This narrative was told to Zan Times jounalist:
Note: On July 20, Nuristan province, in eastern Afghanistan, witnessed relentless floods. In Parun, the capital of the province, the devastating flood claimed the lives of 40 people, while hundreds of others were injured or went missing. As a result of the flood, houses, shops, restaurants, bridges, water wells, roads, and hundreds of acres of agricultural land were destroyed.
In addition to Nuristan, the provinces of Kabul, Parwan, Panjshir, Kapisa, Paktia, Paktika, Logar, Ghazni, Maidan Wardak, Nangarhar, Khost, Laghman, Badakhshan, and Zabul also experienced heavy rainfall, storms, and flooding during the past week.
I am a 30-year-old woman from Parun, the capital of Nuristan province in eastern Afghanistan. I am an eyewitness and survivor of the deadly flood that swept away people’s lives, homes and belongings in a matter of minutes. Although I survived, the fear and pain of that day have never left me.
The disaster happened at around 2:30 p.m. on July 20. Suddenly, heavy rain began to fall. We were living connected to the main road, which ran alongside the river.
I turned to my husband and said, “Let’s leave. Something doesn’t feel right.” I had a strange feeling, as if something terrible was about to happen. Before then, people had repeatedly warned that flash floods could come down the valleys and riverbeds, but no one imagined a flood of such force and destruction.
I was standing by the window, looking at the riverbed, where only a small amount of water was flowing. My husband said, “I’ll start the car. Get ready, and we’ll go to my uncle’s house.” We thought it would be safer in that area.
But before we had the chance to leave, we suddenly heard people screaming from every direction. Gunshots rang out, car horns blared, warning whistles sounded, and people began fleeing in panic and confusion. Terrified, I started running, too. At that moment, I did not even look back at my husband because I thought, “He is a man. He can save himself.” My only thought was to reach safety.
I remember nothing after leaving the house. I do not know whether a car hit me, whether the floodwaters swept me away, or whether I simply lost consciousness out of fear. Later, people told me that they pulled me out of the waters.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself inside a shop where many had gathered. As they were talking, another surge of floodwater rushed toward us. Everyone fled in panic. People were trying to reach higher ground, saying it would be safer. They told me to climb as well.
I began making my way toward the mountainside, but I fell several times. I struggled to breathe as I dragged myself across the ground. Each time I fell, someone would take my hand and help me stand up again. One time, an elderly man said, “Come up here. There’s a place where you can sit and catch your breath. The flood can’t reach this spot.”
I had barely sat down beside a large boulder when people suddenly started shouting, “This place isn’t safe either!” Once more, everyone began running. Even today, I do not know how I made it out alive. Several times I felt myself fading. I was certain I was going to die.
I saw the flood sweep people away. Cars, hotels, markets, shops, and the savings and hard work of entire lifetimes were destroyed within minutes. The most painful sight was watching so many young people get carried away by the water while I could do nothing to help them. That helplessness remains the greatest pain of my life. Later, some local people took me to the Directorate of Tribal Affairs, saying it was a safer place. Every sound and every movement brought the flood rushing back into my memory. I was afraid it would return at any moment. In the end, I entrusted myself to God, because there was nothing else I could do.
After some time, the rain stopped. People returned to the disaster site to recover the bodies of those who had been killed, rescue the injured, and help survivors. Throughout those long hours, I had no news of my husband. I did not know whether he had survived or whether the flood had swept him away. Later, I borrowed a mobile phone from one of the men there and called him. Thankfully, he answered and we were reunited. We had both lived through an unimaginably difficult day, but we were alive.
When we returned to our home, we discovered that our rooms had been completely destroyed and all of our belongings were gone. In the space of a few hours, we had lost everything we owned.
That same night, my husband drove me to Shams Health Clinic. But in the first hours after the disaster, medical resources were extremely limited. There were no treatment facilities for women, and not even a single female doctor was available. The injured had not yet been transferred to larger medical centres. The following day, however, ambulances began transporting the wounded to health facilities. Most of the injured were men, although women and children had also been hurt. Staff from the Afghan Red Crescent Society and the Natural Disaster Management Authority finally arrived, yet because of the scale of the catastrophe, they were unable to reach everyone immediately. As more emergency response teams arrived, relief efforts gradually expanded.
Today, the psychological and physical wounds inflicted during that disaster remain with me. Only after the floods did I realize that one of my legs had been broken during the frantic running and repeated falls. It is now in a cast.
Whenever it starts to rain, I am overwhelmed by fear. At night, I wake up screaming from nightmares. Those scenes, those people, and that terror have never left me. The flood did not only destroy our home and our possessions — it also swept away our sense of peace and security.
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewee and writer. Hajar Sadat is the pseudonym of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.
