[As violence engulfs them, some
Afghans carry notes with their names, blood types and relatives’ phone numbers
in case they are killed or severely wounded.]
By David Zucchino and Fatima
Faizi
“Their bodies were shattered — the
only thing that remained was a shoe or a bag or a pen,” he recalled.
Mr. Qassemi, 28, now carries a
special slip of paper, known as a pocket note, that contains his full name, his
blood type and the phone numbers of family members — like a homemade, civilian
version of a soldier’s dog tags. He knows too well how fragile and ephemeral
life in Kabul can be, and he refuses to become an unidentified victim.
“I could get killed on my way to
work or in a car or anywhere, and no one knows about me and they will look for
my body everywhere,” he said. “I could just vanish.”
The bearers of pocket notes hope
the slips of paper will help emergency medical workers identify an injured
person’s blood type for a lifesaving transfusion. They might also help
authorities quickly summon family members for precious final moments with a
mortally wounded loved one. And they could help identify a badly disfigured
corpse.
For some young people, the pocket
note has become an essential element of daily life. It can validate human
existence — an identity marker ensuring that if violent death comes, it does
not have to be anonymous.
“If something happens to me, who
will collect my body? What if I need blood?” said Masouma Tajik, 22, a computer
science student in Kabul, whose family lives hundreds of miles away.
Those questions confronted Ms.
Tajik when she was stuck in a Kabul traffic jam one recent day, terrified that
a car bomb might explode at any moment, she said. She now carries a slip of
notebook paper with her personal information. The note says, “If anything
happens to me.”
In the years since the 2001
American invasion unleased a deadly Taliban insurgency, each new day has
brought the potential of sudden death by car bombing, shooting, roadside
explosion or rocket attack.
Since signing a February agreement with
the United States, the Taliban have curtailed mass-casualty attacks in urban
centers. But the country has seen a rise in targeted assassinations, singling
out government functionaries, prosecutors, journalists, religious scholars and
civil society activists in near-daily attacks with guns or magnetic bombs
attached to vehicles. The government has accused the Taliban of carrying out
most of these killings, but they have repeatedly denied responsibility.
Some officials worry that at least
some of the attacks are being committed by political
factions outside the Taliban to settle old scores, a disturbing trend
harking back to Afghanistan’s civil war a generation ago.
At the same time, the Islamic State
has claimed responsibility for recent suicide bombings and other mass-casualty
attacks in Kabul. A suicide
bomber killed 44 people at a tutoring center on Oct. 24, and gunmen killed
21 more at Kabul University on Nov. 2.
The constant threat of a sudden,
brutal death has left many Afghans with a sense of despair and fatalism. The
most prosaic acts can end violently — commuting to work, visiting a friend,
buying groceries, striding into a classroom.
“Every morning when I leave home, I
am not sure if I’ll come back alive,” said Arifa Armaghan, 29, who works for a
nongovernmental organization.
“This is how we live in
Afghanistan,” she added. “It is not just me. I talk to some people who say
goodbye to their families every morning because they don’t know what will
happen to them during the day.”
Ms. Armaghan has carried a pocket
note since July 2017, when a close childhood friend died in a Taliban suicide
attack on a government minibus that also killed 23 other people. The body of
the friend, Najiba Hussaini, was identified by her trademark silver
ring, studded with a turquoise-colored stone.
“When you lose people you know, you
feel that you are next, and you feel death coming closer to you,” Ms. Armaghan
said.
After every mass bombing, she said,
she and her friends send urgent text messages to loved ones. “There is always a
fear that someone will never get back to you,” she said.
Some of those who carry pocket
notes say they have considered leaving the country.
“But it is hard to decide when my
brain is busy thinking about who will come to kill me,” said Mujeebullah Dastyar,
31, a geographic information specialist. For the past two years, he said, he
has carried a pocket note with his name, blood type and a relative’s phone
number.
Some Afghans have posted messages
on Facebook, warning of threats against them or detailing premonitions of
death.
Burhanuddin Yaftaly, 24, a former
lieutenant in the Afghan army, was shot and killed by a Taliban gunman while
attending his sister’s wedding in the northern province of Badakhshan in
December. The bride was wounded when she tried to save her brother, police
said.
Mr. Yaftaly’s father, Khairuddin
Ziaye, 61, said his son had been threatened by the Taliban. Shortly before his
death, Mr. Yaftaly posted a final note on his Facebook page: “Dear friends: I
am sorry for any mistakes I have made in the past. I have been receiving many
threats from different sides. I think I won’t be able to survive anymore.”
In Western nations, people
routinely carry an array of items that can identify them, but in Afghanistan,
things like driver’s licenses and employee badges are not as common, and credit
cards are not used. Afghans are issued a tazkira, a national
identity document, but few carry the card because considerable time and effort
are required to replace it if lost.
Rafi Bakhtiar, 21, a consultant,
said he has carried his tazkira since the Kabul University
attack on Nov. 2. That day, he said, neighbors searched into the night for
their daughter, a student, before the university confirmed that she had died in
the attack. The school used a contact number in a phone found on the student’s
body to call Mr. Bathtiar’s sister, a close friend.
“If I get killed, there should be
evidence on me so people can get in touch with my family, and they don’t search
the whole city to find my body,” Mr. Bakhtiar said.
Like many Kabul residents, Mr.
Bakhtiar said he had contempt for insurgents who kill civilians, but he also
blamed the American-backed government for failing to safeguard its citizens.
“If the government doesn’t do
anything to protect us, you lose your hope and you can’t dream for a better
future,” he said.
Mr. Bakhtiar said he had accepted
the harsh reality that he could die, capriciously and violently, on any given
day anywhere in the capital.
“We are broken. We are shattered,”
he said. “The angel of death is flying over Afghanistan.”
Najim Rahim contributed reporting
from Kabul.
