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Narrator: Nasrin Naderi

Victim: Nasrin Naderi

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

In the name of God, I am Nasreen Naderi, the daughter of Mohammad Aman Naderi from Maidan Wardak province, Daymirdad district. I am 18-years-old and have graduated from school. However, due to the coronavirus situation, I have not yet been able to take the university entrance exam. At the moment, I am busy with social activities. Our family resides in Maidan Wardak, but I am in Kabul for my education. We have rented a room here. Due to the lack of facilities and insecurity, we have left our village of Naqshi in the Daimirdad district. Every year, we are attacked by nomadic tribes. I don't know their motive, whether political, ethnic, or otherwise, but we are attacked by them annually. These attacks cause us both human and financial losses. When they occur, all villagers flee to the mountains or elsewhere. Upon returning to their homes, they find their animal supplies and food materials burned, along with their schools and houses. It has been a few years now since my parents left. Initially, they were here with me, but once quarantine was introduced, they returned to Maidan Wardak and have remained there until now. It's been about two years since they left. My father is farming, and I have been here for approximately five or six years.

Unfortunately, I sustained injuries. The first incident took place at Kawsar Danesh in February 2018. Human rights activists certainly know that the incident; it was the first incident that happened to Afghanistan's education center and it had a serious impact on educational programs. In this incident, my hand was wounded by shrapnel. The attacker was carrying a hand grenade, and I was only one or two meters away from him. It was the first time I saw the explosion of a human being with my eyes. No one was killed, but many were wounded, most of them girls because they were sitting in the front row. The second incident happened in 2019. I witnessed an incident at Mauood that impacted heavily on my mental health and I was obliged to take a break from my studies for a year. After Mauood was hit, we lost confidence but we carried on. Once the Kawsar educational center was thriving again, we went back there and enrolled in the preparation course for the university entrance exam. Once again, there was an explosion at Kawsar Danesh alley last year in the fall. I don't recall the incident accurately; I think it was on the 29th of October. We were in the alley, and I was injured in the back by shrapnel. It penetrated deeply and reached close to my spinal cord. Due to the serious risk, the doctors in Kabul did not want to take responsibility for such a complex operation. A neurologist was needed, an expert in such surgery, but there was no such person.

Unfortunately, due to financial constraints and my father's self-employment as a farmer or street vendor, we've been unable to afford the expenses of surgery in private hospitals or seek medical treatment outside Afghanistan. Walking poses significant challenges for me. Every few steps I take, the wound area becomes bruised, leading to subsequent internal bleeding. Although the doctors have extracted the shrapnel, my injuries persist. The damage is situated on my spine, suggesting severe internal trauma. The shrapnel was only removed from my body about fifteen or sixteen days after the incident, by which time it had shifted 15 millimeters. I'm enduring immense suffering as a result of this ordeal. Despite being a victim, I reject such a label; I am averse to the term 'victim.' In my view, no one is a victim if they possess the determination and resolve to fight. I am committed to ensuring that no one else experiences the pain and suffering I have endured.

Perhaps I lack all the details; even if I once knew them, they've slipped from my memory. It was around 4:00 pm when our class was dismissed, and we were on our way to a chemistry session when the explosion rocked the alley. Our class at Kausar is large; at least 800 students attend. As we moved to another class, my friend Shukria Hussaini and I were reviewing our lessons when we noticed a young boy carrying a large sport shoulder bag, a rare sight given the center's rules. Another institution, Afghan IT, shared the same alley, so we didn't find his presence suspicious. Despite what we'd been taught about the signs of a suicide bomber, we saw no indication of such in him. My friend nudged me, pointing out the boy's bag size. When I turned, dust and smoke filled the air. Though close, we heard no sound, only saw blood everywhere, and people covered in it calling for aid. It was terrifying. I realized my clothes were drenched in blood, my fresh wound throbbing. Shukria had passed out, and I felt paralyzed, unsure of what action to take. I'm uncertain who transported me or how I reached home, or who relayed the news. When I came to, we were at Dar al-Salam hospital, where I spent days. With no adequate medical facilities, my condition worsened. The shrapnel had caused intense bleeding at the back of my head. Though it wasn't a major blood vessel, the risk was severe.

I hope to survive these adversities faced at such a young age. By international standards, we're still children. Let's transform these hardships into energy for our ambition, refusing to succumb to despair or isolation. We shouldn't see ourselves as just victims of Afghan conflict. Instead, let's aspire to compete globally in science and art.

Well, as I mentioned before, not all my classmates were close friends. It is difficult to have close friends in a classroom with 800 students. I loved all of them; we raised our voices together, studied together to understand derivative and integral and electric currents. There was only one friend whose death hit me hard, Miss Maleka Ibrahimi. I was truly hurt by losing her. She was a girl with beautiful political and economic ideas; a lady whose loss you can not ignore. We didn't spend much time together but looking at our strong friendship, it hurts to have lost her. I lost another friend in 2017 in Mauood, Miss Rahela. Miss Rahela and I were in the same English class; we completed our English course together and we attended other courses together. Rahela was determined to take the entrance exam. Since I lost them, I have tried to forget them, but it's difficult. You can’t forget such individuals. Losing such talents is a great loss for society.

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The Story of M. Musa (father)

Victims’ Names: Mohammad Sadiq and Saima

Date of Incident: April 21, 2015

Place of Incident: Darulaman Road, Kabul

I was at home when the explosion occurred. Muhammad Sadiq was swinging when his sister asked him to get her children from school. As they were walking on the pavement, Sadiq noticed a truck carrying six big gas containers getting closer. A few meters after the truck passed them, it turned toward the old parliament building and exploded. The explosives attached to the gas canisters killed and injured dozens of people. Saima’s hand and leg were cut off and we couldn’t find her leg. The shrapnel had pierced her younger brother’s abdomen, extruding his intestines and kidney. Mohammad Sadiq had pushed his nephew in the street gutter to save his life. He then managed to walk to a blacksmith and asked him to take his nephew out of the gutter. Though Sadiq lost his life due to major burns, he saved his nephew’s life that day.

I took them to Istiqlal Hospital. My son, Sadiq, was transferred to the burn injuries section and my grandson was in my arms as I held his kidney and intestines in my hand. First the doctors refused to admit him, but when he opened his eyes and started moaning, they realized he was alive and took him to the emergency section for surgery. The surgery took three days to complete. When we took my son and nephew to the hospital, we found Saima missing. Everyone started looking for her until we found her body in the Forensic Medicine Department. It was difficult to identify her because her entire body had been burned and injured by shrapnel. One of her legs had been cut off, which we never found.

My son was alive for five days but had difficulty breathing because of major burns. When we were at the mosque for Saima’s funeral, Sadiq passed away in the hospital. We buried Sadiq on the 5th of Ramadan, just a few days after Saima. He was only 27-years-old when he was killed. He was our only breadwinner and was working as a freelance tailor. He used to buy fabrics to sew clothes and distribute in the market. He was married and left behind a daughter and a young wife who are now living with us. I gave his belongings to charity but left a few objects which I have decided to add to the Memory Box to keep his memories alive.

Hope Betrayed

Narrator: Mahnaz (daughter in-law)

Victim’s Name: Bibi Zulaikha

Date of Incident: 1997

Location of the Incident: Cinema Baharistan, Karte Pawan, Kabul

Periods of war are possibly the worst chapter in the thick history book of humankind. Generally, nothing affects the human spirit more then when the blood of a fellow being is innocently shed. But for some people, these moments of terrible violence increase their appetite for bloodshed and the killing of others turns into frenetic, orgasmic excitement. For these people, the hunger for destruction and looting never diminishes, eventually turning the taking of another person’s life into an almost daily routine. What is more, the mere act of killing no longer satisfies the murderers. Hence, they begin to resort to different forms of torture, thereby constantly transforming the nature of violence as violent conflict continues over time.

One of these tragic deaths is the one of Bibi Zulikha. At the time of her murder, she was 45-years-old and lived in Karte Parwan, Kabul. She was a kind mother and a reputable woman in the area. Everyone liked her and she was living a happy life with her family. Although she was concerned about the war and its consequences, she did not leave Kabul to take refuge in another place. She remained home hoping that the war would not come after her and her family. Unfortunately, things did not turn out that way.

One day, her house was destroyed and Bibi Zulikha was killed. The war between the Taliban and the government of Rabbani was intensifying when a rocket hit Bibi Zulikha’s house, painting the walls red with with her blood and flesh. Her tragic death severely shocked her family, particularly her younger son, who began suffering severe psychotic problems that are still ongoing.

The Story of Mahnaz

My name is Mahnaz and I am 27-years-old. During the war, I lost my mother in-law. She was at home when a rocket hit our house and killed her. My husband went to see what was going on and saw his mother’s head shattered and spread all over. This tragic incident severely affected my husband. Immediately after the mourning ceremony, we left Afghanistan. Today, my husband still suffers from mental problems. I can say that he lost control of his mind. This all happened after the death of his mother.

When Homes Turn into Graveyards

Narrator: Safia

Victim: Shirin Gul

Date of the incident: 1993-1996

Location of the incident: Kabul City, Dashte Barchi

Shirin Gul is not the only woman whose house was destroyed over the past three decades of war in Afghanistan, though all houses destroyed in Kabul resemble that of Shirin Gul. The injuries visible to the walls of the houses mirror the injuries inflicted onto the bodies of its residents.

During the various conflicts, particularly the one between the different Mujahidin factions, the houses in Kabul were no longer people’s shelters. Rather, they were their graves prepared in advance. There was always the possibility of a rocket or artillery shelling destroying someone's home. None of the houses were beyond the reach of violence, nor were they durable enough to protect their inhabitants against the persistent attacks. These ruined houses became a refuge for Death, making his home among the many people buried in the rubble of their own homes. The whole of Kabul was turned into a gigantic graveyard.

Shirin Gul was one of those people whose house was bombed and took her life during the civil war in the 1990s. It happened on an evening when she attempted to defy the terror of war by holding a small reception to bring back the happiness of former times to what had by then become a city of ghosts. She did not expect that her home would one day become a slaughterhouse, and that her reception would end in terrible tragedy. Shirin Gul had invited her son in-law and brother in-law to an evening reception. They had just begun their supper when a stray rocket fired by the Taliban hit the exact room where the reception was taking place, immediately killing Shirin Gul and her two guests. The death of Shirin Gul marked the end of happiness for her children. Her husband did not marry again and dedicated himself to taking care of his mother-less children.

The Story of Shirin Gul

My name is Safia and I am 42-years-old. I am living in the Dugh Abad area of Dashte Barchi. During the war, I lost three members of my family: my mother, my cousin, and my brother in-law. My whole family, including my son in-law and my cousins, were in our home when a rocket hit our house and killed them. I was not personally present when the incident happened.

According to my family members, their bodies were ripped to pieces and it was almost impossible to identify them. My cousin had a two-month-old child who died soon after his father’s untimely death. His wife had no option but to return to her father’s home. My mother left behind six children, two sons and four daughters. Today, my father is old and my sisters are mentally unstable. One of my sisters left her husband and children because of these mental problems.

Now she does not recognize anyone anymore. I am not mentally stable either. I was desperate after the death of my mother. She loved me a lot.

The worst moment in my life was when I heard about the death of my mother. After she died, no one ever properly welcomed me in my father’s home anymore, and this made me so disappointed.

Tears Of Joy, Tears of Pain

Narrator: Basira

Victim: Zakia and Matiuallah

Date of the incident: January 25, 1993

Location of the incident: Kabul City

For Basira, her life began to unravel on one bloody afternoon. The cold February weather brought everyone to the yard of the house. A clear sky and plenty of sunlight provided an opportunity for the children to play. Zakia, 6-years-old, brought her little brother Matiuallah to the yard to enjoy the sun. Everyone was ready for a beautiful day. The joy and happiness was evident on the faces of all, especially on Zakia’s face.

She was speaking to her little brother as if she were an adult. In her sweet and innocent accent, she told her brother about the light of the sun, the hardships of winter, and the good future that lay ahead of them. She showed her toys to her brother and promised to buy a good toy for him, too.

She took Matiuallah’s hands, rubbed them together, sang a song, and then kissed her little brother. Zakia was wearing a red coat. With the reflection of the sunlight and the snowy background, she looked almost purple. Her brownish hair was dancing on her red coat as she was jumping up and down.

Her face was shining and her eyes were hidden under the thickness of her black eyelashes. The big world outside was also very exciting for Matiuallah. He loved laughing, playing, and sometimes shouting at his older sister Zakia. Matiuallah had fleshy white skin, thick hair, and blue eyes. When he smiled, everyone was enchanted.

Watching such a memorable scene in a city where nothing except the sound of guns, rockets, and bullets could he heard, made Basira very happy. While watching her children play, she prayed to God to protect them in these difficult times. What she did not realize is that happiness in times of violence is not sustainable and that even a mother’s prayer cannot halt the brutal power of war. That day, a reception was prepared and they were invited to a feast in their beautiful yard. Everything was ready for Basira and her children to forget the horrors of war for a brief moment. Yet, this moment quickly transformed into unspeakable tragedy.

No one understood what was happening. A thunderous sound followed by a huge explosion blurred the atmosphere. The blue sky and clear sunshine were suddenly gone. Basira can perfectly recall the tragic event but she cannot precisely explain what happened that day. After the explosion, Basira says, “I got up and saw that all my family members were lying on the ground. I was confused, wandering around not knowing what to do. I heard Zakia screaming and calling for me. She asked for water. When I returned with the water, Zakia was no longer speaking. I touched her body but it was already cold. Her eyes were open, staring at me. I put her down and ran towards Matiuallah. I was so happy when I realized he was still alive. I hugged him. Suddenly, he stopped crying and I felt something cold and wet in my hand. I saw his belly ripped open and all his intestines coming out.

I understood that he was dead just like Zakia. I cried and cried and cried! I was screaming and running around. After that, I cannot remember what happened." Basira cannot talk much about that tragic moment. When she speaks about Zakia and Matiuallah, the color of her face changes. Tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes. Sometimes, she cries so much that her headscarf is soaking wet. She says, “I feel that I have a deep wound in my chest. A wound that continuously spits out blood. I’m sure one day I will drown in my own blood.”

Men Carried the Wounded Kids and Women Stayed with the Dead Kids

Name and Last Name: Mina Tarakhel

Date of Birth: 27 September 2006

Date of Injury: 9 October 2015

Type of arm: Rocket

Mina: When the rocket hit our house, I was playing in the yard with my brother, sister, and cousins. I don’t remember anything else. Everyone was crying and my foot hurt so bad. In the hospital, I found out that my younger sister had passed away.

The girls in our village are not allowed to go to school. This is why we go to the mosque which is located in our vicinity to have religious lessons. After I was wounded, I stopped going to the mosque for religious studies.

My foot hurts sometimes now. There is shrapnel in my left foot. I went to visit the doctor again. After check-ups, they said there is no need for taking out the shrapnel.

Mina’s Aunt: It was 5 PM. Men went to the mosque to do their prayer. Women had not done their prayer yet. Mina and other kids were playing outside when the rocket hit them. I ran out and gathered the wounded and dead kids. It was a very bad situation. There were 9 kids and the fight started just then. We were all wondering in those moments. We couldn’t understand what happened so quickly. When I ran out of the room, I faced a terrible scene. All the kids were injured and we had no idea who was dead or alive. I rose up one of the kids. He was in a very bad condition. We rose up the kids one by one to make sure they were alive. My 5-year-old son was dead.

Five of them were alive and the other four kids had passed away. Mina, Sameer, and Irshad's legs were cut off. Mina and Irshad were in bad condition. Two girls passed away on the way to hospital, one was 5-years-old and the other was 6-years-old.

The fight that started between the national army and the Taliban made our family mournful. My cousins and brother took the injured to the hospital with the private car. They went under operation that night. They cut off Mina's feet right that night. When she woke up, she was screaming and crying. Now she gets out of the home pulling herself, and has become a calm and secluded girl.

The doctors told us to come back after 6 months to get a wheelchair for Mina and Irshad. But Doctors without Borders were bombarded, and Mina and Irshad don’t have wheelchairs yet.

When the kids were injured, men took them to the hospital. I and the other women were busy with the dead. When I saw my son’s dead body, the day became dark for me as if it was night. I would check the wounded kids once and came to my son’s dead body the other time. My loved one was on the ground breathless. The three of our kids who were dead were 5-years-old. When my brother came home from the hospital, he asked me whether I wanted to see the other kids or not. I said yes I want to see them! We buried our loved ones, now we have to visit them.

I lost my husband three years ago. Now I am a tailor. I sew collars and live in my father’s home with my brothers. I feed my children with the money I get from sewing. My 10-year-old son works too. We don’t have land so we could use the agricultural harvest. I try hard to feed my kids with sewing collars and my son’s wages.

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