The Daily Hustle: Afghans flee the Iran-Israel war

Nur Khan Himmat • Roxanna Shapour 

Afghanistan Analysts Network

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As the conflict between Israel and Iran escalated, many Afghans who had been living in Iran opted to return to Afghanistan, fearing for their safety. The Iranian government’s current drive to deport Afghans had already accelerated the pace of ‘returns’. However, for Afghans who had lived through years of conflict in their own country, the ominous drums of war served as a powerful catalyst to flee Iran. AAN’s Nur Khan Himmat has heard from one man who left his home in Tehran and returned to Afghanistan with his family. He spoke from a camp for returnees in Herat before they headed back to their home in Balkh province.

I’m from the Kishenda district in Balkh province. Seven years ago, I left for Iran with my family because I couldn’t find work in Afghanistan. I have an 11-year-old daughter and two sons – one is seven and the other is four, both born in Iran. We settled in the Javadiyeh area of Tehran. It has a reputation for being dangerous. But in reality, it’s just a down-on-its-heels neighbourhood where many Afghan families live because housing is affordable and the landlords aren’t picky about who they rent to, as long as they get the rent on time. Luckily, I’m an expert welder. It’s an in-demand profession and it was easy for me to pick up welding jobs on construction sites. I worked hard and made decent money. We were also able to get temporary residence permits called bargeh-ye sarshomari [census registration document]. It wasn’t long before I’d saved enough money for a down payment on a house – about USD 3,600. I got an informal mortgage from the man who owned the property and we bought our own house. This was the home we left behind when the bombs started falling from the sky in Tehran.

When it rains bombs

Life was good. I had steady work and the two children who were old enough were going to school. Everything had already changed, just weeks before the war, when we were given an ikhraji [deportation order] and told to leave Iran and return to Afghanistan. I went to the office and told the government that I owned a house and needed to settle my financial affairs before I could leave. The officer there agreed to give me time to sort things out. But the tensions between Israel and Iran escalated and finally Israel started bombing Iran. I thought it would stop soon – like when there are brief flare-ups between Afghanistan and Pakistan, and after a few airstrikes or missiles, they stop. But this was different; it went on for days, and it was still ongoing when we left.

Israel was targeting Javadiyeh, where we lived, because there’s a military base nearby. Our home shook from the blasts and we were worried that the windows would shatter and injure us or our children. They were afraid all the time and my younger son wouldn’t stop crying. So, we ended up sleeping outside in an open field near the house every night. Ultimately, we made the difficult decision to return to our country. We hoped things would settle down quickly, but after a week, when there was no end in sight and there was even talk of America getting involved, we decided to go back to Afghanistan.

Leaving our home behind

I asked the man who held our mortgage if he’d buy the house back and give us our money. But he said he didn’t have the money. He was shaken, worried about what the war meant for his family – and for Iran’s future. He was sympathetic to my situation, but he looked up at the sky and said: “How can I get the money when missiles are raining down from the sky?” He wished us good luck on our journey and said we could come back if and when the war ended to settle things with him. Luckily, I had my savings at home and we’d invested in some gold that my wife and daughter could wear as jewellery. We left everything else behind – our home, our belongings – and escaped with just our savings, the clothes on our backs and our lives.”

From Tehran to Islam Qala

It took us three days to get to the urdugah [camp for returnees] in Mashhad. People who are going back to Afghanistan go there to register before being sent home. The camp was overrun with families who were either being deported or fleeing the bombs, or both. The Iranians who ran the camp were quick and efficient. We’d heard that people sometimes spend up to a week there, waiting to be sent back to Afghanistan. But we only spent one night, and thank God for that, because there were few facilities, the heat was unbearable and there was no food to be had.

In the morning, the Iranian government arranged for us to go to Islam Qala on the Afghan side of the border. But we had to pay for the bus fare ourselves. I was shocked by how much the bus fare had soared. In the past, children under six travelled for free, but now everyone had to pay and the fare had more than tripled. In situations like these, there are always unscrupulous people who see an opportunity to profit. Still, we had no choice. We had to pay up and get ourselves to Afghanistan.

From Islam Qala, the Taliban brought us here, to this camp for returnees. I don’t know the name, but many Afghans returning from Iran come here first, before continuing their journey to their home provinces. Here, each person gets 2,000 afghani [USD 28] and three meals.

By the time we arrived here, my youngest son was ill from the heat and exhausted from the journey. I told the people in charge of the camp about him and they immediately called an ambulance, which took us to a nearby clinic. Thankfully, he’s fine now. But the children are shaken. They don’t understand what’s going on. They want to go back to Tehran – to their friends, their toys, the little vegetable garden my wife keeps. They want to go home. They want things to be normal again.

We’ve been told that we’ll get a card that will cover the cost of our transport to our place of origin. This is what we’re waiting for now. Once we get that, we’ll go back to Balkh, where we have a house in our own district. I’ve been told that it’s fallen into disrepair since we left for Iran. So, once we get there, I’ll have to get moving on making repairs and making it comfortable for my family. This is my top priority. I need to make things as normal as possible very quickly, so that the sudden move doesn’t leave my children l hard done by. In Tehran, we had a home, I had steady work, there was school for the children and life felt normal. Overnight, we went from owning a house to a dusty camp, waiting for someone to give us a card that would pay for the bus fare to take us to Balkh. My wife and I know how quickly things can fall apart when war comes, but it wasn’t something I’d ever wanted my children to experience.

A future in Afghanistan

We heard that the US dropped a big bomb on an Iranian nuclear facility and now the war is over and there’s peace. But I don’t know if it’s true. One thing is for sure: when the war ends, I have to go back to Iran to get my money. But I won’t take my family with me this time. These days, it’s nearly impossible for Afghans to live in Iran. Most of us can no longer get residence permits and my family and I were getting deported anyway – it was only a matter of time.

I’ll go back alone and try to get my money from the man who sold us the house. He promised we could work something out later. I hope he’s still alive when I get back and that he’ll keep his promise. Even in the best of times, many Afghans get cheated out of their salaries by unscrupulous employers or lose their money when the person who holds their mortgage refuses to honour their agreement. I’m worried that the war might make this situation even worse.

But I won’t stay in Iran. Even if things calm down. We lived there for seven years and we’re grateful for the work and the safe place to live, but in the end we’re still outsiders – always guests, always temporary and always could be told to leave at a moment’s notice.

Between a rock and a hard place

On the road back to Afghanistan, and later in the two camps, I spoke to many Afghans. Their stories were a lot like mine – they’d gone to Iran to make a living. The ones who’d gone with their families wanted a better life for their children – safety, security, education for their daughters. The ones who’d gone alone wanted to send money home to their families and try to put some away – a nest egg for the future.

Some people, mostly men travelling alone, didn’t even bother to go to the camps, they just headed straight home to their families. Others, with families, were either being deported or were fleeing the war. Most said they didn’t want to go back to Iran. I talked to a few people who’d also left behind homes they’d bought on informal mortgages. Like me, they were planning to go back, get their finances in order and get the money for the house from the owners, but they said they wouldn’t take their families along this time. Even the people who said they’d go back to Iran for work once things had settled said they wouldn’t take their families along. They’d go alone, just to earn money and send it home to their families.

People who are poor always live between a rock and a hard place. [We’re back] in a country where there are no jobs, but there’s still the need to put food on the table.

Edited by Roxanna Shapour and Kate Clark

The Daily Hustle: Afghans flee the Iran-Israel war
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America owes its Afghan partners more than this

By Thomas Warrick and Douglas Lute

Douglas Lute is a retired U.S. Army lieutenant general and a former U.S. ambassador to NATO. Thomas Warrick is a former Department of Homeland Security deputy assistant secretary for counterterrorism policy and a senior fellow for the Future of DHS Project at the Atlantic Council.

June 30, 2025

Those who fought alongside U.S. soldiers face deportation or years of punishing fees.

Thousands of these brave Afghans were relocated to the United States when Afghanistan fell in August 2021 to protect them from death, torture or imprisonment by the Taliban. Today, more than 9,600 Afghans in the U.S. face deportation due to termination of the temporary protected status that allows them to live and work here. Even Afghans who can legally stay in the U.S. until their asylum cases or Special Immigrant Visas are processed will be required to pay the government thousands of dollars a year in fees if the Senate accepts the bill as passed by the House.

Many Afghans were paroled hastily into the United States after August 2021 because the U.S. government failed to properly resource the back-office work necessary to process Special Immigrant Visas and also failed to find these Afghans permanent homes here or elsewhere in the two decades since 2001. Bureaucracy and politics, not security concerns, are why thousands remain in limbo in temporary status.

On May 12, the Department of Homeland Security said protected status for Afghans could end because Afghanistan’s economy was “stabilizing” and its security had “improved.” The World Bank, however, reports that Afghanistan’s economy remains a basket case where “poverty and food insecurity remain pressing challenges, exacerbated by high unemployment and restrictions on women’s economic participation.”

Notably, Iran is now forcing thousands of Afghan refugees to leave or face arrest, fines and deportation. Such an act is in the Iranian regime’s character, not America’s. The suicide in May of Mohammad Amir Tawasoli, a former Afghan pilot, when he received an order from Iranian authorities to leave vividly illustrates the grim reality of what lies in store for others under the Taliban.

For those Afghans not subject to deportation by the end of TPS, language in the House bill imposes a severe burden. Subtitle VII.A would force everyone seeking asylum, protected status, or work permits to pay $2,000 to $4,000 a year in fees until their claims are finally adjudicated — which could take years. Many of our Afghan partners work hard in low-paying jobs, the same honorable way many of our forebears did when they came to America. If our Afghan partners are permittedto stay, the overwhelming majority will contribute just as our families did.

Before this bill reaches the president’s desk, the Senate can set this issue right by granting lawful status to Afghans who pass security vetting (as those here already have) and dropping the crippling fees on those who are qualified to become American citizens. To do otherwise would stain our nation’s character, dishonor our own veterans and compromise our future national security interests.

America owes its Afghan partners more than this
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The Fourth Year of the Opium Ban: An update from two of Afghanistan’s major poppy-growing areas

Fabrizio Foschini • Jelena Bjelica 

Afghanistan Analysts Network

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The Islamic Emirate’s ban on opium cultivation has entered its fourth year and apart from the first harvest of opium poppies in spring 2022, when farmers were allowed to harvest their standing crop, the authorities have enforced it, with one notable exception – Badakhshan. Farmers there have been better able to avoid the ban, both because of the province’s remoteness from the centre of government and its rugged terrain, and also its unique political landscape. Fabrizio Foschini and Jelena Bjelica have been hearing about this year’s harvest from locals both in the northeast and the most important opium-growing region, historically, the southwest. They found that, although the ban on cultivating poppy still holds in most of the country, high opium prices and a lack of alternatives are driving more farmers to take the risky decision to break the ban. 
It is still not clear how much opium Afghanistan will harvest in 2025 – no estimates are available yet.[1] In 2024, the amount of poppy-cultivated land increased by about 19 per cent countrywide: across 14 of Afghanistan’s provinces, farmers sowed an estimated 12,800 hectares of poppy, compared to 2023, when they cultivated an estimated 10,800 hectares in 15 provinces (UNDOC). Nevertheless, this was still a fraction of the 2022 cultivation, the last before the ban was enforced, when poppy was grown in 23 provinces on an estimated 233,000 hectares of land (see AAN reporting here and here).
Last November, AAN wrote about the autumn sowing season in Badakhshan; it is those poppies that are now being harvested. This northeastern province was, in previous years, less directly touched by enforcement of the ban for various reasons. It was never a Taliban stronghold despite the insurgency making inroads there in terms of recruitment and military control. After 2021, for a while the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan (IEA) took a lighter approach regarding appointments and local resources, possibly to avoid antagonising the locals whom the Taliban were still trying to co-opt (AAN). This also implied a limited implementation of the opium ban. Also, major drug traders from across the country – and especially the southern provinces of Helmand and Kandahar, where the ban on cultivation had been implemented thoroughly but where drug kingpins held major stocks and still ruled the trade at the national level – have been involved in buying Badakhshan’s opium and bringing it to international markets.

Things took a different turn last year when the lax application of the poppy growing ban in Badakhshan became too obvious for the IEA to continue to turn a blind eye to. By then, the province had become the runaway leader in opium production, with nearly 60 per cent of the area under cultivation. An eradication campaign, launched there in the spring-summer of 2024, met with strong resistance by locals and resulted in several casualties on both sides. Despite this, the example of Badakhshan had already been noted by many impoverished farmers across Afghanistan and the ongoing economic crisis has rekindled interest in a cash crop that is of unique value to farmers.[2] This is the case for the province traditionally at the centre of Afghanistan’s opiate production, Helmand in the southwest.

Long established as the country’s major producer, from the 1990s onwards, Helmand has seen its agricultural, economic and even political features mainly shaped by the production of opiates. It has been synonymous with the opium industry for most of Afghanistan’s recent history, and its political leaders – whether supporting or opposing the Taliban – have primarily issued from a milieu involved in the illicit economy. Afghan farmers in the south have also devised new ways to circumvent the ban. For example, as recently documented by AAN, there is a trend of farmers from the south of Afghanistan moving to Pakistani Baluchistan to grow poppy there.[3]

AAN spoke to locals in the southwest and northeast regions between late March and early June. Interviewees confirmed that poppy cultivation continues, due to the inability or unwillingness of local IEA authorities to completely stop it. However, to lower the risk of encountering government eradication efforts, some farmers have pursued more secretive methods of cultivation. These include hiding the poppy amidst other crops or inside walled plots of land, as well as moving to new, remoter areas and renting land there to cultivate poppies or have locals work the land as sharecroppers. Interviewees thought some officials, aware of the economic importance of poppy locally, turned a blind eye to such cultivation. A major factor behind poppy cultivation and opiate production might also be the unprecedented post-ban increase in prices – driven by the ban on cultivation – which makes poppy an ever-profitable business.

Location of the districts, towns and other places mentioned in the report. Map: Roger Helms for AAN, 2025
The northeast

Badakhshan has been at the centre of opium cultivation and production since the IEA began enforcing its ban. After the deadly clashes and widespread media attention last summer, the province was expected to become the main battleground this year if the IEA was to become serious about enforcing the ban nationwide. Indeed, at the end of May, some eradication attempts led to clashes between IEA forces and local farmers, such as in Jorm district (Azadi Radio).

AAN conducted five interviews with farmers and others in Badakhshan in early May, just before the start of the harvest. This mountainous province typically sows opium poppy in autumn and harvests it in June and July, depending on the specific area. Rainfed fields located at higher altitudes are usually sown in early spring. In the past, they comprised a relatively small part of the crop compared to those at lower altitudes, but things may be changing now, due to the need to safeguard poppy fields from the threat of eradication.

The interviewees were clear that hard-pressed Badakhshi farmers were neither willing nor able to give up poppy cultivation and comply with the IEA ban. Also, they reported that the Taliban authorities, at least at the local level, were not keen to enforce it. A local Taliban commander from Argu district, one of the hotspots of opium production in the province, gave this sober overview:

[This year], land located along the roads and near the main Takhar-Badakhshan highways has largely not been cultivated with poppy. However, in more secluded areas – such as gardens, inside private compounds, or house yards – poppy has been grown. In areas farther from the roads, cultivation continued as usual. In some parts, it’s slightly decreased, while in others it’s increased. Overall, there’s been no decrease in the level of cultivation. 

He said that people in his district “do not trust the promises made by the Taliban,” namely, they do not trust that they will receive the aid that was promised if they did not sell poppy:

Last year, they were told that alternative crops would be supported, but this never happened and the community now sees it as a deception. This year, the Taliban said there was no foreign aid, the Islamic Emirate was facing a budget deficit and there would be no support for alternatives. 

The commander’s words were echoed by Shafiqullah, a landowner from Khash district:

In response [to the provincial IEA authorities’ exhortations to comply with the ban], the people explained that Khash district has very little agricultural land, no mines, no alternative economic activity like livestock or poultry farms, no government aid or public services. They said that marijuana and poppy cultivation are their only means of survival. They also said that if an alternative is provided, they’d stop growing poppy. The governor promised to pass this message on to the leadership in Kabul, saying support would be arranged. But after waiting a full year, no help or response came, so people have continued cultivating poppy as before.

Many locals were, however, expecting a tougher stance on eradication from the IEA this year, if for no other reason than the great media attention and the very credibility of the ban being at stake. Some farmers decided to act more cautiously and sought to hide their crops, such as Azizullah, a landowner from Yaftal-e Payen district, which is close to the provincial capital, Faizabad:

Last year, I cultivated about three acres [1 acre = 2 jeribs = 0.4 hectares] of poppy. Although my land wasn’t targeted for eradication, I decided to reduce my cultivation this year out of caution. I sowed poppy on less than two acres, which includes a large garden area, a yard and a compound surrounded by walls. In the compound, I recently planted fruit trees, which are still young, and in between them, I sowed poppy. The local Taliban commanders’ affiliates don’t bother us, and the likelihood of interference from Taliban outside the area is low. Other landowners in the area have followed a similar approach, reducing their cultivation slightly this year.

Reducing the risk of eradication by spatially limiting cultivation has meant that remote areas are now being sought. While it is difficult to envisage that opium production hotspots, such as Argu or Darayem districts, will cease cultivation, poppy growing has now expanded to districts where it was previously only marginally practised. One such place is Shahr-e Bozorg district on the border with Takhar province and Tajikistan, where cultivation increased. In this district, eradication has never taken place – neither during the Republic nor under the Taliban – mainly because of the area’s mountainous terrain, lack of proper roads and difficult access, according to local farmer Zamanullah: “Only recently, this year, was a new road built – for the purpose of gold extraction.” He said that some areas near or along the new road had been cultivated, but most of the villages where poppy is grown are in remote places that are difficult to access:

The amount of opium cultivation depends on how much land a person owns. Some people have cultivated three to four acres, while others have sown less. Most of the cultivation happens on non-irrigated, rainfed land, while a smaller portion is grown on irrigated fields. Shahr-e Bozorg has less agricultural land compared to other districts like Argu, Darayem, Keshm, Teshkan and Yaftal. Because of this and the lack of road access, eradication is still very unlikely.

Shahr-e Bozorg was, for a long time, a forgotten spot off the main road, but has recently been the target of IEA attention because of the presence of gold mines there, the exploitation of which triggered competition between pre-existing local networks and new players more connected to the central IEA. The penetration of external economic interests and political control, said Zamanullah, may have exacerbated the tensions over poppy eradication:

In these [remoter areas of Shahr-e Bozorg], there are only a few local Taliban and they aren’t even considered fully loyal to the main Taliban leadership. These local Taliban generally support the people. They are unhappy with the central Taliban, especially in matters like opium cultivation, mineral extraction and other local issues. They are standing with the people on these matters. Across many districts, local Taliban have instructed and advised people to arm themselves. … If the pressure grows further, if mines are taken over and poppy eradicated, there’s a strong possibility of an armed uprising across the province.

This was confirmed by the local Taliban commander from Argu: “All the local Taliban in Badakhshan province are against the eradication efforts and aren’t supporting them, except the managers of the Counter-Narcotics departments at the provincial and district levels.”

The IEA recently deployed security forces from other provinces to Badakhshan. “Around 800 armed personnel from other provinces have been deployed, 400 from Kandahar and Helmand and another 400 from Kunduz and Takhar,” the Argu Taliban commander said. Many of them, especially those from Helmand and Kandahar provinces, do not speak the local language and are unfamiliar with the region’s culture. He said: “They use force and violence against the locals.” According to him, about “two hundred outsiders” sent to Qochi and Antin Jilaw villages of Argu district for eradication operations “have faced strong resistance from the local population and haven’t succeeded in destroying the poppy fields. However, they arrested around thirty local landowners and residents and took them to the provincial centre.” He also said that local people across the province were expecting the worst and bracing for a new round of protests, conflict and negotiation with the IEA authorities. “Many people across the districts,” he said, “have acquired weapons; if force is used against them, there’s a strong possibility of armed resistance. The Taliban leadership, particularly the provincial leadership, is aware of this local resistance.”

Badakhshan is undoubtedly now playing a central role in the ‘new’ opium economy of Afghanistan, at least as regards the production of raw opium. All interviewees claimed that members of the Taliban were involved in the opium economy locally, either by protecting crops at the time of eradication in exchange for compensation or by taking direct part in the trade of opiates out of the province. Some interviewees alleged that the top provincial authorities were themselves facilitating the smuggling of opiates out of the province, to Tajikistan and, especially to Kabul and further on to the southern provinces of Helmand and Kandahar. The trade itself, they said, is mainly in the hands of drug traders from these two provinces, who retain not only the international contacts and capital to carry on the trade  but also benefit from political and tribal connections to the top echelons of the IEA. This was something Shafiqullah from Khash commented on:

In the past four years, we haven’t faced any problems related to cultivation, selling or transport. During the Republic era, there were issues with transporting the drug, but under the Taliban, the pressure is mostly on the farmers who cultivate it. Those involved in buying or transferring the opium don’t face any difficulties.

The disappearance of heroin-processing laboratories – once numerous in Argu and Darayem – could also be playing a role in the direction of greater profits for the traders, who will get a second cut from the transformation of raw opium, now the main produce to exit Badakhshan, into more profitable narcotic substances.

The southwest

Helmand lies at the centre of a region known as the Taliban’s heartland. Ideological support for and personal or family connections and identification with the IEA run deep. No wonder then that despite the importance of the opium economy, the 2022 ban in the province was, to a large extent, obeyed. Cultivation in southern Afghanistan has remained patchy after the IEA began enforcing the ban, as shown in the table below:

Province 2022 2023 2024
Helmand 122,045 142 757
Kandahar 29,229 3,544 884
Uruzgan 14,557 647 115
Zabul 1,531 882 118
Nimruz 2,429 102 Poppy free
Cultivation in the southwest provinces (in hectares) where ‘poppy free’ is less than 100 ha. Data source: UNDOC’s 2024 Afghanistan Drug Insight, Volume 1. Table by AAN. 

One farmer in Gereshk district (aka Nahr-e Saraj) interviewed at the end of March, Abdul Rahim, said he cultivated opium in 2024 and 2025, partly on the small patch of land he owns, partly as a sharecropper on other people’s land:

Currently, poppies are blossoming in these areas and in a week’s time, the opium will be ready to harvest and still, there’s no news of the government’s presence or plans to destroy the opium. In Nahr-e-Siraj [district], the government destroyed several areas where opium was cultivated along the roadside, but the land that had been fenced off has been treated like a home and no one would enter it to destroy the opium.

Large tracts of what was officially state-owned, barren land in the Gereshk district of Helmand have been developed into poppy-growing areas by digging deep wells for irrigation managed through solar power and fencing plots of ten to twenty thousand square metres with brick walls of two-three metres in height.[4] This is the land, referred to by Abdul Rahman and interviewees, that, within a fenced area, no matter how large, is considered by the authorities to be within the boundaries of someone’s home and the police must present a court order to enter it, protecting any poppy growing inside it to a great extent.

On the left, a poppy field in the ‘cabbage stage’ of growth, enclosed by walls and a rocky slope, so considered within a home, in southern Afghanistan. On the right, a close-up of the same field. Photo by AAN, 2025

Another farmer from the same district described another way of hiding poppy: those not growing it inside walls, he said, could sow wheat and poppy seed, mixed together, instead:

First, they harvest the opium crop and then the wheat. From one acre of land planted with wheat and opium, they harvest more than 4.5 kilos of opium sap and between 50 and 70 kilos of wheat. Because a lot of chemical fertilizers are used, both the opium and wheat give good yields. People are very satisfied with the harvest.

Other interviewees from Helmand confirmed that this year’s opium harvest has largely gone unscathed by the IEA eradication campaigns. A Nurzai elder from Naw Zad district interviewed in early April described efforts at eradication so far this year as milder than in 2024:

The people of Musa Qala cultivated a lot of opium last year. The police chief of Helmand province, Mawlawi Mubarak, was from the Alizai tribe and hailed from Musa Qala. He cooperated a lot with his tribe [to protect their crops] at the time of the destruction of opium cultivation and therefore the Commander of the Faithful [Amir Hibatullah] learned of his actions and replaced him. This year, people in Naw Zad district have grown a lot of opium and the government is gently eradicating it in a few places where the quality of opium is bad, filming this, and then showing the video to foreigners. They’ve actually had no dealings with anyone cultivating opium – I grew opium myself last year and have done so again, this year. [Laughing] If there’s no opium, the people of Helmand cannot make a living and so opium must be grown!

A resident of Khakrez district of Kandahar province, interviewed in early June, reported a more pro-active approach in the fight against poppy cultivation by the IEA. However, he cast doubts on the probable results:

This year, almost all the people in the district … cultivated opium in varying degrees and the government arrested a number of them and detained them in the district police headquarters for a few days or a week. The local authorities have taken a pledge from them not to cultivate opium next year, but no one has gone to court for cultivating opium and those who’ve made a pledge and were released say that maybe this district governor won’t be there next year. … Buying and selling in the neighbourhood and village markets is carried out as usual.”

Farmers from the south have also found other ways to grow poppies beyond the reach of the IEA’s authority, including moving to Pakistan, as described by Asmat Khan, an opium farmer and trader who also lives in Musa Qala district:

I know many opium traders who have cultivated opium in the areas between Chaman and Quetta, in Pakistan, both last year and this year. [Once they’ve harvested it] they transport the opium to Helmand through Bahramcha district and process it into heroin in Afghanistan, where other narcotic substances like meth and crystal meth are also processed. But opium is also cultivated in large quantities in the northern areas of Helmand: Musa Qala, Kajaki, Sangin, Dasht-e Semiran in Gereshk, Naw Zad, Washer, Baghni, Baghran and Nawamish.

Other Helmandis have sought to escape police scrutiny or prosecution by renting land in remote valleys of neighbouring provinces, such as Ghor and Daikundi, sowing poppies and paying locals to work the fields. Locals who rented out their land and/or worked it would then be the ones to face police violence if the eradication campaigns began. Akbar, a teacher in Pasaband district of Ghor province, on the border with northern Helmand, said that opium cultivation in his area had increased this year: in the areas of Talmastan, Rauf, Dahan Rauf, Pitab and Dara Korkchak, which are Hazara-majority areas, about 90 per cent of the lands had been leased to opium traders from Baghran and Musa Qala of Helmand province and used to grow poppies. He also said that the land in Kurum, Sini and Sangan valleys, which are part of the Aimaq-inhabited areas of Pasaband district and border Baghran district of Helmand, has also been leased to Pashtun opium traders from Musa Qala and Baghran. “On 23 March 2025, the local authorities of Pasaband district arrested ten landowners from some of these areas and destroyed their crops,” he said, adding that already last year, there had been clashes between the local people and the IEA authorities in the Sini and Sangan valleys over opium cultivation, which resulted in injuries to several women, children and men.

Another interviewee from Pasaband, a small opium trader, updated AAN on the situation in the district by mid-June: “This year,” he claimed, “the people of the area eventually reached an understanding with the district police chief: after harvesting the opium crop, they informed the government that they could destroy the poppies and get the video they needed. This way, no problems arose: the government fulfilled its duty and the locals weren’t harmed.”

Kabir, a driver from Sang-e Takht district of Daikundi province, told of similar developments in his province in the month of April:

In areas and villages far from the district centres, opium traders from Uruzgan province have rented land from people and started spring cultivation. In cold regions, poppy cultivation begins in the month of Hamal [21 March to 20 April] and the sap is ready to be harvested in Saratan [21 June to 20 July]. Local people cannot dare [to grow poppy] on their own, but the Pashtun traders assure them they have connections with powerful people in the government and that the locals will face no problems. Therefore, people are starting to cultivate opium on at least part of their lands, with or without getting a rent [from external traders]. The local government has been silent about opium cultivation so far.

When the drugs ban was announced in 2022, it was largely implemented in the south because, as AAN reported, farmers abided by the new law and the local authorities were steadfast in enforcing it. Another important factor was that the major ‘poppy barons’ of the region, together with many well-to-do farmers, were able to draw down opium stocks they had accumulated during the unprecedented period of over-production between 2017 and 2022. UNODC, in its Afghanistan Drug Insight Volume 4, published recently, estimated that at the end of 2022, opiate stocks in Afghanistan had totalled 13,200 tons, which, it said, could satisfy demand for Afghan opiates until 2027. The ban drove up prices, meaning those opium stocks increased dramatically in value and, as the ban on trade was only weakly enforced, anyone with stocks to sell has benefitted from the cut in production.

High prices as an incentive and as political factor

Currently, the price of opium is falling because of greater production, although it is still high by historical standards. The price climbed from a pre-ban average of USD 100/kg to unprecedented peaks in December 2023 of more than 1,000 USD/kg (AAN) – as high as USD 1,112 per kilogramme in the south and USD 1,088 in Nangrahar, according to Afghan opiates expert David Mansfield. In early February 2024, prices started to decline and in June 2024, they were down to an average of USD 730, which is still far higher than before the ban or before the Taliban capture of power. In 2025, prices have continued to plunge.

According to AAN sources in Helmand, last year, opium reached the record price of USD 1,270 per kilo for one day in mid-2024 and then remained between USD 640 and USD 950 during the summer, before falling back around sowing season. This year, thanks to increased production and availability of opium, prices have fallen markedly, so much so that, according to AAN interviewees, in the northern districts of Helmand, such as Musa Qala, Sangin and Baghran, the price is currently between USD 275 and 400 per kilo. That is down significantly, but still higher than before the ban. However, further fluctuations could be forthcoming. One opium trader from Musa Qala told AAN: “After the Eid ul-Adha holidays and the start of the Iran-Israel war, the opium market has come to a standstill. No one is buying or selling at the moment.”

In contrast to the south, where prices have been declining since the 2023-24 hike, Badakhshan is currently experiencing a slight price increase. The cost of opium in Badakhshan has traditionally been lower than in Helmand, but things may now be changing. Possibly, its dominance in post-ban cultivation has boosted its clout within the internal market. Moreover, opium from Badakhshan is considered to be high quality and unadulterated, especially that coming from rainfed land. A wealthy landowner from Argu, Haji Karim, summed the dynamics up:

Compared to last year, cultivation [in Argu] has decreased slightly, but the price has gone up significantly, by nearly AFN 10,000 per kilo (USD 140). Last year, it sold for around AFN 30,000 per kilo (USD 420), but this year, it’s being sold for about AFN 40,000 (USD 570), despite the slight decrease in cultivation. Some traders and smugglers paid in advance, expecting the price to rise. Those who sold early at AFN 30,000 (USD 420) did not benefit much, while those who waited are now selling at a higher price.

He said that in his area, most of the land is “organic and rainfed” and that opium grown there is particularly valued:

Opium grown on rainfed land tends to fetch a higher price due to its perceived quality and purity. … Last year, it was sold at around AFN 25,000 (USD 350) per kilo. This year, including leftover stock from last year, prices have risen to about AFN 38,000 (USD 540) per kilo for non-irrigated, high-quality opium. 

For opium grown with chemical fertilisers and on irrigated land, Haji Karim said, the price ranges from AFN 25,000 to 28,000 (USD 350 – 400) per kilo.

The high prices undoubtedly continue to be a major incentive for farmers to venture into opium cultivation. In the balance of risk versus reward, high prices outweigh the danger of crop eradication, so long as any eradication is not total: farmers and landowners need to be able to save at least part of the harvest by, for example, varying where they cultivate it, or reaching a compromise with the local authorities. Moreover, high prices create their own incentives for officials to ‘share’ in the benefits of opium cultivation.

The variable enforcement of the ban on poppy cultivation, especially given that trade in opiates is ongoing, could foster discontent in regions where opium has been a mainstay of livelihoods, but has not been grown since 2022. A further increase in opium production could also spur competition among rival networks for access to the profits. The opium conflict in Badakhshan, for example, must be seen in the context of broader tensions within the province. As explored in an AAN paper from last year, in contrast to the early years of the IEA, Badakhshan has recently seen a more direct and ruthless management by the Taliban’s central leadership, aimed at replacing local officials with more trusted core members and exploiting more directly the province’s resources, especially its minerals. In Badakhshan, such a trend easily feeds into a narrative, common to many northern provinces, of a Pashtun-dominated IEA central leadership progressively replacing non-Pashtun Taliban locally. However, economic interests might blur the boundaries of political and ethnic divides.

The opium industry, however diminished, remains an important factor in the overall Afghan economy. The lack of real agricultural alternatives, depleting stockpiles and rapid demise of foreign aid may yet drive a resurgence of opium cultivation to pre-ban levels. However, that would surely entail a public renouncement of the ban. So far, that has not been forthcoming. Indeed, in his sermon to mark Eid ul-Adha on 7 June,  Amir Hibatullah referred to the ongoing ban: “Narcotics are prohibited in Afghanistan,” he said, “not for gaining leverage with the world, but based on the command of Islamic law,” (listen here to the RTA report, between 3:45 and 4:30). However hard the ban is hitting Afghanistan’s farmers, any let-up in official policy seems, as yet, unlikely.

Edited by Kate Clark

References

References
1 The IEA ban, announced in April 2022, concerns not only the cultivation and production of opium, but also the use, trade and transport of all illegal narcotic drugs. While the cultivation ban has been enforced rigorously, the processing and trading of narcotics has been far less vigorously/not enforced, as AAN documented in its earlier reports (see here, for example).
2 Opium poppy is more lucrative than almost any other crop and far more so than the main alternative, wheat. It also grows well in dry conditions, an advantage in a country seeing more climate crisis-induced droughts. Opium paste stores well and so can be used for credit and savings over the medium term. Poppy is also one of the best crops for labourers, as it requires weeding during the growing season and is labour-intensive to harvest.
3 In February 2025, AAN reported on how Afghans bringing capital, manpower and expertise to poppy farming in Pakistani Baluchistan. Recent analysis by opium expert David Mansfield has also shown a dramatic increase in poppy cultivation in Baluchistan, with the crop occupying as much as seventy per cent of agricultural land in some areas, and making the total area of poppy cultivation in Pakistan now larger than that in Afghanistan (Alcis).
4 See AAN reporting from April 2022 by Fazl Rahman Muzhary, One Land, Two Rules (10): Three case studies on Taleban sales of state land.

 

The Fourth Year of the Opium Ban: An update from two of Afghanistan’s major poppy-growing areas
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The Fourth Year of the Opium Ban: An update from two of Afghanistan’s major poppy-growing areas

The Islamic Emirate’s ban on opium cultivation has entered its fourth year and apart from the first harvest of opium poppies in spring 2022, when farmers were allowed to harvest their standing crop, the authorities have enforced it, with one notable exception – Badakhshan. Farmers there have been better able to avoid the ban, both because of the province’s remoteness from the centre of government and its rugged terrain, and also its unique political landscape. Fabrizio Foschini and Jelena Bjelica have been hearing about this year’s harvest from locals both in the northeast and the most important opium-growing region, historically, the southwest. They found that, although the ban on cultivating poppy still holds in most of the country, high opium prices and a lack of alternatives are driving more farmers to take the risky decision to break the ban. 
It is still not clear how much opium Afghanistan will harvest in 2025 – no estimates are available yet.[1] In 2024, the amount of poppy-cultivated land increased by about 19 per cent countrywide: across 14 of Afghanistan’s provinces, farmers sowed an estimated 12,800 hectares of poppy, compared to 2023, when they cultivated an estimated 10,800 hectares in 15 provinces (UNDOC). Nevertheless, this was still a fraction of the 2022 cultivation, the last before the ban was enforced, when poppy was grown in 23 provinces on an estimated 233,000 hectares of land (see AAN reporting here and here).

Last November, AAN wrote about the autumn sowing season in Badakhshan; it is those poppies that are now being harvested. This northeastern province was, in previous years, less directly touched by enforcement of the ban for various reasons. It was never a Taliban stronghold despite the insurgency making inroads there in terms of recruitment and military control. After 2021, for a while the IEA took a lighter approach regarding appointments and local resources, possibly to avoid antagonising the locals whom the Taliban were still trying to co-opt (AAN). This also implied a limited implementation of the opium ban. Also, major drug traders from across the country – and especially the southern provinces of Helmand and Kandahar, where the ban on cultivation had been implemented thoroughly but where drug kingpins held major stocks and still ruled the trade at the national level – have been involved in buying Badakhshan’s opium and bringing it to international markets.

Things took a different turn last year when the lax application of the poppy growing ban in Badakhshan became too obvious for the IEA to continue to turn a blind eye to. By then, the province had become the runaway leader in opium production, with nearly 60 per cent of the area under cultivation. An eradication campaign, launched there in the spring-summer of 2024, met with strong resistance by locals and resulted in several casualties on both sides. Despite this, the example of Badakhshan had already been noted by many impoverished farmers across Afghanistan and the ongoing economic crisis has rekindled interest in a cash crop that is of unique value to farmers.[2] This is the case for the province traditionally at the centre of Afghanistan’s opiate production, Helmand in the southwest.

Long established as the country’s major producer, from the 1990s onwards, Helmand has seen its agricultural, economic and even political features mainly shaped by the production of opiates. It has been synonymous with the opium industry for most of Afghanistan’s recent history, and its political leaders – whether supporting or opposing the Taliban – have primarily issued from a milieu involved in the illicit economy. Afghan farmers in the south have also devised new ways to circumvent the ban. For example, as recently documented by AAN, there is a trend of farmers from the south of Afghanistan moving to Pakistani Baluchistan to grow poppy there.[3]

AAN spoke to locals in the southwest and northeast regions between late March and early May. Interviewees confirmed that poppy cultivation continues, due to the inability or unwillingness of local IEA authorities to completely stop it. However, to lower the risk of encountering government eradication efforts, some farmers have pursued more secretive methods of cultivation. These include hiding the poppy amidst other crops or inside walled plots of land, as well as moving to new, remoter areas and renting land there to cultivate poppies or have locals work the land as sharecroppers. Interviewees thought some officials, aware of the economic importance of poppy locally, turned a blind eye to such cultivation. A major factor behind poppy cultivation and opiate production might also be the unprecedented post-ban increase in prices – driven by the ban on cultivation – which makes poppy an ever-profitable business.

Location of the districts, towns and other places mentioned in the report. Map: Roger Helms for AAN, 2025
The northeast

Badakhshan has been at the centre of opium cultivation and production since the IEA began enforcing its ban. After the deadly clashes and widespread media attention last summer, the province was expected to become the main battleground this year if the IEA was to become serious about enforcing the ban nationwide. Indeed, at the end of May, some eradication attempts led to clashes between IEA forces and local farmers, such as in Jorm district (Azadi Radio).

AAN conducted five interviews with farmers and others in Badakhshan in early May, just before the start of the harvest. This mountainous province typically sows opium poppy in autumn and harvests it in June and July, depending on the specific area. Rainfed fields located at higher altitudes are usually sowed in early spring. In the past, they comprised a relatively small part of the crop compared to those at lower altitudes, but things may be changing now, due to the need to safeguard poppy fields from the threat of eradication.

The interviewees were clear that hard-pressed Badakhshi farmers were neither willing nor able to give up poppy cultivation and comply with the IEA ban. Also, they reported that the Taliban authorities, at least at the local level, were not keen to enforce it. A local Taliban commander from Argu district, one of the hotspots of opium production in the province, gave this sober overview:

[This year], land located along the roads and near the main Takhar-Badakhshan highways has largely not been cultivated with poppy. However, in more secluded areas – such as gardens, inside private compounds, or house yards – poppy has been grown. In areas farther from the roads, cultivation continued as usual. In some parts, it’s slightly decreased, while in others it’s increased. Overall, there’s been no decrease in the level of cultivation. 

He said that people in his district “do not trust the promises made by the Taliban,” namely, they do not trust that they will receive the aid that was promised if they did not sell poppy:

Last year, they were told that alternative crops would be supported, but this never happened and the community now sees it as a deception. This year, the Taliban said there was no foreign aid, the Islamic Emirate was facing a budget deficit and there would be no support for alternatives. 

The commander’s words were echoed by Shafiqullah, a landowner from Khash district:

In response [to the provincial IEA authorities’ exhortations to comply with the ban], the people explained that Khash district has very little agricultural land, no mines, no alternative economic activity like livestock or poultry farms, no government aid or public services. They said that marijuana and poppy cultivation are their only means of survival. They also said that if an alternative is provided, they’d stop growing poppy. The governor promised to pass this message on to the leadership in Kabul, saying support would be arranged. But after waiting a full year, no help or response came, so people have continued cultivating poppy as before.

Many locals were, however, expecting a tougher stance on eradication from the IEA this year, if for no other reason than the great media attention and the very credibility of the ban being at stake. Some farmers decided to act more cautiously and sought to hide their crops, such as Azizullah, a landowner from Yaftal-e Payen district, which is close to the provincial capital, Faizabad:

Last year, I cultivated about three acres [1 acre = 2 jeribs = 0.4 hectares] of poppy. Although my land wasn’t targeted for eradication, I decided to reduce my cultivation this year out of caution. I sowed poppy on less than two acres, which includes a large garden area, a yard and a compound surrounded by walls. In the compound, I recently planted fruit trees, which are still young, and in between them, I sowed poppy. The local Taliban commanders’ affiliates don’t bother us, and the likelihood of interference from Taliban outside the area is low. Other landowners in the area have followed a similar approach, reducing their cultivation slightly this year.

Reducing the risk of eradication by spatially limiting cultivation has meant that remote areas are now being sought. While it is difficult to envisage that opium production hotspots, such as Argu or Darayem districts, will cease cultivation, poppy growing has now expanded to districts where it was previously only marginally practised. One such place is Shahr-e Bozorg district on the border with Takhar province and Tajikistan, where cultivation increased. In this district, eradication has never taken place – neither during the Republic nor under the Taliban – mainly because of the area’s mountainous terrain, lack of proper roads and difficult access, according to local farmer Zamanullah: “Only recently, this year, was a new road built – for the purpose of gold extraction.” He said that some areas near or along the new road had been cultivated, but most of the villages where poppy is grown are in remote places that are difficult to access:

The amount of opium cultivation depends on how much land a person owns. Some people have cultivated three to four acres, while others have sown less. Most of the cultivation happens on non-irrigated/rainfed land, while a smaller portion is grown on irrigated fields. Shahr-e Bozorg has less agricultural land compared to other districts like Argu, Darayem, Keshm, Teshkan and Yaftal. Because of this and the lack of road access, eradication is still very unlikely.

Shahr-e Bozorg was, for a long time, a forgotten spot off the main road, but has recently been the target of IEA attention because of the presence of gold mines there, the exploitation of which triggered competition between pre-existing local networks and new players more connected to the central IEA. The penetration of external economic interests and political control, said Zamanullah, may have exacerbated the tensions over poppy eradication:

In these [remoter areas of Shahr-e Bozorg], there are only a few local Taliban and they aren’t even considered fully loyal to the main Taliban leadership. These local Taliban generally support the people. They are unhappy with the central Taliban, especially in matters like opium cultivation, mineral extraction and other local issues. They are standing with the people on these matters. Across many districts, local Taliban have instructed and advised people to arm themselves. … If the pressure grows further, if mines are taken over and poppy eradicated, there’s a strong possibility of an armed uprising across the province.

This was confirmed by the local Taliban commander from Argu: “All the local Taliban in Badakhshan province are against the eradication efforts and aren’t supporting them, except the managers of the Counter-Narcotics departments at the provincial and district levels.”

The IEA recently deployed security forces from other provinces to Badakhshan. “Around 800 armed personnel from other provinces have been deployed, 400 from Kandahar and Helmand and another 400 from Kunduz and Takhar,” the Argu Taliban commander said. Many of them, especially those from Helmand and Kandahar provinces, do not speak the local language and are unfamiliar with the region’s culture. He said: “They use force and violence against the locals.” According to him, about “two hundred outsiders” sent to Qochi and Antin Jilaw villages of Argu district for eradication operations “have faced strong resistance from the local population and haven’t succeeded in destroying the poppy fields. However, they arrested around thirty local landowners and residents and took them to the provincial centre.” He also said that local people across the province were expecting the worst and bracing for a new round of protests, conflict and negotiation with the IEA authorities. “Many people across the districts,” he said, “have acquired weapons; if force is used against them, there’s a strong possibility of armed resistance. The Taliban leadership, particularly the provincial leadership, is aware of this local resistance.”

Badakhshan is undoubtedly now playing a central role in the ‘new’ opium economy of Afghanistan, at least as regards the production of raw opium. All interviewees claimed that members of the Taliban were involved in the opium economy locally, either by protecting crops at the time of eradication in exchange for compensation or by taking direct part in the trade of opiates out of the province. Some interviewees alleged that the top provincial authorities were themselves facilitating the smuggling of opiates out of the province, to Tajikistan and, especially to Kabul and further on to the southern provinces of Helmand and Kandahar. The trade itself, they said, is mainly in the hands of drug traders from these two provinces, who retain not only the international contacts and capital to carry on the trade  but also benefit from political and tribal connections to the top echelons of the IEA. This was something Shafiqullah from Khash commented on:

In the past four years, we haven’t faced any problems related to cultivation, selling or transport. During the Republic era, there were issues with transporting the drug, but under the Taliban, the pressure is mostly on the farmers who cultivate it. Those involved in buying or transferring the opium don’t face any difficulties.

The disappearance of heroin-processing laboratories – once numerous in Argu and Darayem – could also be playing a role in the direction of greater profits for the traders, who will get a second cut from the transformation of raw opium, now the main produce to exit Badakhshan, into more profitable narcotic substances.

The southwest

Helmand lies at the centre of a region known as the Taliban’s core stronghold. Ideological support for and personal or family connections and identification with the IEA run deep. No wonder then that despite the importance of the opium economy, the 2022 ban in the province was, to a large extent, obeyed. Cultivation in southern Afghanistan has remained patchy after the IEA began enforcing the ban, as shown in the table below:

Province 2022 2023 2024
Helmand 122,045 142 757
Kandahar 29,229 3,544 884
Uruzgan 14,557 647 115
Zabul 1,531 882 118
Nimroz 2,429 102 Poppy free
Cultivation in the southwest provinces (in hectares) where ‘poppy free’ is less than 100 ha. Data source: UNDOC’s 2024 Afghanistan Drug Insight, Volume 1. Table by AAN. 

One farmer in Gereshk district (aka Nahr-e Saraj) interviewed at the end of March, Abdul Rahim, said he cultivated opium in 2024 and 2025, partly on the small patch of land he owns, partly as a sharecropper on other people’s land:

Currently, poppies are blossoming in these areas and in a week’s time, the opium will be ready to harvest and still, there’s no news of the government’s presence or plans to destroy the opium. In Nahr-e-Siraj [district], the government destroyed several areas where opium was cultivated along the roadside, but the land that had been fenced off has been treated like a home and no one would enter it to destroy the opium.

Large tracts of what was officially state-owned, barren land in the Gereshk district of Helmand have been developed into poppy-growing areas by digging deep wells for irrigation managed through solar power and fencing plots of ten to twenty thousand square metres with brick walls of two-three metres in height.[4] This is the land, referred to by Abdul Rahman and interviewees, that, within a fenced area, no matter how large, is considered by the authorities to be within the boundaries of someone’s home and the police must present a court order to enter it, protecting any poppy growing inside it to a great extent.

On the left, a poppy field in the ‘cabbage stage’ of growth, enclosed by walls and a rocky slope, so considered within a home, in southern Afghanistan. On the right, a close-up of the same field. Photo by AAN, 2025

Other interviewees from Helmand confirmed that this year’s opium harvest has largely gone unscathed by the IEA eradication campaigns. A Nurzai elder from Naw Zad district interviewed in early April described efforts at eradication so far this year as milder than in 2024:

The people of Musa Qala cultivated a lot of opium last year. The police chief of Helmand province, Mawlawi Mubarak, was from the Alizai tribe and hailed from Musa Qala. He cooperated a lot with his tribe [to protect their crops] at the time of the destruction of opium cultivation and therefore the Commander of the Faithful [Amir Hibatullah] learned of his actions and replaced him. This year, people in Naw Zad district have grown a lot of opium and the government is gently eradicating it in a few places where the quality of opium is bad, filming this, and then showing the video to foreigners. They’ve actually had no dealings with anyone cultivating opium – I grew opium myself last year and have done so again, this year. [Laughing] If there’s no opium, the people of Helmand cannot make a living and so opium must be grown!

Farmers from the south have also found other ways to grow poppies beyond the reach of the IEA’s authority, including moving to Pakistan, as described by Asmat Khan, an opium farmer and trader who also lives in Musa Qala district:

I know many opium traders who have cultivated opium in the areas between Chaman and Quetta, in Pakistan, both last year and this year. [Once they’ve harvested it] they transport the opium to Helmand through Bahramcha district and process it into heroin in Afghanistan, where other narcotic substances like meth and crystal meth are also processed. But opium is also cultivated in large quantities in the northern areas of Helmand: Musa Qala, Kajaki, Sangin, Dasht-e Semiran in Gereshk, Naw Zad, Washer, Baghni, Baghran and Nawamish.

Other Helmandis have sought to escape police scrutiny or prosecution by renting land in remote valleys of neighbouring provinces, such as Ghor and Daikundi, sowing poppies and paying locals to work the fields. Locals who rented out their land and/or worked it would then be the ones to face police violence if the eradication campaigns began. Akbar, a teacher in Pasaband district of Ghor province, on the border with northern Helmand, said that opium cultivation in his area had increased this year: in the areas of Talmastan, Rauf, Dahan Rauf, Pitab and Dara Korkchak, which are Hazara-majority areas, about 90 per cent of the lands had been leased to opium traders from Baghran and Musa Qala of Helmand province and used to grow poppies. He also said that the land in Kurum, Sini and Sangan valleys, which are part of the Aimaq-inhabited areas of Pasaband district and border Baghran district of Helmand, has also been leased to Pashtun opium traders from Musa Qala and Baghran. “On 23 March 2025, the local authorities of Pasaband district arrested ten landowners from some of these areas and destroyed their crops,” he said, adding that already last year, there had been clashes between the local people and the IEA authorities in the Sini and Sangan valleys over opium cultivation, which resulted in injuries to several women, children and men.

Kabir, a driver from Sang-e Takht district of Daikundi province, told of similar developments in his province in the month of April:

In areas and villages far from the district centres, opium traders from Uruzgan province have rented land from people and started spring cultivation. In cold regions, poppy cultivation begins in the month of Hamal [21 March to 20 April] and the sap is ready to be harvested in Saratan [21 June to 20 July]. Local people cannot dare [to grow poppy] on their own, but the Pashtun traders assure them they have connections with powerful people in the government and that the locals will face no problems. Therefore, people are starting to cultivate opium on at least part of their lands, with or without getting a rent [from external traders]. The local government has been silent about opium cultivation so far.

When the drugs ban was announced in 2022, it was largely implemented in the south because, as AAN reported, farmers abided by the new law and the local authorities were steadfast in enforcing it. Another important factor was that the major ‘poppy barons’ of the region, together with many well-to-do farmers, were able to draw down opium stocks they had accumulated during the unprecedented period of over-production between 2017 and 2022. UNODC, in its Afghanistan Drug Insight Volume 4, published recently, estimated that at the end of 2022, opiate stocks in Afghanistan had totalled 13,200 tons, which, it said, could satisfy demand for Afghan opiates until 2027. The ban drove up prices, meaning those opium stocks increased dramatically in value and, as the ban on trade was only weakly enforced, anyone with stocks to sell has benefitted from the cut in production.

High prices as an incentive and as political factor

Currently, the price of opium is falling because of greater production, although it is still high by historical standards. The price climbed from a pre-ban average of USD 100/kg to unprecedented peaks in December 2023 of more than 1,000 USD/kg (AAN) – as high as USD 1,112 per kilogramme in the south and USD 1,088 in Nangrahar, according to Afghan opiates expert David Mansfield. In early February 2024, prices started to decline and in June 2024, they were down to an average of USD 730, which is still far higher than before the ban or before the Taliban capture of power. In 2025, prices have continued to plunge.

According to AAN sources in Helmand, last year, opium reached the record price of USD 1,270 per kilo for one day in mid-2024 and then remained between USD 640 and USD 950 during the summer, before decreasing further around sowing season. This year, thanks to increased production and availability of opium, prices have fallen markedly, so much so that, according to AAN interviewees, in the northern districts of Helmand, such as Musa Qala and Sangin, the price is currently around USD 240 per kilo. That is down significantly, but still higher than before the ban.

In contrast to the south, where prices have been declining since the 2023-24 hike, Badakhshan is currently experiencing a slight price increase. The cost of opium in Badakhshan has traditionally been lower than in Helmand, but things may now be changing. Possibly, its dominance in post-ban cultivation has boosted its clout within the internal market. Moreover, opium from Badakhshan is considered to be high quality and unadulterated, especially that coming from rainfed land. A wealthy landowner from Argu, Haji Karim, summed the dynamics up:

Compared to last year, cultivation [in Argu] has decreased slightly, but the price has gone up significantly, by nearly AFN 10,000 per kilo (USD 140). Last year, it sold for around AFN 30,000 per kilo (USD 420), but this year, it’s being sold for about AFN 40,000 (USD 570), despite the slight decrease in cultivation. Some traders and smugglers paid in advance, expecting the price to rise. Those who sold early at AFN 30,000 (USD 420) did not benefit much, while those who waited are now selling at a higher price.

He said that in his area, most of the land is “organic and rainfed” and that opium grown there is particularly valued:

Opium grown on rainfed land tends to fetch a higher price due to its perceived quality and purity. … Last year, it was sold at around AFN 25,000 (USD 350) per kilo. This year, including leftover stock from last year, prices have risen to about AFN 38,000 (USD 540) per kilo for non-irrigated, high-quality opium. 

For opium grown with chemical fertilisers and on irrigated land, Haji Karim said, the price ranges from AFN 25,000 to 28,000 (USD 350 – 400) per kilo.

The high prices undoubtedly continue to be a major incentive for farmers to venture into opium cultivation. In the balance of risk versus reward, high prices outweigh the danger of crop eradication, so long as any eradication is not total: farmers and landowners need to be able to save at least part of the harvest by, for example, varying where they cultivate it, or reaching a compromise with the local authorities. Moreover, high prices create their own incentives for officials to ‘share’ in the benefits of opium cultivation.

The variable enforcement of the ban on poppy cultivation, especially given that trade in opiates is ongoing, could foster discontent in regions where opium has been a mainstay of livelihoods, but has not been grown since 2022. A further increase in opium production could also spur competition among rival networks for access to the profits. The opium conflict in Badakhshan, for example, must be seen in the context of broader tensions within the province. As explored in an AAN paper from last year, in contrast to the early years of the IEA, Badakhshan has recently seen a more direct and ruthless management by the Taliban’s central leadership, aimed at replacing local officials with more trusted core members and exploiting more directly the province’s resources, especially its minerals. In Badakhshan, such a trend easily feeds into a narrative, common to many northern provinces, of a Pashtun-dominated IEA central leadership progressively replacing non-Pashtun Taliban locally. However, economic interests might blur the boundaries of political and ethnic divides.

The opium industry, however diminished, remains an important factor in the overall Afghan economy. The lack of real agricultural alternatives, depleting stockpiles and rapid demise of foreign aid may yet drive a resurgence of opium cultivation to pre-ban levels. However, that would surely entail a public renouncement of the ban. So far, that has not been forthcoming. Indeed, in his sermon to mark Eid ul-Adha on 7 June,  Amir Hibatullah referred to the ongoing ban: “Narcotics are prohibited in Afghanistan,” he said, “not for gaining leverage with the world, but based on the command of Islamic law,” (listen here to the RTA report, between 3:45 and 4:30). However hard the ban is hitting Afghanistan’s farmers, any let-up in official policy seems, as yet, unlikely.

Edited by Kate Clark

 

References

References
1 The IEA ban, announced in April 2022, concerns not only the cultivation and production of opium, but also the use, trade and transport of all illegal narcotic drugs. While the cultivation ban has been enforced rigorously, the processing and trading of narcotics has been far less vigorously/not enforced, as AAN documented in its earlier reports (see here, for example).
2 Opium poppy is more lucrative than almost any other crop and far more so than the main alternative, wheat. It also grows well in dry conditions, an advantage in a country seeing more climate crisis-induced droughts. Opium paste stores well and so can be used for credit and savings over the medium term. Poppy is also one of the best crops for labourers, as it requires weeding during the growing season and is labour-intensive to harvest.
3 In February 2025, AAN reported on how Afghans bringing capital, manpower and expertise to poppy farming in Pakistani Baluchistan. Recent analysis by opium expert David Mansfield has also shown a dramatic increase in poppy cultivation in Baluchistan, with the crop occupying as much as seventy per cent of agricultural land in some areas, and making the total area of poppy cultivation in Pakistan now larger than that in Afghanistan (Alcis).
4 See AAN reporting from April 2022 by Fazl Rahman Muzhary, One Land, Two Rules (10): Three case studies on Taleban sales of state land.

 

The Fourth Year of the Opium Ban: An update from two of Afghanistan’s major poppy-growing areas
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Manoeuvring Through the Cracks: The Afghan human rights movement under the Islamic Emirate

The end of the Islamic Republic was a catastrophe for Afghanistan’s human rights movement, with nearly all human rights defenders thrown into exile, fearing for their lives. The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan (IEA) combines an austere interpretation of Islam with ultra-conservative social mores, resulting in a highly authoritarian state with strict laws and practices. While the Islamic Republic had a deeply authoritarian streak, silencing criticism of its human rights abuses and corruption, it was relatively permissive compared to the Emirate. For most Afghan human rights defenders, working openly in Afghanistan is no longer possible. Many have continued their work from abroad, but the country’s new rulers seem impervious to change. Despite this, a new wave of women’s rights defenders emerged in spontaneous protests around the country, while other Afghans have found more clandestine or creative ways to work. AAN’s Rachel Reid has been speaking to human rights defenders about adaptation and survival in the new era. 
You can preview the report online and download it by clicking here or the download button below.

The victory of the Taliban insurgency in 2021 triggered a great rupture in Afghanistan’s human rights movement. Almost overnight, nearly all the prominent human rights defenders were forced into exile. The repression and authoritarianism of the Emirate has shrunk the space available for human rights work, making it more difficult – but not impossible.

This AAN thematic report looks at the state of the Afghan human rights movement before and after the Taliban takeover in 2021. It highlights how the operating environment for civil society has been flattened by a host of repressive policy edicts and laws which are rigorously implemented by the IEA, its intelligence agency, police and enforcers from the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. Freedom of expression and assembly have all but evaporated. Women’s lives are subject to the greatest control, with diktats even proscribing them speaking in loud voices or singing.

The IEA’s repressive tendencies combine religious and cultural conservativism imbued with very hierarchical authoritarianism. For human rights defenders, this mix is a catastrophe. From their current vantage point, it would be easy to idealise the Republic era, which was far from ideal – rife with corruption, high levels of risks and obstruction – it did nevertheless allow some room for legal reform, public advocacy and international support. The Emirate has codified its most patriarchal and authoritarian impulses into law, enforcing them through an effective apparatus of surveillance and punishment. For most human rights defenders, this meant that direct advocacy with the authorities, visible forms of documentation and traditional campaigning have largely disappeared.

In the face of this, some human rights defenders have found new networks and new ways of working both inside Afghanistan and from exile, building digital campaigns, lobbying to hold back the ‘normalisation’ of the Islamic Emirateand pursuing accountability through universal jurisdiction and institutions like the International Criminal Court. Others have found crevices in an authoritarian façade where work can be done, sometimes under the radar, often at the local level, sometimes through interlocutors. New voices have emerged, including from the spontaneous eruption of female protestors from diverse backgrounds with a clear political message, exemplified by the slogan: Nan, Kar, Azadi (Bread, Work, Freedom). Despite the risks, they chose resistance and disruption and are still making their presence felt, even if their ability to take to the streets has been forcibly blocked.

The Afghan human rights movement has been battered since the fall of the Republic, but human rights work is often an act of hope against the odds. The defenders featured in this report are adjusting their expectations, recognising that the path to justice will be long, uneven, and marked by painful setbacks. Yet they continue, not because victory is assured, but because the alternative –silence and surrender – is unthinkable. This report sheds light on their continuing struggle – and their enduring hope.

Edited by Kate Clark and Roxanna Shapour

You can preview the report online and download it by clicking here or the download button below.

 

Manoeuvring Through the Cracks: The Afghan human rights movement under the Islamic Emirate
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Learning the Right Lessons from Afghanistan

By: Ronald Neumann

The National Interest

June 6, 2025

The conventional explanations for America’s failure to stabilize Afghanistan provide little help for future policymaking.

The American memory of Afghanistan is receding in the rearview mirror. Increasingly, the potential to learn lessons from the twenty-year campaign is being wasted, replaced instead by bumper stickers and slogans that pass for knowledge but are either incorrect or largely useless without a great deal of further reflection.

Three of the most common bumper sticker lessons are “don’t do democracy,” “don’t build an army in our own image,” and “don’t do nation-building.” The problems with each of these suggest the need for deeper reflection if we are to profit from the past and get beyond slogans for future policy decisions.

Democracy in Afghanistan

The debate over how actively the United States should promote democracy abroad is nearly as old as the Republic itself. It first emerged in the early 1800s during debates over whether or how actively the United States should support liberation movements in Latin America. It is likely to continue.

The problem with using the case of Afghanistan to argue against democracy promotion as a policy goal is that it rests on the false premise that spreading democracy to Afghanistan was the principal goal of the US campaign there. In fact, the real aim throughout the Bush, Obama, and first Trump administrations was how to withdraw from Afghanistan militarily while leaving a more or less stable country behind where terrorism could not return. To do so required a basis of legitimacy on which the government could be organized. Short of returning to civil war, which had previously characterized the country, some form of peaceful allocation of power was necessary. Hence, democracy was a practical, rather than an ideological, necessity if the country was to be governed by consensus rather than bullets.

There were numerous problems in building Afghan democracy, including the time needed to establish a supporting culture and institutions, the incorrect choice of electoral system, and the difficulty of holding elections in insecure conditions. However, the problem with Afghanistan was not that democracy promotion was an unrealistic goal but rather that there were few alternatives to it.

In any case, policymakers did not frame the problem in these terms; leaving soon was a goal, but democracy was a sort of default reaction on how to achieve this. Whether that was the right choice is debatable—if one has an alternative governance model. But to conclude that the case of Afghanistan proves that the United States should refrain from democracy-building is to refuse to think about the options that were, or were not, available at the time.

No Model Army

The problems of constructing a foreign army in our own image have bedeviled US policy since the Vietnam War. Scholars have long documented how US-trained armies were not well suited to their purposes. In Vietnam, the South Vietnamese force was designed for a conventional war with the North rather than a demanding counterinsurgency.

In Afghanistan, the United States constructed a force so dependent on foreign support that it could not function without it. To take only one example, the supply system we built in Afghanistan was sophisticated, digitized, and heavily dependent on foreign expatriates, all of whom we removed at the end. However, the problem is not the truth of the slogan but rather the need for an alternative.

One cannot send large numbers of US military personnel to train the army of another country without having an organizing doctrine for training. We have no such doctrine for training a force radically different from our own, with large limitations on literacy and education. Building an army in a different model will require extensive thought and development. Without undertaking such thinking, we will be left either unable to assist in building a foreign army when one is needed or to repeat past mistakes. Thus, the phrase by itself is no help for future decisions.

State-Building, Not Nation-Building

“Don’t do nation-building” is arguably the most problematic “lesson” to emerge from recent American history. Firstly, the phrase “state-building” would be more accurate, as Afghanistan has existed as a defined state since 1747. The first Bush administration, and particularly Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, had drawn the lesson from the Balkans that nation-building was a mistake.

The result was a resistance to any commitment to institutional strengthening in Afghanistan immediately after the 2001 war when the Taliban was essentially defeated and security problems less acute. This opportune period, when foreign influence was at its peak, was largely wasted. No attention was given to building institutions. American assistance was limited to humanitarian aid only, and the first, very inadequate, developmental assistance did not begin until 2004.

In Iraq, there was an assumption that when the Saddam Hussein government was removed, Iraq would simply evolve into a democracy with very little help. The disaster of this belief has been amply documented. But the notion of not doing nation-building continued to bedevil the United States. The long-lasting second Afghanistan policy review in the Obama administration concluded that the United States would limit its goals to destroying the Taliban and not do nation-building (or state strengthening).

The problem with this formulation was that the Taliban was a regenerative movement. To keep it suppressed would require an army. But armies are part of a state, and a state needs a functioning economy and infrastructure. All of these considerations led to an enormous increase in the development budget, deployment of districts and provincial reconstruction teams, and a massive effort to increase the civilian advisory presence. The logic of these steps was unmistakable, and they unquestionably amounted to state-building, even as the administration declared it would not do so. The contradiction was not helpful to policy, to say the least. 

The Real Lessons

Twenty years of warfare leave an almost endless number of decisions for debate. Tactical issues, basic governance concerns, strategies for defeating the Taliban, and shifting policies of different administrations all provide food for thought. However, there is also room to reflect on whether there are more fundamental lessons worth considering. Three recurring problems in American policymaking arise: building a learning organization, creating reasonable timelines, and identifying local partners.

Building a Learning Organization.

One important problem that is rarely, if ever, addressed is the need to build a “learning organization.” An interesting book by Georgetown professor Lise Moraj Howard compares relatively successful United Nations peacekeeping operations to search for common lessons. One lesson she drew from the successful UN missions is the need to build an institution that develops enough knowledge of the local culture and politics to implement its policies effectively.

Building a learning organization requires certain key components. The first is long-term leadership. An organization needs enough time and leadership continuity to make mistakes and climb the learning curve. In Afghanistan, the rapid turnover of ambassadors and generals, along with the deployment of a new division every year or two, was the antithesis of building a learning organization. Similarly, short tours, generally limited to one year, were also common among most military and civilian personnel.

The result was frequent changes in operational policy on the ground, in addition to the broad policy changes that came from Washington. Afghan officials grew cautious about investing too much effort in new approaches, as it was likely that, within a few months or a year, a new US official would alter the approach. When this problem is repeated over and over, it becomes increasingly difficult to get full support for any policy from the locals.

US policymakers should reconsider the length of service, particularly for generals and ambassadors, as well as the frequency of rotations for major troop units and subordinate units. Rapid rotations tend to emphasize short-term goals. Structuring organizations around the attainment of long-term goals should have been the first step in US Afghan policy.

Expedient vs. Realistic Timelines

It is essential to consider the time required for policy success. This is particularly true when establishing a new form of government or rebuilding a society after a civil war. Unfortunately, this has not been the case with US policy, which tends to be driven by “politically feasible” timelines rather than ones designed to solve the problems at hand. The gap between these timelines needs to be examined and policy modified accordingly. Timelines considered politically inexpedient should not be rejected outright.

There are examples of successful change from corrupt autocracies into functioning democracies with strong armies. South Korea is an example of a country that moved from a corrupt, kleptocratic government to the democratic, economically successful one it is today. Taiwan is another such example. These cases suggest that decades are necessary for such change. While the United States spent 20 years in Afghanistan, it never had policy thresholds that extended beyond one administration. The result was, as John Paul Vann famously said in Vietnam, “We don’t have 12 years’ experience. We have one year’s experience 12 times.” In Afghanistan’s case, the US presence had one year’s experience 20 times.

A realistic understanding of the time needed for social change, anti-corruption measures, and democracy to take root could have led to commitments over a much longer period, perhaps with expenditures more drawn out and less concentrated in a year or two. Such a policy would have required very different public policies to explain the timelines and to build appropriate expectations for the pace of progress. Instead, the constant demand for rapid progress and the pretense that it was happening had the result of undercutting policy support over time.

Alternatively, if such commitment was not possible, a realistic understanding of essential timelines might have led to a variety of different ways to leave earlier, even if what we left behind was unsatisfactory. In any event, the refusal to look realistically at the time requirement meant that we were trapped in unrealistic policies over and over. This lesson is worth learning because a realistic appraisal of the time required for operational success will be necessary in the future.

The Importance of Local Leadership

In Afghanistan, as in Iraq and Vietnam, the United States found itself with local partners who were not up to the requirements of the situation. They could neither address the seeping corruption nor control infighting among their supporters. Consequently, the field was wide open to insurgents. Two potential lessons can be drawn from this problem.

One is that we will need to be realistic in judging whether we have local partners who are up to the broad requirements of whatever policy we are engaged in. They may exist—President Ramon Magsaysay in the Philippines was such a leader, and the result was a successful counterinsurgency and nation-building. In the absence of such leadership, the United States has a long record of trying to compensate by either making policy in Washington or deposing the leader. We attempted both in Vietnam and Afghanistan but failed in both places.

Many examples of the problem with local partners not meeting the needs of the situation are found in the book Vietnam Declassified: The CIA and Counterinsurgency. Over and over again, American officials identified problems and devised policies to address them but were unable to obtain lasting local buy-in. Whenever American officials rotated, funding ran out, or a particular local partner was killed or transferred, the situation returned to square one.

The same pattern repeated itself in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Obama surge in Afghanistan produced not only Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs) but also District Support Teams (DSTs) and a significant effort to increase the number of civilian advisors. This was intended to produce a significant change in governance within a very short time. As observers noted at the time, the Afghan government lacked the institutional capacity to capitalize on the progress achieved.

The underlying problem was not only the lack of time but also the willingness of the political leadership in Afghanistan or Vietnam to make necessary changes on their own. The problem was aptly captured in the famous, leaked “NODIS” telegram from then-US Ambassador to Afghanistan Karl Eikenberry, who observed that the basic problem with the proposed strategy was that we had no local partner.

Without adequate partners on the ground, policy frequently fails. Equally consistent has been our reaction to the lack of local partners. Either we try to build our own policies, as described above, or we change the leadership. In South Vietnam, the United States supported a coup that resulted in President Ngo Dinh Diem’s murder in 1963. In Afghanistan, Ambassador Richard Holbrooke tried to remove President Hamid Karzai, an effort that failed and further alienated the Afghan president. The US approach is not only arrogant and mechanistic but also completely unsuccessful. After 70 years of consistent failure, it is time for policymakers and academics to understand that foreign policy cannot be made without regard to foreigners.

There will not be a single solution to this problem in the future. It may not even be clear that the problem exists until the United States is deeply immersed in a country and its choices are limited. However, addressing the issue will require acknowledging that the problem exists and debating solutions in both academic and policy forums. Discussing policy failure without examining the underlying attitudes and approaches of local leaders has been a repeated phenomenon in many different administrations and countries, yielding the same poor results. There are underlying problems like these that extend beyond individual policy choices. Recognizing the importance of local leadership would be a starting point for making better choices in the future.

Policing: Paramilitary or Civil?

Building an effective police force has been a key issue in the insurgencies America has confronted. Professor Howard’s book also noted that police training is among the most challenging problems across various UN missions. When a problem recurs repeatedly, it is time to consider whether there is a deeper issue beyond the operational or organizational decisions in a particular country.

Several key points must be understood to develop a new approach to police training. One is that the United States is particularly badly placed for police training. We have no national police force. We have no national doctrine for police training. We have no established source of recruitment for police trainers, except for a limited number of retired police officers. Most active police forces do not want to give up their personnel to foreign missions.

In Afghanistan and Iraq, the debilities were exacerbated by the argument over whether the police force should be more along paramilitary or civilian lines. Of course, the answer was that both were necessary. Without proper law enforcement training, the police force could not act as a source of justice or public safety. However, the Afghan police still had to face large, heavily armed insurgent groups.

Mixed civil and paramilitary forces do exist in France, Italy, and Spain, but not in the United States. But these examples never made it into police training in Afghanistan. The international training mission drew Italy and France into training the Afghan border police, but not for regular police training.

The time given for police training was also too brief. In the United States, the average time for police training is 21 weeks, and this training is typically provided to at least high school graduates in established police forces who are not involved in counterinsurgency operations. In Afghanistan, training rarely exceeded several months, with recruits who were frequently illiterate and unable to perform basic reporting or record-keeping tasks.

There are some examples of comparatively successful police training. Robert Perito’s book The American Experience with Police in Peace Operations notes the necessity of an adequate ratio of police trainers to police recruits. Nothing in the length of time US and international forces devoted to police training in Afghanistan (or Iraq, for that matter) suggests that we learned this lesson.

The need to strengthen a local police force may arise in many cases that do not involve counterinsurgency or state-building efforts. Hence, Afghanistan’s lessons still matter. The resort to an outmatched Kenyan police force in Haiti, a country overrun by armed gangs, does not suggest we have even tried to take this history to heart.

No doubt there are other important lessons to be learned from Afghanistan. To profit from them, academics, as well as policymakers, need to go beyond catchphrases. They will need to consider that repeated failures reflect deeper, structural problems in our approach. If we cannot solve the problems of local leadership quality or the need for realistic time horizons, we must at least begin by acknowledging that these problems exist and recur. Only then will we be able to formulate better approaches for the future.

Ronald E Neumann was the US Ambassador to Afghanistan from 2005 to 2007, as well as Ambassador to Algeria and Bahrain. He served as an infantry officer in Vietnam and a senior officer in Iraq (2004–2005).

Learning the Right Lessons from Afghanistan
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Living a Mullah’s Life (1): The changing role and socio-economic status of Afghanistan’s village clerics

Sharif Akram

Afghanistan Analysts Network

In Afghanistan, where Islam has been the predominant religion for many centuries, local religious leaders, known as mullahs, are an influential group with significant say in almost every issue. While their influence is profound, their personal economic status and lifestyle have often been modest. In this first of two reports, AAN’s Sharif Akram looks at the changing status of village mullahs in southeastern Afghanistan from the pre-war era to the present day. He argues that over the past four decades, their lives and socio-economic situation have improved significantly, but asks where they now stand vis-à-vis their communities and the state.

A second part of this research will look at how mullahs’ theological education has changed and how this has affected how they are viewed by wider society.

The term ‘mullah’ is widely used in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iran to refer to religious leaders or prayer leaders within Muslim communities. A mullah is typically someone with a basic knowledge of Islamic teachings who is capable of leading prayers, teaching the fundamentals of religion and addressing common religious issues faced by his congregation. Some interviewees also spoke about ulema (singular – alem), usually understood as Islamic scholars, although they were still referring to clerics with the sort of basic training enjoyed by Afghan mullahs through the ages.

This report examines the personal lives of village mullahs, focusing on the changes in their economic status over time and the factors driving these shifts. It also explores the implications of an improved economic situation for mullahs. This study specifically focuses on the southern and southeastern regions of the country,[1] mainly rural and Pashtun, and with all interviewees being Sunni Muslim. The author notes that the lives of mullahs and their social status could be somewhat different in Afghanistan’s various regions, and that urban mullahs have almost always had a different trajectory, with far more control exercised by the state, including often being paid directly by it. The findings are based on more than 10 in-depth interviews with mullahs from Khost, Paktia, and Ghazni, as well as insights gained from conversations with community leaders and mullahs from other provinces in the south and southeast.

Background

Mullahs play an important role in their communities across southern and southeastern Afghanistan, even though their level of religious education is often limited. Most do not possess advanced or specialised knowledge of Islamic theology, nor do they typically hold degrees from formal religious seminaries or universities. Instead, their education has often been acquired through informal study or apprenticeship within local mosques or madrasas. Despite this, mullahs are often seen as trusted figures of authority and guidance in everyday religious matters. Their personal lives and economic status have traditionally been modest and they usually do not hold a privileged position. Mullahs have typically not engaged in other occupations, with religious guidance being their only profession, and have often been seen as separate from the general population, with little involvement in the social, tribal, or customary dynamics that shape people’s daily lives.

These local religious leaders have, however, occasionally played a powerful social and even political role in Afghan history, particularly in times of crisis or when religion was perceived to be endangered.[2] During such periods – whether it was for rallying people against the state or for organising resistance against foreign invaders — both local communities and the Afghan state, as well as its opponents, have regularly turned to mullahs to unite the population behind a common and higher cause. For instance, during the Anglo-Afghan wars, Afghan statesmen frequently relied on mullahs to legitimise their call to arms and rally support from local communities. By contrast, during the reign of Amanullah Khan in the 1920s, it was again the mullahs who, this time, catalysed the fight against his government, ultimately leading to the king’s downfall.[3] Their influence at times of crisis also stemmed from their perceived impartiality within a community: as mullahs were often originally outsiders in the communities they served, they were considered free from factional interests and uninvolved in familial or inter-tribal rivalries.

In normal times, however, outside their religious duties, mullahs were typically not given much importance by the community and their influence was largely limited to religious affairs. Due to their minimal involvement in practical or economic matters, mullahs were often the poorest segment of society, relying entirely on the community for their livelihood in exchange for providing religious and spiritual guidance. This dependence on other members of the community for their livelihood traditionally relegated mullahs to a separate and somewhat inferior status in the tribal society of southeastern Afghanistan. A well-known story from Pashtun rural areas, shared by one interviewee, clearly illustrates the modest economic status of mullahs, as well as their reputation for greediness often given by other villagers.

There’s an old saying drawn from a well-known story about a mullah who got stuck in a small river. A villager saw him struggling and came to help. He told the mullah to give him his hand so he could pull him out, but the mullah refused. The villager tried again and again, but the mullah still wouldn’t extend his hand. Finally, the villager told the mullah to take his hand, and the mullah quickly did so and was pulled out. This story has since become a proverb: ‘A mullah never gives something to someone; he is only ever a taker.’ 

This perception of mullahs was so deeply ingrained that one interviewee recalled, “On the first day of the [Taliban] victory, people in our area said that now the mullahs are in power, they “wouldn’t be paying the salaries of government employees because they are only takers, not givers.”

The reality of living in poverty was described by many of the mullahs interviewed for this research, for example, this interviewee from Khost’s Sabari district:

My father was the oldest brother [of the family]; the other two were younger than him. He studied religion and became a mullah, while his other brothers worked as mechanics. My father inherited some land from my grandfather. When the brothers distributed the land, he sold his share for very little money and we became homeless. My two uncles, who were earning money as mechanics, built themselves homes and started farming. My walid sahib [father], however, chose to become an imam [congregational prayer leader]. At that time, we only owned a cow and a bicycle. We had no home, no land, nothing else.

Another interviewee, a 45-old mullah from Paktia province, recalled:

We didn’t have our own house and would move from one village to another. My father only had two [sets of] clothes and we mostly ate buttermilk. He would spend one year in a village in return for zakat [the Islamic tax on the harvest] and sarsaya [a poll tax on individuals]. The villagers would also give him a house so that he could live in the village and get to prayers and other ceremonies on time. The house that was given to us was in the worst of conditions. It had only two rooms. The roof had cracks and the garden had no water source [to irrigate it]. I remember we didn’t know what money looked like because we didn’t have any. The zakat we received wasn’t in cash but in kind – wheat, beans, potatoes and other things. Sarsaya was also given as wheat. The villagers themselves didn’t have much money. 

A third interviewee, 50, from Gurbaz district of Khost, also recollects:

My father was a mullah. He had an imamat [position of imam] in many villages in Gurbaz district. Villagers were poor, but not as poor as the mullahs. They’d go to Lahore [Pakistan], India, or Arab countries to work as labourers and bring some money back, or they had land and they’d sell their crops. But the mullah had no land and no other work. His job was full-time and only limited to his imamat. In fact, mullahs didn’t have any other skills. Because of this, my father was dependent on the villagers all his life.

The life of the rural mullah had other complexities as well. Among them, mullahs needed to move from one village to another, leaving behind their birthplace and relatives, as one interviewee explained:

In the past, there were very few mullahs and people needed to find one from far away. Because people’s economic [situation] wasn’t good and transportation was poor, the mullah would usually move to their village. Villagers would give him a home, but it was often in such a bad condition that the villagers themselves wouldn’t live in it.

Another interviewee, in his late 40s, from Paktia, said:

Life was very hard because, after some time, the villagers would change their mullah. When they asked my father to leave his imamat, he would get another imamat in a different village, sometimes, in a different district. So, we’d move there [to the new village]. There, too, the house we lived in was no better than the one we had previously lived in. 

The fact that mullahs in rural areas relied on the communities among whom they resided, rather than being on the government payroll, often helped them maintain a significant degree of autonomy from the state and build closer ties to their fellow villagers. That meant, in the decades before the start of the Afghan conflicts from the late 1970s onwards, mullahs engaged only in their religious duties and escaped government control. That eventually won them appreciation in areas where state attempts at increased penetration were seen with suspicion. Some mullahs would later be able to capitalise on the trust and influence they enjoyed within their communities and take up roles of authority during the anti-Soviet jihad.

Why have mullahs formed the poorest segment of society?

The mullahs’ low economic and social status had several structural causes. First and foremost, it was rooted in the overall economic decline that Afghan rural society had experienced during the mid-20th century. Mullahs did not engage in alternative economic activities and even when they tilled the land, they seldom owned sufficient amounts to survive. They also had no part in the management of or benefits from collectively-owned tribal land. Mainly, their livelihoods were rooted in support from the community. They were, therefore, directly and deeply affected by the overall economic conditions of local people, which, by and large, were still based on subsistence farming and barter. One interviewee, a community elder in his late 50s, from Ghazni province, described the situation:

When people don’t have much themselves, how much will they give to you? People didn’t have cash; they didn’t have extra houses or a lot of money that they could give to the mullahs. Society overall was poor and, imagine: How would it have been to serve as the mullah in such a poor society? The simple answer is that you would have been the poorest person. Since most people relied on farming for their livelihood and cash was unavailable, they could only provide for the mullah out of what they got from the harvest. 

Another interviewee, a 45-old mullah from Paktia, said:

The villagers paid the mullah from what they grew. They’d also only provide for basic needs like fodder and firewood for winter. My father always says he doesn’t remember getting a penny from the villagers. Those mullahs that had the imamat of major villages would get more from the harvest and then exchange some of it for other essential goods. 

Another reason for the mullahs’ poverty was the way the profession was passed down within families. Being a mullah was often a family tradition, with several generations of men in the same family becoming religious leaders. They would typically train their children in religious studies, either by sending them to madrasas or hujras (small, informal religious seminaries) or teaching them themselves. They rarely encouraged them to pursue other careers. One interviewee said, “My father was a mullah because my grandfather was also a mullah. Likewise, I’m a mullah because my father was a mullah. One of my sons is also a mullah.”

In traditional Afghan society, however, this pattern was not limited to mullahs alone; other professions also followed such a trajectory. The pattern typically began with one person in some exceptional case and continued through generations. One interviewee, a tribal elder, explained that in non-mullah families, parents would often send a son – usually the one who could not pursue other work – to a madrasa. Or, they might send him there in fulfilment of a nadhr (a pledge to do something good or dedicate something to God in exchange for a specific favour or blessing). In one particular case, shared by a tribal elder with the author, a man who did not have sons made a vow: if God granted him four sons, one of them would become a mullah. Once a man became a mullah, his sons would often follow the same path, and becoming a mullah then became the family’s profession for generations.

The ‘80s and ‘90s: Conflict and exile brings change

As Afghanistan became entangled in major global conflicts, particularly during the Cold War and later the War on Terror, the lives of its people and their social structures were deeply affected. The shift began with the Soviet invasion of December 1979, followed by Afghan resistance and the start of a prolonged war. This conflict led to the deaths, injuries and disappearances of hundreds of thousands of Afghans, while millions were forced to flee their homes and become refugees. Many of the mullahs interviewed identified this period of displacement as the point when their lives began to change. An official of the previous government who was also a mullah once told the author:

When we became refugees, all the people lost the status they’d had. The khan [tribal elder or richest man in a village] and the malik [the state-appointed head of a village] lost their influence, the mullah lost his influence, the rich became poor and the poor got new opportunities. Things turned upside down. What people had been doing [in their home communities] was no longer sufficient for survival. New horizons were opened to people. They saw a new world and everyone faced the quest for living among these challenges.”

Becoming a refugee meant losing one’s social standing, the traditional norms and often the community once belonged to. Along with the loss of social status, refugees also faced significant economic difficulties in the new country. For mullahs, whose role had been tied to religious and community leadership, survival was a particular struggle. Lacking other professional skills, many had to learn new ways of earning a living. This forced shift in livelihood also led them to rethink their place in the world and their understanding of survival outside their traditional role. With the collapse of Afghan social structures in exile, mullahs found it increasingly difficult to survive solely on their erstwhile status of religious leader, especially given their limited formal religious education. One interviewee from Paktia recalled, “When we went to Peshawar [as refugees], many of our comrades [fellow mullahs] joined the ranks of the jihad and many others started studying in madrasas, moving back and forth between madrasa and battlefield.” Others sought alternative employment or business opportunities, with some even migrating to Gulf countries. Migration to the Gulf was to become a growing trend among men originally from Loya Paktia in general (it was mentioned with increasing frequency by interviewees as happening in the post-2001 period).[4]

What is critical here is that mullahs played a significant role in the war against the Soviets, gaining prominence in the ranks of several mujahedin factions. In the context of jihad, the emphasis on religious duties and religious education increased among Afghan rural society in general and some mullahs found themselves well-positioned to play leadership roles. This was due to their cross-cutting influence within rural communities and their credentials as religious leaders, as well as the disciplined lifestyle they had led and their readiness to engage in military activities. Their role became even more prominent when the first Islamic Emirate took power in the 1990s: Sunni Muslim mullahs found themselves at the centre of power and in control of politics and society. While this bolstered their social influence, it had little impact on their economic status, as resources remained scarce during that period. In general, as well, with the early mujahadin, there was a strong emphasis on austerity: this was not a movement or government bent on accumulating worldly wealth.

New opportunities arise in the 2000s

The changes in Afghan society and the lives of mullahs did not end with the Soviet invasion. In the early 2000s, Afghanistan experienced another major shift, with the US-led invasion as part of its War on Terror. This event brought billions of dollars into the country in the form of foreign aid, military support and spending by foreign armies. There were new economic opportunities stemming from development projects, labour migration and business ventures. There were more jobs in government, NGOs and the private sector, contracts, civilian and military, work in construction and services, and money to be made from trade or imports.[5] Mullahs, like others in Afghan society, began to take advantage of these opportunities. Many started businesses or explored new ways of earning a living, reflecting a broader shift in economic thinking and adaptation. One interviewee, an IEA government-affiliated mullah from Logar, said:

My father was a mullah. He didn’t have other skills. He couldn’t farm, run a shop or engage in other businesses. In fact, he didn’t need any of that and chose a simple life and was happy with the little he gained from the community. That was enough for him. But nowadays, things have become more complicated. The pursuit of a better life and the desire to accumulate more wealth has become much more serious, shaping people’s behaviour and thinking. Mullahs, like everyone else, have become more worldly. They seek wealth and work for it.

Stories exemplifying this change and how it has unfolded were related by those among our interviewees who had chosen to pursue businesses instead of continuing their roles as religious leaders. One mullah explained:

I had an imamat in a village. What I gained from the imamat was good, praise God. However, a muqtadi [member of the congregation] once told me he could provide me with a visa to Saudi Arabia. I wasn’t sure at first, but after some consultations, I decided to go to Mecca to perform umrah and, if possible, also find work. The muqtadi covered all my travel expenses – may God grant him Paradise. Once I arrived, he told me I could work either in his store[baqala] or bakery and also lead prayers in the small mosque they had inside their market. I chose to work in the store and lead the prayers. Over time, as I became accustomed to the environment, I opened my own store. Now, praise God, I have a good income from my two stores, and I visit my home once a year for five months. My life is much better than it was during my time as an imam, but sometimes I miss my religious studies.

A mullah from Ghazni, who has established different businesses in Kabul and Ghazni provinces, also said:

I tell my sons to earn as much as they can, but I also tell them to distribute their wealth to the poor and help others. I tell them you are from a family of ulema [religious scholars], and you should be generous to people. Now, praise God, two of my sons have hawalas [money exchange shops] in Kabul and Ghazni. They earn good wages. We have our own house, our own car and no longer need what I earn from the imamat. I myself am the imam of our mosque, which my sons have built. 

After many years [living] in different villages, we have finally settled [in our own village]. We’ve got a status in society and respect. The real value of humans is not in how much they earn or how much they have but in how much they are dear to Allah. Unfortunately, in these times, standards are completely different. In society, you have no value and no respect if you don’t have money and power. People these days do not respect you. They respect your money. 

During the post-2001 period, many mullahs started engaging in business activities, expanding their income sources beyond religious duties. At the same time, the communities they led also saw improvements in their economic conditions. As local economies became stronger, mullahs benefited from increased financial stability and new opportunities. Since they enjoyed greater respect as religious leaders in the communities they served, the communities, that were benefitting economically, also provided the mullahs with more opportunities.

In Khost, for instance, a well-known mullah named Ali Khan lived a modest life with no house of his own. He had five sons, all studying at a local madrasa. However, given the family’s dire economic situation, a villager helped Ali Khan send two of his sons to the United Arab Emirates, providing them with visas and covering their ticket costs. There, his sons began working for the villager and quickly started earning good wages. Within two years, two of Ali Khan’s other sons were also invited to the UAE on visas to join the business their brothers had established. Now, although Ali Khan has died, his sons own the largest villa in the village and lead luxurious lives.

One interviewee, a mullah from Logar, explained how the larger economy, post-2001, benefited villagers and, in turn, the mullahs in the village mosque:

Nowadays, people give a lot to the mullah. Instead of food that they’ve grown, they pay him in cash. With improved technology, people cultivate more and get bigger harvests. So their zakat is higher and the mullah gets good wages. The same is true for sarsya. Now, they calculate it in cash because people have found money. In addition, they now have respect for the mullah and give him occasional cash gifts. A friend of mine is a mullah and his muqtadis arranged for him to go on umrah. Youths and businessmen from the village bring him clothes, shoes and other gifts from the city or from abroad. 

Another interviewee said that even the poorest mullah now earns a good wage. With the increased population of the villages, the variety of crops, the better harvest and fair prices, the fact that people have money and businesses, all of this, he said, means they are able to pay their zakat, mostly to the mullah.

The overall improvement in the economic condition of mullahs can also be attributed to their family members choosing different professions. As families expanded and the general economic situation in Afghan society improved, the old pattern of inherited professions began to fade. Migration played a key role in this change, as people, including mullahs, moved out of their own communities to new environments where different norms existed. That includes migration of workers to the Gulf, which, as has been mentioned before, has been a strong trend for several decades from the southeast, where this research was largely conducted. In these new settings, the need to survive pushed many men to seek alternative livelihoods, pursue advanced education, and adapt to new ways of life. One interviewee, from Paktia, said:

In the past, a mullah’s son would be a mullah, a barber’s son would become a barber, and a carpenter’s son would become a carpenter. Now, on the contrary, in one family, people have different jobs. In an ulema family, one brother is an alem, another is a shopkeeper and a third is a mechanic. Or one son of a mullah is a hafez [a person who has memorised the Quran] and another is a businessman.”

Another interviewee mentioned his friend who is the imam in Dushakha village: one of his sons looks after the farmlands, while another is a schoolteacher who graduated from teaching college and his other sons are busy with various jobs. None are mullahs, only now the father. A third interviewee from Ghazni, who was born into a mullah family but is not a mullah himself, also said:

The mullah no longer wants all his sons to become mullahs. He wants them to learn other professions. He believes that his life as a mullah was one of poverty and he doesn’t want his sons to follow that path. Instead, he wants them to have other jobs and a better life.”

The interviewee also referred to how, in Afghan society, it is common practice for brothers to share any wealth they acquire equally. As a result, even if a mullah is not personally wealthy but his family is, the wealth is divided equally among them, and the mullah receives his fair share. This was the case, he said, for a well-known businessman from Khost, Gulab Khan Haji.

People from his family have been ulema for generations. His sons have all started their own businesses, and one of them is also a mullah. But that son has his own mosque, madrasa, and car. He doesn’t need anything and doesn’t work except teaching at his madrasa. Why? Because his brothers run a large business and have given him his share, which is more than enough for him.

Another mullah, from Paktia, said he had stayed serving as an imam while his brothers went to Dubai for work. All got a share when their parents died.[6]

They earned good money, bought shops in the bazaar, and established their businesses. When we divided the [inheritance], they also gave me my share, so I now have a good income coming from that as well. Life is going well, thanks to Allah’s blessings. I have my own home, a motorcycle, land, and a garden. Alongside that, I also have a small imamat.”

A mullah from Khost described a similar experience. His brothers are in Dubai, along with his two sons.

They have restaurants and bakeries and are earning enough. We built a new qala [a mud-built fort typically housing an extended family] in the village. A few years ago, they also sent me a visa and I spent two months there. What saddens me is that my father died in poorness. His life was very hard. I wish he was alive and could see how his sons are doing.

What is particularly interesting is that mullahs began finding new ways to generate income – or old ways at higher fees – within the context of their religious roles. They started charging people higher fees for services such as issuing tawiz (amulets),[7] performing nikah (marriages) and even providing legal advice or acting as intermediaries in disputes. One interviewee, for example, said:

There’s a well-known alem in our area named Miran Akhundzada. He was very poor in the beginning. He owned only a bicycle. Over the past ten years, he’s started writing statements for those involved in legal disputes. For each case, he earns 50,000 kaldar [Pakistani rupees, roughly USD 200] and writes more than two a day. If you calculate his earnings, you can get an idea of his growing wealth. He’s now established a photography and photocopying shop in the district bazaar for his son.

A community elder from Paktia said, “In the past, mullahs would teach the religion without asking for a penny, but now, they won’t teach a word of Allah without asking for a fee.”

Afghanistan has now moved into a new phase, with the re-establishment of the Islamic Emirate in August 2021. Mullahs formed the backbone of the insurgency and the Taliban’s shadow government. Mullahs are now prioritised for state positions and are widely recruited. This trend actually began during the insurgency when the Taliban started paying civilian officials and members of their various commissions. However, the scope of privileges to be gained, now that the movement is in power, is far greater. That is also having knock-on consequences, as one interviewee commented: “We couldn’t find a mullah for our imamat because they’re all seeking state jobs and no longer want to be imams.” Mullahs are now working in all sorts of state sectors, both in security and the various civilian ministries, but also as (well-paid) members of ulema councils (which replaced the Republic-era provincial council) and teachers in state-funded madrasas.

How do mullahs view these changes?

The mullahs’ involvement in business and their improved living standards has allowed them to gain a stronger position in society, not merely as religious leaders, but as individuals who contribute economically. The mullahs’ influence in the past remained strictly limited to only religious affairs and they did not have much say on other matters, particularly economic affairs. A community leader from Khost said:

In the past, when people talked about the world, the government, or business, the mullah would just listen and didn’t really understand. The mullah only spoke about religious matters. Today, many mullahs are involved in business, interact with people and the government, and have their own opinions on various issues. They have moved from being passive listeners to active participants in these discussions.

One key implication of this change is the increased independence of mullahs in applying and conveying sharia-related issues. When the mullahs relied solely on the community for their livelihood, coupled with their lack of academic training and political power, they were unable to apply sharia fully. In cases like baad marriage, where a girl from one family is given in marriage to another to assuage a blood feud, that is in stark contradiction with Islamic rulings, but the mullahs typically opted not to interfere. Even if they knew it to be unIslamic, they would not go against the wishes of the people who supported them. In other minor cases, as well, the mullahs were said to prioritise the contentment of their congregation over applying sharia rules. One community leader told the author:

In villages, mullahs were very cautious in dealing with people who held significant influence or were rich, such as khans and maliks. When those men did something wrong, the mullahs wouldn’t tell them they were wrong with the same intensity as they would tell a poor villager because the poor are always powerless. Mullahs also prioritised the rich over the poor when it came to their judgments in disputes.

Another interviewee, a community elder from Pakita, also said:

When the mullah had nothing and relied on his congregation [for his livelihood], he’d be very careful not to piss them off. But now he’s independent and doesn’t need their zakat and sarsaya, so he blatantly tells them what is correct and doesn’t fear anyone.

Another key effect is that mullahs can acquire advanced Islamic education. One interviewee, a mullah from Khost province, said:

Nowadays, the ulema are able to travel to other provinces, purchase textbooks, and enrol in universities both inside the country and in other Islamic countries. Two of my friends are going to Khost [city] in their cars just to learn a new method of teaching sarf and nahwa [classical Arabic syntax and grammar]. Another friend went to the madrasa of Taqi Usmani Sahib [in Pakistan] because his family was in such a good economic condition he didn’t need to work. This was impossible in the past, as ulema didn’t have such opportunities.

The mullahs we interviewed were themselves divided as to the balance between the positive and negative implications of entering business. Some see it as essential, arguing that a religious leader should be capable of managing his own life and business rather than relying on the community. They believe that religious leaders need to make a positive economic contribution to society, which, in turn, can enhance their spiritual role. An interviewee, from Khost province, for example, said:

Some people say that when you practice or master religion, you’ll face difficulties, as all ulema in the past were people who endured hardships. Therefore, some people may want to avoid that. Now, we’ve been seeing that this is wrong. You can be a religious scholar but also a successful businessman. If you go on the path of sharia, and also do business, you would be rewarded twice [compared to] the common people. Look, the Prophet Muhammad himself was a businessman. Usman [the third caliph of Sunni Islam and a companion of the Prophet Muhammad] was the richest person in the tribe of Quraysh. Islam is not only a religion full of hardships. But it has limits and within these limits, you can do business, work and other things. 

Another interviewee, from Ghazni province, in his late 40s, said:

The Prophet has advised people to engage in business. If I were in charge of the state, I’d mandate that all ulema have businesses, as this would make them free from financial need and allow them to implement the religion of Allah without fear of losing personal benefits.

A third interviewee, from Paktia, in his late 30s, said:

I’m a mullah myself, but it’s a truth that in the past, mullahs were often considered dependent on others. They didn’t engage in any work and, in many cases, lacked skills. They were entirely dependent on the community. However, praise God, things have changed. Today, the ulema have acquired many valuable skills. They are capable of engaging in any kind of business that is halal and are knowledgeable in practical fields such as farming, construction, and more. For example, I know an alem from Dzanzi Khil village who is not only an imam but also a skilled carpenter. Similarly, a friend of mine is an alem who serves as an imam and teaches maths at a private [educational] centre in the bazaar.

A fourth interviewee, 43 years old from Nangrahar, said:

In the past, a prevalent concept among ulema was that they should only preach the religion of God and couldn’t do business or pursue a worldly life. If a mullah graduated from a madrasa, but chose to go into business or another profession over getting an imamat, he’d be deemed a traitor. 

A second group of the mullahs interviewed argued against getting drawn into business or other professions. They believe that pursuing the worldly life is not a religious scholar’s responsibility as it could potentially lead one astray from religious practices. One mullah from Paktia province said:

Delving into the worldly life causes you to forget the religion of Allah and instead prioritise this worldly and temporary life. For a religious leader, who’s acquired an Islamic education, it’s necessary to devote his life to it and preach. It’s only natural that worldly matters distract one from the true path.

A second interviewee, from Sabari district of Paktia province, said:

This world is temporary and is passing quickly. Those who have more wealth are going to have a tough time in the hereafter and those who don’t have much will be made easy. For a Muslim, it’s not this world but the hereafter [that matters]. We should try to build our business there, not here. 

To sum up, Afghan mullahs now exercise far greater influence over society as they have become less dependent on their community and increased their exposure to the outside world. They have become a salaried class and fare better economically than in the past. This has, however, even wider implications for their status and the public’s perception of them.

Where do mullahs now stand vis-à-vis the state and society?

The forty years of conflict in Afghanistan have severely weakened the country’s social structures. The traditional power of khans and maliks has diminished, the tribal system has eroded and state authority has been challenged – although, it is currently in an unusually strong phase. However, one social group has emerged stronger and more influential during this period – the mullahs. Today, they not only hold religious authority but have also consolidated their political and social power, forming both the government and controlling the religious sphere.

Historically, except in urban centres, mullahs were largely shaped by their communities, relying on local support for both their livelihoods and religious standing. While successive governments – from Zahir Shah’s monarchy to the Islamic Republic – attempted to co-opt the mullahs by offering them financial support or making them align with state interests, these efforts largely failed. The state was unable to weaken the deeply entrenched position of the mullahs within Afghan society. They typically sided with their communities if they were in opposition to state policies, as they had little interaction with the central government.

However, the rise of the Taliban has shifted this dynamic. With the Taliban’s ascension to power, mullahs have become a salaried class, with many directly tied to the state, no longer outside the state apparatus; they are now central to it. The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan has also moved to institutionalise its control over the clerics by attempting to register mosques and imams, with plans to eventually pay them from the state budget. It has also introduced regulations on who can serve as an imam and how much local communities should compensate them.

The rise of the Islamic Emirate, a government of mullahs, marks another profound shift: mullahs, who were once independent of the state and largely aligned with their communities, are now deeply embedded in the state and its economic structures. From ministers to civil servants to soldiers, many are either in government or directly employed by it. Even those still working as village imams are subject to the state’s attempts to dictate who can engage in this work. If the government also succeeds in paying mullahs, it will have broken their economic independence. At the same time, mullahs are also entering formal, modern economic structures, either through businesses or employment, making many more independent of the communities they serve.

The IEA understands that integrating rural mullahs into the state apparatus is a strategic move to maintain their loyalty and also benefit from the influence they exert over their communities. For centuries, the mullahs’ reliance on community and the semi-independent position of these vis-à-vis the state allowed them to challenge government authority. Now, by providing livelihoods, education, and state-issued certification, the IEA is making mullahs increasingly dependent on the state, thereby curbing their semi-autonomous power. One example of this shift is the government-issued khutbah, or sermons, that mullahs are now required to recite during Friday prayers. Mullahs who deviate from the state’s narrative – such as criticising the government – are swiftly removed from their positions.

The value of mullahs and their moral standing within their communities has historically stemmed partly from their independence from government. For better or worse, the role and status of mullahs are now inextricably tied to that of the Emirate, how it is valued, respected, and has strengthening or weakening power. There has been a profound shift in the living standards, livelihoods, social status and power of rural mullahs in the last half century, but that carries its own potential for further change. What we see today may not be the end of the story.

Edited by Fabrizio Foschini and Kate Clark

References

References
1 Southern Afghanistan here refers to Kandahar, Helmand, Zabul and Uruzgan, also known as Loy (Greater) Kandahar, while the southeast refers to Paktia, Paktika, Khost, Logar and parts of Ghazni, also known as Loya Paktia. The majority of inhabitants in these two regions are Pashtuns and live adjacent to the Durand Line.
2 It is against the backdrop of this occasionally political role that mullahs have usually attracted the attention of researchers. On the transformations of the role of mullahs in rural Afghanistan in times of crisis, such as during the anti-colonial agitations of the late 19th century and the anti-Soviet jihad, see, for example, David B Edwards, Heroes of the Age: Moral Fault Lines on the Afghan Frontier, Berkeley University of California Press, 1996, p126; and David B Edwards, Before Taliban: Genealogies of the Afghan Jihad, Berkeley University of California Press, 2002, 156. The role and evolution of mullahs’ networks in the context of the anti-colonial struggle in the broader region between eastern Afghanistan and the current Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province in Pakistan has been analysed by Sana Haroon in her Frontier of Faith: Islam in the Indo-Afghan Borderland, Hurst, London, 2007.
3 Read a recent AAN report, marking the 100th anniversary of a major rebellion led by the mullah of a small village of southeastern Afghanistan against then king Amanaullah, the political reverberations of which are still relevant, The Khost Rebellion of 1924: The centenary of an overlooked but significant episode in Afghan history.
4 For more on this, including the socio-economic impact of the money sent home, see Sabawoon Samim, Sending Money Home: The impact of remittances on workers, families and villages, AAN, 2024.
5 This economy was not sustainable, given it was based on unearned foreign income, and the harmful side-effects were many. See Kate Clark, The Cost of Support to Afghanistan: New special report considers the reasons for inequality, poverty and a failing democracy, AAN, 2020.
6 In Afghanistan, it is a tradition that brothers and cousins sometimes split up when the parents and/or grandparents die. The wealth is divided equally among all the brothers.
7 The issue of tawiz, amulets often containing a written verse from the Quran, which some believe can heal or bring about a wish (a pregnancy, success in an exam, a spouse) is controversial among Islamic scholars, with differing opinions on whether it is permissible. In Afghanistan, it is a centuries-old practice and religious scholars often give them out. However, among the younger generation of mullahs, including some IEA officials, the practice is not widely accepted. They argue that relying on a tawiz for blessings and protection clashes with the belief in the oneness of Allah and the understanding that everything that happens is decreed by Him. For more on this, see AAN’s reporting of the death of Farkhanda, killed allegedly by a mullah whom she had challenged over his ‘sin’ of writing tawiz, Fabrizio Foschini and Naheed Esar Malikzai The Killing of Farkhunda (1): The physical environment and the social types party to her murder, AAN, 2015.

 

Living a Mullah’s Life (1): The changing role and socio-economic status of Afghanistan’s village clerics
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From Welcoming Allies to Threats of Deportation: The changing status of Afghans in America

Roughly 200,000 Afghans arrived in the US after the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan in August 2021. They mainly settled in California, Virginia, Washington DC, Pennsylvania and, the state which received the most Afghans, Texas. Many now face difficult times in what they thought was their new country after a series of orders by President Donald Trump’s administration that halted refugee admission programmes, in general and terminated temporary protection status for Afghans in particular. During a recent visit to Texas, AAN’s Jelena Bjelica heard from several Afghans and refugee support workers in the southern state. She heard hopes and fears regarding the future of Afghans in the rapidly changing American political climate. 

Abdullah, a 37-year-old father of four, from eastern Afghanistan, was evacuated in late August 2021, via Kuwait and Spain, to a military camp in Virginia and from there to Houston, Texas. He entered the US on humanitarian parole under President Joe Biden’s programme, “Operation Allies Welcome.”[1] Abdullah, who previously worked at the Election Commission and Ministry of Education under a USAID contract, left Afghanistan on his own, leaving his wife and four children with his parents. He has not seen them now for almost four years. When AAN interviewed him in March 2025, despite the Trump orders, he was still hopeful that they would be reunited:

They told me I cannot get reunification with my family before my asylum application gets approved. I got asylum in February 2023 and immediately applied for reunificationIt’s been in process since then. I still hope my family will be evacuated. I want them out of Afghanistan as soon as possible.

Still, after Executive Order 14163, which paused all refugee processing, including family reunification, it looks unlikely that he will be able to bring them to the US any time soon. He would lose his asylum status if he went to Afghanistan to see them, so he would need to arrange to meet them in a third country. This, though, might change if he obtains a green card.

Abdullah is one of about 200,000 Afghans who sought safety in the US after the fall of the Islamic Republic in August 2021 and one of many whose family members might now be left behind for the long term, after a series of changes in the US migration and admission policy introduced by President Trump’s administration in January 2025. In this report, we provide a brief overview of these changes; estimate the size of the Afghan immigrant community in the US and the number of Afghans who were resettled in the US before the policy changesWe also hear more accounts from Afghans, like Abdullah now in Texas, about how the Trump presidency has affected their prospects in the US and how they view their future.

The executive orders

On his first day in office, President Trump signed four executive orders that have a direct or indirect impact on US migration policies and refugee admissions – see below. Since then, on 12 May, the Department of Homeland Security confirmed that Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Afghans was to expire on 20 May and the programme would be eliminated as of 14 July.

1. Executive Order 14163 of 20 January, Realigning the United States Refugee Admissions Program, paused all refugee processing and travel globally. Admissions of all refugees, including the various categories under the United States Refugee Admission Program and Family Reunification cases, were paused.

2. Executive Order 14169 of 20 JanuaryReevaluating and Realigning United States Foreign Aid, paused all foreign aid. This had a direct impact on the Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) programme, created in 2006, which provides a pathway to legal permanent residency (also known as getting a green card) for Afghan and Iraqi translators and interpreters employed by the US military (more detailed explanation below). The order did not directly pause this programme but it shut down the support services that enable it to work.

3. Executive Order 14165 of 20 January, Securing Our Borders, seeks to secure the US southern border by increasing physical barriers, deploying additional military and homeland security personnel and expanding detention and removal operations. It also reinstated the Migrant Protection Protocols, under which the US government can return foreign individuals entering or seeking admission to enter the US from Mexico. It also restricts the use of categorical parole, a programme where individuals are considered for parole based on their membership in a specific group or category, rather than their circumstances. Finally, it prioritises the prosecution of immigration-related offences.

Following this order, the US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) announced that it would pause its humanitarian parole programme. Humanitarian parole allowed people to temporarily enter the US due to urgent humanitarian reasons.  This allowed for the admission into the US of Afghans, like Abdullah, whose story began this report. The pause in granting humanitarian paroles prevented Afghans still hoping to get to the US, among others, from requesting it. Also, however, the thousands of Afghan parolees already relocated to the US faced their parole being terminated. Some received notices of ‘intent to remove’ – meaning – deport, within seven days, despite ongoing asylum claims or work authorisations (The AfghanEvac).

4. Executive Order 14161 of 20 JanuaryProtecting the United States from Foreign Terrorists and other National Security and Public Safety Threats, directs federal agencies to enhance immigration screening and vetting procedures to prevent the entry of individuals who may pose a “terrorist, national security, or public safety threat” to the United States. Sometimes referred to as the ‘extreme vetting’ order, it also calls for reviews that may lead to travel bans or restrictions, as well as enforcement actions. Should Afghanistan be included on the list of countries for which vetting and screening information is deemed insufficient, even Afghans who have US Special Immigrant Visas (SIVs) in their passports and were on their way, as they thought, to the US, could be denied entry into the country. However, it seems a new travel ban has been postponed; the State Department has said it was working on a report that would serve as the basis for restricting visas, the original deadline of 21 March was no longer in effect and it was unable to say when the report would be ready. People are now waiting to see what the State Department’s report will mandate and which nationalities it might ban.

5. Termination of Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Afghans on 12 May. This programme provided temporary legal status and the pathway to apply for work authorisation to nationals from specified countries experiencing armed conflict, natural disasters or other extraordinary conditions. President Biden designated nationals from Afghanistan as having TPS following the Taliban’s takeover in 2021 and most of the tens of thousands of Afghans evacuated to the US were first given humanitarian parole and when that expired, given the Temporary Protected Status  (Politico).

Already in April this year, the Department of Homeland Security had decided not to renew expiring temporary protections for thousands of Afghans living in the United States, raising concerns about the future of Afghanistan’s designation as a TPS (Al JazeeraNPR). Then, on 12 May, Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem said that the TPS designation for Afghans would have expired on 20 May and the programme would be terminated on 14 July.[2] “This administration is returning TPS to its original temporary intent,” she said. “We’ve reviewed the conditions in Afghanistan with our interagency partners and they do not meet the requirements for a TPS designation. Afghanistan has had an improved security situation and its stabilising economy no longer prevents them from returning to their home country.”

Approximately 10,000 Afghans are potentially affected by this decision (The New York Times), although some among them may have other pathways to stay in the country. This might be a valid work authorisation, for example, or an asylum claim – although very few asylum applications are eventually approved and cases can often take several years to get resolved either way. President Trump recently personally took aim at the asylum system, The New York Timesreported, on 21 May. “In April, the Justice Department urged immigration judges to swiftly deny asylum to immigrants whose applications they deemed unlikely to succeed. That month, the newspaper said, the denial rate, which “was already trending upward, rose to 79 percent.”

How many Afghans are in the US?

There has been an Afghan immigrant population – people who have legal residential or citizenship status in the US who are of Afghan origin or descent – in the US since the 1978 Saur Revolution drove members of the Afghan elite out of the country. However, the Afghan community has experienced rapid growth in the last 15 years. Even before the Taliban’s capture of power, the population had nearly doubled between 2010 and 2020, increasing from 65,000 to 132,000 individuals (See Graph 1 below). According to an analysis by the US-based think tank, the Migration Policy Institute, “this substantial increase can be attributed to years of war and political instability in Afghanistan that generated a steady flow of humanitarian migrants.” The fact that there was an easy and legal way for Afghans to go directly to the US under Special Immigrant Visas (see below) also helped swell numbers. The Afghan immigrant population swelled further after the re-establishment of the Islamic Emirate, reaching, by 2024, almost 220,000 US citizens or permanent residents of Afghan origin.

Graph 1: Estimated number of people of Afghan origin in the US in the years, 2010 to 2024. Source: US Bureau of Census.
Graph by AAN.

There are many more Afghans in the US who do not yet have a settled status. Some are among the more than 200,000 who arrived in the United States since the fall of the Islamic Republic. It is difficult to provide an exact number because there are several legal pathways into the US and how people are counted varies between the different government entities collecting statistics. Some of the numbers, which may or may not overlap, are: more than 117,000 Afghans who are Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) holders or humanitarian parolees have arrived since 2021, according to the US Refugee Processing Centre report for the fiscal year 2024 (PRC’s Report to the US Congress); the US Congress reported that nearly 150,000 Afghans were resettled between August 2021 and August 2024; over 82,000 Afghans were evacuated in the last two weeks of August 2021, according to the Department of Homeland Security’s Operation Allies Welcome Afghan Evacuee Report of whom, 76,000 were granted humanitarian parole and subsequently Temporary Protected Status upon their arrival in the US (DHS).

Another way of breaking down the numbers is to look at how Afghans entered the US: since 2021, they have pursued three avenues – humanitarian parole, the Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) programme and the United States Refugee Admission Programme (USRAP). The Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) programme, created in 2006, originally issued a maximum of 50 SIVs per fiscal year, but it has been extended and amended multiple times to increase the threshold (the Afghan Allies Protection Act of 2009 expanded eligibility to include any Afghan national employed by the US government). According to the Refugee Processing Centre annual reports, a total of 78,585 Afghans with SIV status arrived in the US between October 2020 and December 2025 (see the Graph 2 below). Of this number, 10,878 Afghans with SIV status came to Texas, or 14 per cent of all SIV arrivals in the US (Refugee Processing Centre ).

Graph 2: SIV arrivals in the US. Source: Data extrapolated from Refugee Processing Centre annual reports. The report for FY 2025 covered the period from 1 October to 31 December 2024. Graph by AAN.

The United States Refugee Admission Programme (USRAP) is the legal pathway for the resettlement of individuals regarded as refugees under US law. They are allowed to work in that first year and must apply for permanent residency (a green card) one year after arriving. According to the Refugee Processing Centre’s data, a total of 23,792 Afghan refugees were admitted to the US between October 2020 and September 2024 (see Graph 3 below).[3] Of these, 11 per cent or 2,585 Afghans were sent to Texas.

Graph 3: Refuge Admissions into the US. Source: Data extrapolated from the US Refugee Processing Centre annual reports. Graph by AAN.

However, most Afghans evacuated to the United States after the 2021 withdrawal came to the US on humanitarian parole, which gives only temporary permission to stay in the country and no direct legal pathway to a green card. Congress has repeatedly declined to pass legislation allowing Afghan parolees to apply for permanent legal status, or to allow them to become eligible for an SIV status (Migration Policy Institute).

Who are the Afghans in Texas?

After the collapse of the Republic, Texas received more Afghans than any other state – almost 15 per cent of those who arrived – with more than 15,000 now resettled there. Nearly half were sent to Houston, followed by Dallas-Fort Worth and San Antonio and with the smallest number sent to Austin. A former worker with the Refugee Service of Texas (RST),[4] an organisation that has helped over 2,000 Afghans resettle in this southern state, said they mainly worked with Afghans who came on SIVs. She explained why so many Afghans had come to Texas:

There is a huge military presence in Texas and so there was a lot of advocacy to get the SIVs out of Afghanistan. Most had [already] spent around several years getting fully vetted and getting that status, the SIV status. … They’d served as translators, cooks, drivers for our military and they were promised protection for themselves and their families. They were promised protection.

She said the Refugee Service of Texas worked with Afghans in the major cities, providing them with three months of initial support and then an additional nine months as they get on their way to self-sufficiency. However, that all changed, the worker explained, after Trump’s Order 14163 paused all refugee processing and travel globally, including family reunification.

It’s a huge injustice. They feel a huge injustice that some of them didn’t get their whole families out. Some of them don’t have a track for permanent residency. They’re somewhat in that limbo state, similar to Temporary Protected Status – TPS.

The NGOs working on refugee resettlement were also hit when the Trump’s administration suspended their funding (CBSAP). This has had a ripple effect on smaller NGOs, one worker said: “We were denied a grant recently and I can’t really figure out why … The decision [not to fund us] was made after Trump came into office.”

She believed many people in decision-making positions now think that “this refugee thing has stopped … because there is no one arriving,” but “because of that and because of the loss of funds, there are going to be all these people who fall through the cracks. … It really is wretched. It’s wretched where people have been left.”

The Afghans AAN spoke to confirmed with their own personal stories how much worse the situation has become since January.

Aftab, a 35-year-old from central Afghanistan and holder of an SIV, was the most recent arrival among AAN’s interviewees. He had first flown from Kabul to Germany, where he and his family stayed for 26 days while their documents were being processed. When they came to the US, they initially landed in New York and were then sent to Houston via Atlanta, Georgia. But although his case had been processed well in advance and his SIV status approved, he said the process is now lagging:

I have an SIV and don’t yet have a green card. I applied for the green card when I was in Germany and they told us that it would arrive three months after we did. However, I haven’t received it, yet. My wife and child are with me in the US, while the rest of my family is in Afghanistan. I have no plans for those left behind, as I’m currently waiting for my own documents. 

After landing on 11 December 2024, he was given kitchen items and furniture, as well as three months of free rent. That was far less than his compatriots who had arrived a year earlier. Other help had stopped completely by March 2025, when we interviewed him, as he explained:

The agency was also paying me a check of 200 dollars per family member. However, they’ve now cut that. My friends who arrived a year ago received rent assistance for six months and cash assistance for another six months.

When asked about the impact of Trump’s orders on him, he said:

I now have no access to the cash assistance that is my right. I hope it will resume soon. In the past, my friends received various kinds of support from the resettlement agencies, but now I don’t receive any support. We don’t receive support from the resettlement agency because many of its employees were laid off after the orders from the new president.  

Aslam Khan, a 38-year-old from southern Afghanistan, left the country as the Republic was collapsing. He was granted humanitarian parole upon his arrival in the US and when this expired, he applied for Temporary Protected Status. He recalls his journey out of Afghanistan:

When the government was on the verge of collapse, the directors and bureau chiefs of American agencies instructed their staff to get to the airport. I went, along with my four children and wife. We were waiting there for two days, [then] in the evening of the second day, we went home. The next day, when we returned to the airport, we were allowed to board a military plane and headed to Doha. 

The family stayed in Doha for three days before being taken to the US, landing in Washington DC on 21 August 2021, from where they were taken to a military camp, where they stayed for 37 days. They were given humanitarian parole and sent to a resettlement agency in Houston.

The agency rented a house for me, purchased furniture and all the other necessary items for my home. Additionally, I received rent assistance for six months. The agency helped me obtain state benefits such as Medicaid [healthcare] and food stamps. The food stamps were issued for six months, while the Medicaid was provided for one year. I found a job and eventually bought a car for my family, starting my new life here. Now, I am very happy that my daughters are going to school and that we are physically safe. We enjoy both protection and freedom. Currently, I still receive Medicaid and food stamps. 

He applied for asylum two years ago, but his is also still pending:

I don’t know why they haven’t granted me approval [yet]. I have no information on the matter. Whenever I ask, they tell me my asylum is pending. It’s not only my family; other Afghan families have also not received their asylum. I can’t apply for a green card before I get that approval.

Aslam Khan’s prospects also suffered after he and his wife lost their jobs when Trump’s orders meant the funding for the resettlement agency that employed them was cut. Despite everything, Aslam Khan is still positive about the future. “The plan is to wait for my documents and once I receive them, I will be sure to continue my life here in the US. I hope my children will receive a better education here. I hope we can have our own house and business in the near future to enjoy our lives.”

He is not alone among the Afghans left waiting on their asylum decisions in Texas. As to the numbers waiting to see if there asylum application have been approved, the tables below, from the Department of Homeland Security’s annual flow report Asylees: 2023 show that while 41,080 Afghans applied for asylum between 1 October 2020 and 30 September 2023, only 15,820 asylums were granted to Afghans.

Table 1: Number of people who applied for asylum between 1 October 2020 and 30 September 2023 by nationality. Source: Department of Homeland Security’s annual flow report.
Table 2: Number of people who were granted asylum between 1 October 2020 and 30 September 2023 by nationality. Source: Department of Homeland Security’s annual flow report

Abdul Sabor, a 41-year-old from southeastern Afghanistan, arrived in the United States on 31 August 2021, immediately after the former government was toppled. His entire family moved together, including his brothers, sisters and mother. He recalled:

I came with a group of colleagues, most of whom worked in the media. I landed in Houston, Texas [and] the resettlement agency rented a hotel for us. [We] all stayed in the same hotel for 30 days. By the end of September 2021, almost every family had been assisted in renting a house and each family moved into their own apartment. Since then, I’ve lived in the same apartment and have never moved anywhere else. I received shelter support because the government provided me with cash that I used to pay the rent…  Additionally, the resettlement agency assisted my family in obtaining food and medical assistance… I received food stamps, which enabled me to buy food for my family for a year and a half. 

He said that after he got a job and started earning a living, he stopped receiving food stamps. He and his wife got private insurance through Obama Care, but his children still have Medicaid. This is now the only government support he gets: “I no longer receive rent assistance or food stamps because I can earn enough money to meet those needs.”

Abdul Sabor received asylum approval in September 2024 and, after waiting for a few more months – as advised by his attorneys – will now apply for a green card, which will give him residency.

I have applied for a [refugee] travel document, that would allow me to travel outside the United States. However, I haven’t yet received it. Furthermore, even if I do get it, I may not be able to travel outside the US unless I become a US citizen. I’m unable to address my property ownership issues with my [business] partners in Turkey. I’d planned to travel to Turkey to meet my property partners, but now I can’t travel, even if I receive the travel document. My only plan is to stay here in the US and refrain from travelling until I obtain my citizenship. 

A way ahead for Afghans in America?

Many Afghans saw the United States – despite its many flaws – as their most steadfast ally throughout the Republic – consistently spending more money and sending more troops than any other nation. It left many with a sense that Afghanistan mattered to the United States. It was no surprise, then, that many held out for the chance to get to the United States, even when other options were open to them, with a notion of Afghan exceptionalism added to the wider allure of America that attracts migrants from all over the world.  US President Donald Trump’s anti-immigrant policies have come as a rude awakening, with Afghans among some of the first migrant communities whose protections appear to have been downgraded.

While researching for this report in Texas in March 2025, AAN approached many Afghans currently living there. Many politely refused to speak. Some said they had nothing to say and that they are living a good life in the US. Others were clearly afraid to share their worries about their uncertain future. They were probably right to stay quiet. A few weeks later, on 12 May, those in the US on Temporary Protected Status are now worried they may be deported as they apparently no longer have legal grounds to stay in the US. In whichever direction the US migration and refugee admission policy goes in the future, for Afghans at least, the operation to welcome them as allies is well and truly over.

Edited by Kate Clark and Rachel Reid

References

References
1 Operation Allies Welcome was launched on 29 August 2021 when President Biden directed the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to “lead and coordinate ongoing efforts across the federal government to support vulnerable Afghans, including those who worked alongside us in Afghanistan for the past two decades, as they safely resettle in the United States.” Under this directive most Afghan that had been evacuated were paroled into the United States on a case-by-case basis, for humanitarian reasons, for a period of two years. In summer 2021, the Department of State also set up the Afghanistan Task Force (ATF) to address the most pressing priorities of the time (State Magazine). This task force was transformed into the Office of the Coordinator for Afghan Relocation Efforts (CARE), in November 2024 (US CongressState Magazine), which Trump ordered to be closed by April 2025.
2 See an op-ed published in an online policy journal ‘Just Security’ by Hanifa Girowal, Ambassador Melanne Verveer and Kimberly Hart Removing Protected Status for Afghans in the U.S. is No Way to Treat Allies. They wrote: 

If TPS is fully terminated on July 14, thousands of Afghan allies will be left out in the cold. Some won’t qualify for other forms of legal protections, such as special immigrant visas (SIVs) or asylum status – because of the criteria for these protections. Others may be deported before they can complete the slow and challenging legal process of attaining longer-term protections plus data on threats. Deporting allies isn’t only an unjustified bureaucratic decision. It is a betrayal. It should be reversed and TPS should be extended, before more Afghans suffer and die at the hands of the Taliban.

See also this NPR report and this Radio Free Europe report.

3 A total of 11,454 persons were admitted to the United States as refugees during 2021, including 4,557 as principal refugees (granted refugee status in their own right) and 6,897 as derivative refugees (a family member – spouse or child, granted refugee status based on their relationship to the principal refugee). In 2021, the leading nationalities for individuals admitted as refugees were the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) (43 per cent), Syria (11 per cent), Afghanistan (7.6 per cent), Ukraine (7 per cent) and Burma (6.7 per cent). See the Department of Homeland Security annual flow report, Refugees and Asylees: 2021

In the following year, 2022, a total of 25,519 persons were admitted as refugees, including 9,012 as principal refugees and 16,507 as derivative accompanying refugees. In 2022, the leading countries of nationality for individuals admitted as refugees were the Democratic Republic of the Congo (30 per cent), Syria (18 per cent), Burma (8.4 per cent), Sudan (6.5 per cent), and Afghanistan (6.3 per cent). See the Department of Homeland Security annual flow report, Refugees and Asylees: 2022.

In 2023, the number had risen, sharply: a total of 60,050 persons were admitted as refugees, including 21,760 as principal refugees and 38,290 as derivative accompanying refugees. The leading nationalities that year were the DRC (30 per cent), Syria (18 per cent), Afghanistan (11 per cent) and Burma (10 per cent). See the Department of Homeland Security annual flow report, Refugees: 2023.

4 According to their website “Refugee Services of Texas is a social-service agency dedicated to providing assistance to refugees and other displaced persons fleeing persecution based on race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group, as well as to the communities that welcome them.” It was founded in 1978.

From Welcoming Allies to Threats of Deportation: The changing status of Afghans in America
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US Defense Secretary: No More Aimless Wars for Washington

Speaking at the annual Shangri-La Security Dialogue in Singapore, he emphasized that the United States is shifting away from this approach.

Pete Hegseth, the United States Secretary of Defense, stated that Washington will no longer repeat the mistake of engaging in “aimless” wars like those in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Speaking at the annual Shangri-La Security Dialogue in Singapore, he emphasized that the United States is shifting away from this approach.

The Defense Secretary said: “We became distracted by open-ended wars, regime change, and nation building. I had a front row seat as a soldier in Iraq and Afghanistan. These costly diversions lacked clearly defined goals and were not tied to vital and core American interests. President Trump is changing that. We are not making the same mistakes. Not this generation and not now.  We are done with that approach.”

Meanwhile, US President Donald Trump, speaking at a meeting in the White House, once again called the withdrawal of American forces from Afghanistan “shameful.”

Trump said that with America’s exit from Afghanistan in 2021, military equipment worth billions of dollars was left behind.

“We had the embarrassment in Afghanistan, where we gave up billions and billions of dollars of military equipment — the most embarrassing moment in the history of our country, I believe,” Trump said during a press conference with tech entrepreneur Elon Musk.

Some political analysts said that Washington now leans toward a more pragmatic approach regarding Afghanistan.

Mohammad Aslam Danishmal, a university professor, said: “The United States’ distrust toward the interim government is now significant. America is trying to act based on safeguarding its interests. The interim government must strive to gain a good understanding of America’s regional interests.”

Previously, Trump had repeatedly criticized the US military’s strategy, stating that for the past two decades, under the banner of nation-building missions, the military had been deployed to countries where there was no real need for an American presence.

US Defense Secretary: No More Aimless Wars for Washington
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How to get a national ID card in Afghanistan if you’re a Kuchi

Coming ‘home’ to Afghanistan 

Despite claims that obtaining a national identity card (tazkira) has become easier, many Afghans still encounter significant hurdles when they try to get one. The difficulties are particularly pronounced for returnees – those coming back after years in Pakistan or who were born there without ever having lived in Afghanistan – as well as for members of the nomadic Kuchi community. During the Republican era, obtaining a tazkira was relatively straightforward for Kuchis, but the process has become more cumbersome under the Islamic Emirate. AAN’s Nur Khan Himmat heard from one Kuchi woman who returned from Pakistan a year ago about her travails trying to get a national ID card.
I’m from the Kuchi community. We’re traditionally nomadic people who move with our animals across Afghanistan and Pakistan. Nowadays, though, many Kuchi families have settled down and don’t move from pasture to pasture like they used to.

Like many Kuchi families, my parents moved to Pakistan about 40 years ago because the civil war that was raging in Afghanistan had made our nomadic way of life impossible. I was born and raised in Pakistan. I got married there. All of my six children were born in Pakistan. My oldest is 16 and the youngest is just two.

But now, Afghans are no longer welcome in Pakistan and the government there has been forcing Afghans to leave. So last year, my family joined the thousands of others making the journey back to a home we’d never really known. At least this way, we left on our own terms.

You can’t get by without a tazkira 

When we first came to Afghanistan, I didn’t think about getting a tazkira. Most Kuchi women (and men) don’t have one. I never needed one in Pakistan. I’d heard people talking about getting a tazkira, but didn’t think I’d be needing one anytime soon. Anyway, there were more pressing things that my husband and I had to deal with. We had to get on with settling into our new life, finding our way around the system, and finding a school for the kids. Unfortunately, my older girls can’t go to school like they did in Pakistan and, anyway, there’s no school near our home, so my 10-year-old son and two of my daughters are going to a madrasa. But it soon became clear that, nowadays, you need a tazkira everywhere and for everything. For example, if you fall seriously ill and need to go abroad for treatment, or if you want to go on Hajj. You need a passport to do these things, and you can’t get one without a tazkira. Or, as it was in my case, if you need to prove that you’re an Afghan.

You’re not an Afghan without a Tazkira

One day, the office that helps people who’ve come back from Pakistan [the UN Refugee Agency, UNHCR] called us and told us we needed to go to their office. They said we were eligible for some additional assistance because we were registered refugees in Pakistan who’d returned to Afghanistan through official channels. They’d already given us USD 375 per person when we first arrived in Afghanistan, and now they were going to give us another USD 700 as a family. But when I went for the appointment, they asked for my tazkira. I told them I didn’t have one. They said they couldn’t give me the money without one because I had to prove I was an Afghan. So they didn’t give me the money. They told me to come back after I got my tazkira.

This was a serious setback. We’d waited a long time – about eight months – for them to contact us. And while this might not seem like a lot of money to most people, for our family, it was a fortune. We’d been struggling to make ends meet since we came back, and this money would go a long way in helping us settle into life in Afghanistan.

Bureaucracy reigns supreme

We left the office with heavy hearts. I told my husband I needed to apply for a tazkira as soon as possible. He agreed and we went together to the census department in Kandahar the next morning. But when we gave them my application, they said I needed to bring an usuli relative [a first-line blood relative such as a father, brother, uncle, cousin, or nephew] to vouch for me. I don’t have any close relatives. My father died in Pakistan seven years ago and I have no brothers or sisters. They said I could bring two witnesses instead, but they had to have tazkiras. Finding two people with tazkiras who would vouch for me wasn’t easy. My husband and I had lived our entire lives in Pakistan and didn’t know very many people in Afghanistan. Most of the people we know are other Kuchis who are also returnees from Pakistan and in the same predicament we’re in.

My husband asked several people he’d met recently, but they all refused. He said he didn’t blame them. People are afraid to vouch for someone they don’t know well. What if that person turns out to be a criminal, a drug trafficker or a member of Daesh [ISKP, Islamic State in Khorasan Province]? It could land them in hot water.

Finding witnesses 

Finally, my husband found someone he knew who worked in a government department. He agreed to be one of our witnesses and gave my husband a copy of his tazkira. The other witness lived in Balkh province and sent us a copy of his tazkira through a mutual acquaintance who was coming to Kandahar.

But when we took the tazkiras to the census department, they told us that our witnesses had to come in person. Fortunately, one of them lived in Kandahar and said that he’d come whenever the second witness came to town. My husband called the other witness and asked if he could come down to Kandahar, but he said that he was very poor and couldn’t afford the fare. We offered to pay him double the travel cost. Thankfully, he agreed. He was a kind man who helped us a lot; we’ll always be grateful to him.

Finally, I was able to get my electronic tazkira. I was now officially an Afghan.

It’s not who you are, it’s who you know 

I’m not the only one who’s had trouble getting a tazkira; many Kuchi women face similar problems. Fortunately, my husband has a primary school education and managed to get his own tazkira about ten years ago, so he understood the process. He’s also very sociable and has a knack for making friends easily. In the end, it was his ability to connect with people that stood us in good stead. It allowed him to tap into the largess of his new friends and contacts and find two people who’d vouch for me.

I often think about the hoops we jumped through to prove I was Afghan and secure my tazkira. I realise now that proving you belong in your own country can be nearly impossible if you don’t have any connections. The Kuchis in Afghanistan have a proverb: “Khowar pa Hindostan ham khowar dai,” which means “The poor are poor even in India.” In other words, a person without means is without means wherever they go.

 

How to get a national ID card in Afghanistan if you’re a Kuchi
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