The story of Fahima Amiri, who has been killed in the suicide attack on Kawsar-e-Danish Educational center in Dasht-e-Barchi, western Kabul, on October 24, 2020.

The story has been written and sent by: Nazer Hussain Amiri “Shadab”, Fahima Amiri’s brother

In a corner of Dasht-e-Barchi, a young girl once breathed — Fahima Amiri, a sixteen-year-old with a radiant heart and eyes full of dreams. She was born in 2004 in Kabul, though her roots reached back to the steadfast mountains of Ghazni — roots that had instilled in her patience and resilience.

Fahima was an eighth-grade student at Shahrak-e-Mohammadiya School; always outstanding, always brilliant. From first grade to eighth, she held the top rank in her class. For her, books were not a burden but windows opening toward the future. Her notebooks, filled with neat and tiny handwriting, were testaments of her dedication and hope.

She was no ordinary girl. Within her small frame grew boundless dreams. She longed to become a doctor, to heal the wounds of her people. Sometimes she said perhaps she would become a teacher, to guide the children of her homeland toward a brighter tomorrow. And secretly, she dreamed of traveling the world she had only seen within the pages of her books.

To achieve these dreams, she merged day with night. In the mornings she attended school; in the afternoons, she studied English and computer at the Champion Center, and mathematics at the Kawsar-e-Danish Educational Center. Her life was woven with study, hope, and love for the pen.

But destiny, cruel and merciless, shattered it all in a single moment. On October 24, 2020, around 4:30 in the afternoon, a suicide bomber targeted the Kawsar-e-Danish Educational Center. The classroom that moments before was filled with laughter and ambition fell silent under the weight of blood and dust.

Among the lifeless bodies lay Fahima’s — a girl who had entered the class with a thousand dreams but was carried out pierced by deadly shrapnel. Her face and heart were torn; her notebook of dreams stained in blood upon the ground.

When the news reached home, her mother rushed, frenzied, to the site of the explosion. Amid the blood-soaked victims, with trembling hands, she searched. Suddenly, her eyes fell upon the still and bloodied face of her daughter. She screamed — a scream that still echoes through the alleys of Dasht-e-Barchi. Her world went dark in that moment.

Her father, upon hearing, forced his way through the grieving crowd. His rough, calloused hands rested on the cold forehead of his daughter as tears streamed down his face. The man who had endured life’s harshness now collapsed before her lifeless body.

A family once full of hope was buried in despair. A home once filled with Fahima’s laughter became a house of eternal mourning. A mother who once held her daughter close now embraces only the cold soil of her grave each night.

On the day of burial, even Kabul’s skies seemed to weep. The small coffin of Fahima was carried gently on the shoulders of mourners through Dasht-e-Barchi. The cries of her classmates mixed with the wails of her mother. With every step, her unfinished dreams moved closer to the embrace of the earth.

When her body was lowered into the grave, it felt as though the ground itself trembled under the weight of sorrow. With shaking hands, her mother scattered soil over her daughter and whispered, “My little girl, I bury you, but I bury my heart with you as well.” In that moment, the earth bore witness to the most painful separation — the parting of a mother and child.

With Fahima’s burial, not only her body but also her family’s hopes were entombed. A mother remained with dimmed eyes and a shattered soul. A father remained with a burning heart and unending anger. Brothers remained who would never again taste true joy.

Fahima was martyred at sixteen — at the dawn of youth, before she could touch the world. She could have been a great doctor, a devoted teacher, a traveler who explored the globe. But all was cut short in an instant, her blossoming dreams were destroyed by an explosion.

Fahima was not only the daughter of one family; she was the face of thousands of young souls in Afghanistan, whose share of life was not books but shrapnel and blood. Her loss was not only her family’s grief, but the grief of a nation whose generations are continually sacrificed.

Her name now shines like a candle in the darkness. Each year, on the anniversary of her martyrdom, her memory lives on — her story a cry against oppression, ignorance, and terror. Fahima is gone, but her memory will never die.

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