When Danish police put asylum seekers Vahid and Abolfazl Vaziri on a plane to Kabul in June it was the start of a terrible ordeal for the vulnerable young men

The story of Vahid and Abolfazl Vaziri is a circular tale full of mystery and complexity. Much is unclear about what ultimately happened to the Afghan brothers on their long journey from their homeland to Denmark, and back again.

But their case shines a light on the many hazards that face those who embark on the thousands of journeys that are reshaping global politics and defining a generation in countries from Syria to Eritrea to Afghanistan.

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Their story ends in tragedy. But we begin just a few months ago, in Denmark in the summer of 2015. For three years, experts and people close to the brothers had warned the Danish authorities repeatedly that it would be reckless to deport them to Afghanistan.

Both were psychologically fragile, on medication and tormented by anxiety. Vahid was known to cut himself, Abolfazl had suicidal thoughts. They had no family or acquaintances in Afghanistan, the country of their birth.

Yet, in June, after long legal scuffles, Danish police put them on a plane to Kabul. The authorities argued that 23-year-old Vahid was capable of acting as the guardian of his 16-year-old sibling.

When they arrived in Kabul in late June, they immediately found themselves living on the street. On the third day, they travelled to their volatile home province of Wardak to apply for identification documents, and Abolfazl inexplicably disappeared while waiting for his brother outside a government office.

Vahid returned to Kabul, but over the following months he would come back to Wardak every day to search for his brother.

“I walk around like a homeless person and ask people, ‘Have you seen a boy who looks like this? You haven’t seen him? He’s 16 years old.’ I walk around like that all day,” he said at the time.

At dusk, when Wardak became too unsafe, Vahid would return to Kabul to sleep on the muddy riverbanks by a bridge in Pol-e Sokhta, an area notorious for housing scores of drug addicts. Most of them are returnees from Europe or Iran.



“It’s a place for people who are tired of life,” Vahid said. “They have no hope of things getting better.”

When the Guardian met Vahid for the first time – the start of a month-long series of interviews – he was wearing skinny black jeans and Nike sneakers, with a jet-black undercut. He looked like what he had been until recently: a young man in Scandinavia.

He sniffed his sweatshirt. “I smell like that place,” he said, referring to his new home under the Pol-e Sokhta bridge where the reek of opium smoke mixes with the smell of sewage. A week later, he was dressed in a traditional Afghan shalwar kameez, one size too big, which he had stolen from a drug addict.

“Right now, I am sick and tired of life. I don’t care about my life. The only thing I think about is finding my brother,” he said. “In Denmark, I missed my brother if he went on school camp even for two days. Imagine how I feel now.”

Their case highlights the hazards for those who embark on the thousands of journeys that are reshaping global politics

Vahid and Abolfazl, who were members of the Shia Hazara minority, were close from early childhood because they had to be. In 2006, their father took the family from Afghanistan to neighbouring Iran, fleeing alleged persecution.

Their father subsequently disappeared and is presumed dead. Four years later, Vahid and Abolfazl went to Europe, while their mother stayed behind in Iran with their four younger siblings. In 2012, they lost contact with their mother, who is considered a missing person by the International Committee of the Red Cross.

The brothers ended up in Denmark, where they were separated for the first time. Abolfazl was put up in a children’s facility, but most nights Vahid would sneak out of the asylum centre where he lived to go and sleep in his brother’s room, leaving again before dawn. Later, the boys obtained a shared room at another facility where they formed friendships and became fluent in Danish.

Once settled in Denmark, the brothers felt the full psychological impact of their traumatic experiences. Abolfazl went through long periods of apathy. According to medical records, Vahid showed signs of post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in Iran, where he said he had been “tortured”. A few times, he vented his anger by smashing furniture and shoplifting. Both brothers suffered from anxiety.

“We couldn’t sleep at night. We had nightmares, always about being sent to Afghanistan and being separated,” Vahid said.

Eventually, they were put on medication, started seeing therapists and life got better.

“We went to school, we had friends. Life in Denmark was good,” Vahid said.

But in 2012, the Danish immigration service ruled that the brothers would not face personal persecution in Afghanistan, and rejected their asylum request. However, the Afghan government refused to accept them, so deportation was stalled temporarily.

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According to case papers, the immigration service ruled that Vahid was “stabilised and in a positive development”. It noted that he had a criminal record, but also saw his closeness to his brother as a sign that he could care for him.

“It is very strange that [the Danish government] didn’t listen to professional opinions,” said Maja Rettrup Mørch, head of secretariat with the Red Cross in Denmark. “Vahid can act as a guardian for his younger brother, but only with the appropriate support system in place. However, the authorities completely ignored that caveat.

“It is unusual to leave a minor in custody of someone who is documented to be so vulnerable.”

After being denied asylum, the brothers applied for residence based on a clause in Danish law that allows for residence in consideration of the child’s best interests, arguing that Vahid was not able on his own to care for his brother.



When that request was rejected, Lise Lomholdt, the brothers’ legal representative, filed a complaint to the Board of Immigration Appeals. She also requested a suspension of deportation, for as long as the complaint was ongoing. That request was denied.



Michael Lohmann Kjaergaard, head of secretariat at the appeals board, said it never comments on specific cases but confirmed it was still processing the complaint.

Through July this year, Denmark granted asylum to 6,703 people, more than in all of 2014. The country also returned 599 rejected asylum seekers last year, 85 of them to Afghanistan.

After exhausting their legal options, the brothers agreed to leave voluntarily, after being promised 22,500 Danish kroner ($3,406) in financial support, and several days to say goodbye.

Yet, at 6am on 29 June, police barged into the brothers’ room at Kongelunden asylum centre, asked them to pack their things in black plastic bags and took them to the airport immediately.

Due to the brothers’ vulnerability, the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) said it could not provide the level of assistance the brothers needed, and declined to be involved in their return. The brothers were on their own.

Then they landed in Kabul. “In Denmark, I had nightmares about Afghanistan. And now it was all there, right in front of me,” Vahid said. In their new environment, pockets full of cash made the brothers vulnerable, and their belongings were soon stolen.

To some experts, it comes as no shock that the brothers ended up on the street.

Without identified family and social networks, it is almost impossible to survive in Afghanistan, said Richard Danziger, IOM’s chief of mission in the country.

“So, take two youngsters, if they don’t have family here – plus, of course, their mental state – they are going to be in a very vulnerable situation,” he said.

At the end of September, two months after Abolfazl disappeared, Vahid contacted the Guardian to say his brother had been killed in Wardak.

He said a group of Pashtun men had shown him his brother’s body, among a pile of other bodies and that he had barely managed to escape. He was on the run again.

In a message to Lomholdt, Vahid wrote: “Hi Lise, Miss you very much. I was not able to look after Aboli. He is dead. And the Afghan authorities are after me. Now, I am in Herat.”

The Guardian contacted local elders in Wardak, as well as the head of the police’s criminal investigation department, to try to verify Vahid’s account but to no avail. But then, it is unlikely that Abolfazl was using his real name in Wardak. And to die without leaving a trace is all too easy even today in Afghanistan.



Vahid has since managed to cross the border with Iran, retracing his childhood steps. Nobody knows exactly where he is now, or whether he is making the trek back to Denmark. Abolfazl’s fate may never be known, but those who knew Vahid in Denmark say he would never have left if he thought there was any chance that his brother was still alive.