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Abstract
This article highlights the impact of international politics and war upon refugee’s lives, asserting that the humanitarian aid that refugees receive is contingent upon interstate and intrastate politics. Indeed, the role of the state becomes contentious as it becomes the source of security as well as insecurity in the lives of refugees. This role is guided by self-interest rather than humanitarian concerns. In the Afghan case, we find that humanitarian aid has sometimes been used to perpetuate endless wars and violence in Afghanistan. This aid was also been used to portray a picture of Afghanistan pivoted on an anti-Soviet struggle through the strengthening of fundamentalist strains in Afghan thinking. The latter affected women and children negatively as different actors within the camps — the Afghan political leadership, donor agencies, and Pakistani administrative structures — manipulated particular images of the ideal family and of the role of women. Women have had to face multiple levels and layers of violence just as men have had to contend with an intensified view of masculinity that naturalizes inflicting violence upon others. Refugees have unnecessarily borne the brunt of the aftermath of regional and international politics, as they have had to contend with both direct and structural violence.

Sultana, a refugee from Tora Bora (where supposedly

no one lived), following its bombing in early 2002 said:

Five years after my son’s death, my three-year-old daughter died. My mother took me to my parents’ house. A weapons depot, near my parents’ house, belonging to the Taliban, exploded. I was wounded in the back. My children were at home. My brothers were martyred. They killed my two brothers in Kota Tangi in Kabul by pushing screws into their heads. They had membership cards of Gulbadin’s party, so they killed them. Then, five years later, this war started. They dropped bombs on my house at 3:00 AM. I was in the basement with my children. The flesh and severed heads of my husband, five sons, and four daughters were scattered on the ground. I had only this torn veil to gather them in. How can I not wear this veil when I have collected the flesh of my children in it. They arranged seats for my remaining children and me on a bus and sent us across Torkhum into Pakistan. I lost my children alive and dead. I don’t know whether or not they got any coffin. I came to Pakistan with my three children. We stayed in a mosque at night. There was no one to help us. Then a woman gave me a room. I was helpless. I had pains in my bones [due to having her feet severed in the bomb attack on her house. After three months, my eight-year-old daughter died. The other one has a chest problem and I can’t pay for her treatment. Now, have only one son who became deaf and mentally ill after the bombardment. He is now suffering from epilepsy-like fits. He asks for his father and brothers. He asks me, “Mother, why are we staying here?” He says that we should go back to Afghanistan to join our family. Look at my severed feet and my miserable life. I can’t work; I can’t wash clothes or earn something for my children. I can do nothing....

One of my daughters died of TB here. Now this one is crying. They say give her fresh food and fruit, but I can’t afford these. Now she is very weak and can’t even walk. My son is also sick; he suffers from fits and his arms and legs are bent. I can’t afford his treatment....

I can’t forget my children even if I was crowned as a queen. I can’t forget the pieces of their flesh and the bones scattered around. I found the fingers of my innocent daughter.... My children still cry when they remember the flesh of their brothers and sisters.., all of them were around me last year to celebrate Eid but there is no one this year to celebrate. How happy I was and excited last year when everyone was greeting me on Eid day saying, “Mother we wish you Eid Mubarik.” But no one is left this year to wish their mother Eid Mubarik. Not one of my brothers is alive who could say sister, we are here to help you. They left five years before my children. I have lost forty or forty-five relatives during these revolutions. I took part in every revolution in Afghanistan but this one has snatched my home and my country from me....

My daughter was dying and I didn’t even have five rupees to buy glucose for her. She died with a small wish to have chicken soup. Now when someone brings chicken soup, it reminds me of her wish.

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