Sometimes, moments take shape in our lives that stay with us like a shadow until the end of our days. Moments that cannot be forgotten, nor escaped from repeating. This is a glimpse of a memory that, even after many years, still carries with it the scent of dust, gunpowder, and the compassion of a stranger woman.

Since I was six years old until now, I have endured many physical and emotional wounds.

The first blow came on the 16th of Hoot, 1368 (March 7, 1990), the day of Shahnawaz Tanai’s coup, when I was injured in the knee.

A wound that not only affected my body but also scarred my soul.

In the year 1371 (1992), with the fall of Dr. Najibullah’s government and the takeover of Kabul by the Mujahideen factions, bitter and chaotic days began.

At that time, I was a third-grade student and, every day, I would walk through fire and smoke to attend Habibia High School, which was across from our home.

Our class was on the first floor, but even there, the room was not safe from the irregular sounds of rockets and gunfire.

One day, after being dismissed in the first hour, one of my closest friends and classmates was horrifically killed in front of my eyes on the way home.

A young man with tangled hair and rage in his eyes—who was from our own Hazara community—shot my friend on purpose with a weapon I later learned was a PK (Peka) machine gun. He belonged to one of the factions operating an armed post across the street.

That scene, that moment of death, and that final glance are things I will never forget.

His name was Wais Ahmad. He had a fair face, rosy cheeks, and innocent almond-shaped eyes.

Just a few days after this painful incident, a rocket launched from the Chahar Asiab area of Kabul struck our home.

The time between hearing the explosion and the collapse of the building was only a few seconds, yet everything changed in that instant.

That day, from sheer fear and panic, I fainted and remained unconscious for an entire day.

Although the rocket hit a container behind the wall of our house—in which one of the neighbors had parked a vehicle—the blast wave and shrapnel from the 60mm rocket were so powerful that it blew out all the doors, windows, and furniture from our home.

Our ears had become accustomed to the sound of light and heavy weapons that continued nearly 24 hours a day.

We died and came back to life thousands of times, day and night, so we no longer feared the sound of rockets or gunfire.

Because we were living in the center of the factions" battlefield, there was no way out.

Finally, on the 7th of Asad, 1371 (July 29, 1992), after enduring countless dangers and passing through fire and smoke, we managed—along with a few members of my family and without the company of my parents—to head toward the northern provinces. Leaving Kabul, the city where we had lived and carried thousands of memories in its streets and markets, was neither easy nor a simple choice; but our survival depended on this bitter decision.

Our long and perilous journey brought us to the northern Salang Pass—a place where fate once again turned a bitter page in our lives. Individuals who identified themselves as members of the Islamic Movement were stopping vehicles one by one, conducting searches on everyone. As our vehicle halted at one of the steep, winding turns of Salang,

we watched the scene in terror, when suddenly, a clash erupted between this group and forces claiming loyalty to Jamiat-e-Islami.

From that high point, we witnessed a scene that can never be forgotten. War, looting, and escape; each moment was an image of the fall of humanity. Men who called themselves Mujahideen stormed vehicles, stole people’s belongings, and violently separated girls from their families.

They forced people to hand over money and gold they had hidden on them.

Helpless, we watched this tragedy unfold from a short distance, our breaths held tight. Our hearts were pounding, yet our hands were powerless. There, among the mountains of Salang, humans had turned on each other like wild beasts, and what we saw etched this bitter truth into our minds:

Truly,

When a human being falls from the framework of humanity, they become worse and more destructive than any predatory beast.

The clash between the two groups continued for hours until fighter jets from Mazar-e-Sharif stormed the skies over northern Salang and bombarded the area.

The sound of explosions echoed through the rocky mountains, and the ground beneath our feet trembled.

Death felt imminent with every passing moment. Amidst the chaos, armed forces took away large amounts of goods and property.

The cries and wails of families echoed through the Salang mountains. Mothers raised their hands to the sky, begging for help from God; fathers, with eyes full of tears, stretched out their empty hands in despair; and children trembled in fear within their mothers’ arms. That scene was nothing short of an image of the Day of Judgment—a vision of destruction in which no voice of humanity could be heard.

It was as if a monstrous zombie of terror had descended from the mountains and valleys of Salang, annihilating every sign of humanity in its cold gaze and savage behavior.

We stood in a corner of that field of chaos—shocked and helpless. Our breaths were caught in our chests, and all we could do was pray for the nightmare to end. But those prayers were nothing more than silent echoes fading into the mountains.

We spent the night in the soul-piercing cold of northern Salang. Our vehicle—a somewhat worn-out Mercedes 302 bus—was parked on a roadside corner, stuck among more than a thousand other passengers. Despite being the month of Asad (July–August), the air carried the scent of autumn. The mountain cold crept mercilessly into our bones, and there was no sign of a café, restaurant, or shelter in sight.

Hunger, fear, escaping one war only to be trapped in another—these had drained the warmth of life from within me, and the cold, terror, and helplessness had taken full hold of my being.

In that very bus, Mr. Salam Sangi was with us—alongside his wife and children. He was a beloved actor of our country’s cinema, a kind and humble man. Even though he himself was caught in the same difficult situation, he immediately got off the bus and began speaking with the driver of a truck full of potato sacks. A few minutes later, with his lap filled—perhaps over ten kilograms—with potatoes, he returned with a warm smile.

With the help of a few fellow countrymen, they gathered dry wood, torn cardboard, and scattered debris to build a mound of fire. The flames lit up the night like lanterns of hope. The potatoes were thrown into the heart of the fire one by one to prepare, as the northerners say, kachalo-e-kalukhak—potatoes roasted under embers.

The aroma of burning wood, mountain shrubs, and roasted potatoes filled the air—an unforgettable, nostalgic, and comforting scent in that bone-chilling cold. Mr. Sangi kindly offered those half-charred, warm potatoes to everyone—children, women, and the elderly whose eyes had been darkened by fatigue and the fear of wartime nights.

At that moment, I was suffering from a severe headache; the pain pounded at my temples like a hammer. Mr. Sangi’s wife, a wise and compassionate woman, brought out some hot water from her travel thermos. She poured a few sips into a small cup to let it cool slightly, then added 11 drops of a painkiller and kindly offered it to me. I drank the medicine. The warmth of the drink and the murmur of people"s conversations lulled me to sleep—a sleep that felt more like a brief refuge from the hellish reality.

The night passed in a strange, trembling silence. Yet in the heart of that dark night, a small flame of humanity had brought us together; a flame that, through a simple potato and a kind heart, offered warmth and planted a faint hope in the depths of that endless night.

The next morning, after that cold and unforgettable night, we resumed our journey toward Baghlan province. We traveled cautiously and slowly until finally, around nine in the morning, we reached the city of Pul-e-Khumri. We stopped at a modest restaurant in town, freshened our hands and faces with the flowing cold and clear water, and had a light meal. Two of my uncles were with us—one residing in Mazar-i-Sharif and the other in Badakhshan.

After hearing the heartbreaking news of a rocket striking our home, they had rushed to Kabul out of concern and convinced my father to let me, my brother, and my younger cousin accompany them to Badakhshan, hoping to protect us from the dangers of war.

In Pul-e-Khumri, the uncle heading to Mazar separated from us and continued toward his home. The three of us continued the journey north with my uncle from Badakhshan. The road was relatively calm and reassuring; the provinces of Kunduz, Takhar, and Badakhshan were under the control of the Islamic Unity Party and the Supervisory Council. There were checkpoints along the route where our vehicle was stopped, but their conduct was respectful and humane. They merely inspected, apologized, and cleared the way.

Mr. Salam Sangi left us in Kunduz province. Around noon, we reached Takhar province and got off the vehicle. My uncle searched for another car to take us to Badakhshan. After much effort, he found a GAZ-66 truck owned by friends and villagers of ours. The driver was known as "Khalifa Asad," a man with a sunburned face and a warm demeanor.

The weather in Takhar was scorching and volcanic.

The beautiful city of Taloqan had taken on a semi-military appearance. From all sides, people were calling out, “Khalifa Asad, move quickly, fighting might break out.” We, too, left for Badakhshan without delay. Our final destination was the Kishm district.

Though the distance from Taloqan to Kishm was only about 70 kilometers, the road was so rough, dusty, and unfamiliar that the vehicle had to stop every few minutes to find the right way.

We passed through flood-washed trails, from Kalafgan district to Kishm. The salty dust covered our faces like a white, bitter mask. The extreme heat and the friction of clothing against my young body caused severe chafing on my neck. My uncle and cousin noticed that my skin was badly irritated, and my clothes had stuck to my wounds.

I endured the pain and burning of my wounds, and my uncle kept saying, “We"re almost there—just a little more.”

Finally, after a three-hour journey across the 70-kilometer stretch, we arrived in the city of Mashhad in Kishm district.

My uncle took us to the home of his sister-in-law (his wife’s sister). They welcomed us warmly and kindly.

My cousin asked them to provide a piece of cloth so she could clean my wounds and help me change into fresh clothes. Since there was no doctor or well-equipped clinic available, home care was our only option.

There was little time and much concern.

My uncle managed to convince Khalifa Asad to take us all the way to our own village, Kangurchi. Once again, we boarded the same GAZ-66 vehicle and began the 10 to 11-kilometer journey from Mashhad to Kangurchi, which took us more than half an hour due to the terrible condition of the road.

The road was so rough and broken.

But fortunately, despite all the difficulties and treacherous terrain, Khalifa Asad"s vehicle did not break down. It was late afternoon when we finally reached the village of Kangurchi—my uncle’s home.

My uncle was a dignified and influential man. He wasn’t only the chief of this village but also led six surrounding villages. Among the people, he was known as a noble, just, and compassionate leader.

Our arrival was met with a wave of warm and affectionate voices. Someone excitedly asked my name, another with concern inquired about our journey and how many days we had been on the road.

The elders of the village were asking my father how Yawar Sahib was doing.

In short,

the humble, sincere men, women, and children gazed at me with curiosity. I was wearing a Cuban-style outfit with white rubber shoes. The pinkish, fair color of my face—untouched yet by the northern sun—seemed strange and interesting to them.

The village children—barefoot, dressed in simple clothes but full of hope—quickly became my friends. Their laughter echoed through the dusty alleys, and they began calling me “Tajikistani.”

And thus began my new life

in the heart of the proud mountains and lush green valleys of Kishm, Badakhshan—the land of my ancestors.

A land which, despite its hardships, slowly began to taste like life to me.

I find it necessary to say...

The purpose of writing this life story is not merely to recall memories, but to document experiences—ones that might serve as a beacon of light for today’s generation and those to come. It doesn’t matter what social class or group they belong to; what matters is that they learn from the past and pursue a path of awareness and knowledge.

Illiteracy, ignorance, poverty, and other social plagues are bitter roots of misery. They pave the way for unemployment, violence, ruin, and destruction.

In this story, everything I have written stems from personal experience. I have neither exaggerated nor omitted; I have written only what truly happened, with honesty and a sense of responsibility.

I firmly believe that war and destruction bring nothing but backwardness, exhaustion, and suffering—both physical and emotional—for society.

I consider myself the humblest child of this land. Yet I hold immense respect for the people of my homeland, regardless of their ethnicity, language, social class, or faith.

What happened to us was the result of our naivety, illiteracy, and being misled—not a sign of the worthlessness of this nation.

The people of my homeland are among the most honorable, dignified, hospitable, and loving humans on this planet.

In any country, if fifty years of proxy wars are forced upon it, the fabric of that society will inevitably tear apart. But the great nation of Afghanistan, despite half a century of suffering, wounds, and conflict, still stands—resilient, hopeful, and proud.

With hope for lasting peace, true tranquility, and comprehensive prosperity for the beloved people of my homeland—

for it is the rightful claim of every human and every member of society.

 

Author: Ahmad Mahmood Imperator 

Translation of the Narrative by: Sara.D

May 2025