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 him 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. Matiullah 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.” Until today, 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.”

The Trauma of Rebuilding a Shattered Existence

Narrator: Negar

Victim: Qand Agha

Date of the incident: May 31, 2017

Location of the incident: Zanbaq Square, Kabul city

One of the main tragedies of war is that it makes all kinds of atrocities possible. When a war begins, repeated catastrophic events eventually lead to an endless cycle of violence and suffering, depriving the people of any kind of prosperity and joy. War transforms suffering into a daily routine, thereby destroying the dreams of even the simplest of lives. Everything evaporates except war, destruction and suffering and life itself loses its inherent meaning and begins to resemble a hollow ditch that opens its mouth to devour everything.

Even when war finally comes to an end, the trauma of rebuilding one’s life casts a huge shadow and further prevents a return to normality. In Afghanistan, generation after generation have grown up under the dark shadow of war. For many, war has by now been accepted as a way of living, thereby giving further life to the rule of swords, guns and suicide attacks and a society full of hatred and violence. Consequently, violence is no longer bound by time and space while the legacy of conflict is so overwhelming that postconflict life is often more difficult than life during the violent event itself.

Qand Agha, the son of Negar is one of the victims of senseless war. He was not killed during the time of the civil war nor during the Taliban regime but as a result of a suicide attack under the current regime of president Karzai. He is the victim of a cycle of violence initiated decades before and likely to continue for years to come as the thousands of innocent deaths since 2001 prove that the roots of violence have not yet been totally wiped out. It seems that the dragons of death are not yet satisfied and that every now and then the city of Kabul must fill its stomach with more victims. The death of Qand Agha constitutes an explicit warning that the possibility of a return to fullfledged war and its tragedies should not be underestimated.

The Memory Box project is an explicit statement against the return of tragedy. It aims to shake the human consciousness and expose the tragic nature of violent conflict.

The Story of Negar

My name is Negar and I am 40 years old. Four years ago my son was killed in a suicide attack in Charahi Zanbaq in the city of Kabul. I now live in Chehil Sutun in very difficult circumstances. In the past, my life was much better, especially since my son was working.

One day, my son was asleep when I woke him up and told him to go to work as it was getting late. He asked me to let him sleep and covered himself with a blanket. After a while I sent my other son to go and remind him. He refused again but eventually someone called him on his mobile and he finally got up. He had not eaten well the night before and I brought him fresh rice to eat. Then, he took his jacket and left the house. It was late afternoon and he never came back. I borrowed my neighbor’s cell phone and gave it to my younger son to call him. When my son called somebody else answered his telephone and informed us that Qand Agha had been injured. Later my husband came home and confirmed that he was injured. My son was hospitalized for one month. Every time I visited him at the hospital, he asked me not to cry, ensuring me that he would recover soon. After a month, he passed away and his dead body was returned home.

My son was a really funny person. He was working somewhere as a security guard but I don’t know exactly where. I do not remember which month he was killed but I do remember it was winter. He had received his salary only once and was waiting for his second salary when he died. Before, he used to work as a street seller and later he became a bus conductor. His father was old and could not fully support the family.

My son was always telling me that one day he would buy a house for us. Whenever he saw the car of a newly wed couple covered with flowers, he jokingly promised he would get married soon. I remember that I cooked rice that day when he was injured. He ate but left home hungry and often complained of hunger during his month in the hospital. His cloth was torn into pieces. I still keep it as a memory of him. I want you to use his stuff for the Memory Box exhibition.

About Happiness

Narrator: Halima

Victim: Ghulam Hazarat

Date of the incident: 1992-1996

Location of the incident: Kabul

Halima’s list of dreams is neither very long nor very ambitious. Her dream is to be happy. Certainly many people in war-torn societies like Afghanistan have similar dreams of happiness. For them, happiness is not about prosperity, wealth and power. Neither is it about having stylish and luxurious mansions, or expensive cars. In short, they do not have as sophisticated an understanding of happiness as ordinary people in other countries have.

On the contrary, their world is extremely small and their expectations are very modest. For Halima and people liker her, happiness means bread. It means being able to provide a piece of bread for their children to sleep at night with their bellies full so that they can dream of other things than something to eat. At best, happiness means having a home and that one’s children sleep under a roof, in which they can grow up in peace. In addition, for people like Halima happiness means being looked upon as a normal member of society. As long as the community does not humiliate her and her sons and they can live without fear and intimidation, she is content.

Halima does not desire much more than these simple things. Unfortunately, war has denied her even the simplest of dreams. Six years after getting married, she lost her husband and was left alone with four children, with the fourth one being born six months after the death of Ghulam Hazarat. For three years they survived thanks to the assistance of the Najibullah government. However, after the Mujahidin took power in Kabul, the situation changed and government funding was no longer available for them. As a result, Halima had to sell her home utensils one after another in order to feed her children. When there was nothing left to sell, she had no option but to wash and clean people’s clothes and homes. Other times, she worked as a sewer. She remembers many days when she could only provide dry bread for her children. Today she is 45 years old, has a heart disease and can no longer operate the sewing machine. The nightmare of poverty has returned. She does not know whether a day will come when she can finally feed her children properly. If such a day were to arrive, she would finally consider herself happy. Such is Halima’s modest understanding of happiness.

The Story of Halima

When I first got married, it was my father-in-law who was the main breadwinner for our family. He was a carpenter. Later on, my father-in-law stopped working due to old age. Therefore, my husband joined the army as an ordinary soldier. My husband did not have a good salary. Since he was deployed in another province, it was difficult to send money home. In those days, together with my sister-in-law, we were doing embroidery work at home and then sold it at the local market. Eight months later, my husband returned on home leave and with the small salary he brought, we bought flour and oil. He stayed with us for a few days and then went back to the barracks. After eight months, he once again sent money to us through one of our relatives. Then, after two years my husband finally came back and we had two more children. He began working at a bakery. In those days, our living conditions were relatively good.

After a while, he was recalled by the army. Eighteen months later he was killed, just a few days before his home leave. We waited for him to come home but he did not come. On the 18th day, I woke up and told his mother that I was going to prepare bulani for her son today. I prepared everything and then fell asleep. My mother-in-law came and woke me up and I returned to my preparations. I had prepared only three bulani when I heard someone crying outside the house. I went out and saw two soldiers standing at the main door. They inquired if this house belonged to Hazarat Khan and when my father-in-law affirmed, the soldiers told him that Hazarat Khan had been injured and hospitalized.

Together they went to the hospital where they discovered that Hazarat Khan had died. They came back home around 4pm. I was calling my father-in-law Baba, so I asked Baba how Hazarat Khan was. He answered that he was slightly injured and that he would bring him home the day after. My younger son did not sleep the whole night and and asked to go and see his father. That night a lot of people came to our home. They brought big dishes. I heard my uncle asking for the Quran. I told my father-inlaw that he was trying to hide something from me and that perhaps Hazarat Khan had died. I began to cry. My mother-in-law tried to make me understand that they needed the Quran for a different purpose.

The next morning, my father-in-law asked me to clean my room saying that he and his friends would like to sit there. I went and cleaned the room. Later on, my sister-in-laws came in. They hugged me and said that Hazarat Khan had passed away. I was six months pregnant. After the news, I fainted and remained unconscious for a long time. Later, when I regained consciousness, I saw a coffin covered with red cloth. My sixyear old daughter came and asked me who she should call father from now on. She hid under the bed and began to cry.

Over the next few weeks, the fire of war spread everywhere including Chihil Sotun where we resided. Everyone was forced to leave their homes and we moved to Shur Bazaar. There, my mother-in-law died. Then, I went to live in my father’s home in Jade- Asmayi where we had nothing to eat. Next, I stayed with my sister-in-law for three months before we finally found a place to stay, though we did not even have a carpet to sit on.

Later, someone donated military blankets and a bag of flour but I had no utensils to make bread for my children and I was forced to borrow a small cooking pan from my neighbor.

My children slept most of the time, as there was nothing for them to eat. In the evenings, we had nothing to light and heat our home with. We spent three months like this. When the fighting finally came to a halt I borrowed a sewing machine from my father and began sewing for others in order to feed my children. Gradually, I managed to buy little things for home including three cups, spoons and a plastic blanket.

The worst moments were those days that I had no food to give to my children except a piece of bread. Nowadays, I wash clothes and tailor. Although this is increasingly difficult to do as I have a heart problem.

A Wedding Ceremony That Never Took Place

Narrator: Kobra

Victim: Mohammad Sarwar

Date of the incident: 1979-1980

Location of the incident: Salang, Parwan

When war becomes widespread, no one is immune to it. War reserves a share for everyone and those who survive it have many stories to tell. What all these stories have in common is that they happened in a situation of absolute emergency.

In those times nothing is normal and chaos reigns. At the same time, people’s pains and suffering are not fully equal. Similarities can be drawn but each victim of violence has his or her own distinctive story. Some are hurt because their children were killed while others were subjected to forced displacement. Yet others are left behind without any support, suffering in solitude. War retains a different fate for different people.

The story of Mohammad Sarwar is that of all those young men and women whose wedding ceremony never took place. Mohammad Sarwar was 20 years old when he was forcibly conscripted during the government of the last communist president, Dr. Najibullah. He was deployed to Panjsher valley. There he served for a year and later came back home to spend his holidays with his family. During the visit, Sarwar got engaged. He happily returned to military duty hoping to come back soon and hold his wedding party. He even bought all the things needed for the ceremony. Exactly 20 days after he had reassumed his military duty, his family was informed of his death. It was shocking news for everyone. His father later fell off the roof of his house and remained severely handicapped for the rest of his life. Hence, his mother was forced to carry the pain of both her deceased son and her handicapped husband. Ever since, the death of her young son has occupied her entire being and she never again attended any wedding party of friends or family members as these reminded her of her son’s premature death.

The Story of Sarwar’s Mother

My son was only 18 years old when he was taken to military service under Babrag Karmal’s rule. He was killed a year later. First, he used to serve in Kabul and then transferred to the Panjshir valley. He spent two months there and then got killed. During a year of military service, he came home only once. He always reassured us that one day his service would end and he would come back home. Two days before the official end of service, he got killed. He was buried in Khaja Bughra before we even came to know about his death. Later, we opened his grave and saw him one last time.

The death of Sarwar has severely affected our lives as he was our only son and breadwinner. We have suffered a great deal and I have been crying for my son day and night ever since he died. For a while, my husband was able to work and sustain the family but he had to stop working 9 years ago due to old age. Now, we have no one to support us.

I still hold on to my son’s spoon and plate as well as his old blanket, a watch and a ring. I have kept these objects to remember my son, especially the ring. When his clothes were returned to us after his death, his ring was attached to them.

A Story of Never Ending Pain Narrator: Nargis Victim’s Name: Sakhidad Hedayat Date of Incident: November 22, 1999 Location of the Incident: Kabul city If there had been no war, Nargis could have been one of the happiest women on earth. She is a strong and good woman full of courage and determination who, in spite of all the difficulties that she has faced, always has a smile on her lips. At the same time, she is dejected and disillusioned by all the things that happened to her over the years: Successive displacements, homelessness and, most of all, the death of her husband, Sakhidad. When the Taliban arrested him, she was forced to sell her house in order to bribe the Taliban to release Sakhidad, but all she received in return was his dead body. She alone had to transport the corpse all the way from the eastern part of Kabul to Dasht-e- Barchi. Since then, her life seems like a never ending journey of suffering, in which Nargis plays the role of both father and mother for her five children for whom she hopes that a better tomorrow will eventually arrive.

The Story of Nargis My name is Nargis and I am 40 years old. I live in Dasht-e- Barchi. I am originally from Bamyan province. When we lived in Bamyan, we had a decent life as my father-in-law had a great deal of land. My husband Sakhidad known as Hedayat was the only son of his family. When the Taliban attacked Bamyan, they looted our properties and we were displaced to Kabul. We had to walk all the way and my youngest child was only 40 days old. Once in Kabul, my husband opened a shop in Sar-e Kariz. However, some people did not like my husband and reported to the Taliban that he was a member of the opposition. The Taliban came and arrested him in May 2000. When we learned that he had been arrested, my cousin searched everywhere but could not find him. After four days, we came to know that he had been detained in Department No. 11 but that no one was allowed to meet him. He was first taken to the Intelligence Department and then to Department No.6 where he was detained for six months. We know that the Taliban tortured him daily without giving him any food. When my cousin tried to deliver food for him he was not allowed to meet my husband. One day I was sitting at home when my cousin came. It was early morning and I was very worried that something might have happened to Hedayat. When I saw him, I was full of fear because he usually did not visit us in the morning. He held a letter in his hand and told me not to worry. He said that Hedayat had sent a letter through the ICRC and that we were now ensured that he was alive and where he was held captive. After a great deal of effort, I found out that Mawlawi Abdul Haq was the director of Department No. 3. I asked him to give me permission to visit Hedayat in prison and after paying him a huge amount of oney, he allowed me to meet my husband. From then on, every two weeks my youngest son and I visited him in prison, even though sometimes the Taliban were making excuses and denied us entry. Every time on the way to the prison, I prayed to be granted permission to see my husband. Every time I went to see him, I had to walk all the way from Cinema Pamir to Department No. 3 with my child on my arms and food and clothes in my hand hoping to meet my husband. Every time I saw him, he gave me little gifts for the children in return. Hedayat was imprisoned there for six months. Then we were told that they would release him in exchange for 350,000 Afghani. I did my best to find the money. I sold our house. I borrowed money from my brother and took money from people promising them to pay the money back with interest. I finally gathered the money and paid the authorities. They promised to release him the following Sunday but several Sundays passed without his release. After forty days I went there again and asked two guards, Shah Wali and Mudir Abdurraham, whether Hedayat would be released today. They said that they did know now and asked me to wait. Shortly after, the gate was opened and a body was brought out on a footstool. I thought that someone had fainted but it was Hedayat’s body. I began to scream and curse at everyone and threw away my chadari. I was totally out of my mind. I was running around like mad until I found a taxi. I told the taxi driver to take us home. He accepted and put my husband’s body inside the car. When my brothers saw me in the car, they thought that Hedayat had been released. They all came to my home. I told them that the Taliban had informed me that Hedayat was dead but I still thought that he might be unconscious. I asked my brothers to fetch a doctor. He eventually came and said that Hedayat had passed away a long time ago. We then buried him in Tap-e Shuhada. When my husband died, he was 33 years old and I was 28. We had nothing left at home as I had sold everything to pay for the release of Hedayat. We had five children and my oldest son was only 10 years old, with the youngest no older than 8 months. After my husband’s death we had a very hard life. No one helped us. We lived in a tent as no one was willing to rent out his home to a widowed woman. I was indebted and the government did nothing to address my suffering. Today, no one listens to our stories of sadness. I voted for Karzai to help the victims’ families but he has done nothing so far. I also voted during the parliamentary elections, hoping that the members of the parliament would do something for us but they have not done anything either. As soon as they reach a position of power, they forget us. They just make vague promises and then do nothing. No official has ever asked us about our problems or listened to us. Earlier, I used to receive 300 Afghani but this year they have removed the names of my sons from the list of beneficiaries. My husband’s most valuable souvenirs are his five children. The most important object that he left for us is his blanket. It is the same blanket with which we covered his coffin. Another object is the letter that he sent us from prison as well as some gifts that he had given us. Most importantly, I have kept the veil that he gave me for our wedding ceremony. Finally, there are some photos and clothes of him that help me to always remember him. I have included these objects in my Memory Box so as to make my husband’s memory live forever. I wanted to share his story with the wider public. I also hope that in the future the government will use these objects to build a museum so that the people become aware of the pain and suffering our county has endured and to finally learn how to live in peace.

The Story of Ezat Mir (brother)

Victim’s Name: Rabb Khan

Date of the Incident: August 7, 2015

Place of the Incident: Sarai Ahmadzai, Shah Shaheed, Kabul

We lost our mother when we were very little. My father was a kind, supportive, and caring man and struggled a lot to provide us a living and to make us not feel our mother’s absence. Unfortunately, after three years of hard work his legs were paralyzed. Despite my brother doing all he could for his treatment and taking him to Pakistan with borrowed money, he did not recover and passed away in Pakistan.

My brother Rabb Khan who was only 16 years old had to take over my father’s job as a night guard in Shah Shaheed area to take care of us. He would guard the market from early morning to 1:00pm every day and his assistant would take over.

One day, after finishing his shift, he returns to his room when a huge explosion occurs and destroyed the entire market. His assistant said that he had been blown away and everything had gone dark and when he returned to the building to look for Rab Khan and his guest in the room, he had found both dead because the entire building had crumbled into dust.

I felt very sad that night and could not sleep until very late. I only came to know the next day that Rabb Khan had been killed in what was a suicide attack. I felt like the world had ended for me, everything had turned grey and I could not stand on my feet. But I had to stay strong to take care of nine younger siblings and since there was no better job out there, I had to continue and replace my late brother in his job. I bore the anger, difficulties, and misbehaviors of others or else my family would go hungry.

My brother was only 22 years old when he was killed. I added his remaining belongings to the Memory Box to keep his memories alive and to let everyone know war destroys families and that by killing their breadwinners, it kills the entire family.

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. As the truck passed them, a few meters away it turns towards 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 and had then managed to walk to a blacksmith and asked to take him 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 realised he was alive so they took him to the emergency section for surgery which 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 been 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 in 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 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 for charity but left a few objects which I have decided to add to the Memory Box to keep his memories alive.

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. As the truck passed them, a few meters away it turns towards 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 and had then managed to walk to a blacksmith and asked to take him 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 realised he was alive so they took him to the emergency section for surgery which 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 been 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 in 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 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 for charity but left a few objects which I have decided to add to the Memory Box to keep his memories alive.

The Tearful Eyes of a Young Woman

Narrator: Karima

Victim: Hafiz

Date of the incident: 1992-1996

Location of the incident: Kabul City

Karima was very young when her father Hafiz was taken away from home. At that time no one knew what was going on. Suddenly, a number of people with their faces covered entered the house and took Hafiz. They did not even allow Hafiz to change his clothes and put on his shoes. Afterwards, the abductors never contacted Hafiz’ family and they remained in the dark about the reasons for his forced departure. Shortly after, the family came to know that the people who abducted Hafiz were from one of the Mujahidin groups. Hafiz’ only crime had been that he was working for the government. Until today, his family does not know what happened to him but he never returned.

After Hafiz’ abduction, his family lived in absolute misery. His only son was forced to work during the early days of his childhood. He later lost his sanity due to a number of serious psychological problems while Karima’s mother suffered a heart attack during the time of the Taliban. As the Taliban banned treatment of female patients by male physicians, she later lost her life in the hospital. Karima was a witness to all these painful events.

She is now 30 years old and never shows any signs of energy and happiness. She cannot stop crying. Karima got used to suffering from her early days and the endless cycle of violent incidents in her life has turned this suffering into a routine experience. She does not know what she did to deserve this fate but strongly believes that she has suffered more than any one else in this world. Are those who ignited the fire of war even thinking of the burned life of Karima? The Memory Box project aims to document stories of people like Karima and make them part of the official history of Afghanistan. The Memory Box project is a window into the lives of victims who tell their stories as they have experienced them. Without making an effort to look at the consequences of war through the lens of the victims, it will be difficult to truly grasp the hidden realities of war. Hence, we need to clean our eyes, look through their lens and listen to their suffering and countless pains.

The history of Afghanistan has so far been written without the voices of the victims. These voices need to be made heard. Stories like the one of Karima reflect but a small part of everything that Afghan victims have endured in recent decades.

The Story of Karima

My name is Karima and I am 30 years old. I lost my father during the war. I was only 4 years old when my father disappeared. I cannot remember it in detail. I can recall only that some people with their faces covered broke into our house and took my father away. They did not even let my father change his clothes and put on his shoes. After he disappeared, we did not know what happened to him. My mother searched everywhere but could not find him. We assume that Hizb-e Islami abducted him as they were against those working for the government of the time. I remember, it was almost midnight when we heard a knock on our door.

My mother opened it and these masked men came in and took my father still dressed in his pajamas. There were people all over the house including on the roof. After his disappearance we experienced a great deal of difficulties. My brother, who was in grade six at the time had to start working to feed us. Soon after, he began to suffer from depression.

Today he is absolutely mad but still asks for my father. He believes that my father is still alive. Later on my mother died during the Taliban regime. This was the worst moment of my life (Karima cries). My mother was suffering from heart problems and later had a heart attack.

We took her to different hospitals but there was no female doctor. The Taliban had banned male hysicians from treating female patients. As a result, my mother died in Jamhuriat hospital. I cannot forget these terrible moments in my life. Therefore, I hate the Taliban.

Today, I work and feed my family. My sister works as a teacher though she does not have a permanent contract. My sister, my sick brother and I live together. One of my other sisters lives in Mazar-e- Sharif.

I fully support the Memory Box initiative. I want to keep my father’s memory alive. I will not allow for him to be forgotten. Those who have killed my father must know that someone from his family is still alive and thinking of him. This initiative is dedicated to people like my dear father (Karima cries). People are telling me that I had a very handsome and kind father. My relatives told me they saw his Memory Box on TV. I am very pleased to see my father’s memories alive.

About Crime and Punishment

Narrator: Mah Parwar

Victim: Mohammad Shafi

Date of the incident: 1992-1996

Location of the incident: Kajsher, Jalalabad, Nangarhar

The nature of war is inherently unjust, unequal and unfair. In war, one of the most problematic relationships is between crime and punishment. More often that not people are punished without having committed any crime while those who took part in crimes are never called to account.

This sad fact is clear to almost everyone in Afghanistan and there is no need to consult the books of history to prove this. The destruction of Kabul city and the suffering of its residents are overwhelmingly evident even today, with both victims and perpetrators living side by side in this city formerly praised by kings and emperors for its immense beauty.

The truth is that committing crimes in Afghanistan has been a deeply rewarding endeavor, generally resulting in higher social status and admiration, effectively transforming the war criminal into a hero to be revered.

Committing crimes brings more wealth and prosperity. On the other hand, there are those who have been punished in spite of their innocence. It is a paradox. The ones who kill and create pain and destruction enjoy better, more affluent lives, proudly posing in their mansions full of expensive luxuries. The ones who committed no crime live under the bridge, on the streets or in the ruins of their former homes, their children begging for a piece of bread. There are thousands of such stories, with many more secrets hiding under the broken skin of this decaying city. Each of those secrets tells a part of the “unjust situation”.

One of the most obvious examples of this “unjust situation” is the story of Mohammad Shafi. He is a person who quit his studies due to poverty and was forced to work in order to support his family. One day, he was killed on the way to Jalalabad without any apparent reason. Until today the death of Shafi is a mystery for his family. What they know is that Shafi had nothing to do with other people’s dirty business. On the contrary, he was busy trying to put food on the table for his family when unknown people took him out of a vehicle on his way to Jalalabad. Shortly after his dead body was sent home to his family. What crime did Shafi commit? What was he punished for? How long shall these forms of arbitrary punishment continue in the capital of Afghanistan? These are the questions that the people of this city ask themselves day after day.

So far, no one of those in power has felt the need to answer these simple questions. In the meantime, crimes continue to go unpunished and the people’s dream for the sun of justice to finally rise are slowly withering away. One thing is certain: Something must be done and the campaign for the promotion of justice in Afghanistan should be accelerated and intensified. The Memory Box project is one small step towards the realization of this dream. It is an attempt to bring the victims of injustice to the center of attention when Afghanistan’s past, present and future is being discussed. It is a step towards the prevention of further crimes and tragedies.

The Story of Mah Parwar

My name is Mah Parwar and I am 40 years old. I live in Chehil Sutun, Kabul. Before the war, we used to live in Chardehi. I was 20 years old when violence broke out. We did not have a good life at that time but it became even worse once my brother was killed.

One day, he told us that he would be going to Jalalabad to fetch car spare parts. Just before he left we even joked about his trip. My brother loved jokes. We advised him not to go there but he insisted that he had nothing left to sell in his shop. He spent one night with my sister and her family in Waisal Abad and then went on to Jalalabad. We later learned that he was taken out of the car and killed in the Kaj Sher area of Jalalabad. The driver attempted to stop the murderers but failed. It was him who reported the murder of my brother to the 60th Battalion.

It was Eid night and my mother had gone to my uncle’s home. My mother told them that Shafi had gone to Jalalabad when shortly after they were informed that Shafi had been injured and was brought to the Chardehi mosque. My mother and uncle immediately went there but could not find him. They then went from hospital to hospital and eventually found his dead body in the Ali Abad hospital. I later went to my uncle’s home where I saw the dead body of my brother.