It turned into a reminder of the lasting trauma of the intensifying conflict in Afghanistan. Amanullah Watandost, 42, who was employed by an Afghan security unit that works closely with the C. His 3-year-old daughter, Madina, wearing a dress with a pink bottom and two pink bows, was in the seat next to him. They were out shopping for groceries in Arghandab, a district in the south that has long been a hotbed of Taliban militants.
Watandost was particularly close to his daughter, often bringing her along wherever he went. He and his wife had adopted Madina after not being able to have a child of their own in 20 years of marriage, according to family members.
Watandost had lost four of his brothers to the war; like him, they all worked for the security forces. On a quiet stretch of the road, an assassin pulled up and emptied three rounds into Mr. Watandost through the car window. No one else was close enough to hear the gunshots. When other cars and passers-by saw the vehicle in the middle of the road, they noticed Mr.
In the photos of the assassination that spread on social media, he is slumped back, the wound on his shoulder visible β one of the three spots where Mr. Watandost had been hit. In all of the photos, Madina seems shellshocked. No tears. The war has dragged on so long, and has spread so far, that any conventions of conflict β or local traditions of chivalry to protect women and children β seem forgotten, broken by both sides.
The militants carry out suicide bombings in mosques and wedding halls, boundaries rarely crossed before. In places like Kandahar, they have repeatedly assassinated female government employees, often with their young children at their side. Government soldiers barge into homes in the middle of the night, accused of shooting and killing as women and children watch.
