Interview with Fatima Sarwari (Survivor of the Tragic Kaj Incident) – The incident that took place in September 30, 2022 in Hazara area called Dasht-e-Barchi, west Kabul, Afghanistan.
Interviewer: Please briefly introduce yourself.
Fatima: My name is Fatima Sarwari, and I am 21 years old. I have been living in Germany for almost three years now. I finished school in Afghanistan in 2022, but before I could enter university, I was forced to migrate. I live alone here in Germany, and my family is in Afghanistan. My mother tongue is Dari, and besides I speak German and, to some extent, English.
Interviewer: Can you tell us exactly which incident you were present at and what you witnessed?
Fatima: This question has been asked of me many times, but the answer is still not repetitive for me. I still feel as if I am in the same classroom where the explosion happened, and the blood of my classmates still feels fresh to me. I am one of the survivors of the bloody Kaj incident—an incident in which 54 young girls, between the ages of 15 and 23, were brutally and heartbreakingly killed.
Interviewer: Where exactly did the incident take place, and how far were you from the site of the explosion?
Fatima: Whenever the location of the incident or explosion is mentioned, without a doubt the answer—mine and everyone else’s—is Hazara-populated areas, especially western Kabul, Dasht-e-Barchi, Naqash area where it is totally populated by Hazaras. The Kaj Educational Center was located and I was one of the students of this educational center, just like hundreds of other students who were studying there.
First of all, it is important to explain who studied at this course. In Barchi, besides Kaj, there were other educational centers that were just as well-known and had hundreds of students. The students of these centers mostly came from remote provinces such as Daikundi, Bamyan, Ghazni, Behsud, and some other areas of Afghanistan, and they would come to Kabul for several months to study.
I was fifteen years old when I came to Kabul without my family, and I shared a room with three other girls who, like me, had come to Kabul for education. Kabul’s winters were cold and snowy, and the air was polluted with coal smoke. Spending winter in Kabul without a heater—or as people in Barchi call it, a “chari”—was almost impossible for families. People heated their homes twice a day so they would not fall ill from the severe cold. But my roommates and I spent those cold winters without a chari. We filled a plastic container with hot water and put it under our blankets, then all four of us would stretch our legs under the blanket and study until midnight. We cooked food inside the room so that the steam and heat from cooking would slightly warm the room.
Our families sent us 5,000 Afghanis per month. That money covered course registration fees, notebooks, books, water and electricity bills, room rent, and our food and clothing expenses. These economic conditions were not specific to me or my roommates, but hundreds of other students faced similar or even worse hardships. Some students had to survive an entire winter with money from the sale of just one sheep.
Anyway, every morning we would wake up and head toward the course with ourbooks in our hands. We had to carry our books by hand because, for security reasons, the courses did not allow bags. In the early mornings, while it was still dark, the alleys where these educational centers were located were full of students coming and going. The classrooms where we studied were so large that I now estimate they could accommodate more than 400 people.
The explosion happened in Barchi, in an educational course called Kaj. On the day of the incident, a large number of students were there to take a mock exam. I was about three meters—or slightly more—away from the suicide bomber. I was sitting in the third row. Everyone who was sitting in my row or in the rows in front of me was killed. The fact that I survived, I consider pure luck.
Interviewer: I’m sorry that my questions are bringing back painful memories. If you don’t mind, I would like to hear more details about this event. Please tell me about the day and time of the explosion, how you felt at that moment, and what you witnessed, if it’s not too distressing.
Fatima: If pain in part of our body has no cure, we are forced to live with it, even if it still hurts as much as it did on the first day. The memory of that incident is a lasting pain for me that will never be forgotten. But I am not afraid to recount it. It is one of my bitterest memories, and I do not want it to be forgotten. People must talk about it until everyone knows what injustice was done to me and to those innocent girls.
The incident happened in September 2022, on a Friday, at 7 a.m. As I said, I shared a room with several girls. My mother had been in Kabul for about a week at that time. When my roommates and I woke up and headed toward the course, my mother was still asleep.
When we reached the course gate, we greeted both security guards at the entrance. They were both kind older men. They always told me and my two roommates: “You sisters are very close. Your clothes are always the same color, and you always come and go together.” We were still young and full of youthful pride, so we laughed loudly and teased them.
For a few days, I didn’t have a card—I hadn’t yet paid the fee for the new course period. The older guard, as he had done on previous days, didn’t give me a hard time and said, “Because you are a polite and cheerful girl, I’ll let you in again today, but I won’t allow it anymore.” I laughed loudly and said, “Okay, uncle! Either you’ll see me with a card from tomorrow, or you’ll never see me again!” After that day, I truly never saw them again. How could I have known that both of them would be shot dead that same day?
When I entered the courtyard, many students had already received their exam papers and were sitting in different rooms, but most students were in the largest classroom. I stood in line to get my exam paper. One by one, students came, took their papers, and went inside the classroom.
While waiting on the staircase, I looked back at my classmates and friends. I thought to myself: this is the last week I will see my friends. I wasn’t taking the (Entrance Exam) the Kankor because I hadn’t yet finished grade twelve, but my friends from Daikundi had to leave the next day to return there for their exam. One of my roommates was among them. I looked at all the students and thought that after the exam I would have to say goodbye to those I was closer to. Who knows when we would see each other again?
I entered the classroom. Everyone was silent and deeply focused on solving the questions. The large room had a triangular metal roof, so if anyone made a sound and broke the silence, everyone would notice. I quietly sat in the third row.
After a few minutes, the silence was broken by gunfire. Everyone stood up, and screams filled the room. I remember that my knees were pressed against the chair in front of me, my feet were dangling, and my exam paper was on my knees as I was solving the questions. When I heard the gunshot, I didn’t even stand up. In my heart, I hoped that the attacker wouldn’t be able to enter the course. I thought the two guards must have fired, and that the attacker must be wounded or dead—unaware that those two guards were already dead, and that death was just seconds away from me and my classmates.
I still remember a girl from the second row standing up and shouting to everyone: “Stay calm! Nothing will happen, and we will all get out of here alive!” The attacker entered the course so quickly that we didn’t even think about escaping or closing the open doors.
The director of Kaj, who had managed the center for years and had witnessed and experienced three previous incidents, rushed into the classroom upon hearing the gunshots and tried to close the doors to prevent the attacker from entering. But the attacker was faster and entered the classroom. The director fell to the ground after being shot twice.
The attacker was a young man, about 25–30 years old, with a handsome face and average height. I didn’t notice what he was wearing, but later I heard from other girls that he was not wearing traditional Afghan clothes. It was truly tragic that such a young man blew himself up, leaving not even a piece of his body behind. It was as if he was about to win a competition and knew he was the winner. Fearlessly, he fired the remaining bullets of his weapon at the terrified, screaming girls.
Three or four shots…
In that brief moment, I saw death before my eyes and felt it with my entire being. My body froze; my arms and legs went numb. Perhaps if someone had been next to me in a normal situation and looked at my face then, they would have declared that Fatima was no longer alive and that blood was no longer flowing in her veins. But at that time, those around me were experiencing even worse conditions. I was extremely terrified and pale, but unlike some girls, I did not die of shock—I was alive.
In that short time, for the first time in my life, I felt the world become motionless and meaningless. An unexpected separation from my family, not reaching my dreams, not playing and laughing with my friends, not seeing the places I dreamed of. I had never taken care of myself. I hadn’t dressed nicely or put on makeup in front of the mirror. I hadn’t really looked at myself in the mirror or taken souvenir photos. I hadn’t bought nail polish for myself or gone with my friends to Bagh-e-Bala or Babur’s Garden. I had postponed all of that until after the Kankor exam. But at that moment, I was burying all those dreams.
My brother’s voice echoed in my ears, saying: “Fatima, you are all my dreams.” Helpless, silent, and calm, I was lost in these thoughts. I noticed nothing else.
When I opened my eyes, the early morning sunlight was shining into the classroom through the destroyed roof. My vision was dusty, and I couldn’t see clearly. I found myself among torn and dismembered bodies. Drops of blood were warm and dripping from my eyes and chin. I was stuck in the narrow space between two chairs and couldn’t get up. My head was spinning. My left arm wouldn’t move to grab the chair and stand up. I couldn’t even speak to shout for help.
Someone appeared before my eyes. I guessed that this person was alive and could move. With difficulty, I asked him to help me stand up. With his help, I stood. I found myself outside the classroom and came face to face with my roommate. Now I knew that my friend was alive. With my right hand, which could still move, I wiped the blood from my eyes and ran toward the exit of the course compound. Up to that point, my blood was still warm, but I could no longer move.
The intersection connected to the course was full of people screaming—some running away, others rushing toward the course looking for their loved ones to see if their children were alive. Later, when I heard from my mother and others, I learned that at that very moment, after hearing the explosion, my mother had run barefoot through the dusty alley toward the course, thinking she would gather my flesh and bones and bring them home, or see me without arms or legs. Yet she still had hope and prayed to God to see me alive and healthy, and then give her own life in place of her child.
I heard a man say to me: “Sister, cover yourself with your chador(veil).” With a trembling voice, I said: “I can’t.” He placed the chador over my face. I realized that the white color of my chador had turned red.
Again, I found myself lying on a stretcher. I couldn’t open my eyes or speak; I could only hear the sounds around me. A girl nearby was screaming and crying, saying: “My name is Zahra, the course guard. I’ve been shot in the arm. Please help me.” Her voice hurt me. I wished I couldn’t hear Zahra’s screams or the voices of others in the hospital searching for their missing loved ones. From the sounds, I could tell that no emergency forces had arrived yet, that there weren’t enough medical staff to tend to the survivors, and that someone in critical condition might die without receiving care.
This is my story of that incident.
Interviewer: It was extremely painful to hear, and I am deeply affected. Unfortunately, many girls lost their lives in that incident, and many families were plunged into grief.
Fatima: I wish it had been just one incident. Unfortunately, similar explosions have happened many times in Barchi. Among Barchi’s population of nearly two million, we cannot find a family that has not lost a husband, daughter, child, sister, or another family member.
Interviewer: What injuries did you sustain in this incident? Which parts of your body were injured, how serious were they, and were you properly treated?
Fatima: All of my injuries were on the left side of my body. I sustained deep wounds on my arm, leg, head, and ear. Because of the injury to my left leg, I couldn’t walk for about a week, and I couldn’t move my left arm for nearly a month. My eardrum was ruptured, and for its treatment I had to travel outside of Afghanistan for surgery. Two wounds on my head were particularly painful. My lung had to be operated on due to blood clotting. I also had other smaller wounds that healed in a short time. In short, for nearly six months I couldn’t sleep on my left side.
The physical wounds have healed, but the psychological effects are still with me and continue to hurt me—among them my fear of crowds and loud noises.
Interviewer: With all this insecurity and the tragic events you described, how do people still send their children to school, and how are young people still eager to study? Aren’t they afraid of being killed?
Fatima: The answer to this question is still unclear even to me. All I know, and what I experienced myself, is that everyone fears being killed, yet the wave of children and young people participating in educational centers is unbelievable. In every alley of Barchi, there are at least two or three learning centers for foreign languages, computers, tailoring, Kankor preparation, public speaking, and more. Today I am a migrant and have lived in several countries. I can say with certainty that the motivation and passion I saw among the people of Barchi—despite all the hardships and insecurity—I have not seen anywhere else.
Interviewer: Absolutely. In the situation you described, anyone who dares to leave home and pursue education is a hero. Ms. Sarwari, how has the government failed to address this insecurity and these attacks, and what is the reason behind them?
Fatima: For me, at only 21 years old and without a very deep understanding of this issue, answering this question is difficult. But what I do know is that these attacks on schools and educational centers in Hazara-populated areas are carried out deliberately and in a targeted manner.
Interviewer: Ms. Sarwari, I’m glad I had the opportunity to speak with you today, and thank you for sharing your story.
Fatima: I am also glad to have spoken with you.
