AHRDO

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.

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.

When Homes Turn into Graveyards

Narrator: Safia

Victim: Shirin Gul

Date of the incident: 1993-1996

Location of the incident: Kabul city, Dash-e 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, in particular the one between the different Mujahidin factions, the houses in Kabul were no longer people’s shelters but rather their graves prepared in advance -albeit on the surface. There was always the possibility of a rocket or artillery shelling destroying people’s homes. None of the houses were beyond the reach of violence and neither 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 where 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 take 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 Dugh Abad area of Dasht-e- Barchi. During the war, I lost three members of my family: My mother, my cousin and my brotherin-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’ untimely death. His wife had no option but to return to her father’s home. My mother left behind six children, 2 sons and four girls. 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.

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.

About The Futility of Using Words to Describe War

Narrator: Mah Jan

Victims: Abdurrafi, Abdul Wahid

Date of the incident: 1992-1996 (Estimated)

Location of the incident: Kabul City and Logar

War is full of irrationality. It causes deep injuries to the hearts of mothers and fathers and makes them eternally grieve for their lost children. It takes away a happy and prosperous life and replaces it with pain and suffering. Afghanistan is the country of pain, torment and injustice. Its people have become prisoners of the inhumane logic of violence. Here, horrendous atrocities have occurred one after another for many years in every corner of this country, subsequently breaking the spirit of its population and causing serious, unhealed wounds in people’s hearts. With every day that passes, more people lose their lives while the hope for a better future dies a painful death. Why is this happening to this beautiful country? The secret of this puzzle is yet to be found and the dark cloud that has cast its shadow over the population has yet to be removed.

The story of war in Afghanistan is the story of pain and suffering. One of the people who understand this intimately is Mah Jan. She is the perfect image of a war victim. She has lost everything and her mind is like an archive of the endless suffering of the Afghan people. An archive as thick as an encyclopedia that contains every existing story of war ever told.

Mah Jan could be considered the perfect and complete Afghan. She has experienced it all and only people like her know exactly what tragedy means and what kind of life war brings about. Only people like her can distinguish whether war is something good or bad. She is the face of the Afghan people. She hardly speaks about her pain because she does not trust anyone is interested in listening to her. However, in the few moments when she does speak out, it is not just words that come out. Mah Jan takes you to another world where the word loses its intermediate role. She makes you encounter the naked truth. The words in her mouth lose its verbal nature and her entire body speaks with you. Her face of sadness reveals all the hidden secrets. There is not even a need for her to open her mouth. Her facial lines and languished hands, her hollowed eyes and crushed spirit they all speak to you. She speaks in thousands of languages to About The Futility Of Using Words To Describe War you about her pain. The words are limited exclusively to express her suffering.

Her disturbed soul does not fit into the framework of words. In her speech words do not connote any meaning beyond their most basic implications. Her story resembles the metaphor of the ‘speechless dreamer and the deaf’. Neither is she capable of communicating her painful story nor do we have the ability to truly absorb it.

The Story of Mah Jan

My name is Mah Jan. During the war, I lost two of my sons, my husband, my brother-inlaw and a number of my cousins. I lost everything. I was living in Chehil Sutun, Kabul. Later we were displaced to Logar and Khair Kahan. We could not afford to leave the country. One of my sons was killed in Chehil Sutun and the other one in Logar province. I had not seen the latter for three years when I was finally told to go to Logar to see him. I was taken to a cemetery and informed that my son was buried there. As I could not afford to transfer his body to another graveyard, I accepted for him to remain there.

My first son, Abdurrafi was killed in 1997 and the second one was killed the following year. When I came back from Logar, we first moved to Shiwaki but later we returned to my home in Chehil Sutun, as I loved my home. When we moved back we saw that nothing was left. Everything had been taken including the doors and windows. Apparently, the people from the checkpoint took them. It was during the Taliban time. One day, I decided to clean the home. I had yet to finish my cleaning when a rocket landed. I became worried about my son as I had just sent him out to buy some things. A few minutes later, my neighbor came and told me that my son had been injured and that I should go to the hospital. It was in the afternoon. I saw my older son on the street and he asked me what had happened. I told him that Abdul Wahid had been injured. He began to cry and the two of us went to the hospital in Allawoddin. As we entered the main corridor of the hospital, I saw a dead body. I stopped and uncovered his face. His shoes were placed under his head. I realized that it was my son. I cleaned his blood with my chadari and we took him home. It was late afternoon. The whole night I cried and cried. I lost two of my sons. Two months later my brother-in-law was killed in Ghazni. He was working there. My husband buried his sons and brother. He was going every now and then to cry over their graves until he got paralyzed. For six years he could not move until he finally died. I took care of him. I washed him two times a week and gave him food every day. I lost two of my sons, my husband and my brother-in-law. A widowed woman married my third son and then they disappeared.

I never saw him again. I now have only one son with whom I currently live. He has a shop. Every day he works hard to feed us. I used to work in other people’s homes as cleaner and care taker. I did all kind of work to support my family. My first son was 18 or 19-year-old when he was killed. The second was only 16 years old. The younger one used to work in a shop and sometimes he collected food from the trash cans and brought it home for us to eat. After coming back to our home, we used to live in a home without doors and windows. We were in Chehil Sutun when the war intensified. There were checkpoints everywhere therefore we went to Shiwaki.

My situation further deteriorated when my husband was handicapped after he suffered a paralysis. In his last days, I swear to God that we had nothing to eat. Once I cleaned the flour bag and prepared some bread for him. I mixed it with oil and put in his mouth. Now there are three people left in our home, my son, my daughter and myself.

There are very few things left behind from my sons. An old shoe from my older son, which is very valuable to me. I have also kept his hat. One of my sons did not even have proper clothes. I am not lying. When he was killed, I bought 7 meters of fabric to cover his body. I took it everywhere but no one accepted to sew it. His clothes were full of blood. When the people took it, he was totally naked.

About The Futility of Using Words to Describe War

Narrator: Mah Jan

Victims: Abdurrafi, Abdul Wahid

Date of the incident: 1992-1996 (Estimated)

Location of the incident: Kabul City and Logar

War is full of irrationality. It causes deep injuries to the hearts of mothers and fathers and makes them eternally grieve for their lost children. It takes away a happy and prosperous life and replaces it with pain and suffering. Afghanistan is the country of pain, torment and injustice. Its people have become prisoners of the inhumane logic of violence. Here, horrendous atrocities have occurred one after another for many years in every corner of this country, subsequently breaking the spirit of its population and causing serious, unhealed wounds in people’s hearts. With every day that passes, more people lose their lives while the hope for a better future dies a painful death. Why is this happening to this beautiful country? The secret of this puzzle is yet to be found and the dark cloud that has cast its shadow over the population has yet to be removed.

The story of war in Afghanistan is the story of pain and suffering. One of the people who understand this intimately is Mah Jan. She is the perfect image of a war victim. She has lost everything and her mind is like an archive of the endless suffering of the Afghan people. An archive as thick as an encyclopedia that contains every existing story of war ever told.

Mah Jan could be considered the perfect and complete Afghan. She has experienced it all and only people like her know exactly what tragedy means and what kind of life war brings about. Only people like her can distinguish whether war is something good or bad. She is the face of the Afghan people. She hardly speaks about her pain because she does not trust anyone is interested in listening to her. However, in the few moments when she does speak out, it is not just words that come out. Mah Jan takes you to another world where the word loses its intermediate role. She makes you encounter the naked truth. The words in her mouth lose its verbal nature and her entire body speaks with you. Her face of sadness reveals all the hidden secrets. There is not even a need for her to open her mouth. Her facial lines and languished hands, her hollowed eyes and crushed spirit they all speak to you. She speaks in thousands of languages to About The Futility Of Using Words To Describe War you about her pain. The words are limited exclusively to express her suffering.

Her disturbed soul does not fit into the framework of words. In her speech words do not connote any meaning beyond their most basic implications. Her story resembles the metaphor of the ‘speechless dreamer and the deaf’. Neither is she capable of communicating her painful story nor do we have the ability to truly absorb it.

The Story of Mah Jan

My name is Mah Jan. During the war, I lost two of my sons, my husband, my brother-inlaw and a number of my cousins. I lost everything. I was living in Chehil Sutun, Kabul. Later we were displaced to Logar and Khair Kahan. We could not afford to leave the country. One of my sons was killed in Chehil Sutun and the other one in Logar province. I had not seen the latter for three years when I was finally told to go to Logar to see him. I was taken to a cemetery and informed that my son was buried there. As I could not afford to transfer his body to another graveyard, I accepted for him to remain there.

My first son, Abdurrafi was killed in 1997 and the second one was killed the following year. When I came back from Logar, we first moved to Shiwaki but later we returned to my home in Chehil Sutun, as I loved my home. When we moved back we saw that nothing was left. Everything had been taken including the doors and windows. Apparently, the people from the checkpoint took them. It was during the Taliban time. One day, I decided to clean the home. I had yet to finish my cleaning when a rocket landed. I became worried about my son as I had just sent him out to buy some things. A few minutes later, my neighbor came and told me that my son had been injured and that I should go to the hospital. It was in the afternoon. I saw my older son on the street and he asked me what had happened. I told him that Abdul Wahid had been injured. He began to cry and the two of us went to the hospital in Allawoddin. As we entered the main corridor of the hospital, I saw a dead body. I stopped and uncovered his face. His shoes were placed under his head. I realized that it was my son. I cleaned his blood with my chadari and we took him home. It was late afternoon. The whole night I cried and cried. I lost two of my sons. Two months later my brother-in-law was killed in Ghazni. He was working there. My husband buried his sons and brother. He was going every now and then to cry over their graves until he got paralyzed. For six years he could not move until he finally died. I took care of him. I washed him two times a week and gave him food every day. I lost two of my sons, my husband and my brother-in-law. A widowed woman married my third son and then they disappeared.

I never saw him again. I now have only one son with whom I currently live. He has a shop. Every day he works hard to feed us. I used to work in other people’s homes as cleaner and care taker. I did all kind of work to support my family. My first son was 18 or 19-year-old when he was killed. The second was only 16 years old. The younger one used to work in a shop and sometimes he collected food from the trash cans and brought it home for us to eat. After coming back to our home, we used to live in a home without doors and windows. We were in Chehil Sutun when the war intensified. There were checkpoints everywhere therefore we went to Shiwaki.

My situation further deteriorated when my husband was handicapped after he suffered a paralysis. In his last days, I swear to God that we had nothing to eat. Once I cleaned the flour bag and prepared some bread for him. I mixed it with oil and put in his mouth. Now there are three people left in our home, my son, my daughter and myself.

There are very few things left behind from my sons. An old shoe from my older son, which is very valuable to me. I have also kept his hat. One of my sons did not even have proper clothes. I am not lying. When he was killed, I bought 7 meters of fabric to cover his body. I took it everywhere but no one accepted to sew it. His clothes were full of blood. When the people took it, he was totally naked.

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