“They are not forgotten. We remember. We will continue to remember.”

Not Forgotten: Reflections on Genocide and Creative Resistance

“They are not forgotten. We remember. We will continue to remember.”

Farzana Esknadari

 September 25, 2025 

When I was walking to the building, the heavy rain reminded me of the last event I attended in the cold, snowy winter. But this time, the rain felt different. Each drop seemed heavier, like it carried the weight of sorrow. It felt like the cries of mothers who buried their children too soon, the tears of fathers who never saw their sons return home, the silent grief of daughters, brothers, sisters, and wives who lost loved ones to genocide. The rain against the pavement sounded almost like a mourning song from the sky, as if even the sky could not stay silent. It reminded me of how grief has no boundaries, how the pain of Hazara, Tigrayan, Uyghur, Tamil, Rohingya, Tibetan, Yazidi, and Tutsi families echo into one another. The rain washed the streets, but it also seemed to carry the unending blood that had been spilled. Maybe even the sky was restless and anxious, mourning with us. But the rain was not an excuse to stay home. I could not ignore this gathering of the Alliance of Genocide Victim Communities. I could not ignore the challenge of my identity, the question of who I am, and the conflicts inside me about what I can do. I believe being from somewhere in the world is not something you must be proud of, but it is something important to know. People often ask, “Where are you from?” This question always takes me back to who I am and where I came from. It inherently pulls me into my own history, my people’s story, and the weight of what it means to belong to a community marked by both pain and strength. Whenever the question comes, I find myself telling the story of my people, a story many have never heard. Even those from neighbouring countries often do not know who the Hazaras are. Each time, I explain patiently, knowing that if I do not tell it, the silence will remain.

I remembered a recent conversation with Ann, where I ended up talking about what it was like going to school in Afghanistan with the constant fear of whether we would come home alive. I told her about the explosions at the Kankor exam centers, where many of my friends were injured and some relatives never returned. I told her about the attack on a maternity hospital where Hazara women were supposed to give birth, and the bombing of a girls’ school that turned a place of learning into a place of mourning. I also shared the story of Marzia’s diary, which was posted many times on social media after her life was taken in a bombing. In her pages, she wrote about her dreams of visiting the Eiffel Tower and meeting the author Elif Shafak. But Marzia’s dreams were buried with her in the soil. Later, Elif Shafak shared Marzia’s diary with the world, but Marzia herself was not there to see it. She was no longer there to breathe, to laugh, to study, to learn, or to travel. At the end of that conversation, I wondered if Ann might have felt overwhelmed by everything I shared. Maybe she thought I was looking for sympathy. But that was never my purpose. What I shared was simply the truth of my life, the reality I carry with me. These memories are part of who I am, and no matter how much I might wish to leave them behind, I cannot. I do not speak of them to make others feel sorry for me; I speak because they are true, because they live within me, and because silence would only erase them further. If I share these stories, it is with the hope that others will listen, understand, and carry some of this knowledge forward, so that these lives and these losses will not be forgotten.

When I entered the Art and Human Dignity room, the first thing I noticed was the different artworks. From the story of the Chehel Dokhtaraan (Forty Girls) to images of victims who lost their lives, each piece carried its own weight of memory. As I walked further, looking at the paintings and photographs, I found myself remembering my conversations with Zainab and Fahima, and how our shared memories of pain and trauma had drawn us closer together. I had told them about my hatred for ambulance sirens. It always takes me back to the day of the bombing at the Sayed al-Shohada girls’ school. Because our house was close to the hospital, I could hear the sirens loudly, echoing without pause until late into the night. From that day on, the sound of an ambulance has made my heart race, repeating that memory again and again. Others carried their own stories too. Zainab survived gunfire at a Mazari celebration but watched her friends die before her eyes. Fahima lost her cousin in the Mawoud Education Center bombing, a cousin who had left home full of hope to prepare for university but never returned. Finally, as I looked down at the event brochure, the words stood out: “Not Forgotten: Genocide and Creative Resistance. Hazara Genocide Remembrance Day, September 25. Afghanistan 1891 to Today: Justice for the past, protection for the future.” Those words stayed with me as the program began, and the first speaker, Professor John Packer, took the stage to open the day’s discussions. He reminded the audience of the role universities play in fostering international understanding, pointing out that institutions like the University of Ottawa are home to large numbers of international students, communities that carry stories of displacement, survival, and resilience.

Drawing on his own experiences working globally, Packer raised key questions: What is genocide? Who bears responsibility? While conflicts in Gaza and Ukraine dominate international headlines, he stressed that genocides and atrocities are ongoing in many other parts of the world, often overlooked by mainstream coverage. He urged participants to connect art with human rights, to keep thinking, rethinking, and creating as acts of persistence against injustice. His framing was clear: this gathering was not just academic, but a call to action.

The first speaker was MP Ali Ehsassi, who spoke to the Hazara community and to the broader Alliance of Genocide Victim Communities. He recognized September 25 as Hazara Genocide Memorial Day, a day that marks more than 130 years of persecution. He traced this history from the violence and forced displacement under Abdur Rahman Khan in the 19th century to the targeted school bombings and attacks carried out by the Taliban in recent years. Ehsassi praised the Hazara community for its tireless advocacy and leadership, both in Afghanistan and in the diaspora. He reminded us that remembrance alone is not enough. Justice, he said, depends on recognition, accountability, and concrete action in international courts. His message was clear and powerful: crimes of this scale must never be allowed to happen again.

The second speaker of the day was Dr. Tahir Shaaran, a physicist and academic at the University of Toronto. Alongside his award-winning career in science, he has also dedicated himself to advocacy through the Canadian Hazara Advocacy Group, working to amplify the voices of Hazara communities in Canada and abroad. He brought both intellectual rigor and a deep personal commitment to justice to the stage. In his remarks, Dr. Shaaran honored generations of Hazara victims, beginning with the massacres of the 1890s and continuing through the Taliban’s attacks in the present day. He reminded the audience that although the violence has been relentless, the Hazara community has always found ways to rebuild. Time and again, they have risen from loss, excelling in education, contributing to politics and culture, and keeping their advocacy for justice alive. His message was clear: remembrance is not enough without action. He urged Canada and the international community to formally recognize the Hazara genocide, to create an independent commission to investigate and document the crimes, to ensure justice through international courts, and to provide humanitarian aid and protection, especially for women and girls. He ended by inviting everyone to support a petition calling for September 25 to be officially recognized as Canada’s National Day of Remembrance for the Hazara Genocide.

His words carried both urgency and hope, a reminder that memory must not only honor the past but also protect the future.

The next speaker was Samphe Lhalungpa, Chair of the Canada Tibet Committee and a former UNICEF executive. He shared powerful stories of Tibetan suffering under Chinese rule, describing mass killings, cultural erasure, and the way Tibetan art and dance have been manipulated by the Chinese government. What was once an expression of spirit and tradition has often been turned into propaganda. Drawing on the losses within his own family, including cousins and uncles, and on examples of traditional songs and instruments, Lhalungpa painted a vivid picture of a people struggling to preserve their culture, identity, and dignity. He reminded the audience that even the simple act of saying the name “Dalai Lama” has been silenced in Tibet. Yet despite these restrictions, Tibetans continue their peaceful struggle, keeping alive their songs, dances, and stories.

The next speaker was Mehmet Tohti, a well-known Uyghur Canadian human rights advocate and Executive Director of the Uyghur Rights Advocacy Project. Born in Kashgar, he once taught biology at a university before being forced to flee his homeland at the age of 26. In Canada, he helped establish the World Uyghur Congress and has since worked tirelessly to push Canada and the international community to recognize China’s treatment of Uyghurs as genocide. Tohti spoke about how Uyghur poets have turned to words to capture the pain of internment camps, exile, and loss. One poet wrote, “Where is my echo? I cry out, but no one responds.” Another reflected on a life where the past feels longer than the future. These poems, he said, hold both the devastation of silence and the strength of resistance. He also described the everyday efforts to preserve Uyghur culture despite repression: teaching children their language in weekend schools, passing down stories orally, and documenting traditions in writing for the generations to come. But he warned that without meaningful global support, an entire culture could be pushed to the brink of erasure.

Another powerful voice was Kidane, who delivered a presentation titled Survival Through Resilience: History of the Tigray Genocide. He traced more than a century of violence against the Tigrayan people, beginning with Emperor Menelik II and continuing through successive regimes, up to the most recent two-year war launched in 2020 by Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed in alliance with Eritrean and Amhara forces. Kidane described the horrors of that war in stark detail: more than one million people killed, women and girls subjected to systematic rape, famine used deliberately as a weapon, and entire communities cut off from food, medicine, and basic services. These were not random acts of war but intentional strategies of destruction. Yet alongside this suffering, he highlighted the determination of Tigrayans both at home and abroad. They wrote letters, organized protests, testified before governments, and kept pushing the world to pay attention to their struggle. Still, Kidane warned, the crisis is far from over. Large parts of Tigray remain under occupation. Families are unable to return home. Millions of children remain out of school. His call to Canada and the international community was urgent: recognize the Tigray genocide, enforce the peace agreement, demand the withdrawal of occupying forces, and pursue justice for the victims. Without recognition and accountability, he insisted, there can be no peace. After his speech, Joanne Hodges shared video clips that added another dimension to the story. The videos showed young Tigrayan girls performing traditional dances in London, New York, and other cities. Through their music, movement, and vibrant clothing, they carried a message to the world that even in exile, Tigrayans continue to keep their culture alive and refuse to let it be erased.

The event ended with Professor Packer answering questions from the audience. He emphasized that recognition by a single community alone may not be enough, and that true impact comes when genocide-affected communities stand together, sharing their cultures, experiences, and calls for justice. He gave the example of how some universities now provide scholarships for Indigenous girls, showing that practical steps can make a difference. Yet a question lingered in my mind: how can we help when genocide is happening every day in my own country? That question remained unanswered. I believe recognition is important, but without action, it feels incomplete. To me, the recognition of Hazara Genocide Memorial Day is not only about the past but also about reminding future generations of what has happened and what must never be repeated. In the end, it felt like another important day of learning had come to a close. I left with more knowledge, more questions, and a deeper sense of responsibility. As someone who has always loved to learn, I was grateful to carry home lessons that reached far beyond the classroom, lessons born from stories of pain, courage, and the determination to keep memory alive. Walking home, I felt changed from when I first arrived. I was reminded once again why I choose to keep learning, to keep telling, and to keep remembering. Not only for my own people, but for all those who refuse to be forgotten.