It was a bitterly cold evening when I arrived in Kabul on a U.N.-chartered flight in early 2002. The city, like much of Afghanistan, was in turmoil. The trauma of Al Qaeda’s deadly Sept. 11, 2001, attack on the United States was still raw, U.S. forces were advancing from the north, the Taliban was retreating south, and ordinary Afghans in the middle were torn between fear and the first flickers of hope.
‘You’re finally here,’ an old man outside Bagram Airfield told me. ‘Maybe now my grandchildren will have a future.’
U.S. airstrikes lit up the sky, but it was Afghans opposed to the Taliban who moved on the ground — risking everything to help the U.S. pursue justice for 9/11. Armed with little more than battered rifles and unshakable hope, they stepped into the fight, driven by a belief in a future they were told the U.S. would help them build.
“You’re finally here,” an old man outside Bagram Airfield told me. “Maybe now my grandchildren will have a future.”
In the weeks that followed, I reported from the front lines as Kabul bureau chief for Turkey’s Ihlas News Agency. Embedded with U.S. troops, I watched Afghan civilians — students, farmers, former resistance fighters — step forward to support the U.S. mission.
Now, the United States is telling Afghans who resettled in the U.S. after helping it fight the Taliban that they’ve got to self-deport by May 20 — back to a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. “If America can’t honor its word to those who bled for it,” a retired U.S. colonel told me, “why would anyone trust us again? This isn’t just immigration policy — it’s a test of our moral credibility. And we’re failing.”
The Afghans who aided the U.S. during its war in Afghanistan weren’t just interpreters or cultural advisers; they were bridge builders in every sense. They helped restore America’s credibility, one act of courage at a time. With their support, the Taliban was driven out — temporarily, at least — and a U.S.-backed government took root.
“Ahmad” (not his real name) was one of them. Now living in the U.S. under temporary protected status (TPS), he spent years serving in nearly every role imaginable — interpreter, logistics officer, project coordinator — all under the U.S. flag.
“It felt like our chance to shape a better future,” he told me. But that future came at a steep cost. “As the Taliban turned to guerrilla tactics, we were constantly on the move — new cities, new homes. I tried to stay invisible, but the threats never left.”
The Afghans who aided the U.S. during its war in Afghanistan weren’t just interpreters or cultural advisers — they were bridge builders in every sense.
Another Afghan — I’ll call him Murtaza — was a former English teacher I met in 2002 who stepped up. He used his language skills as an interpreter, serving alongside U.S. forces in some of Afghanistan’s most dangerous terrain.
Murtaza and Ahmad survived countless attacks — but more than 241,000 others didn’t, including 71,000 civilians and 2,442 U.S. troops. Still, like many Afghans, they remained committed to the U.S. mission.
That loyalty was shattered on Aug. 15, 2021, when the Taliban seized Kabul and U.S. forces withdrew in chaos, leaving thousands of allies behind. Branded as traitors, many Afghan partners went into hiding before eventually making it to third countries — holding on to the promise of U.S. resettlement.
Murtaza, like thousands of others, has spent three and a half years stranded in a third country. His special immigrant visa (SIV) — once a lifeline to safety in the U.S. — remains stalled, and the State Department’s recent decision to suspend the refugee admissions program has indefinitely blocked his path.
That decision now leaves him — and thousands like him — facing imminent deportation, as their stay in their host countries was based on the promise that they’d eventually resettle in the U.S.
With the SIV pipeline already clogged, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security announced April 11 that it’s terminating TPS for more than 9,000 Afghans like Ahmad who are in the U.S. They’ve been given that May 20 deadline to leave or face removal. Some were coldly notified of their fate by email.
Both men — one stuck abroad, the other inside the U.S. — face the same looming betrayal.
These aren’t undocumented migrants. They were vetted and approved for resettlement after risking their lives alongside American forces in our longest war. Now, with the deadline fast approaching, they’re being told: Get out — or face consequences.
We’re not just abandoning them; we’re throwing them to the wolves.
In doing so, we’re not just abandoning them; we’re throwing them to the wolves.
“TPS exists for moments like this,” said Krish O’Mara Vignarajah, president and CEO of Global Refuge, a refugee rights group. “It’s designed to protect people whose return would place them in serious danger.” She added, “Make no mistake: Afghanistan remains under Taliban control, gripped by humanitarian crisis, economic collapse and brutal extremism.”
The latest situation update from the U.N. Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA), covers January to March 2025 and delivers the grim assessment that the Taliban continues to hunt, torture and execute former government officials and military personnel. Women are completely erased from public life, and girls remain barred from school beyond sixth grade. LGBTQ Afghans face public floggings, and religious minorities endure constant persecution. On Jan. 23, the International Criminal Court issued arrest warrants for Taliban leader Haibatullah Akhundzada and his chief justice for alleged crimes against humanity, specifically gender persecution. Is this the regime the U.S. expects our Afghan allies to return to? Ahmad, who’s still in the U.S. but is staring down the May 20 deportation deadline, is terrified. “It’s not just about me,” he said. “If I’m forced to leave, my family loses our only income — and given our political background, my entire extended family could be in danger.” The Trump administration claims Afghans in the U.S. under TPS no longer meet the threshold for protection. But Ahmad firmly rejects that. “Safety isn’t just about bullets,” he said. “It’s the right to live with freedom and dignity, the right to learn, to travel, to speak. I invite President Trump to see what life actually looks like on the ground.” This isn’t just about Afghans — it’s about every partner we’ll need tomorrow. This isn’t just about Afghans — it’s about every partner we’ll need tomorrow. If we abandon them today, future allies in Ukraine, Taiwan or anywhere else in the world will think twice about cooperating with the U.S. “This is cruel and chaotic,” Shawn VanDiver, president of #AfghanEvac, a nonprofit supporting the resettlement of Afghan allies in the U.S., told NPR. VanDiver, a military veteran, said, “It shatters everything America claimed to stand for when we promised not to abandon our allies.” There’s still time to do the right thing. Congress must reinstate TPS, clear the SIV backlog and pass the Afghan Adjustment Act, which would give Afghans who helped the U.S. in Afghanistan a path to permanent, legal residency. People like Ahmad and Murtaza didn’t just work for us; they fought for us, bled for us, believed in us. We owe them more than empty promises. We owe them protection. We owe them our word. Because if we fail them now, we’re not just abandoning Ahmad, Murtaza and thousands like them — we’re telling the world that America’s word means nothing.
Muhammad Tahir
Muhammad Tahir is a nonresident senior fellow at The Atlantic Council's Eurasia Center. He previously held key roles at Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL) in Washington, D.C., and Eastern Europe and served as bureau chief for IHA, the Turkish media, in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Most recently, he led media strategy at the nonprofit Corus International. His work has been published by CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, The Washington Post and The New Atlanticist, among others. 
