I heard you have a daughter who, yesterday morning, you kissed on the cheek before heading to work, and she is eagerly waiting for your return. You have a mother in a remote village in Darwaz, Badakhshan, who still doesn’t know what has happened to her son. Brothers who are migrants, and a father whose condition I don’t know.
I remember that hot summer day when you called me for the first time, speaking with your sweet Badakhshani accent, saying you had just arrived in Mazar and got my number from Sarwar Hosseini [the spokesperson of Kunduz police at the time]. In a quiet corner of a bustling city, in a humble shelter that served as both my sleeping and working space, we met. You had brought a book with you and said a traveler from Badakhshan should bring a book on federalism as a gift. You had nothing but a book, words, and a smile. What does a person live for? For these very things you had.
We became friends. I was full of passion, and you spoke calmly, gently, and with confidence.
What connected us? Sometimes we talked about it: pain.
The pain of poverty, isolation, deprivation, a difficult childhood, an adolescence filled with longing, and a youth brimming with excitement to run and achieve. It’s difficult, impossible, and unbearable to believe that Hujatullah Mirzaei is no more. A young man who laughed heartily in the face of hardship. One night, when the whole city was frozen over, we walked for about two hours looking for a bakery. Everything was closed, and we returned empty-handed, eating dry bread with water. I was angry and upset, and he laughed. The next morning, when we woke up, he said, “See, we both survived. You worried for nothing.”
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| Hujatullah Mirzaei and I with some of our friends in Mazar-i-Sharif, summer 2013. |
Yesterday evening, I was getting ready to go for a walk with my daughter. She was excited, ready, and wearing her roller skates. Suddenly, I sat down on the floor, numb, and started crying... My little girl stared at my face and asked, “What’s wrong, Dad?” My phone screen was open, and I saw your picture, where someone had put a crying emoji on your radiant face and shared it. I told her, “My friend fell while riding his bike, and his hand got broken...” She kissed me and asked, “Are you sad?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “Tell your friend to call the doctor, take medicine, and sleep; his hand will heal soon...” Until she fell asleep, she kissed me several times and said, “Don’t worry, your friend will get better...” And the last time, she made a few funny faces, trying to make me laugh... Then she asked, “Are you happy?” When I said yes, she peacefully fell asleep...
Your little girl, whose age I don’t know, is still waiting for you to come back... Daughters love their fathers... No one, no event, and no being can fill the void that your departure has left. Not for your daughter, not for your wife, not for your father, mother, sister, brothers, or friends...
May your dear soul rest in peace, my dear friend.
Note: Hujatullah Mirzaei, my dear friend, was killed on Monday, September 2, 2024, in a suicide attack in front of the Attorney General's Office in Kabul, along with several other civilians.
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