The Gate to Hope is open

I moved to the US roughly 20 years ago and became a US citizen 12 years ago. As a trained psychologist, I spent nearly 6 years consulting and advising the Marines at 29 Palms regarding the cultural intricacies of the Afghan people. In 2019, I took a job with a non-governmental organization tasked with improving the lives of everyday Afghans. For this work, I travelled back and forth between the US and Afghanistan, allowing me to see my wife more often as she permanently resided in Afghanistan.

My name is Mohammad.

On this particular extended trip, I returned to Afghanistan in January of 2021. I had a short stay back in the US but returned quickly to Afghanistan as I received news that my wife was pregnant! I was going to be a dad again! While in Afghanistan, I was specifically focused on development projects that advanced women’s rights and fostered their ongoing independence. At the same time, my wife was studying to become a doctor.

Life was busy, but things in Afghanistan were rapidly improving for those that were previously marginalized in society. Hope was pervasive. Fast forward to the middle of August. In a bewildering turn of events, the Afghan government effectively abandoned their posts shortly after the US announced their hasty withdrawal. Confusion and chaos were now suddenly in charge.

As the sun set on the second day of the Taliban’s rule in Kabul, I had a feeling of unease. It was scorching hot that day, the heat seemingly amplifying the anxiety of everyone in the dusty city. No one knew what the Taliban takeover of the country meant. We could only recall widespread oppression and violence the last time they were in charge. Nevertheless, my heart was still filled with joy, for my baby boy Sultan was born just a few short days ago.

I remember that night very clearly. To celebrate the arrival of my baby boy, I had ordered my favorite food! I called and requested a pizza from a local restaurant in Kabul. I came to love pizza from my time in the US. I quickly realized this wasn’t quite the same version of pizza that I grew accustomed to in California. Most of it went uneaten as my son and wife didn’t share my enthusiasm for this delight from America.

Suddenly, there was a knock at our door. It was shortly after the day’s last prayers. I opened the door and saw the apartment security guard, his face showing palpable concern. He spoke quickly, “There are six Taliban foot soldiers at the front gate. They wish to speak to you, Mohammad.”

I made my way downstairs as my heart began racing. It was clear the Taliban presence drew fear and confusion from the neighbors who were now watching from above. You could readily tell what they were thinking. Who was in trouble? What was wrong? Would the one they were seeking live to see tomorrow?

The Taliban leader, young, tired, and somewhat dirty, quickly snapped, “Who is James? Is he American? Tell me, what does he do and why do you live with him?” Realizing they had made a simple mistake, I responded, “He is my son and he is just 8 years old.” Assuming this would assuage their concerns, I figured they would quickly move along. The neighbors still staring down at us from above, seemingly knew something different.

The leader of the Taliban foot soldiers barked back, “Let us speak to him, now!” Now concerned, I quickly went upstairs and retrieved James. James, a compliant young boy, came downstairs and politely greeted the Taliban group of men.

Another of the six Taliban men, also weary from the previous day’s Kabul blitzkrieg, stepped forward. Looking to James, he questioned “Who is James?” James, dutifully responded, “I am James. My friends at school call me James, but my name is Sayed.” Concerned they were being tricked, the Talib spoke sharply, “Do you want the name of the infidels?” My son looked down.

The gruff young man then turned to away from my son and looked at me. “We have a report that James is an American man who lives here. We will come back if needed.” Then he turned and the foot soldiers scurried away.

The next day James refused to go to school, saying, “I’m scared. And now my friends can’t use my name at school.”

“One day I will take you to America, and there you we will be free. Everyone at school will call you James,” I responded. He seemed genuinely happy.

Tensions continued to mount. Would the Taliban come back? We heard rumors of other people connected to America being taken away. Few of them were heard from again.

Less than a week later, I received a message from the US Embassy, “All Americans wishing to depart Afghanistan should take immediate action to do so today. Please go to the NEW MINISTRY OF INTERIOR (MOI) COMPOUND.”

As an American citizen, I had registered with the US Embassy upon each arrival in the country. With the unfolding events, my blue passport had just become a treasured possession – and if spotted at the wrong time or place, a potentially dangerous piece of paper. I decided we would quickly make our way to the airport. Only allowed to take my immediate family, we quickly said goodbye to my sister-in-law and her three children, who all lived with us. Despite her being a widow, I sent her and her three children on their way up north. I trusted they would be safer there, with other family to help care for them.

We grabbed two small bags and my wife, my son James, my newborn baby Sultan and I, all started the trek to the MOI Compound near the westernmost gate of the Kabul International Airport. We were fortunate we had a car. We weaved through the chaotic traffic of Kabul until I was fairly confident we were close to the MOI compound. We parked the car and locked it. Within seconds, however, I realized new plans were necessary. Just ahead, groups of Taliban soldiers with guns were preventing any Afghans from proceeding closer to the airport. Avoiding any direct contact with the Taliban, I quickly dialed the emergency number for the US Embassy. No one answered. The phone rang and rang. No one answered.

We ended up spending the night in our car near the MOI compound. I can’t say many of us actually slept as the newborn and mom were understandably unsettled. As the sun rose, we received word we now needed to proceed to the Eastern Gate. We motored within a kilometer or so and then began to walk. We quickly ran into mobs of people. Thousands of Afghans were now clamoring to get into the airport to escape the coming regime. While almost no one would be truly safe from the new fundamentalist rulers, those with connections to America were especially concerned. Each family seemed more desperate than the next.

I pushed forward with my family in tow. We finally reached a checkpoint that had an American soldier. With people having been trampled to death the day before, it was clear the Taliban were losing their patience.

Seemingly out of nowhere, shots rang out. The crowd collectively screamed. Panic ensued. I realized I hadn’t stopped waiving my American passport. Seeing a US passport, an Afghan Special Forces team member yelled at me, “come, now.” He inspected my passport and handed it to the American soldier three feet away. The American soldier grabbed my arm, pulled me and said, “Come now. Get your family and go behind me here. Proceed through the gate. Hurry, go!” I clutched my newborn baby, glanced back to make sure my wife was with me, and hustled forward. Ultimately working my way through the mass of people, I hurried through the airport wall gate, passing multiple Marines on the way. After a harrowing week, I finally tasted safety. It tasted better than the finest pizza I had ever had in California.

I looked back at my wife. She did not have the same sense of relief on her face. Something was amiss. I looked around. My son James was no longer with her. In the crush of the crowd, pushing through the checkpoint, she had lost her grip of James’ hand.

James was gone.

We grabbed the closest Marine. We pleaded, “Our son is gone. He was just with us. I must go back and get him.” “No!” The marine screamed above the chaos of the crowd. “You will die if you go back out there. We will go get him. What was his name?” I replied, “James, but I must go find him.” Wailing, my wife said, “Do something, Mohammad!” The Marine looked at me and said, “You must not go, we will find him.” The Marine quickly left. We stood, numb to the events around us.

The next few hours seemed like an eternity. There was no sign of James forthcoming. Within 3 hours we were pushed to board a flight to Bahrain. We never stopped crying. It dawned on us that we had lost our beloved son.

Upon arrival in Bahrain, we reminded multiple people that our son had been left behind. They calmly responded that they were “working on it.” But, nothing we did seemed to matter.

We were told we could not stay in Bahrain, and that we had to move along to the United States. Four incredibly long days after our arrival in Bahrain, we departed for the US. Once we arrived there, we did everything possible to evacuate our son. We told the military about James. We wrote to our congressperson. I hoped that as a US citizen, my son would be taken care of. Nothing worked.

Fortunately, within the Army camp in the US, word travelled quickly about our story. Afghans in the camp were helping the military personnel connect the dots of where James might be. I will never forget the day. On September 3rd, we received word that James had been found! He was still alive and under the care of an unknown family in Kabul! Praise God!

I made the decision I would fly back to Afghanistan to go get my son. Despite the danger, there was no other alternative. While figuring out my return to Afghanistan – it would not just be a straightforward flight to Kabul – a gentleman named Abdul came by our spot in camp one afternoon. He had news of a group named Task Force Argo that had somehow evacuated his mother from Afghanistan. He passed me the phone number of his contact at Task Force Argo and wished me luck.

It was October 1st and though despair had set in, I typed out a message: “My name is Mohammad... I need your help... We evacuated the country and headed towards the USA... We lost my 8 year old son and now he is in Kabul living with on other Afghan family. Right now I am in Army camp in Wisconsin... His mother are crying every day. Our goal is to get him out of the Afghanistan but we can not do that without your help please help a child. [sic]” I hit send.

I put down my phone, full of despair and nearly out of hope. Ding! Only 9 minutes later my phone notification charm alerted me to a new message. “Yes we will help you. I will be in touch sir.” I gasped. Tears flowed from my wife’s eyes! I whispered to her, “The gate of hope is open! There are angels helping us.”

Unbeknownst to me, I had gotten the phone number of a veteran named Brian. Brian was a volunteer with Task Force Argo, while he worked full time in the financial markets. After getting logistical details from Brian at Task Force Argo, we arranged to have my wife’s brother come and take custody of James. By October 7th, Brian had passed along concrete plans to get James on a flight out of Afghanistan. On the night of October 9th, I received a message.

Over the next 10 hours, James and his uncle were escorted via text messages from over 7,000 miles away. Through various modes of transportation, they were ultimately shuttled to an undisclosed airport. After slowly making their way through various checkpoints and lines, they finally boarded a  plane, headed to safety in another country.  

My son is now safely outside of Afghanistan. He is awaiting the completion of visa paperwork in a safe  country. We anticipate our joyful reunification with him sometime soon in the United States. We will never forget the heroes and angels at Task Force Argo that found a way to evacuate my son.