An Afghan Story

About his children, N said, several years ago: “they are lucky. They are Americans.”

Their daughter, when I first met her

He came on an SIV visa, granted because he worked for the U.S. military. He found an apartment, found his own job. The job listings at the refugee center were minimum wage and he couldn’t bring his bride here on that. The refugee program gives time-limited assistance, then you’re on your own.

I call him N because he and his wife have family in Afghanistan. They hope Taliban 2.0 can be believed but are not holding their breath. N studied to be an architect, worked for a firm that built U.S. bases, learned English on the job. Nothing he tried in Afghanistan worked out—too much corruption, too much war. Working for us put him in danger besides.

“Here,” he said, “you can do anything. You can get ahead.” His first job was in hotel maintenance, and he soon became the night manager. His Afghanistan schooling isn’t recognized here. “You have to start over,” he said, shrugging, “but that’s O.K.” He sent for his bride.

I’ll call her D. She’s beautiful, in her late twenties, married N less than a year before he left for America. She knew what she was signing on for, crossed the world alone, with only a few words of English, pregnant. Her daughter was born five months after she arrived. Until then, she learned to take the bus, took ESL classes at the refugee program, made friends. “There are people who speak Persian here!”

D couldn’t go to classes with the baby and I became her at-home tutor. The volunteer coordinator said, “you’re getting an Afghan woman. Afghan women are completely focused on education.”

The first years were hard. N worked nights and D was alone with the baby. Their building wasn’t secure. They sometimes found someone sleeping in the dingy hall. D did laundry in the bathtub, learned to use the library. We studied English together for almost two years, studied the driver’s manual until she passed the test. She found an ESL program with childcare. As soon as her daughter was old enough, D took her there and resumed classes again.

N took night classes, earned enough credits to be a draftsman at an architectural firm. Laid off during Covid, he is starting over, over again. While he had the draftsman job, they moved from the sketchy one-bedroom to a new two-bedroom apartment. He bought a second used car. D began driving to the store and medical appointments with the kids in their car seats.

When their son was two, they went to Afghanistan so everyone could meet the children. They don’t know when they’ll see their families again. N now works two jobs, leaves home at 7 a.m. and returns after 10 at night, six days a week. It’s hard on D and the children, but they’re saving money for a house.

D is excited her daughter’s in pre-school this year, the boy soon to follow, so she can return to in-person classes. She outgrew refugee program ESL, takes community college classes, but it was all online last year. Covid was hard on her English acquisition. Language is fragile, soon atrophies if unused.

She was a toddler when the U.S. invaded Afghanistan. A good thing about the U.S. presence: D and girls like her went to school. Openly. Without fear. They graduated from high school. Some went on to higher education. Some have careers now. Or they did. Their entire lives have happened under U.S. occupation. D’d like to be a nurse. Her parents are deceased, but she worries about her siblings. They worked for U.S. contractors, have lost their jobs due to the Taliban takeover. As each province fell, she cried.

N worries about his parents. The moment he completed the five-year residency, he filed his citizenship application. The process takes a while. Soon he will get fingerprinted, have a background check. D has applied also. The written test, when they are scheduled to take it, has 120 questions.

N’s sister has been here longer, is a citizen, started trying to sponsor their parents. It took over a year, but visas were granted just as the Taliban took Kabul. Twice, they have tried to reach Kabul’s airport and turned back. “Go home,” N told them. “Don’t risk your lives.”

The meal D made for us

We visited them this week, said, “we’re sorry.” D prepared a meal and N insisted that my husband offer the blessing. Phil is gifted at composing a non-religion-specific grace. A framed hand-sewn map of Afghanistan hangs above the table. N showed us the long border shared with Pakistan—their biggest problem, he says. He showed us Kabul, where he is from and Herat, where D grew up and how there are mountains everywhere. He pointed out Panjshir, where resistance to the Taliban may form, the one province they have yet to control. He told us how angry he is with Ghani, the former president.

Their bedroom had thick pillows on the floor, Afghan style. D made those body-sized pillows soon after she arrived. This week she took me to the bedroom to proudly show me her new bed and chest of drawers. She’d been wanting them for a while.

Her daughter, now four and a half, speaks Persian with her parents and English with us. Her son, just turned three, loves crashing his toy trucks into each other. Although Afghanistan has fallen, this precious family is here, and safe. Inshallah, they’ll soon be as American as their children, the kind of Americans that have always helped us thrive.