How history repeats itself in Afghanistan
Author: Muhammad Abdullah, journalist, specially for “Sangar”
In the final days of his rule, Hafizullah Amin issued orders: nighttime walks were prohibited (a curfew was imposed), lights in homes had to be turned off at night or windows covered with thick curtains so that no light was visible; propaganda against the revolution was punishable, and so on.
Even comments about the government or listening to BBC radio were considered crimes. People were afraid to speak loudly even inside their own homes because of the fear of the communists.
“Bandits,” “counter-revolutionaries,” “reactionaries,” “agents of imperialism,” “Ikhwan-ush-Shaytan,” and several other terms were labels that the communists used for those arrested.
These orders came at a time when a significant number of Kabul residents had been arrested or had disappeared, and many men and boys were forced into hiding.
My father was in Panjshir, and our family, along with several of my uncles’ families, lived in the Deh Afghanan mountains. My uncle, Haji Abdul Qadir, his eldest son Haji Jalil, and two of our guests from Jalalabad had been arrested at night a few weeks earlier. Previously, respected local figures, including Dr. Salam and the imam of our mosque, had also been arrested.
At the same time, the hum of cargo planes landing at Kabul airport could be heard at night. Rumors circulated that similar planes were landing in Bagram as well.
State television was the only media outlet broadcasting after 6 p.m., and on Friday, it showed Indian films. In our courtyard, where several families lived, there was only one black-and-white TV in the shared living room.
My cousins and I hated the news, but we still tried to watch children’s programs and Indian films on Thursday evenings. Children from nearby relatives’ homes would also gather in our living room. My mother and my uncles’ wives, though in mourning and crying daily, did not forbid us from watching TV.
On Thursday evening, December 27, 1979 (the night leading into Friday), the television broadcast suddenly stopped, and we protested. My uncle’s son (Maulana Abdurrahman Kabiri, former governor of Panjshir, then still a schoolboy) warned us to be quiet and went out into the yard himself. I followed him.
A few days earlier, heavy snow had fallen, but that night the sky was clear and cold, and gunshots were heard. Tracer bullets could be seen near Khoja-Bugra and Chahar-Kalai Wazirabad.
The next day, on Asamai Street, in front of the Ministry of Education, armed men in long coats, winter fur hats, and white armbands were patrolling. People said: “These are Parchamists, supporters of Babrak Karmal. Soviet forces have entered Afghanistan, Hafizullah Amin has been killed, Babrak Karmal has taken power, and prisoners from Pul-e-Charkhi prison have been released…”
Among those released were my uncle and several neighbors, but our imam, Dr. Salam, and others who had been taken earlier never returned.
For those whose relatives were not freed in December 1979 and disappeared without a trace, during Amin’s rule they were often told: “Your people have gone to the Soviet Union, for soap” (an ironic expression meaning they would never return).
Modern repression and crimes by the Taliban—cutting off the internet, restricting access to information, talks about the arrival of U.S. forces in Bagram, and internal conflicts among the group’s leaders—bear striking similarities to the arbitrariness and crimes of the communists, the entry of Soviet forces into Afghanistan, and the divisions within the People’s Democratic Party.
It is worth noting that after the uprising on February 11, 1979 (22 Hut 1357 in the Afghan calendar), a new wave of arrests of Muslims began in Kabul and other provinces, and many of those who had been released on December 27 were imprisoned again.
