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 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 2,000 beds, and in the attack, about 400 people died and more than 250 were injured. Pakistan, however, insists that it did not bomb any civilian facility and that the attack was "precise".

Two days after the bombing, the local media I work for in Kabul asked me to go to the forensic center where the bodies of the victims were being accumulated. It was three in the afternoon, it was raining, and I had to go alone, by taxi. Initially, I wasn't thrilled about it. Basically because I had to go quite far, to the other end of the capital, and here, in Afghanistan, it is not safe for a woman to travel alone. On more than one occasion, I have seen the Taliban stop cars to ensure that women are accompanied by a male family member. But I had no alternative. My media outlet has had to reduce its staff due to lack of funds and there was no other personnel available.

The journey took almost an hour. When I arrived, the entire street was muddy from the rain and several ambulances were leaving the premises. I thought I was late and that there would be nothing left to report. But then I realized that was not the case. I picked up my camera and started filming.

The building was full of crying relatives searching for their loved ones. There were other journalists too, but I was the only woman, so I could feel the stares of all the men around me.

Cry of pain

In a dark room they had installed a projector, and they were showing photographs of the victims on the wall, burnt bodies, sometimes unrecognizable. The families looked at them in silence, with hope and fear at the same time. Suddenly, a mother recognized her son. The scream she let out echoed throughout the room. "My only son, charred, turned to ashes!" she exclaimed. Her voice was full of such pain that it broke something inside all of us who heard her. I was filming, and I couldn't help but start to cry. It was difficult to separate work and emotions.

The room where the bodies were was even worse. There were dozens of corpses on the floor in white plastic bags, and the families who had identified their loved ones were waiting for their lifeless bodies to be handed over. An official told me that seventy had been handed over that day alone. Those who could not be identified were buried in a mass grave in Saray Shamali, in Kabul.

Workers were taking the bodies out of the bags and placing them in coffins. I moved closer to get a better picture, but what I saw inside one of the bags was so horrific that I instinctively closed my eyes. I don't know who that person was, or what their dreams were. But seeing a completely charred human body sent shivers down my spine. For a moment I felt everything go dark, as if I were losing consciousness. But I made efforts to continue working.

I covered my head well with my scarf and then entered another room where there were only men and Taliban. Everyone stared at me intently. One of the Taliban asked me sternly why I had come alone. I don't know where I got the strength from, but I answered firmly: "Don't interfere with my work." The air was cold. My hands were frozen and from time to time I warmed them with my own 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 festival celebrating the end of Ramadan, equivalent to Christmas], I went to the home of one of the victims of the attack. His name was Muzamil, and the Taliban had mistakenly admitted him to the rehabilitation center the night before the attack because he was with friends who did use drugs. He had two children and was also responsible for supporting his mother, his widowed sister, and her two nephews. “Muzamil was not an addict. How are we supposed to live now without him?” his sister lamented.

Outside the rehabilitation center, families spent days searching for their loved ones. They read the lists of victims' names over and over again, hoping to find them. Some may never be found, as unidentified bodies were taken directly to a mass grave.

I haven't told my family anything about what I saw. I was afraid they would worry about me. But since that day, I don't want to be alone in a dark room and I sleep with the light on. I still hear the cry of that mother when she recognized her son. And now, more than a week after it all happened, I can't get the images of what I saw out of my head: the severed hands, the blood on the floor, the burnt bodies, and my total solitude among all those men.