I am a woman whose entire world was overturned on one spring afternoon in May 2022. My name is Noria. I am about 44 or 45 years old but the mirror reflects a woman who seems to have carried centuries of pain on her shoulders. I want to speak of the days when the shadow of terror fell heavily upon us Hazaras. It has still not lifted.
I am the wife of Mohammad, a man whose only “crime” was farming and striving to earn lawful bread for his family. Mohammad was a 45-year-old hardworking farmer whose entire wealth was six children and a few head of livestock. We lived in the village of Deh-e Naw Barkar, near the border of Ajristan. That spring day in Sawr, the air still carried the scent of blossoms. As usual, Mohammad and I had taken our animals to graze in the surrounding mountains. Everything seemed calm until we suddenly encountered a group of Kuchis.
The moment we saw them, our bodies began to tremble. I was truly terrified because I knew they would show us no mercy. Mohammad saw my fear and tried to remain calm to avoid confrontation. “Let’s quickly gather the animals and head back down to the village so there won’t be any trouble,” he said to me. But we did not have time to move the first sheep when one of the Kuchis raised his Kalashnikov toward Mohammad. The gunshot echoed through the mountains. Bullets struck my husband in the head and back.
I could only scream — a sound swallowed by the merciless mountains. I lost my husband before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do. Crying and wailing, I ran down the mountain to reach the village. I told the people what had happened. The men of the village went up to bring down Mohammad’s blood-soaked body. We buried him. But with him, we also buried the peace and security of our family.
After that, we believed there must be justice. The local people went to the Miramor district office and filed a petition, but the officials did not even look at it. The villagers were forced to travel the long road to the provincial authorities in Daikundi. They went back and forth, but again there was no result. They did not lose hope and this time went to Kabul. In Kabul, they were promised that the case would be addressed — but it was only a promise. From there, they went to the provincial authorities in Ghazni. Officials in Ghazni said they would instruct the authorities in Ajristan district to investigate. For two full years, we moved from one office to another, but nothing came of our petitions for help.
Last year, when the people once again went to the Ajristan district office to seek justice for Mohammad’s blood, the officials said something astonishing. They did not deny the murder, but brazenly declared, “If we are to examine this case, we must also consider that many years ago you killed people from among us.” We understood there was no path to justice for Mohammad when the Taliban said the locals demanding justice must answer for killings from the distant past.
The Taliban authorities made no effort to hold the killer accountable. The Kuchis have divided our pastures among themselves, and the area where Mohammad was killed is now under the control of the very people who murdered him. Mohammad’s blood was trampled, because we have no one within this system.
Now I am left with an empty house and six children whose eyes are fixed on my hands. My eldest son has gone to Iran to find work and escape this situation. My other children, including three girls, live at home and are between 10 and 20 years old. Our economic condition is shattered. We lost our breadwinner. And now those very pastures are in the hands of the Kuchis, and we do not even dare to go near them.
The psychological state of my children and me is not good. I have nightmares every night; the moment of the gunshots, his fall from the rocks, and Mohammad’s lifeless eyes never leave my mind. The Kuchis constantly threaten the entire community. We feel surrounded. We have nowhere to turn, and no one hears our voice. I am a 45-year-old woman who is watching all our inheritance and grazing lands being seized.
We live in extremely harsh conditions and do not know what fate awaits us and our children tomorrow. This is our reality in Daikundi province, in a place where justice has died.
Elham Asadi pseudonym of a freelance journalist in Afghanistan.
