AHRDO

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 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.

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.

No statement

Because of the Severe Shock, He Completely Lost His Nerve

Narrator: Mohammad Reza Nazar (cousin)

Victim: Khodadad Karimi

Date of the incident: 23 July 2016

Location of the incident: Dehmazang, Kabul City

On the day of the demonstration, I was unable to go to Dehmzang due to my university exams. However, after finishing my exam, I decided to join my friends who were already there. Since I had a car, I drove towards Dehmazang. However, because of the large crowd, they did not allow me to cross the main road, so I tried to take a side road instead. As I began driving, I heard a loud explosion. It frightened me, so I immediately stopped the car.

People were running and I couldn't move my car. I left the car door open to be able to escape if the situation worsened. After two explosions, the sound of bullets gradually became silent. Some people were leaving the area while others returned to help the wounded and martyrs. I joined a group of people and we made our way to the explosion site. It was a terrible day, with many people injured and killed in Dehmazang Square. I tried contacting my friends to ensure they were safe, but some of their phones were switched off. To name one, Aref Shaygan's phone was off, and Mr. Mohammed Hossein Saramed did not answer my calls. The only person who responded was Mr. Jalil Tajlil. He arrived at Degmazang and together, we went to help the wounded. I took some of the injured to the hospital in my car. Later, I went to the hospital to visit one of my friends who was injured. At that point, I had no information about the martyrdom or injuries of Khodadad Karimi. A friend of mine called to inform us that two people from Patu had been martyred and were in Aliabad Hospital. At the time, I only knew about the martyrdom of Inayatullah Asil. It was only later that I found out that Arif Shaygan had also been seriously injured.

As I was about to head to the hospital in Aliabad, I received a call from an unknown number. The caller asked, "Who are you?" I was surprised and introduced myself. The caller then asked, "What is your relationship with Khudadad Karimi?" I replied, "He is my cousin." To verify my identity, the caller gave me his details. I became very worried and asked if something had happened to him. The caller replied, "Unfortunately, he has been martyred." I was shocked to hear this news and didn't know what to do. The only thing on my mind at that moment was that he was the sole breadwinner of his poor family, and I wondered what they would do now. Together with Khaliq Azad and other friends, we headed to Aliabad Hospital. I dropped them off and then went to Imam Ali Mosque.

When the incident occurred in Dehmazang, he was seriously injured. His friends took him first to Aliabad Hospital, but unfortunately, he was martyred soon after and later taken to the mosque. My mental state was terrible; I called all my friends and acquaintances to inform them of this tragic event.

We consulted with our other friends, and we decided that it was best to inform his family because his mother had already been informed that he was seriously injured. His mother had gone to the hospital herself, but his father was seriously ill and had not noticed his son's martyrdom due to his mental and emotional problems. Two days later, he found out that Khodadad had been martyred. When his father heard the news, he cried a lot and completely lost his nerve due to the shock.

Khodadad was the sole breadwinner of his family, and his siblings were young. Additionally, his father was already disabled. After his martyrdom, his two children were enrolled in Marefat High School and Pegah High School without paying any fees. According to a person who was with Khodadad when the incident happened, it was during lunchtime, and some people had gone to eat while others were sitting in the square and enjoying their lunch. Khodadad was standing when the explosion occurred. The two people who were sitting down were safe, but unfortunately, Khodadad was martyred and his body was severely damaged. As his family did not have the financial resources, we covered the expenses of his Fatiha and memorial ceremony.

No statement

The Shoes Were the Same but His Face Had Turned Pale

Narrator: Jan Ali Yousofi (victim’s cousin)

Victim: Mustafa Anwari Date of the incident: 24 October 2020

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

I am Jan Ali Yousofi, cousin of martyr Mustafa, from Ghazni Province, Malestan District, Paye Jolga Village in Pashi. I spent almost my entire life with Mustafa. I believe Mustafa was born on November 3rd, 2002. Martyr Mustafa would have graduated this year from high school. He had come to Kabul to prepare for the entrance exam. Mustafa's father lived with his family in the countryside, in our village, Paye Jolga, Pashi, while my family lives in Kabul. Mustafa was considered a member of both our family and when he came to Kabul, he lived in our house.

The last time he came to prepare for the entrance exam - his initial trips to Kabul were for foundational courses since the education quality is not good in the countryside — he lived in our house while he attended classes. But lately because of the number of guests in our house, he said it would be better for him to live somewhere else to ensure he stayed focused on his studies. It had been less than two months since he rented a room for himself to live with his friends, who also attended the same classes. Mustafa would only visit our house on Thursdays and Fridays.

Coincidentally, he was at our house that last Friday, the day before the incident took place. He had been away for a long time, about two weeks, and we all missed him. When he came home, I was mad at him and jokingly slapped him on the back, asking why he hadn't visited us. I told him he had forgotten home and only cared about his studies. Mustafa had become a different person compared to his last visits. He had become handsome. He came to our home on Friday, and on that same night, a Saturday night, at around 4 pm, I was supposed to go somewhere and I noticed his hair. It was so beautiful. I could not imagine Mustafa looking like that. I picked up my mobile phone and asked him if he had found a girlfriend. It was just a joke between us. I told him to let me take a photo of him. I insisted, but he did not allow me to.

The next morning, I went to work and he stayed at our home until noon. He had helped with house chores like washing carpets. He had been reluctant to go, but did not want to miss classes even for one day. That is why he got such good marks.

He left the house at 1 pm to attend classes. It was about 4 pm on Saturday, October 24th, and I was on my way back from Kot-e Sangi where I had some business to do. On the way, I heard there has been an explosion. I thought it was an explosion somewhere far from us; nobody imagined it would impact us so much.

People said the explosion had happened at the entry of the Kawsar Danesh Educational Center. They said the suicide attack did not cause too many fatalities. I felt somewhat hopeful, not wanting to imagine the worst but my brain was frozen. I received a call from home. They asked me to call Mustafa to see why his phone did not connect. It rang but nobody picked it up. I became worried, thinking about why Mustafa would not pick up his phone when he had used this phone number for two or three years. I called and someone said it was his phone, not Mustafa’s. He told me his name and said he was a friend of Mustafa. He said Mustafa was inside the center but they were far from each other and he did not know more about Mustafa.

It took me a long time to get there; the roads were closed and I got down in Tanke Tel and walked the rest of the way up to the entrance of the Center. The situation was horrible; many cars were being used to transport the wounded and killed and many people were gathered there. I wanted to get inside but someone said there is a chance of a second explosion. So, we all ran away and then came back. My brother arrived and we decided to check the hospitals, Imam Zaman, Alimi, Imam Ali, Imam Reza, Sayed ul-Shohada, Watan Hospital, etc. We found him nowhere. In Watan hospital, we saw one of Mustafa’s friends who was wounded. He had a minor injury but it made me sad when I saw him. I kissed and comforted him. I was crying for Mustafa but was happy the boy had survived. We then visited Muhammad Ali Jinnah Hospital and checked the martyrs and wounded lists. Mustafa’s name was on none. There were some corpses left in the waiting hall. I could not imagine that Mustafa could be one of those.

I got a taxi to go to the Emergency Hospital and three or four other hospitals to check the deceased. I was arriving at the Emergency Hospital when I received a call and was told Mustafa had been located. I asked if he was okay, and they said yes. Drowned in fear and anxiety, I left. On the way back, someone called and told me to return. I asked again about Mustafa; he answered “you will know.” I was anxious and shaking. I suspected something was wrong and he might have been caught in the attack. Upon return, when I saw Mustafa, I was shocked. I could not believe it when they said it was Mustafa. The person who was with me yesterday at 4 pm was now laying on the ground. I guess it was around 8:30pm when we found Mustafa. There was another relative of ours, Martyr Maleka, you have interviewed their family members as well. They said she was in the emergency section but she was doing well.

Well, when we arrived at the hospital, we saw a scene that I could not believe. It was around 10 pm, I tried to keep our relatives searching, as my brain could not accept this was Mustafa. But his shoes were the same and his face had turned pale. Mustafa used to be brown. His hair, as we call it in Hazargi, had turned into ashes because it was burnt. In short, my mind could not accept that it was our Mustafa.

That night, we discussed what to do. The road to our village was very dangerous, most parts are controlled by the Taliban, especially Dasht-e Qarabagh, nicknamed the 'doomed desert.' We were exploring other options but his parents said he should be sent to his hometown. They didn't want to let me go with his body, as they said the road was too dangerous and I was young. Considering my education and my age, they did not allow me to join. It was three o'clock in the morning when my parents left Kabul to take our martyr to his hometown. They arrived at Mustafa’s village by 4 pm on October the 25th and buried him.

It is so hard to talk about this incident. He was 18, in 12th grade. That was a sad part of Mustafa’s life. I will share my point of view about Mustafa. When he was 10 or 12, we lived together. We lived and ate together in our village. We shared whatever we had. My uncle and my father were very close.

Mustafa began school in 7th grade. When I was at home, I was his teacher. My uncle had two sons: Mustafa and Murtaza, who was two years younger. He also has a daughter, Zahra, but she is married. So, I was homeschooling his three kids and a child of my other uncle. Apart from homeschooling, they also went to school and the mosque. So, I developed a close relationship with Mustafa. I could say there have been occasions when he would have loved me more than his father, as I was also giving him freedom when his father did not, like playing football. He was a kid and he had to do what he liked.

For instance, in April 2020, I visited the village with my family during quarantine. During this visit, I taught him how to drive a motorcycle. His father had previously not allowed him to do it, out of care and love for him. I taught him secretly during my two week stay there. When I was in the village, he spent most of his time with me. We worked together with my uncle.

So, the relationship I had with Mustafa was close. It is so painful and I am hurt to loose such a person with whom I had a sincere relationship. Mustafa had two brothers and four sisters. My uncle had seven children. Now that Mustafa is gone, two sons are left, one of his daughters is married and three daughters are at home. My uncle would take Mustafa to work after school. Parents are not be able to earn a livelihood without their children’s help. As they raise livestock and cows, it requires a lot of work. Mustafa was his father's main support; he was the one who could help his father. As a teacher, he could only earn 7 or 8 thousand AFN. Most of the time, it included payments such as overtime. This was all his monthly income and he had to feed the entire family.

Mustafa was his second child. His first child was his married daughter. Before his daughter got married, she could work. In the countryside, girls do a lot of heavy work. There is a lot to be done. He could ask Mustafa to collect the livestock feed, do that work, serve as his messenger, and so on. His father could handle the rest of his work with peace of mind. His father also served as an Imam in the winter in a village that required him to walk for two hours or more. During this period, Mustafa would be the caretaker of the house. His father served the entire winter season to earn 15 000 AFN. The job required him to stay in that remote area and could only visit home during weekends. This heavy reliance on Mustafa also explains why his death is such a huge suffering. Truly huge. His father has aged suddenly. As he is a clergy and he does not want to show his feelings. Furthermore, because he has so many people dependant on him, he does not want to show any sign of grief, but in his heart... The truth is that he is weaker now, physically and mentally.

Whenever we talk to his mother, she is crying. Mustafa’s mother and the rest of the family members, including the children, are hurt even more. For example, his younger brother does not dare visit Kabul. We ask him to come here to go to school or on vacation but he does not dare to do it. This is because residents of Kabul go through such attacks on a daily basis. Think about the attack that happened there the other day, it was some 500 meters away from my brother. This may seem normal to us but they see Kabul as a monster. A burnt child dreads the fire.

Another good thing about Mustafa was that, like me, he was passionate about teaching his mother and siblings at home. His little sister and brother are top performers at school. All children of my uncle have attended school, except the youngest one who is yet to enrol in school. She has learned Farsi well though she has not been to school. At the mosque, they study one entire book in the winter season; they have sharp minds. Mustaf had the biggest impact on the younger children. He was the home school teacher; he taught his mother who was illiterate. Now, she can read thanks to Mustafa.

In terms of mental and psychological effects, it is true that God takes away the good ones. He was a good one. He would help at home and teach family members. His father is a clergy. Clergies are very traditional-minded. He did not allow his elder daughter to go to school. Mustafa had to insist and now, she is studying at Herat University. This shows what a positive influence Mustafa was.

Well, such incidents are common in Afghanistan; we have been affected by losing my cousin and other young people. You can’t control your emotions when you lose an educated man with whom you had a close relationship. Following this incident, there is something in my mind. It may be wrong but I strongly hate the Muhammad Ali Jinnah Hospital. I know, I ask myself how this hate benefits me, the hospital has not done anything to me, this is what criminals have done to us. But I witnessed the most horrible scene of my life in that place and I cant get it out of my mind. When I pass by the hospital in a vehicle, I look away. This is because of the image it created in my mind on that particular night. I don’t remember what happened but the family members say I passed out. It was so hard for me to accept that it was Mustafa. It was only his shoes that made me think it was him but my brain could not process it. For three days, I could not believe it was Mustafa.

As an educated person, I should understand things. I have done my best to understand that such things could happen in anybody’s life. My brain tells me to admit that but it has changed my life. After the incident at Sayed ul-Shohada, I had spooky dreams for two nights in a row and I am taken back to the Kawsar Danesh attack. Before, I was not affected by such event. For instance, in the Enlightenment Movement, I lost a student, and it impacted me too. It was painful for me to be out of the country when the incident happened. Then, losing Mustafa made me suffer so much that it reminded me of my student and made me feel that I did not grieve enough for him. Now the Kawsar Danesh attack is a link that connects me to so many other attacks.

I have studied and graduated from the Chinese language and literature department at Kabul University. I got my Master’s degree from China and for about three years, I worked at Marefat High School as head of the Academy of Languages. So, my profession is education. So, when a man with a higher education degree and with work experience in the education sector goes through this level of mental pressure, how would a mother with a simple living experience cope with it? I mean, I am trying to understand the reality in Afghanistan that it is not only our Mustafa but there are hundreds of thousands of Mustafas in Afghanistan who go through the same experience every day. But a mother whose entire life is dedicated to her children, home, and living condition, how could she cope with it?

I am coping with mental pressures and I find it difficult. As an educated man, I do not expect people to come and comfort me in this situation. On the financial help matter, the government and some institutions have provided assistance. I have transferred every single penny of the assistance to my uncle, whether in cash or in goods. I have followed up on all the assistance for my uncle. This is the government’s responsibility but the government has failed to provide security for the people in Afghanistan, the same way they failed to protect Kawsar Danesh. Afghanistan Human Rights and Democracy Organization’s continued efforts have given me hope. There have been some other organizations that provided some support. More importantly, I am optimistic about the association of families of Kawsar Danesh victims; they sometimes hold meetings. There are some friends at the association of families of Kawsar Danesh victims who leave no stone unturned so people don’t forget the incident. What is significant to me is to act responsibly towards the wishes and needs of the victims and follow up on the matter. That gives me hope, even if we don’t see the fruition of our efforts. That gives me a sense of calmness. Every martyr of Kawsar Danesh incident has been like Mustafa who had high ambitions.

Well, they say they are investigating the attack. I suppose the president or someone else issues an instruction to investigate the incident; that is it. They have not told us who was behind the attack. Was it ISIS, the Taliban, a circle within the government, or someone else? They have not determined that. The government suffers from shortcomings. If the government shows us who was behind the attack, and what they did in response, for example, caught, imprisoned or hanged someone or launched an airstrike, we would be reassured; we will tell Mustafa he can rest in peace now, he is no less than a martyr who loses his life in the battlefield because he fought in the educational front and they were in the war. He did not give up and my soul is tranquil because the government took action for his loss.

The current situation could be interpreted as Mustafa growing up like a plant, a storm came and uprooted the plant, and no one asks how the storm happened or whether it was controllable. If it was not controllable, what actions are taken to prevent other plants from falling?

We come from the same clan as Maleka Ibrahimi’s family but are not closely familiar with them. We come from the same area; we hold joint ceremonies, like Fatiha, and we share the same local association. I wish no more attacks like this happen. May there be no family going through our experience. We may not have suffered so much if we had lost someone else. Looking from different aspects, I first hope the incident does not happen to anybody else and may the wickedness of perpetrators get back to their own. Enough is enough. They must keep the security of western Kabul where such incidents are happening again and again. If not more is being done, they should, at least, improve the security situation in western Kabul. Other regions do not see as many attacks; there could be some magnetic bombs as result of personal rivalries. The concern is about these incidents happening again, such as the attack on Sayed ul-Shohada High School. I wish the government and our people get the ability to restore peace and prevent such horrific attacks and people like Mustafa who have hopes and talent accomplish their dreams. Mustafa had such a unique talent that he learned three books in a winter season. We spent three to four years learning Hafiz; he completed Quran, Hafiz, and Panj Ketab in a single winter. Afghanistan should not lose such talents; we should not lose anybody, irrespective of their talent. Such incidents should never repeat themselves.

مردگیش درگ نداره راوی: خدیجه عزیزی (دختر کاکا) قربانی: حسن زمان حادثه: ۱۳۷۷ مکان حادثه: مزار شریف [نامم] جدیجه [و تخلصم] عزیزی [است] آری. [شهید نامش] حسن [است]. پسر کاکایم می‌شد و ایورم. یگان ۲۵ ساله بود که شهید شد. در خود یکاولنگ، در قریه زارین متولد شده بود. [حسن] غریب کار بود دهقانی نمی‌کرد، گاهی وقت دهقانی هم می‌کرد، مقصد کار می‌کرد در شهر ملک‌ها کار می‌کرد. گاهی به مزار می‌رفت گاهی به کابل، بامیان [برای کار کردن می‌رفت]. [محل شهادتش] مزار [شریف است]. حسن وقتی که به شهادت رسید همرایش یک بچه خاله‌اش و یک بچه عمه من یک بچه تغه/طغه من هم بود همه‌اش در مزار غرق شدند. 1 [در حمله طالبان به مزارشریف] شهید شد. کارگری، آری در مزار برای کارگری رفته بود. [حادثه] سرِبهار بود، آری سربهار. [همان سال ۱۳۷۷] البته، من آنقدرش را نمی‌فهمم. نه، درس نخوانده بود فقط یک سیاهی خوان بود، درس نخوانده بود. آری [خانه‌اش در] سرآسیاب بود. نه، نه قبرش سرگُم رفت ما ندیدیم. (نامفهوم) ما دیدیم که شهید شد، خیلی کسان [دیگر هم شهید شد] همان بچه خاله‌شی همین بچه عمه من همین‌ها هیچ مردگی‌اش درک ندارد. خیلی دیر بعد قوم‌ها جمع شد گفت ما به چشم خود دیدیم کشته شد. آری گفتند طالب‌ها کشته بچُوم که چه رقم کشته. خبر داشتیم یک عکس سیاه و سفید از کابل روان کرده بود، همینطور یگان نشانی روان می‌کرد احوالش را یگان دکاندار می‌آورد، گاهی خودش می‌آمد. تیرماه [خبر شدیم] و پدر و مادرش را شنواندیم. مادرش سهو شد از آن پس خیلی دیوانگی می‌کرد، گپ‌های ایله کاله می‌گفت بیچاره. آری از خاطر همان [مرگ نوجوانش] آب یخ می‌خورد دیگر چیزی خورده نمی‌توانست. بیخی شب در خانه نمی‌آمد روز تا بیگاه و شب تا صبح را می‌گشت و می‌گفت دلم سرخ می‌آید؛ همینطور می‌گشت بیچاره. پدرش خوب بود، غنیمت بود به اندازهٔ مادرش کُوتو نمی‌کرد. [وقتی پدر و مادرش را خبر کردند بعد از آن آنها هیچ سرقبرش نرفتند چون] او گم شد، هیچ قبر نداشت. خیلی آدم خوبی بود، کارگر بود، زحمتکش بود، یگان کَرَد می‌آورد، ما خیلی... آنطور که... گاه چیز نبود یک روغن نباتی ایلفی بود در همان دوره، برنج پرمل بود، کار که می‌کرد از آنها به ما می‌آورد، خوب بود، خیلی بچه قاش‌واز بود. خانه نمی‌نشست. آنجا کار کردن می‌رفت، گاهی غزنی می‌رفت، گاهی کابل گاهی بامیان. آری مجرد بود، خانه دار نبود. دایم او را ازبک می‌گفت، سید و هزاره به نام اوزبک می‌شناخت، قد بنلد داشت و خوبشی بود. او دایم کوله پکول سر می‌کرد. پَک گُم شد. یکدانه قاشق داشت، قاشق قدیمی ارمنه که از او بود. یک ساعتش تا بعدها بود [اما] خراب، اگر بچه‌ها بیرون نینداخته باشند. [پدرش] آری دو سال شده فوت کرده، مادرش یک دو سال پیش [از پدرش فوت کرد] یعنی چهار سال می‌شود. آری [مادرش تا آخر عمر] یادش را می‌کرد. مادرش از همان خاطر مریض شد، پای درد شد، کم فکر شد، خیلی کم فکر شد. آری [وقتی زنده بود با پدرش خرج خانه را فراهم می‌کردند]. پدرش که ماند هم در گردن او(شوهر خدیجه عزیزی) بود و مادرش هم. زیاد نفر که قتل شد هیچ کس هم جستجو نتوانست که پیدا شود، از هیچ کس پیدا نشد. نه، نه هیچ چیزی نگفت [روزی که طرف مزار می‌رفت] او که می‌رفت از دشت می‌رفت و هیچ در قصه‌اش هم نبود که خبر کنم یا نکنم هیچ در غمش نبود، می‌رفت همانطور. آری [نترس بود] هیچ در غمش نبود. ما آنجا را ندیدیم، می‌گفتیم کجایه؟ [می‌گفتند] کابله! کابل را ندیدیم، مزار را همین حالا هم ندیده‌ام، کابل را هم آنطور ندیدیم یک بار همانطور گذری رفتیم. می‌رفت همانجا، ما دیگه سیاسریم ندیدیم که کجا می‌رود یا نمی‌رود. باز می‌آمد، می‌رفت، قدیم یک خط می‌آمد. تلفن نبود، نه برق بود نه تلفن بود هیچ چیز هم نبود. در اول [حکومت] کرزی جنراتور پیدا شد که برق آمد. خانه که می‌آمد هیچ قصه نمی‌کرد، هیچ چیز نمی‌گفت.

Confidential

Confidential

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.

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