was in the Polytechnic University dormitory. I called him and said he should not take part in the demonstration the next day. I told him I would not take part either because the security situation was not good. He said: “You and I are not the only ones who know about the pain of our people. I will participate in the demonstration”. I told him to focus on his exam. I even told him that, at school, anybody could get the first position; the real man is the one who gets the first position at university. He told me he had taken all the exams, received their results and had scored the highest, and had only one exam left. He said, “Don't worry, I will not embarrass you and the family”.

He always was a source of pride. On the day of the incident, 23rd July, we took a photo together. Abdullah was taller than me and more talented. At around two o'clock, I went to Pole-Sorkh to have lunch. While I was eating, I received a call that said there had been an explosion in Dehmazang. We, four brothers, were all in Dehmazang. I called my three brothers, but none of them answered their phones. I got very worried and rushed to Dehmazang. When I got there, the police wouldn't let me pass. I was very angry and became worried. One of them even said that they will shoot me if I didn’t turn back. Because I was apprehensive, I said, "Shoot me, my blood is not thicker than others, and I am not better than them." When I got close to the site of the explosion, the situation was really terrible. I witnessed very terrible moments with my own eyes, it was extremely painful and difficult for me. I was running around to find one of my brothers, but there was no sign of them. The only things I could see were the limbs on the ground.

At the same moment, one of my brothers, who is older than me, called me and asked where I was. I asked him where Abdullah was. Talking with a sad tone, he said I should go to Ibn-e Sina hospital. I ran, rushing to the hospital. When I got there, it was full of blood, in all the corridors. I searched all the rooms but did not find Abdullah. I called my brother and said I couldn't find him; he told me to go and see the martyrs. When I went there, my legs felt paralyzed. Among the martyrs, the only thing I recognized was his pants. I didn't dare to look at his face; I came out of the room. After I felt a little bit better, I was about to go back inside when my brother called me. I told him that he was not among the martyrs; he insisted that I should search thoroughly. Once again, I entered the room where the martyrs were laid. The faces of most of the martyrs were burnt. Those moments became the worst memory for me. I still did not find Abdullah. When I left the room, they called that there was a list in the other room, but Abdullah's name was not there. My other brother came and said that he was going inside, thinking that maybe Abdullah's name was not listed by mistake. When he wanted to enter, they did not allow him. But somehow he did manage to get into the hospital. A few minutes later, I also got inside. I looked around and I saw my brother wailing.

I realized Abdullah's condition was not good. He was struck by shrapnel in his head. We immediately transferred him to Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan hospital. For a week, he was in a coma in the hospital. During this time, his condition did not change; in an entire week, he did not even open his eyes. The doctor said: "The brain has been hit by shrapnel and needs to be operated on; the brain is severely damaged." I begged the doctor who operated on Abdullah to help me talk to the head of the hospital. His doctor said that some pieces of shrapnel were left in his head which they could not remove. He said “You would need an air ambulance to take him abroad and it would cost you three hundred thousand dollars. If you have the money, transport him out of the country so that his condition can be dealt with quickly”. Some of my friends in India found out about the incident and immediately called me to say they would send an air ambulance from India to transport Abdullah. They wanted me to provide them with a general report about Abdullah's condition so that they could take action. I got a report about Abdullah's condition from the doctor and sent it to them. They said we had to wait for a few days.

Our teachers were informed about the incident before the government took care of our patients. They [the teachers] visited us and completed the passport application, but transporting him to India was postponed. Then some NATO troops came to the hospital and said they will transport the wounded who were in a coma outside for treatment. I went to the head of the hospital and asked for information about that. He said no one’s name was listed yet. I realized we will be in trouble if I failed to act. I could speak a little English, and so I met and talked to some NATO personnel. After our discussion, they said they wanted to take Abdullah to Bagram Hospital. Within a week, Abdullah's condition did not improve. When the test results came from abroad, they were negative. So, the NATO people announced that they could not take responsibility for Abdullah’s condition during transportation. We signed a paper, took all the responsibility, and transferred him to Bagram. On the way, the oxygen balloons used for Abdullah ran out. All the moments I remember were painful. Upon arrival in Bagram, Abdullah was received by the American forces. On behalf of my family, I was there to accompany Abdullah, but they would not allow me to enter the hospital because I did not have an identification card on me.

As I was waiting, in the afternoon I received a call. They said they wanted to transfer Abdullah to the 400-bed hospital. I asked them why, and they said that the doctors were disappointed with the treatment because Abdullah's body was not showing any reaction. I had gone to get an ID card and I was wondering what to do. They told me to come and pick up Abdullah if I could make it to Bagram before 7 pm. I asked them to communicate the matter so they can wait until tomorrow and then we could transport him directly out of the country. I departed immediately and arrived there at 8 o'clock. They escorted me inside Bagram airbase. By 10:30 pm, I made it to Abdullah, but it was too late; When I got there, he was already martyred. It was very difficult to go through those moments.

Prior to that, my parents were in Jaghuri. Following the incident on 23rd July, I got a call and they asked me if we all were okay. I assured them that we were fine. They asked me about Abdullah and where he was. My mother was very worried and kept asking about Abdullah. She called me again and asked about him; I told her he was in the university dorm. The day after the incident, she learned that Abdullah was injured. She called me again. My mother had already talked to my elder brother and asked him about Abdullah and why his phone was switched off. My brother came to me and asked me to talk to my mother. When I picked up the phone, my mother worriedly asked why Abdullah had turned off his mobile phone. In response, I hardly managed to say two sentences. I said his phone is not working and he is currently in the dormitory. She couldn't take it anymore and wanted me to go to the dormitory immediately and tell Abdullah to talk to her. “I won't rest so long as I don't hear his voice”, she said. I waited for a while and my brother came to me and gave me the phone and said: “Speak and pretend you are Abdullah so that mom calms down”. It tortures me to remember those moments; it was very difficult to speak with my mother pretending to be Abdullah. I took the phone from my brother. I was feeling terrible; I tried to sound like Abdullah. When I heard my mother, I acted like Abdullah and said: “Hi mom, are you worried for me? I am fine”. My mother said: “Are you Abdullah?”. I said yes. She asked: “Abdullah, when you were home on leave, what did you have for breakfast the day you left for Kabul?” When I heard my mother saying those words, I felt I could not take it anymore. I forgot what I had to say and hung up the phone.

That same day, my parents returned to Kabul. When my mother visited the hospital, she learned that Abdullah was wounded. We told my mother that his leg was slightly injured so that she would not lose her spirit and her condition would not get worse. The truth was that he had shrapnel in his brain. I asked the doctor to talk to my mother so that she could calm down a bit because she did not believe me. Abdullah was in the ICU at that time and no one was allowed to visit him. The doctor told my mother that she was not allowed to visit him that day. My mother and I left the hospital. Friends and close relatives had gathered outside the hospital. My mother's blood pressure went up and she fainted.

My mother was hospitalized on one side of the hospital and my brother on the other side. It is very difficult for me to recall and describe those moments. When my mother returned to Kabul, I went to my sister's house in Barchi that same day to see my mother. On my way to the hospital, from Zer Zamini to Golbahar Center, I gave 1500 Afs as charity so that God might give Abdullah back to us. If I gave charity to one person and forgot another, I would immediately give the other one money. I thought they they might feel something in their hearts. Everyone who received the money prayed for Abdullah, but God took this great gift from us and did not consider us worthy of him. All of us were grieved. Life is very hard. It is very difficult to endure this pain.

He Never Tasted Peace and Tranquility in His Life

Narrator: Marzia (mother)

Victim: Mohammad Zaki Nayebi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the mother of martyr Zaki Naibi. He was born in 1991 in Maidan Wardak Province, Hessa Du, Behsud District, in Qol Khesh Village. We moved to Kabul when he was seven years old. He started going to Ismail Balkhi school in Sarkariz and attended this school until 9th grade. Then, he enrolled in a school in Karte Se, where he completed the 12th grade. Due to our bad economic situation, he worked in a metal workshop at the same time as he was going to school. His workplace was in Dehburi.

During his school years, he was a diligent, calm, well-mannered, and talented student. He couldn't attend his school certification process, because of his work at the metal workshop. But since he was a calm and kind boy, his teacher, along with the top student in the class, who liked Zaki, completed the admin work and obtained his certificate. He never spoke in a loud voice to me or his father at home. He and my other son who is 14-years-old were very calm compared to my other children. I am very happy with him.

We lived in poverty and destitution. He aspired to become a helpful person to assist himself, his family, and his people in the future and to improve our living conditions, but his wish did not come true. His death left me and his father in pain. Another son of mine is now in prison because of a conspiracy by some people. He doesn't even know about his brother's martyrdom. Zaki was the breadwinner of the family. When his brother asks about Zaki, I say Zaki has gone to Turkey. I say some people donated money, and we sent him to work in Turkey. He insists we should give him his phone number so that he can talk to him on the phone. I make excuses, saying he lives in an area without mobile network coverage. His salary was 1,800 Afghanis. He used to take 300 Afghanis to pay for his education and the rest he would give to me. When I remember the hardships he went through, my heart burns because he never tasted peace and tranquility in his life.

On holidays, his cousins and friends would go out on excursions, but he said he had to work to make our lives better, and that work was fun. On Fridays, when they would call him to go somewhere to have fun, he would say, “I only have Friday. You go. I can't come because I'm very tired and I don't have enough time for fun.” He always made excuses. Talking to me, he would say, "Mother, where should one go to have fun when one has no money?" When he would return home from work, he would not sleep until 10 o'clock at night. When the 10 pm news hour was over, he would have a chat with his father and then go to sleep.

My son had many dreams but in his life, he never achieved any of them. He got engaged to his cousin almost three months before his death, but this dream never came true and he left us alone, filled with sorrow. On the day of the demonstration, before he left home, he took a bath, put on his clean pants and blouse, said goodbye to me, and then he left the house. I did not know that he was going to attend the demonstration because when I asked where he was going, he said he was going to work and would not take part in the demonstration. The night before, he had talked to his cousin and friends until 11:00 p.m. and encouraged them to participate in the 23rd July demonstration. He went with his cousin. At lunchtime, his cousin went to have lunch, but Zaki did not join him. He spoke with me until 1 pm; he even said we should do something to get Zia released. I didn't know when the incident happened. His aunt called me and asked if my sons were home. I said everyone was at home except Zaki who is at work. His cousin and aunt knew that he had gone to Dehmazang. Following the suicide bombing, his cousins and aunt left their house to look for Zaki. When they called me, they only mentioned Zaki's name and then hung up the phone. I kept calling them, but they did not answer the phone.

A few minutes later, my daughter received a message. She told me, “Mother, Zainab says Zaki does not answer her calls, I am worried.” My little son and I left the house and visited Zaki's workplace. The owner of the shop, who was Zaki’s boss, said, “He did not come to work today.” I saw my nephew leave the shop, and asked him, “Hamid Jan, did Zaki come to the shop today?” He told me, “To be honest, today Zaki did not come to work.” My nephew stopped his car in front of the shop and said, “Aunty, come and get in my car.” He dropped us off at Kot-e-Sangi. His father who was a porter had gone to work that day. My nephew called Zaki's father and said, “Uncle, get home.” My husband, Zaki’s cousins, and I all searched for Zaki until 2:30 am. I saw martyrs, but my son was not among them. We searched all the hospitals until almost 3 in the morning, but did not find my son. So we returned home. After taking a cup of tea, the others rested for a bit, while I offered prayer. My husband and his nephew also stayed up till dawn. Then early in the morning, his father and I went to visit Abul Fazl pilgrimage and returned home.

His father asked Zaki's sister, “What was Zaki wearing yesterday?” She said he was wearing a blouse with English writing on it and white pants. That night, his father knew that Zaki was martyred, but he didn't tell me anything and told me that he was arrested and imprisoned by the police. Together, we left the house for Wazir Muhammad Akbar Khan Hospital. Everyone already knew my son had been martyred. When we arrived at the hospital, his father did not enter. I was waiting a little further away. When I noticed everyone's unusual condition, I started crying. Zaki's cousin informed my husband of my son's martyrdom when he came out of the hospital building. My husband started beating himself when he heard the news. My other nephew grabbed my husband’s clothes and tried to console him, and said, “Uncle it is a lie; Zaki is alive.” I was in a terrible condition; I was screaming and crying. My two sisters who were with us held my arms and tried to calm me down. I was crying and telling them that I will find my Zaki, he cannot be dead.

One of the soldiers felt sorry for me and said, “Your son is wounded; you are not allowed to meet him, please calm down.” I kept screaming and crying. I checked the list but could not find Zaki’s name. Together with my sister, we went to another section of the hospital. When I entered, there were too many martyrs. My son was not among them. They had printed pictures of the martyrs. Looking at all those young martyrs, I too hit myself and then I fainted.

When I came to, they had laid me on the grass and were pouring water on me to bring me back to consciousness. When they noticed my distress, one of the soldiers asked for martyr Zaki to be brought to his mother. We took him to the mosque first to give him a bath. In the mosque, I learned that his head and back were injured and he was bleeding severely. One of his sisters didn't know about Zaki's martyrdom, she was still at home. When she heard, she cried a lot. Even now, when I remember our terrible, difficult living conditions, my heart burns, thinking that my son did not live a good life. He said to his father, “You should not work as a porter anymore; you have done enough.” His father always takes painkillers before going to sleep due to the huge loads he carries in his job. He used to tell his father, “I wish I had enough money to treat you.” He always said, “Mother, I wish to continue my studies so that the future will change for all of us.” But his wish was not realized.

Zaki studied up to 12th grade but could not continue his education because of economic problems. First, he was an apprentice at a carpet weaving workshop, then he started doing metal work. One day, he injured his eye while working with an electric wire and screwdriver, and lost his eyesight in that eye. He would always say he could not do manual work because of his eyesight. He believed he had to study so he could change his life. He was very fond of sports and played football with his friends. He participated in the demonstration to defend the rights of his people and said that the people’s rights should not be violated.

Since my son was martyred, I have not been feeling well; I have become forgetful. His sister, who was close to Zaki, doesn't cry. She doesn’t even talk about her brother, she just says, “I should eat pepper to forget Zaki's sorrow.” The night before the incident, when Khalili withdrew from the demonstration, Zaki was very angry and said Khalili abused his own people by leaving them alone like this. After his martyrdom, Khalili went to everyone's house to offer Fatiha, but he did not come to our house. Mohaqeq came to our house and this made us happy. My husband said, “Khalili, despite being from my tribe, did not visit us and did not offer Fatiha for my son, I will never forget this and it hurt me.” Zaki was a kind-hearted boy. We buried him in Pul Khashak cemetery. And so long as I remain alive, we will follow in his pathway, will not sit quietly, and will raise his voice. We thank you for remembering the families of the martyrs and keeping the memories of our martyrs alive.

Hikmatullah Is Martyred and Asadullah Is Wounded

Narrator: Mariam (mother)

Victims: Hekmatullah Shafaie and Asadullah Shafaie

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

On the day of the incident, before my sons left the house, I tried to stop them from going but they replied, “We are not going there to protest for electricity, but we are going to seek justice and defend our rights.” My eldest son Hekmatullah said, “Mother! We must shed our blood for justice and today we are going to sacrifice ourselves for this cause.” It made me upset. I asked them to at least have breakfast, but they refused. Before they left the house, my younger son, Asadullah, wanted me to give him some dried apricot. I put some dried apricot, roasted chickpeas, raisins, and some water bottles in their bags. Hekmatullah was 28-years-old and Asadullah was 15-years-old. This year, Asadullah observed the entire fasting month and prayed regularly. Before going out, I asked them again to change their mind, but they repeated their answer and said they wanted to participate in the demonstration and that I should join them and not be afraid. They said they were going to demand their right and justice. I explained that I had pain in my feet. They said they could walk slowly so I could keep up. After they left, I brought flour to the neighbor and set off to join them. No matter how fast I walked, I could not reach them. It was a very hot day. I arrived in Dehmazang Square around noon, where people had gathered.

People were giving out bottles of water, some dried dates, or pieces of bread. Some people came to us and said that it was better for us to get out of there and move somewhere else because it was hot and we would be troubled. We were sitting in a corner to drink tea when the explosion happened. I fell on my face and a girl fell on me. When I got up and looked behind me, the situation was terrible. I started screaming and hitting myself. There were three young boys there. I went to them and told them that my sons were there; I asked them to find my sons. At those moments, the police gathered and shook me and said that my sons were not in the crowd. They asked me to stop crying. We were arguing when the second explosion occurred. The police quickly took me closer to the zoo as I didn't know the area so well. I cried a lot. The police wouldn't let anyone near the square. A young boy helped me get the direction to my home, and I went home.

At that time, I did not know who had been killed and who had survived. When I got home, the neighbor's son came to me in distress and asked, “where were you, aunt? Everybody has been so worried about you.” When I entered the house, I noticed a lot of noise. When I took a seat at home, I was still not feeling well. Someone said that Hikmatullah had been killed/martyred and Asadullah was wounded. Hearing that, I passed out. The next day, at 10 am, they announced that Asadullah had been martyred too. They did not allow me to see their bodies and I never saw them again. I heard others say that Asadullah had been hit by shrapnel in the back of his head and Hekmatullah had many wounds on his body. Oh God, I wish I had been killed along with them and would not have endured this excruciating pain.

Since their martyrdom/deaths, my daughter cries and says, “Mother, who should I study with now? When Hikmat and Asadullah are not there, who will guide me? Why should I study? How can I tolerate their absence? Every time I go to the room to open a book, I remember them and I can't learn a single word.” Hikmatullah lived with us. He had just completed his studies and had found a job. He had a 7-month-old baby.

Asadullah was the top student at Marafet High School; he worked hard. When I went to his school and asked the teachers about his performance and behavior, they would say he was a role model, a very talented and hardworking boy, and was the pride of the school. Marafet school has an English department; he learned English there. He also studied English at the Muslim Educational Center. One day he told me, “Mother! Two more books are left and then I will complete the English courses.” It would make me feel very happy when I saw him studying. Hekmatullah encouraged him a lot; Hekmatullah would study with and guide Asadullah and his sister. Hekmatullah was a hero to all of us. He was a computer science instructor and solved everyone's problems. No one doubted his abilities. He studied with great interest and encouraged others to study too. God took them from me and did not consider us worthy of them. Every moment and every hour I wish I was killed with them. When they brought their bags home, they had not even eaten the apricot, chickpeas, and raisins. May God protect everyone against such grief. Only God knows how I feel. I have no more to say, I just have to be patient. Oh, it is very difficult and painful to lose two young children.

Hikmatullah Is Martyred and Asadullah Is Wounded

Narrator: Mariam (mother)

Victims: Hekmatullah Shafaie and Asadullah Shafaie

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

On the day of the incident, before my sons left the house, I tried to stop them from going but they replied, “We are not going there to protest for electricity, but we are going to seek justice and defend our rights.” My eldest son Hekmatullah said, “Mother! We must shed our blood for justice and today we are going to sacrifice ourselves for this cause.” It made me upset. I asked them to at least have breakfast, but they refused. Before they left the house, my younger son, Asadullah, wanted me to give him some dried apricot. I put some dried apricot, roasted chickpeas, raisins, and some water bottles in their bags. Hekmatullah was 28-years-old and Asadullah was 15-years-old. This year, Asadullah observed the entire fasting month and prayed regularly. Before going out, I asked them again to change their mind, but they repeated their answer and said they wanted to participate in the demonstration and that I should join them and not be afraid. They said they were going to demand their right and justice. I explained that I had pain in my feet. They said they could walk slowly so I could keep up. After they left, I brought flour to the neighbor and set off to join them. No matter how fast I walked, I could not reach them. It was a very hot day. I arrived in Dehmazang Square around noon, where people had gathered.

People were giving out bottles of water, some dried dates, or pieces of bread. Some people came to us and said that it was better for us to get out of there and move somewhere else because it was hot and we would be troubled. We were sitting in a corner to drink tea when the explosion happened. I fell on my face and a girl fell on me. When I got up and looked behind me, the situation was terrible. I started screaming and hitting myself. There were three young boys there. I went to them and told them that my sons were there; I asked them to find my sons. At those moments, the police gathered and shook me and said that my sons were not in the crowd. They asked me to stop crying. We were arguing when the second explosion occurred. The police quickly took me closer to the zoo as I didn't know the area so well. I cried a lot. The police wouldn't let anyone near the square. A young boy helped me get the direction to my home, and I went home.

At that time, I did not know who had been killed and who had survived. When I got home, the neighbor's son came to me in distress and asked, “where were you, aunt? Everybody has been so worried about you.” When I entered the house, I noticed a lot of noise. When I took a seat at home, I was still not feeling well. Someone said that Hikmatullah had been killed/martyred and Asadullah was wounded. Hearing that, I passed out. The next day, at 10 am, they announced that Asadullah had been martyred too. They did not allow me to see their bodies and I never saw them again. I heard others say that Asadullah had been hit by shrapnel in the back of his head and Hekmatullah had many wounds on his body. Oh God, I wish I had been killed along with them and would not have endured this excruciating pain.

Since their martyrdom/deaths, my daughter cries and says, “Mother, who should I study with now? When Hikmat and Asadullah are not there, who will guide me? Why should I study? How can I tolerate their absence? Every time I go to the room to open a book, I remember them and I can't learn a single word.” Hikmatullah lived with us. He had just completed his studies and had found a job. He had a 7-month-old baby.

Asadullah was the top student at Marafet High School; he worked hard. When I went to his school and asked the teachers about his performance and behavior, they would say he was a role model, a very talented and hardworking boy, and was the pride of the school. Marafet school has an English department; he learned English there. He also studied English at the Muslim Educational Center. One day he told me, “Mother! Two more books are left and then I will complete the English courses.” It would make me feel very happy when I saw him studying. Hekmatullah encouraged him a lot; Hekmatullah would study with and guide Asadullah and his sister. Hekmatullah was a hero to all of us. He was a computer science instructor and solved everyone's problems. No one doubted his abilities. He studied with great interest and encouraged others to study too. God took them from me and did not consider us worthy of them. Every moment and every hour I wish I was killed with them. When they brought their bags home, they had not even eaten the apricot, chickpeas, and raisins. May God protect everyone against such grief. Only God knows how I feel. I have no more to say, I just have to be patient. Oh, it is very difficult and painful to lose two young children.

His Face Was Covered in Blood and One of His Hands Was Stuck Behind His Back

Narrator: Masouma (mother)

Victim: Sayed Baqer Musavi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the mother of the martyr Sayed Baqer. He was born in 2003. He was a sixth grader at Gulkhana school in Barchi. My son grew up in hardship; he had seen difficult things. In the evening before the demonstration, martyr Baqer told me that the next day, he wanted to take his ice cream cart to the demonstration site to sell ice cream to people. I told him to stay at home instead and not go out so that I could wash his clothes and he could take a bath.

The next day, I was busy with the household chores. I didn't notice when Sayed left the house at 8 o'clock. Before his martyrdom, he either sold ice cream or gathered passengers for the minivans under the flyover. His father had a stomach ache the night before the incident and went to bed without eating dinner. The next morning, his father still had a stomach ache. He has been sick for a long time, so he was sleeping. I woke him up twice during the day, asking him if there was a demonstration happening. He said no, the demonstration had been cancelled. So I felt reassured and believed there was no demonstration and that Baqer had gone to work. I was just finishing washing clothes and was supposed to rinse them when Sayed Baqer’s father came to me and said a suicide attack had happened in Dehmazang. He asked me where Baqer was. He wanted to go to Dehmazang. I was worried and angrily asked him what he was waiting for and wanted him to go there immediately. His father left the house while I continued with the household chores. I rinsed the clothes and hung them on the rope in the sun.

After finishing, I went to the room and turned on the TV and tuned into Tolo network. It was broadcasting news of the Dehmazang attack and the critical situation, showing the dead bodies. I saw a boy with a blue jacket and black pants on TV, and for a moment I thought he was Baqer, but he was not. I moved away from the TV. His grandmother was also at home. She asked me where I was going. I couldn’t tell her I was going to Dehmazang. To avoid her questions, I told her I was just going to the mosque. Wearing my prayer veil, I went to the mosque. From there, I went to a shrine near Pol-e-Sokhta. A mullah was sitting in the shrine. I went to him and asked him to do a Stikhara [consult the Holy Quran]. He told me, “Mother, don't cry, go make a vow and pay alms on your son’s behalf and he will come home by evening.” From there, I made it to the flyover, but I did not see anyone there. I went to the Barchi taxi station. I had reached Gulai when his father called me and asked where I was. I said I was at Gulai. He told me to go to the ice cream distribution center and ask if Sayed Baqer had retrieved ice cream for sale that day. I went there and asked them about it. The owner told me “He got ice cream yesterday but didn't come to get ice cream today.” From there, I went home, sat in the front yard for a few minutes, but I couldn't take it. I left the house again. By the time I arrived at Gulai, the Mullah called for the evening prayer.

I called his father and asked where he was. He said, “I searched Dehmazang square. Our son is not there; now I am going to the Esteqlal Hospital. You should go to the Hospitals in Pol-e Khoshk because they took some of the wounded there.” So, I visited the Alami and Watan Hospitals. They told me in Watan Hospital that a person named Baqer was in Ferdous Hospital in Pol-e Sokhta. I left for Pol-e Sokhta and arrived at 7:00 PM. When I entered the hospital, they told me that there was no one named Baqer in that hospital. They said three wounded had been taken there, but were later transferred to the Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital. They wanted me to go to Mawla Ali Hospital in Kot-e-Sangi because many of the wounded were there. I visited Mawla Ali Hospital. They too told me they had transferred the wounded to Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital; Baqer's name was not on their list. There were a few people there who told me to go to Karte Sakhi. They said they had taken the bodies to the mosque there. When I got there, it was very quiet and the gates of the mosque were closed. Someone told us that they had not taken the martyrs there. He said wherever the wounded were taken, that was where the martyrs would also be.

From there, I went to Pul-e Sorkh where I called his father. He had gone to Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital. He told me he was going to Ibn Sina Hospital and wanted me to join him there. We went there and searched. Our son was not there either. We also visited the Maiwand Hospital, and he was not there either. At Maiwand Hospital, we were told a 13-year-old boy was in a coma and they had taken himto Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital. So we went back to Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital, but when we got there and saw the 13-year-old boy, it was not Baqer. From there, we went to the Jomhoriat Hospital, but he was not there either. Following that, we visited the Emergency and Aliabad Hospitals where we searched for Baqer, but still we could not find him. We continued searching until around 1:30 AM but did not find him. At 2 am, his father and I returned home. When we got home, I asked his father if he had seen his boots in Dehmazang. He said, “A slipper was lying on the ground with a hole in the sole.” The day before the incident, he told me, “Mother! My slipper is torn and my feet get dirty.” I told him, “Use it for one more day. Your father will buy you a new pair tomorrow.” Remembering the slipper and his words, I felt terrible. I thought my son Baqer must have been torn into pieces because we found him neither among the dead nor among the injured.

By early morning, I asked his father to take me to Dehmazang so that I could see his slippers closely so I could recognise them, as I know them. Right at that moment, his aunt came and the three of us went to Dehmazang together. When we got there, we found out that people had gathered the belongings of the wounded and the martyrs and taken them away by 2:30 am. The municipality workers and the passing traffic was washing the blood off the road. I did not see anything except a piece of human flesh lying on the road. We had not checked two last hospitals, that's why we then went to the Afshar and National Security Hospitals. Sayed Baqer was not at Afshar Hospital. When we went to the National Security Hospital, his father started searching. A few moments later, he came back to us and asked, “Did Baqer have a scarf with him?” I said no, he had not taken a scarf. His father said, “Baqir is here, they have placed a scarf on him.” I asked him if he was alive. He said, “No, he has been killed.” He asked me if I wanted to see him. My answer was yes. I went near the gate but the police would not allow me to enter the room. They said his aunt could enter but I was not allowed. His aunt went in and came back to ask what Baqer was wearing. I told his aunt he had on a blue jacket and black trousers.

I passed out right away. They had to take me home in a car. After I left the hospital, they took his body to the mosque. When I regained consciousness at home, I cried and mourned a lot. I begged them to let me see him even if his body was not intact, even if there was just one fingerer left, or even if there was not even a finger left, at least let me see his clothes. They lis-tened to me and brought him home. There was a wound on his back. He had been bleeding from his nose and mouth. His face was covered in blood and one of his hands was stuck behind his back. All his clothes were burned. Only fragments of his shirt and pants remained. His hair was completely burned as if you set a sheep on fire. This sorrow will never leave my heart.

If it was a competent government, why would our children become martyrs in such a way that their pain burns through our whole life? We live with that sorrow every day and every moment.

He Believed the Issue was not so much Electricity as the Suffering of the Hazaras

Narrator: Masouma Jafari (wife)

Victim: Mohammad Zia Jafari

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Mohammad Zia was born in May 1979 in Sangsurakh Village, Jaghori District,Ghazni Province. He was the youngest child of the family and had six brothers and one sister. His father traveled to Iran for work and to provide for the family. On his way back to Afghanistan, while he had stopped to buy gifts for his children, he died in an accident. My husband was one year and six months old when his father died. So Mohammad Zia grew up an orphan. His brothers helped raise him until he finished his education. During the Taliban era, he moved to Iran to improve his living conditions. He lived there until 2011. In Iran, he worked in stone masonry. From 2001, he took up calligraphy and painting, attending classes in Iran. He was not allowed to get a certificate because he was Afghan. But they knew and respected him as an artist there. We got engaged in 2010 and got married a year later. After our wedding, we lived in Iran for almost a year. Then we returned to Afghanistan, to Kandahar City. We lived there for two years during which he worked in a hotel. Later we moved to Kabul, where we lived for three years. Mohammad Zia had several jobs here, from painting to opening an art shop where he sold his carvings. In his spare time, he was always creating artwork. He participated in events organized to commemorate Baba Mazari.

During the summer, we had travelled somewhere together. Upon our return, when we came close to Mosala, we heard the announcement about the Enlightenment Movement. He got excited and said if the movement continued, he would participate in it. He gradually became more engaged in civic activities and used to go to listen to Behzad's speeches.

At first, he was just following the Movement programs through Facebook. Then he took part in the first demonstration. Without me knowing, he had gone to Dehmazang Square. I was concerned as my husband would not share much about his involvement in the Movement. To reassure me, he would often tell me he had been somewhere else.

The night before the demonstration, he was very upset because of Khalili's withdrawal from the demonstration. He repeatedly said, “Khalili encouraged and rallied people initially, but now he has withdrawn. People lived quietly in their homes; what was the need for him to fire us up and then turn his back on us?” When he was at the first demonstration, he did not say anything to me so that I would not worry. He even said that since he was now a father and had a child, he would not participate in those events.

He had come to believe that the issue was not so much about electricity as about the suffering of the Hazaras. On the day of the incident, he did not tell me he was planning to take part in the demonstration. I woke up at ten to six in the morning. I didn't think that it would be the last time I saw him. It seemed like he was going to the bakery to get some bread and come back straightaway because he didn't even say goodbye.

The demonstration was a disaster that we got caught up in. It was a cruel betrayal of the people’s hopes by our elders. It is unclear what the purpose of the demonstration was given the huge cost to the families of the victims. I constantly wonder why I had to lose my husband. I just know that my home now feels cold and depressing. I lost my man, and for nothing. Before this incident, my main concern was that there was not a good park in Afghanistan for my daughters to have fun in, but today, my daughter, Nazanin’s, wish is for a plane to come and take us to her father in the sky. I had no problems in my life before this incident. I grew up in Iran, and as I said, when I returned to Afghanistan, we lived in Kandahar for two years. In that city, I was troubled about why women in Kandahar should wear veils while people and women in other countries enjoy such freedom. I worked as a teacher in Kandahar for one year and I was pained to see what the girls went through there.

Now my pain is losing my man for an issue that felt very remote to my concerns. The problem of electricity supply in Bamiyan did not concern my family because we never lived in Bamiyan. We never worked there, and didn’t have the money to build a factory in Bamiyan. We didn't need electricity but my husband took to the streets for what he said was not so much about electricity as about the suffering of Hazara people. Several times a day, I ask myself if the suffering of the Hazaras has ended. How do I deal with the loss of my daughter’s father and how do I deal with this huge pain and sadness? Maybe I have not understood anything. But I lament the discomfort of my life and I am shattered by pain and grief. Maybe those who were there at the demonstration knew more than us. But why should their blood have been spilled and trampled on?

I will never forgive or pardon Behzad, Khalili , Mohaqiq, Daoud Naji, and Danesh. Our government is corrupt and they are cowards, like Mohaqiq who represents our people within the government. Mohaqiq and Khalili should not have informed people about the electricity supply problems in Bamiyan in the first place, because they rallied people around this cause only to let them down later. We all knew that these corrupt leaders would abandon us. I don’t understand why we were so naïve as to believe in them. Khalili came on the TV to say that they had made peace and that peace did not mean surrender. It was an absurd statement to make, which brainwashed our naïve people. Now as a consequence of this, my home is empty.

Before the 23rd of July, I was struggling, but quite differently to now. My life has changed completely. When I visit the Martyrs Hill, I think of all those people who had to go through immense challenges to get an education. Today they are sleeping under the ground. In a single instant, a 10 or maybe 11-year-old boy killed 86 people with a bomb hidden in an ice cream cart and made thousands of families mourn. Behzad talked about the cruelty of Abdur Rahman Khan and how many people he massacred. But in my opinion, Behzad is no less of a murderer than Abdur Rahman, because he puts on a suit and a tie and spreads lies about taking care of the widows and orphans of the victims of 23rd July. Nobody takes care of us. Talking to people, they believe that that our families [of martyrs] receive 5,000 to 10,000 AFN every month. You may not believe me, but before the death of my husband, I did not need to ask anyone for a single penny. Those leaders became famous for helping the families of the 23rd July victims. What if the wives of Khalili, Mohaqiq, Behzad, Naji, and Danesh had become widows? Then the children of these traitors would also have become orphans, and not ours. We are the poor, helpless people. All those who supported this demonstration and caused our youth and heads of families to be provoked to take to the streets are now safely and happily living in their own homes.

My heart aches and bleeds for my children. Some families come to me and say: “You are not the only one who has responsibility for these orphans, we consider them our orphans too.” But why should my child have become an orphan, and for no good reason? I was not rich, but I know how painful it is to be an orphan. I lost my father when I was a child. Why should my child have to suffer this same devastating pain? At what cost? Why should my husband have died and why should I be asking myself a thousand times a day what will happen to us?

Leaders knew that Afghanistan was insecure. I may not be very well integrated in the community, but I hear that every day. All the news reports of explosions and suicides bombings. Funerals, mosques, even hospitals have been hit by suicide attacks. Suicide bombers have not spared the wounded, women, or children. If you all grew up in Afghanistan and you know the horrendous security conditions in the country, why would you go and gather people together instead of protecting them? You had the money to organise demonstrations, so why not deploy soldiers to provide security during the demonstration? Why not ask the national security and police for help? Why play with the lives and fate of our [Hazara] families? The people who organized this demonstration were neither injured nor martyred. Only poor people lost their lives.

Now, all my daughter's wishes are summed up in this one sentence: "the plane will come and we will go to the sky to daddy." I met martyr Sarwar's wife. She said that now the world is worthless, and I too have come to believe that the world is cruel. The Taliban kills its own members, ISIS kills its own people, but I do wonder why Hazaras kill other Hazaras. Why do we sacrifice our own for nothing? For transient power? For a position that does not last? What for? Do they think we, the families of the victims, will forget the bloody incident of 23rd July or ignore the rights of our children and families? That will never happen!

Our marriage was going well and we had dreams. I dreamed that when my second daughter grew up a little, I could work alongside my husband and become a teacher. I was a kindergarten teacher in Iran. Likewise, my husband wished to progress in his artistic work, to promote woodcarving in Kabul and rent a shop for his work. But the Movement leaders, these people have destroyed my dreams, as well as the dreams of my daughters and our lives. My husband leaves the house in good health. They bring him back wrapped as a gift and simply say, "Sorry, a suicide attack happened." Looking at our situation, they give him a title: “the martyr for justice”. The government pays 100,000 AFN, the Movement gives 50,000 AFN, and 10,000 AFN are donated from somewhere. Do you think that is what someone’s family member is worth? We want our family member back. We don't want your hundred thousand, fifty thousand, or ten thousand Afghanis.

While my husband was still alive, if someone brought us a gift, I would refuse it. You may call it pride or whatever you like, I don't care. I didn't like people helping us. Now, when they deliver aid to our house, I tell them I don't need it. But they tell me it is for the orphans of the martyrs and not for me, and that I must accept it. My daughter was never far from her father, not even for a single night. My husband never left us alone. I sent my daughter to kindergarten for a while, but after this incident, my daughter no longer wants to go there because she is scared. She is not alone in this; we are all afraid. After the death of my husband, I feel very scared and lonely, but I try to be strong for Nazanin.

The people who organized this demonstration are all living their lives and taking care of their work and I am the one who has now become helpless. I ask myself a thousand times a day: now that we have lost Mohammad Zia, would he still be willing to take part in the demonstration, if he were still here? Mohammad Zia, are you happy leaving your daughters alone like this? Has the Hazaras' suffering ended? Who will heal our pain now? Why should you have had to sacrifice yourself to heal the pain of the Hazaras? When I was at the Martyrs Hill, a few boys were telling each other to take photos for Facebook. We have lost our men, and people are thinking of taking a Facebook photo.

When my husband used to work at his wood carving, I was happy and also scared. I was afraid he might hurt his hand. He used to watch art programs on Iranian TV channels to learn about artworks. I am bitter to think that once I was afraid of him hurting his hand, and now I have lost him completely.

The night before the demonstration, Mohammad Zia went out to do some grocery shopping for the house. When he got home, he was very sad and said, “Khalili has withdrawn and abandoned the people.” We had just recently moved to this house and there was no running water yet in the building. All my thoughts and concerns were about washing clothes and dishes. To me, it didn't matter who had withdrawn. He even named a particular hospital that announced they were ready to take care of any potential problems the next day. He also said that they had prepared several water tankers so that people would not face a shortage of water. He was talking about those issues but I didn’t really listen because I was thinking about something else. On the day of the incident, he woke up at 10 to 6. I was sleeping with my daughters in the other room when I heard a sound. I got up and asked him what he was doing. He said he needed his backpack. I asked him what he needed it for. He said he wanted to go and take part in the demonstration. I got upset and said I did not agree with him going. He got up and shook his head but said nothing.

Right then, we heard an announcement. He hurriedly left the house as if he had missed the car. He didn't look back, and left the house without even saying goodbye. If he had stayed at home, he would have tended to our little girl and I could have easily done my housework. I called him at 7 o'clock to know where he was. He said he was at Musala. At 9:00 and 11:30, I called him again and asked about his whereabouts. When I called him again, he said they had arrived at Kot-e-Sangi. I was restless; I called again. He said they were at the square. The last time I called him was at around ten minutes to 2 pm. He said the demonstration was over and he was coming home. He said people were raising tents to stay there overnight but he would come back home. There was a lot of noise in the background and I could hear Dawood Sarkhosh's song being played, so I couldn’t hear my husband clearly. After saying goodbye, I hung up the phone. Later, people reported that the explosion occurred before the end of Dawood Sarkhosh's song. I was waiting at home for him to come back. It was 2:30 but Zia was nowhere to be seen. At 3:30, there was still no news of him. After I put my daughters down for a nap, I went to see my brother-in-law and his family who live downstairs. I sat next to my brother-in-law’s wife. She asked me if Zia had called. I was not in the right mood, I absentmindedly replied, "No, he has not called." She asked if I was supposed to do anything. I told her there was nothing I could do. Recalling the story today, I feel she knew about the explosion and wanted to know if I knew too. I came back to my house a bit later in the afternoon. I looked at several TV stations, but none of them was covering the demonstration. But when I tuned to Tolo TV, both the subtitles and footage showed the wounded. The presenter announced that a deadly attack had hit the protest group in Dehmazang.

I called Mohammad Zia but his phone was switched off. I called him again, worried by now, but his phone was not working. I went downstairs and told my husband’s cousin that Zia was at the demonstration, and that a suicide attack had happened there, and Zia's phone was switched off. I was very worried and asked him what I should do. He said not to worry, it would be okay. He was a student. I asked him if some of his friends were in Dehmazang for the demonstration. He said they were in Dehmazang but had returned to their dorm. Until 9:00 p.m. that evening, I kept calling those who were looking for Zia. One of them was visiting one hospital and someone else was at another. One of the hospitals had told them that since it was late at night, they were not allowed to enter, and should come back the next day to get information. I prayed and was very worried. I thought he had either fainted or was not well. But others comforted me and said he is a smart and responsible person and must be helping others who are wounded. I calmed down a bit, and I thought he would be fine and would come back home. But by midnight, there was still no news of him and I knew then that something bad had happened to him. I prayed until the morning and made a vow to give bread to charity the next day. It was an ominous and terrible night. I was awake all night and prayed and recited the Holy Quran. After those events, after the incident, I felt my prayers, my worship, and recitation of the Holy Quran were useless. I lost my religious beliefs and became perplexed.

That entire night, I had less than twenty minutes of restless sleep. At 6 in the morning, I told my brother I would visit the hospital myself to look for him. He said I could not do it on my own because the hospitals were very crowded. But I insisted and said that if men are not allowed to enter, maybe women are. I wanted to leave the house immediately, but my brother said, “I know a good driver who’s skilled and knows the city well; wait for him to arrive.” I was so worried that I kept going up and down until 8 in the morning. I felt very restless and had run out of patience. My brother said that a suicide bomber had entered the city and the security situation was not good. At 9:30 am, the vehicle finally arrived and my brother and I began searching. But it was useless. We visited the hospitals in Barchi and Western Kabul. They said all the wounded were transferred to 400-bed and Wazir Akbar Khan hospitals. My brother wanted to take me back home; he did not want me with him. But first we went to Musala around 11:00 am as we had been told that was where some of the martyrs had been taken. When I got out of the car, it felt like this was the end of the world. Quran recitation was being played at Musala and no one was smiling. People looked exhausted and sad. I looked around. Everyone was grieving. Musala was very crowded and there were no ladies there. The police had gathered within the crowd. My brother said there were no other women inside Musala, and we should go, but I insisted, “I will go inside, maybe they will allow me.” Inside Musala, people were wandering around as if it was doomsday, and no one was speaking. Then I went and waited in the car for half an hour. My brother said they hadn’t brought Zia in yet, but would bring in the wounded at 3:00 pm.

I was so beside myself with worry that I didn't even question why they would bring the wounded to Musala. I remained speechless and didn't protest. I was scared at the news of another potential suicide bombing and said it was better we left because three suicide bombers were said to be in the city and there was the possibility of another attack. So we returned home. At 2 p.m., I asked my brother to go back to Musala. He replied, “There is someone there who can identify Zia and bring the wounded home.” At 2:30, I heard a noise coming from the stairs. That day, I kept mentioning Fatima Zahra's name and I was very scared. I kept praying to God to not let me hear bad news. A few minutes later, some women informed me of Zia’s death. In that moment, all I could hear was someone asking to close the windows because of the stormy weather. Someone else said the storm was happening because innocent blood had been shed. We humans don't always realize it or take it seriously, but it seemed like the cosmos was upset and was protesting.

After some time, they brought Zia in. I was desperate. I have no words to describe my bleeding heart. They only comforted me by saying I should thank God that his body was intact because many martyrs lost their limbs and some were dismembered. Later, our relatives from Pakistan and Jaghori visited our house. Only one shrapnel had hit him in the back of his head. My husband's cousin was with Zia and said, “Zia was far from the explosion, he wanted to get water when the explosion happened. A few minutes earlier, he had said he wanted to go home, but the wave of the explosion threw him some distance away, and shrapnel hit his head.”

Anyway, my man is gone and left us all alone in profound grief. My family and my husband’s family are in Iran; there is no one here. I used to visit Imam Ali’s Mosque once a week to offer pilgrimage and would take my daughters with me. When I was in Iran, I used to visit pilgrimage sites and pray. Sakhi Shrine was a long way from where we lived, and I could not go there on my own, carrying a child. It so happened that Zia’s funeral ceremony was being held in this mosque. What sin did I and my daughters commit? I used to be a strong believer and after the 23rd July incident, I thought I must have been guilty of something for God to take my husband from us. But when the Baqir-ul-Uloom mosque incident happened, I started to ask myself what sin have these people committed and why were they killed? Now I have lost all my religious beliefs.

In this country, they don't even spare people's corpses. A suicide bomber blows himself up among them [at a funeral]. Why doesn’t the government provide security for the people? Why don't people learn not to participate in this dirty game, and so avoid losing their lives for no good reason? They massacre a group of people protesting in Dehmazang in the name of Hazara rights, and kill another group of Hazara praying inside a mosque. Did killing 86 people help the discrimination faced by the Hazaras in any way? Did it bring electricity to Bamyan?

Today we are left alone at home, where is he? Sometimes I tell myself, from now on, the Hazaras should only demonstrate in their own homes because it is meaningless for our people to stand up in Afghanistan. After that incident, whenever I hear that a demonstration has taken place in any country, I always say to myself that I hope they will be able to return home safely and not have to mourn a loved one killed in an attack.

We object to this National Unity government. Hey, government! You killed our innocent people! I wish you had imprisoned our youth instead of blowing them up! After the incident, someone visited our house to offer Fatiha and said, “There were two explosions that day. The first explosion was not that strong. Someone called on everyone to lie down on the ground. Right at that moment, there was a second explosion.”

The government fired at youth while they were running. The government used force against the Hazaras, especially against members of the Movement and Hazara leaders. I lost my man. Talking does not help me; my husband was killed for no good reason. Hey, government! It was better you deported those who participated in the demonstrations to other provinces! You did not have to kill them! The first Martyr on Martrys Hill is my husband, Zia. Next to him, two brothers are buried. Look at everyone, they are all young but are lying under the ground. Whenever I visit the Hill, I keep telling myself that they died and their dreams died with them. Mohammad Zia used to raise my daughter on his lap and hold her in his arms. Because he himself had suffered from being an orphan, he pampered his daughter as much as he could.

My mental state is improving now, and I am getting better in every way. I spent the first days in despair, crying and moaning. Nazanin would wake up in the middle of the night, and she would start crying and have nightmares. When my husband was alive, he would comfort her if she cried. After the martyrdom of Mohammad Zia, my daughter became very restless and she constantly has nightmares. I had also lost my spirit and would cry at night when I woke up to soothe my daughter. Before the incident, my second daughter was 6 months old. Her father was teaching her to stand up, to hold objects, even to walk. With her father's encouragement, she dared to stand up little by little. Now, she stands up, leaning against the wall or other objects, and walks slowly. But her father is no longer with us to see this.

These leaders and the government destroyed my children's world and made my life miserable. Martyr Hekmat's wife found out that she was pregnant after her husband was killed. Now she lives in sorrow, just like a dead person. Who will take care of us? What sin did our children commit that they were made orphans? My heart burns to see that Hazaras do not have mercy on their own people. What can you expect from extremist Pashtuns, ISIS, and others, when your own people become your killers? In Iran, I was a teacher in a Pashtun school and I liked the Pashtun children. They were courageous and hardworking and did not bother anyone. My father grew up in Lashkargah and always said, “Not all Pashtuns are bad; there are many kind and good-hearted people among them.” But after the Dehmazang incident, I lost my belief also in them. I am sick of those people. I don't know if it’s wrong of me to believe this, but after they shed the blood of all those innocent young people, including my husband, I no longer love or respect them like before. I used to treat other people without prejudice. I watched other people’s TV stations because I had suffered from racism and insults in Iran. When I returned to my country, I liked the people in Kabul, and I liked that I didn't have to change my accent when I spoke to my own people.

But today, I no longer watch Afghan TV stations, and especially not Rahe Farda and Negah. They traded in the blood and lives of their people. All I think about is that time is passing, and what have you, Mr. Khalili, Mohaqiq, Danesh, Naji, and Behzad, managed to achieve? Some time ago, they posted a big photo of Mohammad Zia on the street. When I was going to buy bread, I would tell him, “Zia, look what your Hazaras are doing!” Do Mohaqiq and Khalili need the support of their people again? Will the people be fooled once again by Khalili and Mohaqiq's shows? When I visit the Martyrs’ Hill, I see young people lying under the ground, and each one of them was adored by their families. My poor daughters were unjustly orphaned.

I used to think that a widow was an old woman, but now I am that widow myself, and now I realize that widowhood does not distinguish between young and old. In this country, people are killed easily. Then they give them a title: Martyr. According to them [the leaders], martyrdom is an honor, so I say to them: then let this honor be yours! What sin did Mohammad Zia commit? What did his wife and children do to end up in such misery? What was the sin of Martyr Hekmat's wife whose husband was killed? I moved to Afghanistan only because of Mohammad Zia.

When people from Europe and Australia came to propose to me, I refused. I told them I wanted to study and return to my country, and to serve my people. The homeland is like a mother and we owe her so much. When the incident happened to Zia, I started to hate this country. This country gave me and my family a bloody bad deal and took my loved one from us. Around evening time, I look at the mountains and out of loneliness and sadness, I tell them, “I used to see you like a mother and a sheltering place. Why did you treat me and my loved one this way? What shall I do with this huge burden of sadness that I have?” Forgive me for sharing my story and disclosing my sorrows to you. You must have already got tired with all my words. I try to hold onto my nerves, but when I recall the sorrows that hit me at the beginning of my life, I wish to go to the mountains and cry and complain about life and about the whole human race.

Some time ago, I visited a family therapist and a psychologist. He said that I cannot accept my husband’s death because of my love for him. But he said that this is the bitter reality that I must accept so that I am able to live a normal life. Until a few months ago, when I would visit Mohammad Zia’s grave, I would talk to him: “I wish the ground would shake and take me in. I can't tolerate this sadness anymore. Why did you leave me alone? You did not even travel away from home, so as to not leave your daughters and me alone. You would always tell to me when you were offered a job in a remote place, ‘Why should I leave you to go somewhere else for work?’ But then you left us for a frivolous job and this time, you never came back. You have left us alone for the rest of our lives. Are you happy with that? How will I spend my dark and sad nights?" Mohammad Zia really loved this land and its people and he has given his life for this country, but this country did not love him back. The best thing my neighbors' do to help is that they send their daughters to play with Nazanin, so my daughter does not feel lonely and sad. When Nazanin is alone, she keeps fantasizing and imagining flying in the sky, and a plane. She wishes a plane could take us to her father. Sometimes, she finds me keeping quiet and watches me shedding tears. So, to calm me down, she says: "Mom, don't be sad, I will save my money, then we will buy a plane, and go to visit my father." I don't know how to respond to her in such moments. When Nazanin goes out with me, as soon as she sees a girl of her own age holding her father, grandfather, or elder brother’s hand, she immediately grabs my hand. I asked her several times why she does that. She says, “Mom, don't leave me alone, I'm scared.” We all are afraid since this incident took place. I can’t sleep well at night and I always fear another similar incident might happen. Once again, forgive me for bothering you with my story. My sorrows are too big for them to heal.

His Goal Was to Raise His Voice for Justice and Peace

Narrator: Mahdi (grandson of uncle)

Victim: Enayatullah Asil Tahmasi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

I am the grandson of martyr Enayatullah Asil's uncle. His immediate family lives in Ghazni. Because they could not participate in the Memory Box program, I consider it my duty to participate. Enayatullah was born in 1997. He completed his secondary education at Kariz Patu school, in Jaghori District of Ghazni Province. When he passed the university entrance exam, he got a good mark and was admitted to the Faculty of Journalism. He was only in his first semester when death took away his dreams. He was a very active and sociable person. He had won many awards during his school time. He was going to send me his biography, but unfortunately, he was martyred and his death made us all sad. He always believed that one should work hard and fight for their rights. His only intention in participating in this peaceful demonstration was to raise his voice for justice and peace. So many people like him sacrificed their lives for this cause. We follow in their footsteps so that their blood is not spilled in vain.

Enayatullah's life was full of ups and downs. He was not yet born when his father went to Iran and then Europe. He stayed there for ten years, but could not get citizenship, so he returned to Afghanistan. Then his father moved to Europe again, and it was when he was in Europe that his father heard of Enayatullah’s success. He was very proud. When he heard about his son's martyrdom, he couldn't bear it and returned to Afghanistan. He suffered a lot; Enayatullah was his father's only hope. Nothing could console him or heal his pain. Thanks to the Afghanistan Human Rights and Democracy Organization for providing this opportunity to share our painful stories with others. We must remember to never give up and follow in the steps of the righteous martyrs.

Bullets Had Struck His Back, Heart, And Lungs

Narrator: Nader (uncle)

Victim: Jamil Kohestani

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Jamil Kohestani was born in 1995 in Bamyan Province, Varas District, Kohestan Village. 8 years ago, him and his family traveled to Kabul to improve their living conditions. He has four sisters and no brother. One of his sisters is married and the rest are single. Their living conditions had been very bad since his childhood, and that's why they left their province and moved to Kabul. His father worked as a laborer because he had no land to cultivate. The martyr was helping his father. They rented this house for 4,500 AFN. After Jamil's martyrdom, they have not been able to pay the rent due to poverty and unemployment. They could not even heat one room. Jamil used to work after school and earned 100 AFN per day. He attended school up to 8th grade at Sartakht school in Varas District, then came to Kabul. In Varas, he used to go to the mountains after school to collect grass. In Kabul, he was working as a porter in Chowk. Sadness and poverty had caused us to remain busy with our own lives. He didn't share his feelings with me, but he did try hard to get an education. After graduating from school, he successfully enrolled in the Geology Department at Kabul University. This year, he was doing his third year and had just turned 21.

On the day of the demonstration, his father told him he did not consent to his participation in the demonstration, but he did not listen to his father and said we should all go to Dehmzang to demand our rights. “How much longer will we stay silent, watching others take away our rights?” he asked. That day, he left home alone. He took an exam and then he went to Dehmazang. His father was at our house at the time. After the suicide attack, one of his acquaintances called his father and asked where Jamil was. This acquaintance said there had been a suicide attack in Dehmazang. I was very sick that day. My niece called and said, “Jamil is injured.” I hurriedly left the house and tried to call Jamil, but his phone was turned off. At around 2:30, we left the house for Kot-e-Sangi. First, we went to Esteqlal Hospital, but he was not there. That day, we searched all the hospitals but we could not find him. The next day, they picked up his body from the 400-Bed Hospital. There did not appear to be too much damage to his body, but bullets had hit his back, heart, and lungs. For us, his martyrdom was a horrific tragedy; we have not forgotten it, and it broke our hearts. Following that incident, his father developed nervous problems and is always depressed.

I am not educated enough to do something for my brother's family; there are plenty of problems that Jamil's family is facing. When he was alive, he helped his family with the small amounts of money that he earned and he was a good support for his elderly parents. Due to poverty, his father, even though he is old, still has to work so that his family does not starve. He earns just 6,000 AFN a month. Due to severe economic problems, he has missed rent payments for several months. Jamil was a calm, good-natured, and kind young man. The local people loved him very much because he didn't hurt anyone. At home, he always helped his two younger sisters with their homework. He encouraged them to get an education and he himself did his best to do the same. He also loved football and played with his friends.

I have nothing more to say. I wish our leaders supported the families of the martyrs because some families of victims of this incident are going through very tough times; sometimes they don't even have enough to eat.

It Is Our People’s Right to Have Electricity

Narrator: Nasrin (wife)

Victim: Amir Mohammad Rahimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

In the name of God,

I am Nasrin, the wife of the martyr Amir Mohammad. I have 5 children, two girls and three boys. We come from Bamiyan Province, in the district of Shibar, from Shanbal Village. We currently live in Kabul. Amir Mohammad was 45-years-old when he was martyred. However, I found out his age was recorded as older than that on his Tazkira (National ID Card).

Hamed, The Martyr’s Son:

My father was born in Kabul in 1970. He attended the Asif Mayil High School in Qala Nazer up to the 12th grade. My father had very good manners and morals and always encouraged us to do good deeds.

The Martyr's wife:

He studied up to the 12th grade. After that, he did not continue with his studies because of his difficult financial situation, and he started working. Sixteen years had passed since our marriage. He behaved very well with everyone and was a sociable and friendly person. He was very benevolent and calm. At home, he treated me and my children well. He always told us that we should defend our rights. Before the 23rd July demonstration, he would go to Mosala to participate in social events, especially those related to the Movement. He used to participate in the early meetings of the Movement and when he came home, he would talk about the right of our people. He used to say: “Electricity is a right of our people and we will stand up against the government if it violates our rights.”

He was self-employed. In the winter season, he worked with his cousin who had a store, selling Turkish stoves in Qala-e Nazer. My husband was literate and his cousin was illiterate, that's why he managed the finances of his cousin’s store. His cousin was the store owner and Amir Mohammad managed the store’s financial affairs. His dream was for his children to get an education. He was always kind at home and believed that there should not be a tense environment at home when life was already so difficult. When the issue of the 23rd July demonstration came up, I did not consent to him going to Dehmazang. I told him I did not want him taking part in the demonstration because an attack might happen. He answered, “We belong to this land and it is the right of our people to have access to electricity. We must defend the rights of our people and stand up against injustice.”

Hamed, The Martyr’s Son:

At first, it was decided that he would not go and take part in the demonstration. We tried to prevent my father from going, but his enthusiasm and his love for the people made him go to Dehmazang. We were watching the Dehmzang demonstration live on TV when the suicide attack happened. We immediately called my father to know where he was. He said he was in Dehmzang and had been injured. He was taken to Imam Ali Hospital. We got to the hospital. Since it was very crowded at this hospital and it was not possible for the staff to take care of all the patients, we transferred him to the Imam Zaman Hospital in Barchi.

The Martyr's wife:

His back was wounded, but he was not hurt severely. When we took him to the Imam Zaman Hospital, the doctor could not operate on him properly. At first, we didn't notice anything. But after a few days, his condition worsened. He suddenly had a seizure. We took him to the Rahel Hospital. They explained that all the fluid in his head was leaking into his body, and this was causing a problem with the lack of fluid in his brain. He was operated on again, but did not recover. The bullet had hit his back, but his spinal cord was not hurt.

Hamed, The Martyr’s Son:

First, we took him to Naser Khosrow Hospital. They told us there was a good specialist at the Imam Zaman Hospital in Barchi who could operate on the wounded, that's why we took him there and the doctor at this hospital operated on him.

The Martyr's wife:

When we visited him, Amir Mohammad said, "A police pick-up truck came in Dehmazang and I got on the back of the truck.” There were other wounded with him and that is how he got to the hospital.

Hamed, The Martyr’s Son:

At that time, his condition was not so serious. His legs were hurt, one leg was fractured, but it was not severe. In the Square, he wanted to find my cousin who was there at the demonstration, but he could not find him, and so he managed to get into the pick-up truck and get to hospital.

The Martyr's wife:

We took him to another hospital. Following the surgical operation, his legs stopped moving. Before the first operation, his leg was simply fractured due to the blast that had thrown him onto the ground. The doctor was dishonest; he didn't tell us before the operation that he didn't have the ability to perform the surgery. It would have been better if we could have transferred him to a better hospital or take him to Pakistan or India for the operation. After the operation, Amir Mohammad remained in a coma for four days. He never again opened his eyes. He repeatedly had seizures, and his brain fluid leaked through his back. He was hospitalized for four days in Rahel Hospital.

Hamed, The Martyr’s Son:

Preparations were made for taking him to India; we wanted to take him abroad for treatment, but he died before that could happen.

The Martyr's wife:

After my husband’s martyrdom/death, I went to the doctor to file a complaint. I asked him why he had performed such a critical operation when he lacked the know-how. He had nothing to say. When he met me, he held his head down; he was clearly embarrassed. I said to the doctor that he should have told us to take him to India or Pakistan for treatment. “Why did you do something that was beyond your ability?” Every time he examined my husband, he said, “It is okay, let this fluid come out of his body, because this is pus.” White fluid like milk came out of his back. Sometimes he could not straighten himself up easily; his back could sometimes not move. My husband died because of the negligence of this doctor. His leg was slightly fractured in the incident, and if the operation had not been done in that hospital, he could still be alive today.

I will never forgive this doctor because he ruined our life. After my husband’s martyrdom, my brother-in-law has been helping us because my son has to go to school; he can’t work. Now we have no other choice. God took my husband from us and we cannot do anything other than remain patient.

I ask the government to pay attention to the families of the Martyrs. The independent human rights commission should investigate this crime. My children are all young; my youngest son is just three years old. Now they are helpless. Their uncle can only help us for one year. The economic situation in the entire country is already bad without one family having to support another family for a long time. Since my children are young, I can't work and leave them alone. So, if there is any sewing or embroidery opportunity that I can do from home, I will definitely start working. My children must get an education and have a bright future.

He Went to Dehmazang to Seek Justice

Narrator: Wasiq Alavi (Niece)

Victim: Mushtaq ul-Hasan Rasa Saighani

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

Mushtaq ul-Hasan Rasa was born in 1989 in Saighan District of Bamyan Province. He attended elementary school in his hometown, and the Garkh Avol High School. Later, he moved to Bamyan City where he completed high school at the Bamyan Central Male High School. After graduating from school, he participated in the public university entrance exam. He was admitted to Faryab University to study Dari Literature at the Department of Humanities. After graduating from university, he came to Kabul where he engaged in civic activities for a year and a half. During his time in Bamyan, he was a field observer in Saighan District for the Independent Election Commission. When he was a student, he also served as a contract-based teacher in Bamyan. He was martyred at the age of 27 on July 23, 2016, in Dehmazang, where he went seeking justice.