Smashed skulls and charred bodies: I can't get the images out of my head
KabulI saw it all with my own eyes: shattered skulls, severed limbs, bodies lying on the ground... The Pakistani bombing of a drug rehabilitation center in Kabul on the night of March 16 was devastating. I am a journalist and I know my job is to go to places, see, and report. But, in this case, what I saw has deeply disturbed me. I am 25 years old. I wonder how many young people my age in other countries have seen what I have seen.
The Omid rehabilitation center had a capacity of 2,000 beds, and in the attack, around 400 people were killed and more than 250 were injured. Pakistan, however, denied targeting civilian facilities, claiming the strikes were “precise".
Two days after the bombing, the local media I work for in Kabul asked me to go Kabul’s forensic department, where the bodies of the victims were being handed over to their families. It was raining around 3 p.m, and I had to go by taxi, on my own. I hesitated, I didn’t want to go, especially because I had to travel a long distance alone, something that is not always safe for a woman here. I have seen cases where the Taliban stopped cars with a man and a woman inside and questioned their relationship. But I had no choice. The media outlet I work for is facing financial difficulties, and this was the only way to cover the story.
After nearly an hour, I arrived. The street outside was muddy from the rain. As I stepped out, several ambulances were leaving the compound. I lifted my camera and started filming. At first, I thought I was too late. But when I walked inside, I realized the story was still unfolding.
The building was filled with people, families waiting, crying, searching for their loved ones. Journalists from different outlets were there. I was the only woman among them, working alone. I could feel the heavy, unfamiliar looks of the men around me.
Cry of pain
In one dark room, a projector had been set up. Officials were showing images of the victims to their families, burned bodies, unrecognizable faces. Families watched dozens of images in silence, hoping and fearing at the same time. Then suddenly, a mother recognized her son. Her scream filled the entire room. “My only son, he burned, he turned to ash". Her voice was so full of pain that it broke something inside everyone who heard it. I was filming, but I was also crying. I could not separate my work from my feelings.
The room where the bodies were kept was even worse. Dozens of bodies lay inside white bags. Families who had identified their loved ones were waiting to receive them. Workers pulled bodies out of the bags and placed them into coffins. I stepped closer to get a better shot. They opened one of the bags. What I saw was horrifying. I closed my eyes.
I don’t know who that person was. I don’t know what dreams he had. But seeing a burned human body made my whole body shake. For a moment, I felt like everything was going dark. But then, I kept working. I kept filming.
One of the officials told me that on that day alone, seventy bodies had been handed over to families. Those that could not be identified were taken to be buried in a mass grave in Saray Shamali, Kabul.
I wrapped my scarf tightly around my head and entered a room filled with men and Taliban members. Heavy, curious eyes were fixed on me. One of the Taliban asked in a stern voice why I had come alone, as if trying to stop me from doing my job. I replied firmly: “Do not interfere with my work”. Silence fell, yet the weight of their gaze still pressed on my shoulders.The air was cold. My hands were frozen, and I warmed them occasionally with my breath.
Last week in Afghanistan we celebrated the end of Ramadan and also the beginning of the Persian New Year. Both celebrations are a time for joy, for visiting family, for going out, and for celebrating. But this year we had nothing to celebrate.
On the first day of Eid [the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan, equivalent to Christmas], I went to the home of one of the victims to report. His name was Muzamil. He was the only man supporting not just his own family of five, but also his sister’s family. His sister told me “Muzamil was not an addict. How are we supposed to live without him?”. She said he had simply gone out the night before to sit with friends, who may have been using drugs, when the Taliban took him, assuming he was an addict, along with other young men.
Outside the rehabilitation center, families were still searching. They stood in front of lists, reading names again and again, hoping to find their loved ones. Some of them may never find them. Because in Saray Shamali, the unidentified bodies were buried in mass graves.
I did not share the weight of this experience with my family. I was afraid my parents would worry about me. But since that day, I am no longer comfortable being alone in a dark room. At night, I keep the light on.
I still hear the voice of that mother, the moment she recognized her son. Even now, ten days later, the images return to me: severed hands on the ground, blood on the floor of the forensic department, my loneliness among all those men, and the sight of that burned body.