New UN Report Charts the Emirate’s Treatment of Detainees: Allegations of torture and ill-treatment

Kate Clark

Afghanistan Analysts Network

UNAMA has released its first report dedicated to the treatment of detainees since the Taleban takeover and alleges that the use of torture by the police and General Directorate of Intelligence (GDI) is “systemic.” The report details methods of torture familiar to earlier generations of detainees – electric shocks, beating and suspension – but also a new one – waterboarding – presumably learned from the CIA. The report also traces violations of due process, such as forced confessions, being held incommunicado, not notifying a detainee’s family of the arrest. Upholding these rights, UNAMA says, is crucial for preventing torture and helping to ensure fair trials. The Islamic Emirate has denied the allegations. AAN’s Kate Clark has been reading the report and the Emirate’s rebuttal.

UNAMA has reported regularly on the treatment of security detainees since 2011; its earliest reports on the arbitrary detention of ‘non conflict-related detainees’ were published in 2009. All can be read here.

Previous reports by AAN concerning torture and detentions have included extensive reporting from the Islamic Republic era and the actions of the then intelligence agency, the NDS, Afghan police and CIA-proxy forces, as well as United States forces, both CIA and military, operating at CIA black sites, US military forward operating bases, Bagram airbase and Guantanamo Bay. 

UNAMA has said it had documented more than 1,600 human rights violations and that just under half of these were acts of torture and ‘ill-treatment’, which includes cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment. The allegations were drawn from more than 130 in-depth interviews, carried out between 1 January 2022 and 31 July 2023 with Afghans, including 24 women, who had been held in police lock-ups, GDI detention centres and provincial prisons. It covers both security and criminal detainees.[1] The reported violations took place in 29 of Afghanistan’s 34 provinces.

UNAMA attributed just over half of the violations (57 per cent) to the GDI, the body charged with maintaining Afghanistan’s “internal and external security, which encompasses treason, espionage, terrorism and anti-government propaganda,” and just under half (47 per cent) to the police, who come under the command of the Ministry of Interior; the police have “jurisdiction over general law enforcement and public security.” The remaining one per cent of violations were allegedly carried out in Afghanistan’s prisons.

As to those whom UNAMA documented as having been abused while in detention, 24 per cent were journalists or civil society activists; 21 per cent were former government officials (seven per cent civilians; and 14 per cent, security and defence personnel); nine per cent were (actually or perceived to be) affiliated with armed groups (NRF or ISKP) and the remaining 44 per cent were individuals with no particular affiliation. Two per cent had been detained (only by the GDI) because they were family members of people whom it wanted information about.

Unlike most of its previous reporting, UNAMA did not distinguish between detainees held on ‘ordinary’ criminal and security-related charges. It has also not identified the facilities where torture was most prevalent. The historical pattern for security-related detainees under the Republic, and under earlier governments, was for the bulk of torture to be committed in a few locations, especially certain intelligence agency directorates, such as Counter-Terrorism (numbered successively as Directorate 5, 90, 241) and Investigations (17, 40, 501) in Kabul, and by particular police and other forces – Kandahar police and NDS featured prominently in UNAMA reporting during the Republic era, for example, as did the various CIA-proxy forces. UNAMA does not say whether such clustering in the use of torture has persisted into the new era, but if it were able to do so, identifying the facilities and forces would add an extra level of accountability to UNAMA reporting.

Ill-treatment during arrests

UNAMA’s report has documented how arrests are often accompanied by ‘excessive force’; international human rights norms require the use of force to be proportionate and as a measure of last resort only. Numerous interviewees, said UNAMA, recounted how security forces had come to their place of work or home or dragged them from cars, delivering “beatings and kicks, including when they were already on the ground, and being struck with the butts of weapons… insulting [them], often restrain[ing] their hands, as well as blind-folded or hooded them, and forced individuals into vehicles to be transported elsewhere.” Rarely did the officials produce warrants or clearly identify themselves.

UNAMA said the experience for the detainee was “akin to being kidnapped rather than arrested,” particularly when an arrest was accompanied by beating, restraints, blindfolding or hooding. It said this alone “would instill a justifiable fear in those detained of imminent harm or being killed, causing mental suffering which could meet the threshold of severity required to constitute torture or other forms of ill-treatment.”

Torture under the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan

The descriptions of torture and ill-treatment once detainees were in custody, reported to UNAMA, will sound familiar to anyone who has monitored detentions in Afghanistan over the decades. Here are the accounts of two individuals:

For eight days, I was tortured, it was always at night not during the day. I was taken to a room specifically for torture. There were different methods of torture used on me. I was beaten four or five times and when I was becoming unconscious then they threw water on me to make me come around, be conscious. It was becoming cold at night. During the first two days they were beating my feet. I couldn’t wear shoes as my feet were swollen. Then they beat me with power cables and pipes. Then they used a portable electric shock machine on me.

Interview of 25 May 2023, GDI custody, quoted by UNAMA p24

He told his fighters to lay me down without giving me the chance to answer his questions. They kicked me up to my head, and all parts of my body. Two of them took a piece of wood and beat me. I cried for help. Four of them held my hands and feet, and one of them put his foot on my neck and pressured it that affected seriously my breathing. I felt that I would lose my life. After this they stopped torturing me. 

Interview or 9 November 2022, police custody, quoted by UNAMA p 24

UNAMA listed the following methods of torture being used:

  • being beaten by numerous means, including being punched or kicked, struck with the butts of weapons, typically around the head or shoulders, or with other instruments, such as metal piping or cables, to their backs or the soles of their feet, often while restrained. Some described the beatings as so severe they lost consciousness. UNAMA said beatings comprised the overwhelming majority of the 259 instances of physical aggressions and were attributable to police and GDI alike;
  • receiving electric shocks to various parts of their body, causing some to lose consciousness (11 instances, 4 attributable to police; 7 to GDI);
  • being choked or suffocated, including by hand or wire, or having a towel or plastic bags placed over their heads or faces (9 instances, one attributable to police, 8 to GDI);
  • being hung from the ceiling by their hands (4 instances, all attributable to de facto GDI) and cuffed in stress positions (3 instances, attributable to de facto GDI);
  • having pipes with water forced in their mouths (5 instances, 3 attributable to police and 2 to GDI);
  • being left outside in cold weather during winter for extended periods (2 instances, both attributable to GDI); and
  • seeing a GDI member place a big stone on the stomach of another detainee whose hands were cuffed.

The security services of the Islamic Emirate appear to mostly use the same torture methods as their predecessors. Beatings, suspension, stress positions and electric shocks have been reported by former detainees back through the 2000s, the 1990s and 1980s to when, in 1980, the KGB helped set up the Afghan intelligence agency in the form it now takes (for more detail on 1978-2002 period, see the Afghanistan Justice Project report). However, there is a new twist – forcing water into the mouths of prone detainees so that they experience drowning. The CIA did not invent ‘waterboarding’, but did introduce it to Afghanistan in their interrogations of ‘War on Terror’ detainees. Presumably, some of Afghanistan’s current security officials learned the technique through experience. (For more on the history of this method of torture and its current, euphemistic name, see this 2008 article from The New York Times Magazine.[2])

The UNAMA report also documented other acts “causing mental suffering that in the circumstances of detention and coercive interrogation could amount to torture.” They included threats to kill detainees or their family members, blindfolding and restraining detainees for extended periods during custody or throughout coercive questioning. Detainees were also “frequently” screamed at and insulted, including calling women ‘prostitutes’ and men ‘infidels’, ‘bad’ or ‘false’ Muslims’, ‘dogs’ and ‘sons of the Americans’, and having their heads forcibly shaven.

“Numerous interviewees,” UNAMA said, described being blindfolded or hand-cuffed when “taken from their cells, including for questioning, and stayed that way for the duration of their interrogations.” This meant they could not identify who was questioning them and were made “vulnerable to abuse.” The experience of hooding, wrote UNAMA, of being unable to see their interrogators “would have heightened the fear, stress and sense of perceived threat.” It says:

While sensory deprivation of itself can cause psychological effects, including fear, anxiety, high levels of stress, disorientation, and a sense of powerlessness, the Committee Against Torture has found that questioning while applying “hooding under special conditions” constitutes torture, and this is particularly evident where hooding is used in combination with other coercive methods of questioning.

UNAMA also reported the deaths of 18 individuals in custody in the period under review; 11 had been held by the GDI and five by the police.[3] Six of the individuals were former members of the ANSF (the Republic-era Afghan National Security Forces), six “actual or perceived” members of armed opposition groups, such as the Islamic State in Khorasan Province (ISKP) and National Resistance Front (NF), and six unaffiliated with other groups of interest. UNAMA stresses that these deaths were distinct from “the numerous instances of extra-judicial killings committed by de facto authorities, including by de facto security forces, occurring outside contexts of custodial detention,” which this report does not detail.

Forced confessions and other violations of procedural safeguards

The other violations documented by UNAMA were of procedural safeguards and the right to due process. They include being forced to make a confession – it reported 80 instances of this, including at least 40 where the detainee had reported torture or ill-treatment before being forced to sign documents. In almost all instances, reported UNAMA:

[I]nterviewees signed or thumb-printed documents without having read the documents or having had their content explained. In several instances where interviewees expressly asked to know the content, de facto security officials refused to let interviewees read the document or refused to read it aloud to blindfolded or illiterate interviewees.

Where torture is used, said UNAMA, it aims to “obtain forced confessions or other information.” A primary driver of torture, mentioned in previous UNAMA reports focussing on security detainees, is the Afghan criminal justice system’s acceptance of a confession as enough in itself to convict a person without any other supporting evidence.[4] That appears to be unchanged and is a theme which will be returned to.

UNAMA has also documented multiple instances of the following violations: being kept in solitary confinement; not being told the reasons for arrest; not being told of the right to a lawyer; or being allowed to see a lawyer; not having a lawyer present during interrogations; not having their family notified of the arrest and not allowing family contact; no medical check-up; inadequate healthcare and lack of access to independent medical personnel and; not being brought promptly before a judge to whom they could challenge the lawfulness of their detention.

Torture and ill-treatment flourish amid secrecy and lack of due process. Keeping detainees incommunicado, without access to family, lawyers, independent medical personnel or a judge, can, in UNAMA’s words, “increase the risk of undocumented torture and abuse.” It also increases the likelihood that detainees will not get a fair trial.

Laws regarding torture and ill-treatment and the Emirate’s response to the UNAMA report

The prohibition against torture in international law is absolute. Several orders issued by the Emirate’s Supreme Leader, Mawlawi Hibatullah Akhundzada, have suggested that torture is permitted with a court order, but is otherwise strictly banned as an act of zulm (oppression). (Read the orders in the original Pashto and Dari and AAN’s unofficial translation here and our analysis here).[5] At the same time, a Code of Conduct on Reforming the Prisoners’ System, issued by decree by Hibatullah in January 2022, has, said UNAMA:

[N]umerous articles that prohibit torture or ill-treatment of persons deprived of their liberty. The Code of Conduct is clear that security officials, prisoners’ guards and prison personnel are prohibited from torturing, tormenting or punishing prisoners (art. 33). In particular, the Code instructs de facto security authorities to refrain from torture or ill-treatment which “contravenes Sharia principles, ethics and human dignity” of suspects or criminals, starting from the point of arrest, through transfer (arts. 3, 5). It cites as examples of behavior to be avoided, torturing or tormenting suspects, using foul or insulting language in front of people or relatives, and sitting on people’s head or stomachs.

The Code of Conduct, reports UNAMA, says that detainees are “not to be tortured in any way during their detention and nor are confessions to be obtained through force or duress” (article 36) and that security officials “shall not try to extract confessions from a suspect.” They shall also “refrain from threatening, torturing, and videoing them because such a confession does not fall within the orbit of the court’s judgment” (article 39).

Most significantly, says UNAMA, the Code says, “[a] judge cannot pass judgement based on another’s investigation, or testimony or confessions which the investigator or interrogator heard. Recourse requires that the judge hears the confession or witness evidence, deems it admissible and bases their judgment upon it” (article 39). It also cites an instruction to the Supreme Court made by Mawlawi Hibatullah in September 2022 that a confession without evidence has no legal value unless made in front of the judge.

The responses to the report from the Ministry of Interior, GDI and Office of Prisons Administration, and the Supreme Court, collated by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and published as an appendix to the UNAMA report, make it clear that officials do understand that, under the law, there is an absolute prohibition against torture.

The Ministry of Interior pointed to Decrees 1521 (a copy of which AAN has not seen) and 29 as prohibiting corporal punishment and the torture of detainees and said the ministry’s Human Rights Directorate has also dispatched 16 committees who have visited 60 police units in the capital and provinces to monitor the force. The GDI said the UNAMA report suggested the GDI carried out torture “purposefully and as a means of obtaining confessions,” but that, according to its own code of conduct, this was “prohibited and in all cases of detainees’ torture, the offenders were treated strictly and in accordance with the policy.” The Prisons Administration said: “Fortunately, Sharia (Islamic religious, social, and cultural values), which have been approved to protect and respect fundamental and Islamic rights, prohibit the torture of people even for the purpose of obtaining the truth.”

All three bodies gave detailed rebuttals of the report, including the ways in which they were carrying out their work lawfully. However, the scale and apparent routine nature of the torture reported by UNAMA indicates a gap between what officials have asserted and what actually happens on the ground.[6]

Two of UNAMA’s recommendations – it made similar ones also during the Republic – were to the Supreme Court that it should:

  • Issue clear instructions to de facto judges to ensure that any statement of an accused used in court has been made with full and informed consent, and to ensure that coerced or other unlawfully obtained statements are not admitted or relied upon under any circumstances as evidence in court proceedings;
  • Issue clear instructions to de facto judges to ensure that any allegations that confessions were coerced or unlawfully obtained while in custody are fully investigated and those responsible are held to account.

In response, the Supreme Court said it “appreciates efforts exerted by UNAMA,” but repudiated the allegations. It said it assigns delegations to monitor the situation of detainees and has an inspection team that visits the provinces and monitors the situation of detainees “at close quarters.” It called UNAMA’s accounts of torture, deaths in custody and of the previous administration’s police officers and other employees being killed “far from reality” because such acts would “contravene the Islamic principles.” The Supreme Court did not respond to the issue of forced confessions or relying solely on a confession to convict a person.

Law and practice under the Emirate and the Republic 

In the past, the problem with torture in Afghanistan has lain not in a lack of laws prohibiting it, but in their not being implemented.

Under the Republic, there were at least eight legal instruments prohibiting the use of torture; they included treaty obligations (which still apply) and various laws.[7] Yet, the use of torture against security detainees only really diminished after domestic pressure mounted on countries providing soldiers for the NATO mission. In the end, ISAF decided it could not hand over security detainees to the NDS unless the NDS stopped torturing them and brought in various mechanisms to help/put pressure on the NDS to change its ways (see AAN reporting on this from 201120122013and 2015). That focus did bring down the overall incidence of torture, only for it to rise again after the end of active military engagement by ISAF in 2014, albeit never to the same high levels. In its last report published under the Republic in February 2021, there was a mixed picture: overall, UNAMA was still documenting that one in three security detainees had been tortured; within that, however, the use of torture by the NDS was dramatically lower than had been reported in 2011, by the police, it was somewhat down, and the CIA proxies, the NDS Special Forces and Khost Protection Force, and the Afghan Local Police (ALP) were still using it extensively. In 2023, UNAMA also reported that almost half of the security detainees interviewed had been asked to sign or thumb-print documents which they had not read.

In other words, the use of torture fell, but it was still resorted to, particularly in some facilities and by some forces, in the last years of the Republic. There was still impunity for torture. Despite all the laws and fine words from the Afghan government, both the police and NDS could carry out, order or permit torture without any fear of prosecution or even sacking or demotion. Indeed, UNAMA tracked NDS directors and senior police being promoted after its reporting had identified them as being in command of facilities where torture was carried out. Speaking to officials in private, the author was given the impression that they believed that the fact of the insurgency meant torture was necessary for information-gathering. There was no taboo on using it, at least for security-related (mostly suspected Taleban) detainees. This was also evident in the frequent reliance on confessions by judges, even in the face of allegations of torture.

Similarly, torture against detainees suspected of terrorism or of having information about terrorists was carried out on the 2002 orders of then US President, George Bush, by the CIA and US military. Used in Afghanistan and elsewhere, the torture was referred to euphemistically as ‘enhanced interrogation methods’. In 2014, President Barak Obama admitted to America’s use of torture, but declined to hold anyone accountable (press conference transcript here). He was speaking ahead of the release of a US Senate Intelligence Committee that documented the CIA’s use of torture. An earlier report by the Senate Committee on Armed Services, ‘Inquiry into the Treatment of Detainees in U.S. Custody’, had also documented the use of torture by military personnel. Yet, no US official has been held accountable for this policy in a court of law and the only investigations/prosecutions have been into officials accused of using unauthorised interrogation techniques. Even then, investigations have been administrative rather than criminal, and into low-ranking officials; any punishment has been limited to disciplinary actions, even when detainees were killed. Those ordering and sanctioning the breaches have remained untouched by the law.[8]

That failure by the US and Republic-era governments and courts to hold those carrying out and ordering torture accountable was a factor in leading the former Chief Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court, Fatou Bensouda, to recommend an ICC investigation in 2017.[9] She had reported in 2016 that there were reasonable grounds that the United States military and CIA had “resorted to techniques amounting to the commission of the war crimes of torture, cruel treatment, outrages upon personal dignity, and rape” and the Republic’s national security forces had committed “the war crimes of torture and cruel treatment.” (At the same time, Bensouda also recommended the ICC investigate war crimes and crimes against humanity allegedly committed by the Taleban.)

This report by UNAMA does not distinguish between security detainees and the wider population of detainees, nor does it focus on particular facilities. Nor does it try to draw direct comparisons between the incidence of torture then and now. However, one clear conclusion that can be drawn from UNAMA’s report is how patterns of abuse continue. That waterboarding has been added to the list of methods of torture used by the Afghan state is horrifying, but hardly a surprise, given it may have been used by US forces on some of those now in power in Afghanistan.

In the 2002-­21 era, both American and Afghan politicians and security officials who ordered or carried out torture enjoyed impunity, as had those in power in Kabul in earlier generations. For the cycle to be broken, as UNAMA has repeatedly called for over many years, there has to be accountability, safeguards and a change in what evidence is allowed in court. In this report, UNAMA has put forward many practical suggestions as to how the current government could safeguard the dignity and safety of detainees and allow fair judicial processes. So far, at least, while it has good rules on paper, the Islamic Emirate does not seem to be implementing them.

Edited by Rachel Reid

References

References
1 Almost all of UNAMA’s previous reporting covered security detainees only.
2 In the article, William Safire describes it as one of the “bland bureaucratic euphemisms” that are coined to “conceal great crimes,” but it is also a torturer’s joke. “It refers to surfboarding,” he says. The torturers are “attaching somebody to a board and helping them surf. Torturers create names that are funny to them.”
3 Two of the deaths were in prisons, but UNAMA says their deaths were not attributable to torture or ill-treatment.
4 See for example, UNAMA’s 2011 report on the treatment of security detainees: 

In almost all criminal cases in Afghanistan, including national security prosecutions, the case against the defendant is based on a confession, which the court usually finds both persuasive and conclusive of the defendant’s guilt. In most cases confessions are the sole form of evidence or corroboration submitted to courts to support prosecutions. Confessions are rarely examined at trial and rarely challenged by the judge or defence counsel as having been coerced.

5 For example, Decree 8, Vol 5, 4 November 2019 says: 

If kashf ul-haal [information gathering] is required from a suspect, only provincial and intelligence officials have the right to keep them in custody for this, and this detention should not go beyond a month. If there is need for more time to collect information, an extension should be requested from the court. Using ta’zib [torture] should be avoided during detention because the authority for ta’zib and tazir punishments [punishments given at the judge’s discretion, rather than being specified in the Quran] lies with the court. If others opt to torture or punish someone, it is not justice but zulm [oppression]. Preventing zulm is a wajeb [obligation], while allowing it to happen is haram [forbidden].

Decree 29, 15 March 2022 says:

If kashf ul-haal is required from a suspect, only security and intelligence officials have the right to keep them in custody for this purpose, but the detention should not exceed ten days. If more time is needed to gather information, an extension should be requested from the court. Likewise, no one can release a prisoner once their sentence is complete without a court order. Any kind of torture should be avoided during detention because torture and tazir are the sole prerogative of the courts. This would not be justice but cruelty: preventing cruelty is a duty, while permitting cruelty is forbidden. 

Compare also order 65, vol 6, 2 November 2020.

6 One snapshot, possibly representative, possibly not, of the proceedings of a court in Helmand can be seen in a short documentary film by Victor Blue and Ross McDonnell and published on The New Yorker website. ‘Swift Justice’ shows a judge ordering a man accused of stealing away to be beaten in order to gain a confession. He also rules that a widow does not have to marry her brother-in-law who is insisting on his right to marry her; instead, the judge rules that the woman can go home to her father’s house instead, as she and her father had been asking for.
7 Instruments criminalising torture in Afghanistan include: 

Penal Code 1976

If the public service official tortures the accused for the purpose of obtaining a confession or issues an order to this effect, he shall be sentenced to long imprisonment.

7 October 1976, article 275

United Nations Convention Against Torture, acceded 1 April 1987

Constitution of Afghanistan 2004

No one shall be allowed to order torture, even for discovering the truth from another individual who is under investigation, arrest, detention or has been convicted to be punished.

26 January 2004, article 29

Presidential Decree No 129 To Implement The Afghan Fact-Finding Delegation’s Suggestions On The Presence Of Torture And Ill-Treatment In Detention Centres

The Attorney General of the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan is ordered to prosecute those who violate article 51 of the Prisons and Detentions Law [3] in the light of the findings of the delegation’s report which has reported on the torture and mistreatment of detainees and prisoners, this in order to prevent torture and mistreatment and the conviction of any innocent detainee in the future.

Issued by Hamed Karzai, 16 February 2013, article 1

Criminal Procedure Code 2014

[T]he judicial police officer, prosecutor and court themselves or through means of another person, in any case, are not allowed to force the suspect or accuse to confess using misconduct, narcotics, duress, torture, hypnosis, threat, intimidation, or promising a benefit. If the statements of the suspect or accused person are taken in violation of the provision set forth in paragraph of this article, they shall not be admissible.

5 May 201, article 22

Optional Protocol to the Convention against Torture, acceded April 2017

Decree on the Prohibition of Torture 2017, which later became the Law on the Prohibition of Torture 2018

It defined torture for the first time in Afghan law as:

[A]n act which causes pain or physical or psychological suffering against a suspect, an accused or a convict or any other person for the purpose of forcing [the individual] to confess, give information or force another person to give information or to force an individual not to do an act. (article 3)

5 March 2017

2018 Law on the Prohibition of Torture;

Revisions to the Penal Code 2018

These improved the definition of torture, punishments and other mechanisms for its prevention and provided for compensation for victims of torture.

8 A 2017 report by the author detailed the lack of accountability in the US criminal courts in the light of a civil case against the two psychologists who had designed and overseen the implementation of the CIA torture programme which had won compensation for two survivors of CIA torture and the family of Gul Rahman. He was an Afghan who had died of hypothermia after being left semi-naked on a bare concrete floor in a CIA black site near Kabul in November 2002. See ‘Held Accountable for Torture: CIA psychologists compensate family of dead Afghan’.
9 The judges of the Pre-Trial Chamber declined to order an investigation into crimes against humanity and war crimes allegedly taking place in Afghanistan at all, a decision overturned on appeal. However, the current Chief Prosecutor has decided to prioritise the investigation of crimes allegedly committed by the Taleban and ISKP, and ignore, for now, those of US and former Afghan government forces. See AAN’s latest report on this, from July 2022: ‘Delaying Justice? The ICC’s war crimes investigation in limbo over who represents Afghanistan’.
Kate Clark

New UN Report Charts the Emirate’s Treatment of Detainees: Allegations of torture and ill-treatment
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Chinese Investments in Afghanistan: Strategic ecnomic move or incentive for the Emirate?

When the West withdrew from Afghanistan, many assumed its acquisitive neighbour, China, would reap the economic benefits of the change of government in Kabul. Afghanistan has immense, but largely untouched mineral and hydrocarbon wealth, including strategically valuable metals, such as lithium. That assumption was fed in the first half of 2023 by a flurry of high-level business meetings and some potentially significant contracts between Chinese companies and the Islamic Emirate, including on mining projects. Given the perilous state of Afghanistan’s economy, major investment could help Afghans, as well as potentially giving the Emirate a more stable economic footing. Yet, in reality, Chinese engagement in Afghanistan is still tentative. This raises the familiar question of whether the Chinese government is pursuing real economic interests there or using them to incentivise the Emirate to play along with its security concerns. AAN’s Thomas Ruttig tries to decipher the real deals from the spin, and weighs the arguments in the debate over what Beijing’s primary motivations is – security or economy?
You can preview the report online and download it by clicking the link below.

In the first six months of 2023, there was a series of business deals and contacts between Chinese companies and Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan (IEA) officials in mining and other sectors, supported by China’s leadership in Beijing and its embassy in Kabul. The Afghan media, including state-owned media outlets, covered these deals and meetings between IEA officials and Chinese business delegations extensively and a number of Western researchers have also weighed in on the issue. The coverage has been conspicuously less widespread in Chinese, perhaps reflecting Afghanistan’s relative insignificance for it. Yet, what might seem like ‘small fry’ projects for China – a mere ‘slip road’ in its global Belt and Road Initiative – hold the potential to inject significant income into the Afghan economy and the Emirate’s lean coffers.

While China’s policy remains difficult to read, it is not indecipherable. Its activity in Afghanistan appears big because of two facts: first, the United States-led West has left, and this has opened more space for other actors; secondly, there is relative peace, making business easier. That does not mean, however, that China will (or is inclined to) step in with investments to match the amounts the US invested in Afghanistan between 2001 and 2021.

China’s engagement in Afghanistan needs to be seen in the context of its long-term strategy to secure access to strategic resources, including land and food and, increasingly, its global rivalry with the US. Afghanistan is not an unimportant piece on this chessboard. Given its wealth in minerals, gas and oil, the country has long-term potential for Chinese companies, small or large, private or state-owned, particularly if it remains relatively stable under the Emirate. However, only two years after the Taleban’s second takeover, it is probably too early to say whether China and its (state-run or state-owned subsidiary) companies have now, in contrast to the two decades of the Islamic Republic, really started to work, including on such mega projects as the Ainak copper mine in Logar province.

This report brings together available details on the deals and highlights some contradictions and question marks in the media coverage. It also considers China’s engagement under the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan in order to provide context, and finds that although, at first glance, the Chinese players involved have changed, there is, in fact, some continuity.

Edited by Roxanna Shapour and Rachel Reid

You can preview the report online and download it by clicking the link below.

Thomas Ruttig

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Chinese Investments in Afghanistan: Strategic ecnomic move or incentive for the Emirate?
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Two Years of the Taliban’s ‘Gender Apartheid’ in Afghanistan

Afghan women and girls deserve moral and material support to sustain their resiliency against the Taliban’s worsening repression.

Two years after the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan, the human rights situation in the country is abysmal, with women and girls experiencing the worst of the regime’s policies. There is growing evidence that the Taliban are committing the crime against humanity of gender persecution of women and girls, an assertion Human Rights Watch made in a new report. This summer, the World Economic Forum slated Afghanistan last of the 146 countries it ranked in a study on gender gaps. The U.N. special rapporteur on the situation of human rights in Afghanistan said in a special report that the Taliban’s “large-scale systematic violations of women’s and girls’ fundamental rights in Afghanistan … [constitute] gender persecution and an institutionalized framework of gender apartheid.” The scope of the Taliban’s women’s rights restrictions is truly unprecedented.

Advocates often apply the term “gender apartheid” to describe two-tiered systems of men making all the decisions about political and social affairs and assigning themselves agency in all public spaces while women are relegated to work that can be done from home or traditional gender roles of child-raising and homemaking. This is the situation Afghan women and girls find themselves in today.

Tightening the Noose

In the Taliban’s first press conference after taking Kabul in August 2021, spokesperson Zabiullah Mujahid said that the Taliban were “committed to the rights of women within the framework of Shariah” and that the group would not discriminate against women. While the Taliban have made similar claims in the past, these words quickly proved hollow.

Indeed, immediately after seizing power the Taliban prohibited girls from attending secondary schools and transformed the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, tasked with safeguarding women’s rights in all 34 provinces, into the ironically titled Ministry for the Prevention of Vice and Promotion of Virtue. This marked the beginning of a string of more than 140 orders and decrees that have thoroughly dismantled all existing mechanisms, laws and institutions that were put in place to protect against human rights violations and promote women’s rights.

This graphic depicts what Afghan women see through their burqas and serves as a portal to learning more about Taliban restrictions on women’s social and political life.
This graphic depicts what Afghan women see through their burqas and serves as a portal to learning more about Taliban restrictions on women’s social and political life.
The regime has renamed and repurposed the Attorney General’s Office, which is now called the General Directorate for Monitoring and Follow up of Decrees and Directives. The Taliban also eliminated institutions like the Afghan Independent Human Rights Commission, the Commission to Eliminate Violence Against Women, shelter and safe houses for battered women, civil society-led protection and empowerment programs and women-led organizations. They also rescinded laws and policies geared toward eliminating violence and harassment against women.

By the end of 2021, the Taliban’s first four months in power showed that they were not going to treat women any different than they did during their previous rule in the 1990s. In the early period of their current rule, Taliban decrees and edicts restricted women from working or teaching at public universities, from working for the government, or traveling beyond 45 miles away from the home without a mahram (or male guardian). The Taliban decreed that women must be accompanied by a mahram — even during surgery — while visiting male health providers

In the last two years, it continued to get worse. The Taliban decreed that the best form of hijab — which they use as a synonym for women’s covering or clothing — is for Afghan women to wear a burqa (i.e., to be fully covered from head to toe) or to simply stay home. The Taliban also banned women from working for the U.N. and NGOs and restricted women from entering public parks and participating in sports. The regime also invalidated thousands of divorce cases decided under the previous government. Their most recent decree called for the closure of beauty salons, leaving some 60,000 women without an income to support their families.

These restrictions and rules continue to be more brutal and draconian. Whereas two years ago, women could travel a short distance without a mahram, today women must have a male guardian to even leave the home. In 2021, women were banned from many jobs, but could work for NGOs or the United Nations. Today, as noted above, they cannot work for these organizations. Until December 2022, universities were open for women, but now female students and instructors are not allowed to enter public or private university campuses.A longer-term threat that has also emerged over the last two years, which would perpetuate the Taliban’s misogyny over future generations, is the “madrassafication” of the education system in Afghanistan. This has three forms: the curriculum of the regular public schools is being revised to accord with the Taliban’s interpretation of Islam; girls and boys are being encouraged to attend madrassas rather than public schools; and new “jihadi madrassas” are being created in every province that provide boys with military and Islamic education. The Taliban are also putting more investment into madrassas for both boys and girls. Parents are further incentivized to send their girls to madrassas because there are fewer harassing raids, like expelling girls under the age to 12 who are taller or physically bigger for their age.

An archive of the Taliban’s decrees and edicts infringing on the rights of Afghans. 

A majority of Afghan citizens oppose the Taliban’s draconian female education restrictions and there are reports of local communities quietly looking the other way. But the Taliban have increased enforcement — establishing the Female Moral Police Department in August 2022, who are deployed to public and private educational institutions and women-only markets to inspect women’s hijab.

But Afghan women are not prepared to concede all that they had achieved over the last two decades. Many have bravely gone to the streets to demand their basic rights despite being met with Taliban violence and repression. While most public protests have largely subsided, they have been replaced with indoor protests with women and girls holding signs in Dari, Pashto and English rejecting Taliban policies. Outside the country, women have issued statements, launched media campaigns and even conducted hunger strikes to urge world leaders and the U.N. to recognize the Taliban’s gender apartheid and hold the regime accountable for crimes against humanity.

It has now been 725 days that girl students above sixth grade have not been able to attend school and 265 days since universities have stopped accepting female students. Under the Taliban today, Afghan women are deprived of their livelihoods, identity, education, employment, leisure, travel, sports and equal access to humanitarian aid. The Taliban dictate what women should or shouldn’t do in the privacy of their homes, even prohibiting listening to music. As a result, Afghan women face serious mental health issues including fear, anxiety, anger, helplessness, insomnia, lack of self-respect and thoughts of suicide and self-harm. The Taliban’s anti-women policies have emboldened the country’s patriarchal norms.

Now What?

The Taliban’s leadership has shown over the last two years that they are unwilling to deliver on the promises about women’s rights made during the Doha Agreement negotiations with the United States. Indeed, they are putting measures in place to effectuate generational change that is alien to hundreds of years of Afghan culture. The response must have equal scope and resolve: to push back with arguments, resources and accountability measures at local, national and international levels over many years.

While a parade of Islamic religious authorities has declared that both traditional and mainstream interpretations of Islam do not relegate women to being objects or second-class citizens, this argument has so far failed to overcome the Taliban’s desire for what they claim is a “100% Islamic system.”

A more pragmatic motivation for social decrees against women could be to avoid defections by the most radical of the Taliban’s supporters to ISIS or other more extreme terrorist groups. The Taliban’s success as an insurgency movement relied on recruiting young male fighters who are themselves from conservative rural areas and/or educated in radical madrassas — often in Pakistan — and were attracted to fight based in part on a call to rid Afghan society of un-Islamic Western values, particularly an alleged disrespect to women. If the Taliban do not deliver on these fighters’ visions of a so-called “pure” Islamic society, this argument goes, they may fight for ISIS and seek to overthrow the Taliban.

“The situation for women and girls is dire and catastrophic. Their rights have been more or less wiped out,” said Richard Bennett, the U.N. special rapporteur for human rights in Afghanistan. 

The problem is that the Taliban’s overriding lesson from their unexpected victory after a grueling decades-long insurgency is that loyalty is one of the most important Islamic virtues and unity is the key to success. Therefore, even though there are plenty of private dissents from important Taliban leaders over women’s rights restrictions, the religious authority of the emir, Sheikh Haibatullah Akhundzada, and the practical recognition that a divided Taliban is weak means that Haibatullah’s distasteful decrees are nonetheless obeyed.

So, what can the international community do? In the face of dogmatic Taliban resistance to change, an “all-of-the-above” strategy has the best chance of success. This should include:

  • Continuing to apply public and private pressure from all sides to prevent normalization of the Taliban’s gender apartheid as other forces of change are applied.
  • Giving political and financial support to international accountability mechanisms including the International Criminal Court, U.N. special rapporteur and entities documenting human rights violations.
  • Providing asylum and protection to victims and survivors of Taliban’s atrocities.
  • Tying international sanctions to women’s rights abuse, not just counter-terrorism rationales.
  • Giving Afghan women a seat at the table in all international diplomatic fora where Afghanistan is being discussed.
  • Funding women’s rights advocacy groups in Afghanistan and abroad along with supporting Afghan media to have female reporters and guests and to cover women’s rights stories.
  • Funding private education of girls through all available means — online for those with internet access; underground for those with community-based “secret schools”; through scholarships at high school and university levels to study abroad.
  • Amplifying messages of Islamic scholars and political leaders from Muslim majority countries that show how classical Islamic scholarship and contemporary practice in the Muslim world contradict the Taliban’s restrictive women’s rights decrees — especially to religious leaders and constituents in Afghanistan that are not Taliban but may not know about comparative Islamic practices.

A fundamental principle of international law is that the world has an obligation to combat atrocities committed in another jurisdiction, including for crimes against humanity like gender persecution and gender apartheid. To that, one can add an extra degree of moral duty for the United States and allied donor countries that created the conditions for the Taliban’s return to power without meaningful safeguards for the rights of women, which were a central objective of the West’s governance and democracy policies.

Afghan women deserve moral and material support to sustain their resiliency against the Taliban’s gender persecution. The United States and the international community should continue to firmly communicate to the Taliban that their regime’s legitimacy is dependent on protection, respect and guarantee of the rights of all Afghans regardless of their gender and social and political affiliation, and fulfillment of their obligation under international laws and conventions to which Afghanistan is a party to. The United States and the international community must make it clear that there will be legal accountability for the crimes against women that have occurred.

Two Years of the Taliban’s ‘Gender Apartheid’ in Afghanistan
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Afghanistan’s Two Years of Humanitarian Crisis Under the Taliban

The Taliban’s takeover of Afghanistan in August 2021 immediately exacerbated the country’s precarious humanitarian situation, leaving millions in need of food assistance and other support. Two years later, the situation remains dire, with Afghan women and girls acutely affected by the Taliban’s draconian restrictions on their daily lives. The international community continues to struggle to find a balance between providing desperately needed aid while also pressuring the regime in Kabul to moderate its hardline policies. While Afghans need emergency assistance, the country will continue to deal with cycles of crises until its deep-seated economic challenges are addressed.
Mercy Corps’ Dayne Curry, Norwegian Refugee Council’s Becky Roby, CARE USA’s Ellen Bevier and the International Rescue Committee’s Anastasia Moran discuss the humanitarian situation facing the country, how woman and girls have been impacted by the Taliban’s restrictions, and how the United States can help address the crisis.

It’s been two years since the Taliban took control of Afghanistan. Can you tell us what you are seeing as far as humanitarian needs are concerned?

Curry: The humanitarian response in Afghanistan simply cannot keep pace with the country’s worsening conditions. More than 29 million remain in need, over half of whom are children, while 15.3 million people are experiencing acute food insecurity. Almost 60% of households face barriers accessing safe water, and cholera and other diseases pose significant threats. Meanwhile, 22.1 million people require protection assistance, and 8.7 million children need education support.

These needs skyrocketed with the collapse of the former government and the subsequent suspension of international aid. Two years later, shocks from recurrent drought and seasonal flooding continue to threaten Afghanistan’s critical agriculture sector and limit access to clean water. Additionally, policies restricting individual freedoms, particularly those of women and girls, impede the humanitarian response, and Afghanistan’s authorities lack the capacity to provide services to their people.

Compounding these challenges is the reality of the international community’s declining commitment to Afghanistan. Support for long-term economic growth all but ended with the suspension of development assistance. Though some humanitarian assistance continues, the U.N.’s request is less than 30% funded, and humanitarian organizations must navigate a complex set of sanctions that complicate aid delivery. While programs in food security and health are better funded than others, the funding shortfall for clean water and irrigation exacerbates the impacts of the drought on agriculture, livelihoods and health. In summary, this combination of political and environmental factors has only served to deepen humanitarian needs over the past two years.

What are the key factors driving the humanitarian need in Afghanistan?

Roby: Today’s humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan is primarily a political one. Since the Taliban’s takeover, the regime has enacted a series of egregious edicts and restrictions that have had a devastating impact on the population, particularly for women and girls. These policies have vastly undermined the country’s international relations resulting in political and economic isolation.

As a mark of moral outrage, Western donors and international financial institutions, including the World Bank, have ceased, paused or greatly reduced funding to development programs. Meanwhile, the economic collapse in the immediate aftermath of the Taliban takeover has transitioned into chronic economic paralysis, caused largely by overcompliance to sanctions and banking sector de-risking and exacerbated by the choices of the country’s leadership.

While humanitarian actors provide life-saving assistance, these interventions cannot by themselves improve the situation for affected Afghans, leaving the population trapped in a cycle of repeated, protracted crises. The Afghan people need long-term sustainable solutions, and this requires not only increased humanitarian assistance, but greater economic stability and the resumption of development assistance. None of which will happen if the politics remain paralyzed.

We have seen the Taliban issue several new edicts over the past two years. How have these edicts impacted women and girls in Afghanistan?

Bevier: Since the de facto authorities came to power, they have implemented policies aimed to erase women and girls’ participation in public life, including bans on girls’ education beyond the sixth grade and women’s employment in humanitarian work. Women and girls in Afghanistan already faced increased protection risks and higher levels of humanitarian need before the regime change in Kabul. Studies indicate that 87% of Afghan women had experienced at least one form of physical, sexual or psychological violence, and 62% experienced multiple forms. With more than 17 million people facing acute hunger in 2023, women and girls are disproportionally affected and become more likely to resort to high-risk coping strategies.

The edicts against education and NGO work have deepened the vulnerability of Afghan women and girls by increasing the barriers to access aid. The education ban has also hindered educational outcomes and led to mental health challenges for women and girls who are now uncertain of their futures and isolated from support systems.

The work of national and local NGOs, especially women-led organizations, bears the brunt of these constraints including funding gaps. Despite these challenges, NGOs continue to operate in sectors and locations where the participation of female staff in the response is possible and where aid can be delivered in a principled manner.

As Afghan women and girls experience increased restriction and humanitarian need, the international community must stand beside them. Support to national and international NGOs, including women-led organizations, must continue to ensure that women and girls have a lifeline amid the myriad challenges they face.

Can you describe what you see as some of the biggest challenges for providing aid in Afghanistan?

Moran: Afghanistan is a complicated operating environment — as are many contexts where aid is required. The banking system’s inability to fully function requires workarounds, including U.N. cash shipments to pay staff and run operations. But many local NGOs lack access to either international money transfers or the U.N. cash system.

Humanitarian actors do face bureaucratic constraints, but we respond by negotiating to ensure delivery of aid based on need can continue. Despite these barriers, humanitarian actors are still able to operate at scale and in a principled way today. Amid a multitude of challenges, the biggest threat to our work today is dire underfunding, exacerbated by a high degree of misinformation and politicization of the situation in Afghanistan. While some worry that aid to the Afghan people enables the Taliban, humanitarian assistance does not go through governments or de facto authorities in Afghanistan or anywhere else. It is provided independently through U.N. agencies and NGOs to directly help civilians regardless of whose control they live under. NGOs, U.N. agencies and donors have layers of robust monitoring and reporting measures. In fact, the humanitarian response in Afghanistan is one of the most scrutinized responses globally.

What actions can U.S. policymakers take to address the current crisis?

Moran: Underfunding poses an existential threat. Lifesaving programs are shutting down, over 200 health facilities have stopped services and hard-won progress to bring down food insecurity is in jeopardy. The United States should scale up its own humanitarian aid and galvanize other donors to do the same. Congress should meet the Biden administration’s appeal for additional humanitarian aid as part of its supplemental funding request. Moreover, the United States should direct more funding to local civil society organizations, including women-led ones, who face the highest risk of closure.

But 40 million Afghans also need more than short-term stop gap measures. The World Bank-managed Afghanistan Resilience Trust Fund (ARTF) could be part of a more systematic approach to break the cycle of crisis. It funds basic services, including major health and education programs, as well as livelihood programs to reduce aid dependency — all delivered independently via the U.N. and NGOs. The United States should lead efforts to replenish this dwindling fund, extend it past its 2025 expiration and expand its scope, including support for small-scale infrastructure projects, the rehabilitation of basic systems and climate resilience programs.

Longer term, the crisis will not abate until the underlying economic drivers are addressed. This requires continued engagement with foreign banks to allow financial transactions, a regular process to bring new banknotes into the country and ease the liquidity crisis and technical assistance to help the Central Bank meet international banking standards and create conducive conditions for the eventual return of frozen Afghan assets.

Across these lines of effort, there remains an urgent need to strengthen the collective approach to international engagement, including via the independent assessment underway mandated by U.N. Security Council resolution 2679, to identify clear conditions and strategies to address the complex political, economic, development and humanitarian crises underway.

Dayne Curry is the Afghanistan country director at Mercy Corps.

Becky Roby is an advocacy manager for NRC in Afghanistan at the Norwegian Refugee Council.

Ellen Bevier is a senior humanitarian policy advocate at CARE USA.

Anastasia Moran is the associate director for U.S. Advocacy at the International Rescue Committee.

Afghanistan’s Two Years of Humanitarian Crisis Under the Taliban
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THE FINAL DAYS

By Franklin Foer

The Atlantic

October 2023 issue

Joe Biden was determined to get out of Afghanistan—no matter the cost.

August 1

August is the month when oppressive humidity causes the mass evacuation of official Washington. In 2021, White House Press Secretary Jen Psaki piled her family into the car for a week at the beach. Secretary of State Antony Blinken headed to the Hamptons to visit his elderly father. Their boss left for the leafy sanctuary of Camp David.

They knew that when they returned, their attention would shift to a date circled at the end of the month. On August 31, the United States would officially complete its withdrawal from Afghanistan, concluding the longest war in American history.

The State Department didn’t expect to solve Afghanistan’s problems by that date. But if everything went well, there was a chance to wheedle the two warring sides into some sort of agreement that would culminate in the nation’s president, Ashraf Ghani, resigning from office, beginning an orderly transfer of power to a governing coalition that included the Taliban. There was even discussion of Blinken flying out, most likely to Doha, Qatar, to preside over the signing of an accord.

It would be an ending, but not the end. Within the State Department there was a strongly held belief: Even after August 31, the embassy in Kabul would remain open. It wouldn’t be as robustly staffed, but some aid programs would continue; visas would still be issued. The United States—at least not the State Department—wasn’t going to abandon the country.

There were plans for catastrophic scenarios, which had been practiced in tabletop simulations, but no one anticipated that they would be needed. Intelligence assessments asserted that the Afghan military would be able to hold off the Taliban for months, though the number of months kept dwindling as the Taliban conquered terrain more quickly than the analysts had predicted. But as August began, the grim future of Afghanistan seemed to exist in the distance, beyond the end of the month, not on America’s watch.

That grim future arrived disastrously ahead of schedule. What follows is an intimate history of that excruciating month of withdrawal, as narrated by its participants, based on dozens of interviews conducted shortly after the fact, when memories were fresh and emotions raw. At times, as I spoke with these participants, I felt as if I was their confessor. Their failings were so apparent that they had a desperate need to explain themselves, but also an impulse to relive moments of drama and pain more intense than any they had experienced in their career.

During those fraught days, foreign policy, so often debated in the abstract, or conducted from the sanitized remove of the Situation Room, became horrifyingly vivid. President Joe Biden and his aides found themselves staring hard at the consequences of their decisions.

Even in the thick of the crisis, as the details of a mass evacuation swallowed them, the members of Biden’s inner circle could see that the legacy of the month would stalk them into the next election—and perhaps into their obituaries. Though it was a moment when their shortcomings were on obvious display, they also believed it evinced resilience and improvisational skill.

And amid the crisis, a crisis that taxed his character and managerial acumen, the president revealed himself. For a man long caricatured as a political weather vane, Biden exhibited determination, even stubbornness, despite furious criticism from the establishment figures whose approval he usually craved. For a man vaunted for his empathy, he could be detached, even icy, when confronted with the prospect of human suffering.

When it came to foreign policy, Joe Biden possessed a swaggering faith in himself. He liked to knock the diplomats and pundits who would pontificate at the Council on Foreign Relations and the Munich Security Conference. He called them risk-averse, beholden to institutions, lazy in their thinking. Listening to these complaints, a friend once posed the obvious question: If you have such negative things to say about these confabs, then why attend so many of them? Biden replied, “If I don’t go, they’re going to get stale as hell.”

From 12 years as the top Democrat on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee—and then eight years as the vice president—Biden had acquired a sense that he could scythe through conventional wisdom. He distrusted mandarins, even those he had hired for his staff. They were always muddying things with theories. One aide recalled that he would say, “You foreign-policy guys, you think this is all pretty complicated. But it’s just like family dynamics.” Foreign affairs was sometimes painful, often futile, but really it was emotional intelligence applied to people with names that were difficult to pronounce. Diplomacy, in Biden’s view, was akin to persuading a pain-in-the-ass uncle to stop drinking so much.

One subject seemed to provoke his contrarian side above all others: the war in Afghanistan. His strong opinions were grounded in experience. Soon after the United States invaded, in late 2001, Biden began visiting the country. He traveled with a sleeping bag; he stood in line alongside Marines, wrapped in a towel, waiting for his turn to shower.

On his first trip, in 2002, Biden met with Interior Minister Yunus Qanuni in his Kabul office, a shell of a building. Qanuni, an old mujahideen fighter, told him: We really appreciate that you have come here. But Americans have a long history of making promises and then breaking them. And if that happens again, the Afghan people are going to be disappointed.

Biden was jet-lagged and irritable. Qanuni’s comments set him off: Let me tell you, if you even think of threatening us … Biden’s aides struggled to calm him down.

In Biden’s moral code, ingratitude is a grievous sin. The United States had evicted the Taliban from power; it had sent young men to die in the nation’s mountains; it would give the new government billions in aid. But throughout the long conflict, Afghan officials kept telling him that the U.S. hadn’t done enough.

The frustration stuck with him, and it clarified his thinking. He began to draw unsentimental conclusions about the war. He could see that the Afghan government was a failed enterprise. He could see that a nation-building campaign of this scale was beyond American capacity.

As vice president, Biden also watched as the military pressured Barack Obama into sending thousands of additional troops to salvage a doomed cause. In his 2020 memoir, A Promised Land, Obama recalled that as he agonized over his Afghan policy, Biden pulled him aside and told him, “Listen to me, boss. Maybe I’ve been around this town for too long, but one thing I know is when these generals are trying to box in a new president.” He drew close and whispered, “Don’t let them jam you.”

Biden developed a theory of how he would succeed where Obama had failed. He wasn’t going to let anyone jam him.

In early february 2021, now-President Biden invited his secretary of defense, Lloyd Austin, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mark Milley, into the Oval Office. He wanted to acknowledge an emotional truth: “I know you have friends you have lost in this war. I know you feel strongly. I know what you’ve put into this.”

Over the years, Biden had traveled to military bases, frequently accompanied by his fellow senator Chuck Hagel. On those trips, Hagel and Biden dipped in and out of a long-running conversation about war. They traded theories on why the United States would remain mired in unwinnable conflicts. One problem was the psychology of defeat. Generals were terrified of being blamed for a loss, living in history as the one who waved the white flag.

It was this dynamic, in part, that kept the United States entangled in Afghanistan. Politicians who hadn’t served in the military could never summon the will to overrule the generals, and the generals could never admit that they were losing. So the war continued indefinitely, a zombie campaign. Biden believed that he could break this cycle, that he could master the psychology of defeat.

Biden wanted to avoid having his generals feel cornered—even as he guided them to his desired outcome. He wanted them to feel heard, to appreciate his good faith. He told Austin and Milley, “Before I make a decision, you’ll have a chance to look me in the eyes.”

The date set out by the Doha Agreement, which the Trump administration had negotiated with the Taliban, was May 1, 2021. If the Taliban adhered to a set of conditions—engaging in political negotiations with the Afghan government, refraining from attacking U.S. troops, and cutting ties with terrorist groups—then the United States would remove its soldiers from the country by that date. Because of the May deadline, Biden’s first major foreign-policy decision—whether or not to honor the Doha Agreement—would also be the one he seemed to care most about. And it would need to be made in a sprint.

In the spring, after weeks of meetings with generals and foreign-policy advisers, National Security Adviser Jake Sullivan had the National Security Council generate two documents for the president to read. One outlined the best case for staying in Afghanistan; the other made the best case for leaving.

This reflected Biden’s belief that he faced a binary choice. If he abandoned the Doha Agreement, attacks on U.S. troops would resume. Since the accord had been signed, in February 2020, the Taliban had grown stronger, forging new alliances and sharpening plans. And thanks to the drawdown of troops that had begun under Donald Trump, the United States no longer had a robust-enough force to fight a surging foe.

Biden’s speech contained a hole that few noted at the time. It scarcely mentioned the Afghan people, with not even an expression of best wishes for the nation the U.S. would be leaving behind.

Biden gathered his aides for one last meeting before he formally made his decision. Toward the end of the session, he asked Sullivan, Blinken, and Director of National Intelligence Avril Haines to leave the room. He wanted to talk with Austin and Milley alone.

Instead of revealing his final decision, Biden told them, “This is hard. I want to go to Camp David this weekend and think about it.”

It was always clear where the president would land. Milley knew that his own preferred path for Afghanistan—leaving a small but meaningful contingent of troops in the country—wasn’t shared by the nation he served, or the new commander in chief. Having just survived Trump and a wave of speculation about how the U.S. military might figure in a coup, Milley was eager to demonstrate his fidelity to civilian rule. If Biden wanted to shape the process to get his preferred result, well, that’s how a democracy should work.

On april 14, Biden announced that he would withdraw American forces from Afghanistan. He delivered remarks explaining his decision in the Treaty Room of the White House, the very spot where, in the fall of 2001, George W. Bush had informed the public of the first American strikes against the Taliban.

Biden’s speech contained a hole that few noted at the time. It scarcely mentioned the Afghan people, with not even an expression of best wishes for the nation that the United States would be leaving behind. The Afghans were apparently only incidental to his thinking. (Biden hadn’t spoken with President Ghani until right before the announcement.) Scranton Joe’s deep reserves of compassion were directed at people with whom he felt a connection; his visceral ties were with American soldiers. When he thought about the military’s rank and file, he couldn’t help but project an image of his own late son, Beau. “I’m the first president in 40 years who knows what it means to have a child serving in a war zone,” he said.

Biden also announced a new deadline for the U.S. withdrawal, which would move from May 1 to September 11, the 20th anniversary of the attack that drew the United States into war. The choice of date was polemical. Although he never officially complained about it, Milley didn’t understand the decision. How did it honor the dead to admit defeat in a conflict that had been waged on their behalf? Eventually, the Biden administration pushed the withdrawal deadline forward to August 31, an implicit concession that it had erred.

But the choice of September 11 was telling. Biden took pride in ending an unhappy chapter in American history. Democrats might have once referred to Afghanistan as the “good war,” but it had become a fruitless fight. It had distracted the United States from policies that might preserve the nation’s geostrategic dominance. By leaving Afghanistan, Biden believed he was redirecting the nation’s gaze to the future: “We’ll be much more formidable to our adversaries and competitors over the long term if we fight the battles for the next 20 years, not the last 20.”

August 6–9

in late june, Jake Sullivan began to worry that the Pentagon had pulled American personnel and materiel out of Afghanistan too precipitously. The rapid drawdown had allowed the Taliban to advance and to win a string of victories against the Afghan army that had caught the administration by surprise. Even if Taliban fighters weren’t firing at American troops, they were continuing to battle the Afghan army and take control of the countryside. Now they’d captured a provincial capital in the remote southwest—a victory that was disturbingly effortless.

Sullivan asked one of his top aides, Homeland Security Adviser Elizabeth Sherwood-Randall, to convene a meeting for Sunday, August 8, with officials overseeing the withdrawal. Contingency plans contained a switch that could be flipped in an emergency. To avoid a reprise of the fall of Saigon, with desperate hands clinging to the last choppers out of Vietnam, the government made plans for a noncombatant-evacuation operation, or NEO. The U.S. embassy would shut down and relocate to Hamid Karzai International Airport (or HKIA, as everyone called it). Troops, pre-positioned near the Persian Gulf and waiting at Fort Bragg, in North Carolina, would descend on Kabul to protect the airport. Military transport planes would haul American citizens and visa holders out of the country.

By the time Sherwood-Randall had a chance to assemble the meeting, the most pessimistic expectations had been exceeded. The Taliban had captured four more provincial capitals. General Frank McKenzie, the head of U.S. Central Command, filed a commander’s estimate warning that Kabul could be surrounded within about 30 days—a far faster collapse than previously predicted.

McKenzie’s dire warning did strangely little to alter plans. Sherwood-Randall’s group unanimously agreed that it was too soon to declare a NEO. The embassy in Kabul was particularly forceful on this point. The acting ambassador, Ross Wilson, wanted to avoid cultivating a sense of panic in Kabul, which would further collapse the army and the state. Even the CIA seconded this line of thinking.

August 12

at 2 a.m., Sullivan’s phone rang. It was Mark Milley. The military had received reports that the Taliban had entered the city of Ghazni, less than 100 miles from Kabul.

The intelligence community assumed that the Taliban wouldn’t storm Kabul until after the United States left, because the Taliban wanted to avoid a block‑by‑block battle for the city. But the proximity of the Taliban to the embassy and HKIA was terrifying. It necessitated the decisive action that the administration had thus far resisted. Milley wanted Sullivan to initiate a NEO. If the State Department wasn’t going to move quickly, the president needed to order it to. Sullivan assured him that he would push harder, but it would be two more days before the president officially declared a NEO.

With the passage of each hour, Sullivan’s anxieties grew. He called Lloyd Austin and told him, “I think you need to send someone with bars on his arm to Doha to talk to the Taliban so that they understand not to mess with an evacuation.” Austin agreed to dispatch General McKenzie to renew negotiations.

August 13

austin convened a videoconference with the top civilian and military officials in Kabul. He wanted updates from them before he headed to the White House to brief the president.

Ross Wilson, the acting ambassador, told him, “I need 72 hours before I can begin destroying sensitive documents.”

“You have to be done in 72 hours,” Austin replied.

The Taliban were now perched outside Kabul. Delaying the evacuation of the embassy posed a danger that Austin couldn’t abide. Thousands of troops were about to arrive to protect the new makeshift facility that would be set up at the airport. The moment had come to move there.

Abandoning an embassy has its own protocols; they are rituals of panic. The diplomats had a weekend, more or less, to purge the place: to fill its shredders, burn bins, and disintegrator with documents and hard drives. Anything with an American flag on it needed destroying so it couldn’t be used by the enemy for propaganda purposes.

Wisps of smoke would soon begin to blow from the compound—a plume of what had been classified cables and personnel files. Even for those Afghans who didn’t have access to the internet, the narrative would be legible in the sky.

August 14

on saturday night, Antony Blinken placed a call to Ashraf Ghani. He wanted to make sure the Afghan president remained committed to the negotiations in Doha. The Taliban delegation there was still prepared to agree to a unity government, which it might eventually run, allocating cabinet slots to ministers from Ghani’s government. That notion had broad support from the Afghan political elite. Everyone, even Ghani, agreed that he would need to resign as part of a deal. Blinken wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t waver from his commitments and try to hold on to power.

Although Ghani said that he would comply, he began musing aloud about what might happen if the Taliban invaded Kabul prior to August 31. He told Blinken, “I’d rather die than surrender.”

August 15

the next day, the presidential palace released a video of Ghani talking with security officials on the phone. As he sat at his imposing wooden desk, which once belonged to King Amanullah, who had bolted from the palace to avoid an Islamist uprising in 1929, Ghani’s aides hoped to project a sense of calm.

During the early hours, a small number of Taliban fighters eased their way to the gates of the city, and then into the capital itself. The Taliban leadership didn’t want to invade Kabul until after the American departure. But their soldiers had conquered territory without even firing a shot. In their path, Afghan soldiers simply walked away from checkpoints. Taliban units kept drifting in the direction of the presidential palace.

Rumors traveled more quickly than the invaders. A crowd formed outside a bank in central Kabul. Nervous customers jostled in a chaotic rush to empty their accounts. Guards fired into the air to disperse the melee. The sound of gunfire reverberated through the nearby palace, which had largely emptied for lunch. Ghani’s closest advisers pressed him to flee. “If you stay,” one told him, according to The Washington Post, “you’ll be killed.”

From the March 2022 issue: George Packer on America’s betrayal of Afghanistan

This was a fear rooted in history. In 1996, when the Taliban first invaded Kabul, they hanged the tortured body of the former president from a traffic light. Ghani hustled onto one of three Mi‑17 helicopters waiting inside his compound, bound for Uzbekistan. The New York Times Magazine later reported that the helicopters were instructed to fly low to the terrain, to evade detection by the U.S. military. From Uzbekistan, he would fly to the United Arab Emirates and an ignominious exile. Without time to pack, he left in plastic sandals, accompanied by his wife. On the tarmac, aides and guards grappled over the choppers’ last remaining seats.

When the rest of Ghani’s staff returned from lunch, they moved through the palace searching for the president, unaware that he had abandoned them, and their country.

At approximately 1:45 p.m., Ambassador Wilson went to the embassy lobby for the ceremonial lowering of the flag. Emotionally drained and worried about his own safety, he prepared to leave the embassy behind, a monument to his nation’s defeat.

Wilson made his way to the helicopter pad so that he could be taken to his new outpost at the airport, where he was told that a trio of choppers had just left the presidential palace. Wilson knew what that likely meant. By the time he relayed his suspicions to Washington, officials already possessed intelligence that confirmed Wilson’s hunch: Ghani had fled.

Jake Sullivan relayed the news to Biden, who exploded in frustration: Give me a break.

Later that afternoon, General McKenzie arrived at the Ritz-Carlton in Doha. Well before Ghani’s departure from power, the wizened Marine had scheduled a meeting with an old adversary of the United States, Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar.

Baradar wasn’t just any Taliban leader. He was a co-founder of the group, with Mullah Mohammed Omar. McKenzie had arrived with the intention of delivering a stern warning. He barely had time to tweak his agenda after learning of Ghani’s exit.

McKenzie unfolded a map of Afghanistan translated into Pashto. A circle had been drawn around the center of Kabul—a radius of about 25 kilometers—and he pointed to it. He referred to this area as the “ring of death.” If the Taliban operated within those 25 kilometers, McKenzie said, “we’re going to assume hostile intent, and we’ll strike hard.”

McKenzie tried to bolster his threat with logic. He said he didn’t want to end up in a firefight with the Taliban, and that would be a lot less likely to happen if they weren’t in the city.

Baradar not only understood; he agreed. Known as a daring military tactician, he was also a pragmatist. He wanted to transform his group’s inhospitable image; he hoped that foreign embassies, even the American one, would remain in Kabul. Baradar didn’t want a Taliban government to become a pariah state, starved of foreign assistance that it badly needed.

But the McKenzie plan had an elemental problem: It was too late. Taliban fighters were already operating within the ring of death. Kabul was on the brink of anarchy. Armed criminal gangs were already starting to roam the streets. Baradar asked the general, “Are you going to take responsibility for the security of Kabul?”

McKenzie replied that his orders were to run an evacuation. Whatever happens to the security situation in Kabul, he told Baradar, don’t mess with the evacuation, or there will be hell to pay. It was an evasive answer. The United States didn’t have the troops or the will to secure Kabul. McKenzie had no choice but to implicitly cede that job to the Taliban.

Baradar walked toward a window. Because he didn’t speak English, he wanted his adviser to confirm his understanding. “Is he saying that he won’t attack us if we go in?” His adviser told him that he had heard correctly.

As the meeting wrapped up, McKenzie realized that the United States would need to be in constant communication with the Taliban. They were about to be rubbing shoulders with each other in a dense city. Misunderstandings were inevitable. Both sides agreed that they would designate a representative in Kabul to talk through the many complexities so that the old enemies could muddle together toward a common purpose.

Soon after McKenzie and Baradar ended their meeting, Al Jazeera carried a live feed from the presidential palace, showing the Taliban as they went from room to room, in awe of the building, seemingly bemused by their own accomplishment.

They gathered in Ghani’s old office, where a book of poems remained on his desk, across from a box of Kleenex. A Talib sat in the president’s Herman Miller chair. His comrades stood behind him in a tableau, cloth draped over the shoulders of their tunics, guns resting in the crooks of their arms, as if posing for an official portrait.

August 16

the u.s. embassy, now relocated to the airport, became a magnet for humanity. The extent of Afghan desperation shocked officials back in Washington. Only amid the panicked exodus did top officials at the State Department realize that hundreds of thousands of Afghans had fled their homes as civil war swept through the countryside—and made their way to the capital.

The runway divided the airport into halves. A northern sector served as a military outpost and, after the relocation of the embassy, a consular office—the last remaining vestiges of the United States and its promise of liberation. A commercial airport stared at these barracks from across the strip of asphalt.

The commercial facility had been abandoned by the Afghans who worked there. The night shift of air-traffic controllers simply never arrived. The U.S. troops whom Austin had ordered to support the evacuation were only just arriving. So the terminal was overwhelmed. Afghans began to spill onto the tarmac itself.

The crowds arrived in waves. The previous day, Afghans had flooded the tarmac late in the day, then left when they realized that no flights would depart that evening. But in the morning, the compound still wasn’t secure, and it refilled.

In the chaos, it wasn’t entirely clear to Ambassador Wilson who controlled the compound. The Taliban began freely roaming the facility, wielding bludgeons, trying to secure the mob. Apparently, they were working alongside soldiers from the old Afghan army. Wilson received worrying reports of tensions between the two forces.

The imperative was to begin landing transport planes with equipment and soldiers. A C‑17, a warehouse with wings, full of supplies to support the arriving troops, managed to touch down. The crew lowered a ramp to unload the contents of the jet’s belly, but the plane was rushed by a surge of civilians. The Americans on board were no less anxious than the Afghans who greeted them. Almost as quickly as the plane’s back ramp lowered, the crew reboarded and resealed the jet’s entrances. They received permission to flee the uncontrolled scene.

But they could not escape the crowd, for whom the jet was a last chance to avoid the Taliban and the suffering to come. As the plane began to taxi, about a dozen Afghans climbed onto one side of the jet. Others sought to stow away in the wheel well that housed its bulging landing gear. To clear the runway of human traffic, Humvees began rushing alongside the plane. Two Apache helicopters flew just above the ground, to give the Afghans a good scare and to blast the civilians from the plane with rotor wash.

Only after the plane had lifted into the air did the crew discover its place in history. When the pilot couldn’t fully retract the landing gear, a member of the crew went to investigate, staring out of a small porthole. Through the window, it was possible to see scattered human remains.

Videos taken from the tarmac instantly went viral. They showed a dentist from Kabul plunging to the ground from the elevating jet. The footage evoked the photo of a man falling to his death from an upper story of the World Trade Center—images of plummeting bodies bracketing an era.

Over the weekend, Biden had received briefings about the chaos in Kabul in a secure conference room at Camp David. Photographs distributed to the press showed him alone, talking to screens, isolated in his contrarian faith in the righteousness of his decision. Despite the fiasco at the airport, he returned to the White House, stood in the East Room, and proclaimed: “If anything, the developments of the past week reinforced that ending U.S. military involvement in Afghanistan now was the right decision. American troops cannot and should not be fighting in a war and dying in a war that Afghan forces are not willing to fight for themselves.”

August 17

john bass was having a hard time keeping his mind on the task at hand. From 2017 to 2020, he had served as Washington’s ambassador to Afghanistan. During that tour, Bass did his best to immerse himself in the country and meet its people. He’d planted a garden with a group of Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and hosted roundtables with journalists. When his term as ambassador ended, he left behind friends, colleagues, and hundreds of acquaintances.

Now Bass kept his eyes on his phone, checking for any word from his old Afghan network. He moved through his day dreading what might come next.

The situation was undeniably bizarre: The success of the American operation now depended largely on the cooperation of the Taliban.

Yet he also had a job that required his attention. The State Department had assigned him to train future ambassadors. In a seminar room in suburban Virginia, he did his best to focus on passing along wisdom to these soon‑to‑be emissaries of the United States.

As class was beginning, his phone lit up. Bass saw the number of the State Department Operations Center. He apologized and stepped out to take the call.

“Are you available to talk to Deputy Secretary Sherman?”

The familiar voice of Wendy Sherman, the No. 2 at the department, came on the line. “I have a mission for you. You must take it, and you need to leave today.” Sherman then told him: “I’m calling to ask you to go back to Kabul to lead the evacuation effort.”

Ambassador Wilson was shattered by the experience of the past week and wasn’t “able to function at the level that was necessary” to complete the job on his own. Sherman needed Bass to help manage the exodus.

Bass hadn’t expected the request. In his flummoxed state, he struggled to pose the questions he thought he might later regret not having asked.

“How much time do we have?”

“Probably about two weeks, a little less than two weeks.”

“I’ve been away from this for 18 months or so.”

“Yep, we know, but we think you’re the right person for this.”

Bass returned to class and scooped up his belongings. “With apologies, I’m going to have to take my leave. I’ve just been asked to go back to Kabul and support the evacuations. So I’ve got to say goodbye and wish you all the best, and you’re all going to be great ambassadors.”

Because he wasn’t living in Washington, Bass didn’t have the necessary gear with him. He drove straight to the nearest REI in search of hiking pants and rugged boots. He needed to pick up a laptop from the IT department in Foggy Bottom. Without knowing much more than what was in the news, Bass rushed to board a plane taking him to the worst crisis in the recent history of American foreign policy.

August 19–25

about 30 hours later—3:30 a.m., Kabul time—Bass touched down at HKIA and immediately began touring the compound. At the American headquarters, he ran into the military heads of the operation, whom he had worked with before. They presented Bass with the state of play. The situation was undeniably bizarre: The success of the American operation now depended largely on the cooperation of the Taliban.

The Americans needed the Taliban to help control the crowds that had formed outside the airport—and to implement systems that would allow passport and visa holders to pass through the throngs. But the Taliban were imperfect allies at best. Their checkpoints were run by warriors from the countryside who didn’t know how to deal with the array of documents being waved in their faces. What was an authentic visa? What about families where the father had a U.S. passport but his wife and children didn’t? Every day, a new set of Taliban soldiers seemed to arrive at checkpoints, unaware of the previous day’s directions. Frustrated with the unruliness, the Taliban would sometimes simply stop letting anyone through.

Abdul Ghani Baradar’s delegation in Doha had passed along the name of a Taliban commander in Kabul—Mawlawi Hamdullah Mukhlis. It had fallen to Major General Chris Donahue, the head of the 82nd Airborne Division, out of Fort Bragg, to coordinate with him. On September 11, 2001, Donahue had been an aide to the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Richard Myers, and had been with him on Capitol Hill when the first plane struck the World Trade Center.

Donahue told Pentagon officials that he had to grit his teeth as he dealt with Mukhlis. But the Taliban commander seemed to feel a camaraderie with his fellow soldier. He confided to Donahue his worry that Afghanistan would suffer from brain drain, as the country’s most talented minds evacuated on American airplanes.

In a videoconference with Mark Milley, back at the Pentagon, Donahue recounted Mukhlis’s fears. According to one Defense Department official in the meeting, his description caused Milley to laugh.

“Don’t be going local on me, Donahue,” he said.

“Don’t worry about me, sir,” Donahue responded. “I’m not buying what they are selling.”

After Bass left his meeting with the military men, including Donahue, he toured the gates of the airport, where Afghans had amassed. He was greeted by the smell of feces and urine, by the sound of gunshots and bullhorns blaring instructions in Dari and Pashto. Dust assaulted his eyes and nose. He felt the heat that emanated from human bodies crowded into narrow spaces.

The atmosphere was tense. Marines and consular officers, some of whom had flown into Kabul from other embassies, were trying to pull passport and visa holders from the crowd. But every time they waded into it, they seemed to provoke a furious reaction. To get plucked from the street by the Americans smacked of cosmic unfairness to those left behind. Sometimes the anger swelled beyond control, so the troops shut down entrances to allow frustrations to subside. Bass was staring at despair in its rawest form. As he studied the people surrounding the airport, he wondered if he could ever make any of this a bit less terrible.

Bass cadged a room in barracks belonging to the Turkish army, which had agreed, before the chaos had descended, to operate and protect the airport after the Americans finally departed. His days tended to follow a pattern. They would begin with the Taliban’s grudging assistance. Then, as lunchtime approached, the Talibs would get hot and hungry. Abruptly, they would stop processing evacuees through their checkpoints. Then, just as suddenly, at six or seven, as the sun began to set, they would begin to cooperate again.

Bass was forever hatching fresh schemes to satisfy the Taliban’s fickle requirements. One day, the Taliban would let buses through without question; the next, they would demand to see passenger manifests in advance. Bass’s staff created official-looking placards to place in bus windows. The Taliban waved them through for a short period, then declared the placard system unreliable.

Throughout the day, Bass would stop what he was doing and join videoconferences with Washington. He became a fixture in the Situation Room. Biden would pepper him with ideas for squeezing more evacuees through the gates. The president’s instinct was to throw himself into the intricacies of troubleshooting. Why don’t we have them meet in parking lots? Can’t we leave the airport and pick them up? Bass would kick around Biden’s proposed solutions with colleagues to determine their plausibility, which was usually low. Still, he appreciated Biden applying pressure, making sure that he didn’t overlook the obvious.

At the end of his first day at the airport, Bass went through his email. A State Department spokesperson had announced Bass’s arrival in Kabul. Friends and colleagues had deluged him with requests to save Afghans. Bass began to scrawl the names from his inbox on a whiteboard in his office. By the time he finished, he’d filled the six-foot‑by‑four-foot surface. He knew there was little chance that he could help. The orders from Washington couldn’t have been clearer. The primary objective was to load planes with U.S. citizens, U.S.-visa holders, and passport holders from partner nations, mostly European ones.

In his mind, Bass kept another running list, of Afghans he had come to know personally during his time as ambassador who were beyond his ability to rescue. Their faces and voices were etched in his memory, and he could be sure that, at some point when he wasn’t rushing to fill C‑17s, they would haunt his sleep.

“Someone on the bus is dying.”

Jake Sullivan was unnerved. What to do with such a dire message from a trusted friend? It described a caravan of five blue-and-white buses stuck 100 yards outside the south gate of the airport, one of them carrying a human being struggling for life. If Sullivan forwarded this problem to an aide, would it get resolved in time?

Sullivan sometimes felt as if every member of the American elite was simultaneously asking for his help. When he left secure rooms, he would grab his phone and check his personal email accounts, which overflowed with pleas. This person just had the Taliban threaten them. They will be shot in 15 hours if you don’t get them out. Some of the senders seemed to be trying to shame him into action. If you don’t do something, their death is on your hands.

Throughout late August, the president himself was fielding requests to help stranded Afghans, from friends and members of Congress. Biden became invested in individual cases. Three buses of women at the Kabul Serena Hotel kept running into logistical obstacles. He told Sullivan, “I want to know what happens to them. I want to know when they make it to the airport.” When the president heard these stories, he would become engrossed in solving the practical challenge of getting people to the airport, mapping routes through the city.

From the September 2022 issue: “I smuggled my laptop past the Taliban so I could write this story”

When Wendy Sherman, the deputy secretary of state, went to check in with members of a task force working on the evacuation, she found grizzled diplomats in tears. She estimated that a quarter of the State Department’s personnel had served in Afghanistan. They felt a connection with the country, an emotional entanglement. Fielding an overwhelming volume of emails describing hardship cases, they easily imagined the faces of refugees. They felt the shame and anger that come with the inability to help. To deal with the trauma, the State Department procured therapy dogs that might ease the staff’s pain.

The State Department redirected the attention of its sprawling apparatus to Afghanistan. Embassies in Mexico City and New Delhi became call centers. Staff in those distant capitals assumed the role of caseworkers, assigned to stay in touch with the remaining American citizens in Afghanistan, counseling them through the terrifying weeks.

Sherman dispatched her Afghan-born chief of staff, Mustafa Popal, to HKIA to support embassy workers and serve as an interpreter. All day long, Sherman responded to pleas for help: from foreign governments’ representatives, who joined a daily videoconference she hosted; from members of Congress; from the cellist Yo‑Yo Ma, writing on behalf of musicians. Amid the crush, she felt compelled to go down to the first floor, to spend 15 minutes cuddling the therapy dogs.

The biden administration hadn’t intended to conduct a full-blown humanitarian evacuation of Afghanistan. It had imagined an orderly and efficient exodus that would extend past August 31, as visa holders boarded commercial flights from the country. As those plans collapsed, the president felt the same swirl of emotions as everyone else watching the desperation at the airport. Over the decades, he had thought about Afghanistan using the cold logic of realism—it was a strategic distraction, a project whose costs outweighed the benefits. Despite his many visits, the country had become an abstraction in his mind. But the graphic suffering in Kabul awakened in him a compassion that he’d never evinced in the debates about the withdrawal.

After seeing the abject desperation on the HKIA tarmac, the president had told the Situation Room that he wanted all the planes flying thousands of troops into the airport to leave filled with evacuees. Pilots should pile American citizens and Afghans with visas into those planes. But there was a category of evacuees that he now especially wanted to help, what the government called “Afghans at risk.” These were the newspaper reporters, the schoolteachers, the filmmakers, the lawyers, the members of a girls’ robotics team who didn’t necessarily have paperwork but did have every reason to fear for their well-being in a Taliban-controlled country.

This was a different sort of mission. The State Department hadn’t vetted all of the Afghans at risk. It didn’t know if they were genuinely endangered or simply strivers looking for a better life. It didn’t know if they would have qualified for the visas that the administration said it issued to those who worked with the Americans, or if they were petty criminals. But if they were in the right place at the right time, they were herded up the ramp of C‑17s.

In anticipation of an evacuation, the United States had built housing at Camp As Sayliyah, a U.S. Army base in the suburbs of Doha. It could hold 8,000 people, housing them as the Department of Homeland Security collected their biometric data and began to vet them for immigration. But it quickly became clear that the United States would fly far more than 8,000 Afghans to Qatar.

As the numbers swelled, the United States set up tents at Al Udeid Air Base, a bus ride away from As Sayliyah. Nearly 15,000 Afghans took up residence there, but their quarters were poorly planned. There weren’t nearly enough toilets or showers. Procuring lunch meant standing in line for three or four hours. Single men slept in cots opposite married women, a transgression of Afghan traditions.

The Qataris, determined to use the crisis to burnish their reputation, erected a small city of air-conditioned wedding tents and began to cater meals for the refugees. But the Biden administration knew that the number of evacuees would soon exceed Qatar’s capacity. It needed to erect a network of camps. What it created was something like the hub-and-spoke system used by commercial airlines. Refugees would fly into Al Udeid and then be redirected to bases across the Middle East and Europe, what the administration termed “lily pads.”

In September, just as refugees were beginning to arrive at Dulles International Airport, outside Washington, D.C., four Afghan evacuees caught the measles. All the refugees in the Middle East and Europe now needed vaccinations, which would require 21 days for immunity to take hold. To keep disease from flying into the United States, the State Department called around the world, asking if Afghans could stay on bases for three extra weeks.

In the end, the U.S. government housed more than 60,000 Afghans in facilities that hadn’t existed before the fall of Kabul. It flew 387 sorties from HKIA. At the height of the operation, an aircraft took off every 45 minutes. A terrible failure of planning necessitated a mad scramble—a mad scramble that was an impressive display of creative determination.

Even as the administration pulled off this feat of logistics, it was pilloried for the clumsiness of the withdrawal. The New York Times’ David Sanger had written, “After seven months in which his administration seemed to exude much-needed competence—getting more than 70 percent of the country’s adults vaccinated, engineering surging job growth and making progress toward a bipartisan infrastructure bill—everything about America’s last days in Afghanistan shattered the imagery.”

Biden didn’t have time to voraciously consume the news, but he was well aware of the coverage, and it infuriated him. It did little to change his mind, though. In the caricature version of Joe Biden that had persisted for decades, he was highly sensitive to shifts in opinion, especially when they emerged from columnists at the Post or the Times. The criticism of the withdrawal caused him to justify the chaos as the inevitable consequence of a difficult decision, even though he had never publicly, or privately, predicted it. Through the whole last decade of the Afghan War, he had detested the conventional wisdom of the foreign-policy elites. They were willing to stay forever, no matter the cost. After defying their delusional promises of progress for so long, he wasn’t going to back down now. In fact, everything he’d witnessed from his seat in the Situation Room confirmed his belief that exiting a war without hope was the best and only course.

So much of the commentary felt overheated to him. He said to an aide: Either the press is losing its mind, or I am.

August 26

every intelligence official watching Kabul was obsessed with the possibility of an attack by ISIS-Khorasan, or ISIS‑K, the Afghan offshoot of the Islamic State, which dreamed of a new caliphate in Central Asia. As the Taliban stormed across Afghanistan, they unlocked a prison at Bagram Air Base, freeing hardened ISIS‑K adherents. ISIS‑K had been founded by veterans of the Pakistani and Afghan Taliban who had broken with their groups, on the grounds that they needed to be replaced by an even more militant vanguard. The intelligence community had been sorting through a roaring river of unmistakable warnings about an imminent assault on the airport.

As the national-security team entered the Situation Room for a morning meeting, it consumed an early, sketchy report of an explosion at one of the gates to HKIA, but it was hard to know if there were any U.S. casualties. Everyone wanted to believe that the United States had escaped unscathed, but everyone had too much experience to believe that. General McKenzie appeared via videoconference in the Situation Room with updates that confirmed the room’s suspicions of American deaths. Biden hung his head and quietly absorbed the reports. In the end, the explosion killed 13 U.S. service members and more than 150 Afghan civilians.

August 29–30

the remains of the dead service members were flown to Dover Air Force Base, in Delaware, for a ritual known as the dignified transfer: Flag-draped caskets are marched down the gangway of a transport plane and driven to the base’s mortuary.

So much about the withdrawal had slipped beyond Biden’s control. But grieving was his expertise. If there was one thing that everyone agreed Biden did more adroitly than any other public official, it was comforting survivors. The Irish journalist Fintan O’Toole once called him “the Designated Mourner.”

Accompanied by his wife, Jill; Mark Milley; Antony Blinken; and Lloyd Austin, Biden made his way to a private room where grieving families had gathered. He knew he would be standing face to face with unbridled anger. A father had already turned his back on Austin and was angrily shouting at Milley, who held up his hands in the posture of surrender.

When Biden entered, he shook the hand of Mark Schmitz, who had lost his 20-year-old son, Jared. In his sorrow, Schmitz couldn’t decide whether he wanted to sit in the presence of the president. According to a report in The Washington Post, the night before, he had told a military officer that he didn’t want to speak to the man whose incompetence he blamed for his son’s death. In the morning, he changed his mind.

Schmitz told the Post that he couldn’t help but glare in Biden’s direction. When Biden approached, he held out a photo of Jared. “Don’t you ever forget that name. Don’t you ever forget that face. Don’t you ever forget the names of the other 12. And take some time to learn their stories.”

“I do know their stories,” Biden replied.

After the dignified transfer, the families piled onto a bus. A sister of one of the dead screamed in Biden’s direction: “I hope you burn in hell.”

Of all the moments in August, this was the one that caused the president to second-guess himself. He asked Press Secretary Jen Psaki: Did I do something wrong? Maybe I should have handled that differently.

As Biden left, Milley saw the pain on the president’s face. He told him: “You made a decision that had to be made. War is a brutal, vicious undertaking. We’re moving forward to the next step.”

That afternoon, Biden returned to the Situation Room. There was pressure, from the Hill and talking heads, to push back the August 31 deadline. But everyone in the room was terrified by the intelligence assessments about ISIS‑K. If the U.S. stayed, it would be hard to avoid the arrival of more caskets at Dover.

As Biden discussed the evacuation, he received a note, which he passed to Milley. According to a White House official present in the room, the general read it aloud: “If you want to catch the 5:30 Mass, you have to leave now.” He turned to the president. “My mother always said it’s okay to miss Mass if you’re doing something important. And I would argue that this is important.” He paused, realizing that the president might need a moment after his bruising day. “This is probably also a time when we need prayers.”

Biden gathered himself to leave. As he stood from his chair, he told the group, “I will be praying for all of you.”

On the morning of the 30th, John Bass was cleaning out his office. An alarm sounded, and he rushed for cover. A rocket flew over the airport from the west and a second crashed into the compound, without inflicting damage.

Bass, ever the stoic, turned to a colleague. “Well, that’s about the only thing that hasn’t happened so far.” He was worried that the rockets weren’t a parting gift, but a prelude to an attack.

Earlier that morning, though, Bass had implored Major General Donahue to delay the departure. He’d asked his military colleagues to remain at the outer access points, because there were reports of American citizens still making their way to them.

Donahue was willing to give Bass a few extra hours. And around 3 a.m., 60 more American-passport holders arrived at the airport. Then, as if anticipating a final burst of American generosity toward refugees, the Taliban opened their checkpoints. A flood of Afghans rushed toward the airport. Bass sent consular officers to stand at the perimeter of concertina wire, next to the paratroopers, scanning for passports, visas, any official-looking document.

An officer caught a glimpse of an Afghan woman in her 20s waving a printout showing that she had received permission to enter the U.S. “Wow. You won the lottery twice,” he told her. “You’re the visa-lottery winner and you’ve made it here in time.” She was one of the final evacuees hustled into the airport.

Around 7 a.m., the last remaining State Department officials in Kabul, including Bass, posed for a photo and then walked up the ramp of a C-17. As Bass prepared for takeoff, he thought about two numbers. In total, the United States had evacuated about 124,000 people, which the White House touted as the most successful airlift in history. Bass also thought about the unknown number of Afghans he had failed to get out. He thought about the friends he couldn’t extricate. He thought about the last time he’d flown out of Kabul, 18 months earlier, and how he had harbored a sense of optimism for the country then. A hopefulness that now felt as remote as the Hindu Kush.

In a command center in the Pentagon’s basement, Lloyd Austin and Mark Milley followed events at the airport through a video feed provided by a drone, the footage filtered through the hazy shades of a night-vision lens. They watched in silence as Donahue, the last American soldier on the ground in Afghanistan, boarded the last C-17 to depart HKIA.

Five C‑17s sat on the runway—carrying “chalk,” as the military refers to the cargo of troops. An officer in the command center narrated the procession for them. “Chalk 1 loaded … Chalk 2 taxiing.”

As the planes departed, there was no applause, no hand-shaking. A murmur returned to the room. Austin and Milley watched the great military project of their generation—a war that had cost the lives of comrades, that had taken them away from their families—end without remark. They stood without ceremony and returned to their offices.

Across the potomac river, Biden sat with Jake Sullivan and Antony Blinken, revising a speech he would deliver the next day. One of Sullivan’s aides passed him a note, which he read to the group: “Chalk 1 in the air.” A few minutes later, the aide returned with an update. All of the planes were safely away.

Some critics had clamored for Biden to fire the advisers who had failed to plan for the chaos at HKIA, to make a sacrificial offering in the spirit of self-abasement. But Biden never deflected blame onto staff. In fact, he privately expressed gratitude to them. And with the last plane in the air, he wanted Blinken and Sullivan to join him in the private dining room next to the Oval Office as he called Austin to thank him. The secretary of defense hadn’t agreed with Biden’s withdrawal plan, but he’d implemented it in the spirit of a good soldier.

America’s longest war was now finally and officially over. Each man looked exhausted. Sullivan hadn’t slept for more than two hours a night over the course of the evacuation. Biden aides sensed that he hadn’t rested much better. Nobody needed to mention how the trauma and political scars might never go away, how the month of August had imperiled a presidency. Before returning to the Oval Office, they spent a moment together, lingering in the melancholy.

This article was adapted from Franklin Foer’s book The Last Politician: Inside Joe Biden’s White House and the Struggle for America’s Future. It appears in the October 2023 print edition with the headline “The Final Days.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

Franklin Foer is a staff writer at The Atlantic.

THE FINAL DAYS
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The Daily Hustle: Crossing the Durand Line to visit family in Pakistan

Ali Mohammad Sabawoon • Roxanna Shapour

Afghanistan Analysts Network

The story of Afghan families is often one of loved ones separated by long distances and national borders. Every year, many Afghans who have family living in neighbouring countries make the hours and sometimes days-long journey overland from Afghanistan, braving long bus rides, hours waiting to cross borders and the demands for payment by border guards all to spend some precious time with their families. In the latest instalment of The Daily Hustle, our series of individual accounts about an aspect of daily life in Afghanistan, AAN’s Ali Mohammad Sabawoon spoke to a traveller about his family’s overland journey from Kabul to Quetta to visit his mother and siblings.

Every winter, I travel with my wife and eight children to Quetta in Pakistan to spend a month with other family members who’ve been living there for the past three decades. This is a special time of year when we all gather as an extended family and renew the bonds of kinship. I hadn’t managed to make the journey for two years and my mother, who’s getting on in years, insisted we shouldn’t miss the gathering this year.

Getting from Kabul to Quetta is not an easy feat. You have to take an overnight bus from Kabul to Kandahar (nine hours), then a minibus to Spin Boldak (two hours), then it takes up to seven hours to cross the border and, finally, another six hours from the border to my family’s home, again in a minibus. In other words, it takes a little over 24 hours door-to-door. It’s also expensive. All told, it costs about USD 250 for my family of ten and there are also presents to be bought for my mother, siblings and their children.

By the time we arrived at the Spin Boldak-Chaman crossing, called the Friendship Gate or Da Dosti Darwaza in Pahsto, a large crowd was already waiting. But there were also some pleasant surprises. The crossing has improved significantly since the last time I was there two years ago. The Emirate has built two large modern halls: one for men and another for women. There were chairs to sit on and stalls selling snacks, tea and water to people waiting to cross. The children were tired from the overnight journey and getting restless, so I asked my wife to find a place for them to rest while I completed the formalities.

I’m from Kandahar and our ancestral home in the city is noted as my address on my tazkira (national identity card), so I’m allowed to travel to Pakistan without a visa – that’s the rule. But my uncle and his three sons, who were travelling to Quetta with us, don’t have a local address. They had to hire a laghari (guide)to take them across the border unofficially. Luckily a Taleb we had known for years was there at the crossing. He told us there had been incidents when guides robbed people and abandoned them halfway, in the middle of nowhere. Now, the Taleban had registered the guides in their system. He said he’d help us find a registered guide. After a while, he came back to the hall with another man and waved us over. He said he’d agreed to charge 2,500 Pakistani rupees (around eight US dollars) for each person.

I watched as the guide took my uncle and nephews to a row of people sitting in makeshift ‘offices’; some of the people working there took photographs, while others made laminated colour copies of Kandahari tazkiras, signed and stamped and looking very much like the genuine article. We agreed to meet on the other side of the border at Manda, the dry riverbed where the Quetta-bound vehicles stop to take on passengers.

For us, the formalities on the Afghan side were easily completed and we crossed that side of the border pretty quickly. But getting into Pakistan is another matter. It’s a long and arduous process. You have to pass through seven or eight checkpoints in the no-man’s land between the two countries.

The penultimate stop is the biometric cabin, where they take your picture and fingerprints and check them against their database to make sure you don’t have a record. I waited for about two hours before, finally, it was my turn. At least seven men – regular Pakistan soldiers and uniformed militiamen employed by the Pakistani military – each with his own computer, were sitting at desks inside the cabin. I walked up to one of the desks where a soldier took my ID and looked it over. He noted that I spoke English and Urdu and asked if I was a teacher. I told him I’d once been a teacher but was no longer teaching. He then nodded and gestured with his hand, rubbing his thumb against his fingers, the universal gesture indicating an expectation of money. I told him I didn’t have any money, but he looked dubious and said I should search my pockets. He shook his head and said he wanted 1,000 rupees (around USD 3.50). After I paid him, he took my picture and asked me to put my fingers on the biometric device, but the machine wasn’t working and he wrote on the back of my tazkira “fingerprint not captured.”

I walked out of the cabin and looked around for my family. It was then my wife’s turn to do the same with the children in the women’s section. I poured myself some tea from the thermos we’d brought from home and sat down to wait. An hour later, my wife came out of the cabin with the kids and handed me our documents. I saw that someone had written “travelling with a woman and eight children” on the back of my tazkira.

As we were leaving the biometric area, we were stopped by a militiaman who also checked my tazkira. He claimed I wasn’t registered in the system. He looked up at one of the several CCTV cameras, pointed to two teenage boys standing next to him and instructed me to give them 4,000 Pakistani rupees (around USD 13). It was a show for the cameras, a way to take a bribe and not be seen to take a bribe. I’ve heard they do give some money to the children at the end of the day, but most of the loot they keep for themselves. I had no choice but to pay up. If I were to decline or make a fuss, we’d have been delayed for several hours or, God forbid, could have been turned back altogether.

As one hour gave way to the next, the crowd was getting more and more impatient and truth be told, I was a little afraid a dispute might break out between people in the queue or a firefight between the Afghan and Pakistani soldiers on opposing sides of the border, as sometimes happens. These clashes are not unheard of. There have been several in the past decade in the very place where I was standing. On this day, things were relatively orderly, though, and the Pakistani militiamen were not beating people in the crowd as they’ve sometimes done in the past. A man I was chatting to in the queue told me that last year, an Afghan border guard, who was upset about a video of a Pakistani border guard manhandling an Afghan woman at the Torkham border in Nangrahar province that was making the rounds on social media, had shot and killed a Pakistani militiaman.[1] Now, he said, the Pakistanis were very careful about how they treated people crossing the border.

Finally, the last hurdle. An angry-looking man in civilian clothes asked for my ID. He looked it over and sent me to a nearby cabin where they were vaccinating people for Covid-19. I’d forgotten my vaccination card at home and, even though I’d been immunised several times, I had to get another shot or pay 600 Pakistani rupees (USD 2) to avoid the jab. I’d been planning on getting a booster vaccine when I returned from my trip, so I happily offered my arm to the medic. And with that, I was finally allowed to step out of the crossing point and join my family, also newly vaccinated, in Pakistan.

My uncle and his sons, who’d been smuggled into Pakistan, had arrived at the bus stop several hours before us! They were waiting at Manda and ready to go. They’d already secured a minibus to carry our entire group the rest of the way to my family’s house in Quetta, which took another six hours.

It was already dark by the time we arrived, dusty and road weary, in need of a wash and some sleep. But the fatigue disappeared entirely as soon as we walked up to the gate. The whole family was waiting for our arrival. There were hugs and cheers, as well as some tears. There was tea ready to pour and my mother’s famous sweet bread rolls baked especially for us. In the lively sitting room, the children made shy, tentative gestures to reacquaint themselves with their cousins, but as for me, I was already thinking of the long journey back.

Edited by Roxanna Shapour

References

References
1 This is likely the incident the man in the queue was referring to (see AVA news agency here).

Ali Mohammad Sabawoon

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Roxanna Shapour

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The Daily Hustle: Crossing the Durand Line to visit family in Pakistan
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Afghanistan delusions blind US on Russia-Ukraine

Responsible Statecraft
Quincy Institute

On the second anniversary of the final debacle of U.S. involvement in Afghanistan, we should consider the lessons of that disaster for U.S. strategy elsewhere.

While the case of Afghanistan itself is by nature unique, Washington’s mistakes and failures reflected wider and deeper patterns — and pathologies — in U.S. policymaking and political culture. If left unaddressed, these will lead to more disasters in future.

Yet most of the mainstream media and the think tank world are treating the memory of the U.S. war in Afghanistan not as a source of reflection but as an embarrassment to be forgotten as quickly and completely as possible.

This parallels the approach to the memory of Vietnam in the U.S. mainstream — and the result was the disaster of Iraq. One of the most astonishing things about the U.S. debate — to give it that name — prior to the invasion of Iraq, was the general failure to consider, or even mention, what the experience of Vietnam might have taught. Today, this refusal to learn lessons applies above all to U.S. engagement in Ukraine.

The failure to pursue diplomacy with the Taliban prior to the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan can be explained and excused by the fury naturally felt by Americans at the terrorist attacks of 9/11, and the Taliban’s refusal immediately to hand over the al-Qaida leadership that was clearly responsible. Nonetheless, given the appalling costs that resulted from the U.S. invasion, it is worth asking whether an approach that allowed the Taliban to save face and remain true to their own beliefs might have produced better results for both Americans and Afghans: for example, exploring the possibility that the Taliban could be persuaded to deliver the AQ leadership to another Muslim country.

In the case of Iraq, there was no sincere diplomatic effort at all, since the Bush administration had already made the decision to invade.

The second lesson of Afghanistan is as old as war itself and was emphasized by military theorist Carl von Clausewitz: that there can never be certainty of long-term victory in any war, if only because war, more than any other human activity, is liable to generate unintended ramifications and consequences.

In the case of Afghanistan, the mission to eliminate al Qaida and remove the Taliban from power morphed into a far greater — and probably innately doomed — effort to create a modern democratic Afghan state through foreign intervention, aid and supervision.

This in turn became related to the attempt to destroy the old and exceptionally powerful nexus between Islamic faith and Pashtun nationalism that had generated the Taliban, much of the resistance to the Communist regime and Soviet intervention in the 1980s, and numerous revolts against the British Empire before that.

Given that most Pashtuns live in Pakistan, the inevitable result was an extension of the conflict to that country, leading to a Pakistani civil war in which tens of thousands died. Pakistan’s refusal or inability to expel the Afghan Taliban led to the threat of direct U.S. intervention in Pakistan — which, if it had occurred, would have produced a catastrophe far worse than Afghanistan and Iraq put together.

The failure to anticipate consequences is worsened by conformism and careerism; not that these tendencies are any worse in the U.S. establishment than elsewhere. But America’s power and capacity to intervene across the world magnify their negative consequences. On the one hand, they mean that even experts and journalists who are in a position to know better, join officials in unthinking obedience to the establishment line of the given moment, which may have only the most tangential relationship to realities in the country concerned.

Returning to Afghanistan after the fall of the Taliban, I encountered journalists whom I had known when covering the Mujahedin war against the Soviets and Communists in the 1980s. I was amused — kind of — to find them parroting a new version of the line that Moscow and Kabul had put out in the 1980s: that the Afghan resistance had no real local support and was not really Afghan, and that it was entirely the creation of outside powers (including Pakistan) and money.

This was despite the fact that the Taliban were recruiting exactly the same people from exactly the same areas as the Mujahedin, who were fighting for exactly the same reasons.

Matters are made worse by the flood of instant shake-and-bake “experts” who are generated every time the United States embarks on a new overseas venture. Selected for their connections in Washington rather than any real knowledge of the areas concerned, they could not correct the mistakes of U.S. policy even if they had the moral courage to do so. Moreover, their ignorance of local history and culture makes them dreadfully receptive to the self-interested fantasies of their local informants.

Thus I was also amused in the early 2000s to hear “advisers” on Afghanistan to the U.S. (and European) governments declare that “Afghanistan in the 1960s was a successful middle class democracy.” This U.S. syndrome could well be called Oedipal, since it is both incestuous and self-blinded.

Once both political parties have committed themselves to a given strategy, the bipartisan Washington establishment finds it extremely difficult to admit mistakes and change course — a tendency to which the U.S. military has also sometimes contributed in a disastrous fashion. This military refusal to admit defeat has its admirable sides — nobody should want U.S. generals to be quitters.

That, however, is why America needs political leaders (including ones with personal military experience, like Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy and Carter) with the knowledge and courage to tell the generals when it is time to call a halt.

Instead, in Afghanistan (as documented by the Special Inspector General for Afghan Reconstruction and others), generals and administration officials colluded to produce optimistic lies, which were then circulated by a credulous and subservient media. Today, this risks being the case with the Biden administration’s refusal to admit that the Ukrainian counteroffensive has failed, and that it is therefore time to start developing a political strategy to end the fighting in Ukraine and the economic and political damage this is beginning to cause to vital U.S. allies in Europe.

The last point about the U.S. record in Afghanistan should hardly need to be made, because it has been made over and over again since the 1950s by a whole succession of great American thinkers, including Reinhold Niebuhr, Hans Morgenthau, George Kennan, Richard Hofstadter and C. Vann Woodward. This is the tendency in the U.S. political establishment to colossally exaggerate both the malignance of the enemy of the moment, and the danger it poses to the United States.

Instead of a Communist-led nationalist movement to reunify Vietnam, the Vietnamese Communists were portrayed as a force that could start toppling a row of “dominoes” that would end with Communist victory in France and Mexico. Instead of a tinpot regional dictator, Saddam Hussein became a nuclear menace to the U.S. homeland. The Taliban, an entirely Afghan force, supposedly had to be fought in Afghanistan so that we would not need to fight them in the United States.

And today, U.S. officials in their rhetoric somehow manage to combine the supposed beliefs both that Russia is so weak that Ukraine can completely defeat the Russian army and catastrophically undermine the Russian state, and that Russia is so strong that if not defeated in Ukraine it will pose a mortal threat to NATO and freedom around the world.

As Loren Baritz wrote in 1985 concerning the obliteration of the memory of Vietnam in the United States:

“Our power, complacency, rigidity and ignorance have kept us from incorporating our Vietnam experience into the way we think about ourselves and the world… But there is no need to think unless there is doubt. Freed of doubt, we are freed of thought.”

It would be nice to think that on this anniversary, and faced with even greater dangers in Ukraine, the U.S. establishment and media will devote some serious thought to what happened in Afghanistan.

Afghanistan delusions blind US on Russia-Ukraine
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Predictions of an Afghan ‘security vacuum’ were all wrong

Responsible Statecraft
Quincy Institute
It was still shocking for many Americans to witness the swift collapse of a government that so many lives and tax dollars contributed to building.

Today, Afghanistan is a nightmarish place for many Afghans, marked by a lack of rights and opportunities. It’s crucial to recognize this reality. However, it’s also important to acknowledge that numerous predictions from Washington did not materialize as expected. For all the admonishments of the Biden administration, Afghanistan has not become a gift for China or Russia, or a hotbed of transnational terrorism.

President Biden faced relentless criticism for the withdrawal, decried as squandering “20 years of blood and sacrifice” by Republican Senator Jim Risch and branded “fatally flawed” by Democratic Senator Bob Menendez. Former Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta, who oversaw the end of the U.S. surge in Afghanistan during President Obama’s tenure, likened the evacuation to the infamous Bay of Pigs fiasco, even before the tragic loss of 13 U.S. service members and at least 170 Afghans in an ISIS attack.

Meanwhile, former Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, who less than one year earlier had proudly stood for a photo op with the Taliban’s chief negotiator, after agreeing to withdraw U.S. troops, told Fox News that the “Biden administration has just failed in its execution of its own plan.” In April, the Wall Street Journal’s Editorial Board partly attributed Russia’s invasion of Ukraine to “U.S. surrender in Afghanistan” and during a Congressional hearing in July, Congressman Michael McCaul labeled the withdrawal “a mistake of epic proportions.” Failure is, indeed, an orphan.

One of the most frequently cited reasons for why the U.S. military had to remain in Afghanistan was rooted in counterterrorism efforts. Indeed, fighting terrorism was the reason for the authorization for the use of military force that allowed U.S. troops to be deployed to Afghanistan in the first place. President Biden drew criticism from certain pundits when he asserted on August 16, 2021, that “Our only vital national interest in Afghanistan remains today what it has always been: preventing a terrorist attack on [sic] American homeland.” He emphasized that the original mission was, in fact, a response to a terrorist attack and had a primary focus on counterterrorism.

Some pundits might find this fact inconvenient, especially those who have come to believe that our presence in Afghanistan was primarily about nation-building, rather than acknowledging that nation-building itself was an ill-conceived strategy within the context of the War on Terror.

In the lead-up to the withdrawal, the notion of over-the-horizon counterterrorism capabilities was often ridiculed as ineffective. During the fall of 2021, the Pentagon assessed that the Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISKP), an ISIS offshoot in Afghanistan, could potentially launch an attack on the U.S. within as little as 6 months. Yet, nearly two years later, no ISKP attack originating from Afghanistan has targeted U.S. soil.

Furthermore, senior analysts at the National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC) recently evaluated that the group relies on “inexperienced operatives in Europe” to carry out attacks abroad. In other words, the next generation of 9/11 hijackers is not being trained in Afghanistan. The Biden administration showcased its ability to secure significant over-the-horizon victories against terrorists, such as when a U.S. drone killed al-Qaeda chief Ayman al-Zawahiri in a Kabul apartment on July 31, 2022.

As of last March, Nicholas Rasmussen, the Department of Homeland Security’s counterterrorism coordinator, viewed the likelihood of a 9/11-style attack as “almost inconceivable.”

The world of today is different than on the morning of September 11, 2001. Back then, Afghans had extremely limited communication with the outside world. In contrast, today, over 60 percent of adults own a cell phone, with more than 80 percent having access to one. This trend holds true for other once-isolated parts of the world as well. This connectivity will pose challenges to the Taliban’s ability to enforce their draconian restrictions over the long-run. It has also changed the way terrorists operate. In the realm of terrorism, the world is indeed flat. Extremist ideologies can be disseminated, and terrorists can recruit overseas operatives to inflict harm.

But this may not be such a big win for terrorist groups like ISKP. While their capacity for recruitment is more substantial than in the past, their ability to train and direct quality recruits without interference is actually diminished. Meanwhile, the capacity of potential target nations to intercept such plots is stronger than ever before. Instead of participating in a global campaign of terrorist whack-a-mole, it is our domestic defenses that are best positioned to protect the homeland.

This isn’t meant to downplay the potential of ungoverned spaces to serve as breeding grounds for adept and motivated terrorists. However, concerning the case of Afghanistan, NCTC analysts concluded that the Taliban’s activities have “prevented the branch [ISKP] from seizing territory that it could use to draw in and train foreign recruits for more sophisticated attacks.”

While it’s true that terrorism can be managed and nation-building wasn’t the purpose of going to war, it was still shocking for many Americans to witness the swift collapse of a government that so many U.S. lives, tax dollars, and lives of our Afghan partners had contributed to building.

One reason for the astonishment shared by lawmakers, media, and the American public over the evacuation debacle, the vanishing of Afghan security forces, and the hasty departure of the Ghani administration, stems from a steady flow of falsehoods regarding the war. Rather than a deliberate effort of intentional deceit, it was more of a collective exercise in self-deception, omission, and hopeful exaggeration.

As the U.S. war in Afghanistan trudged onward, a carefully curated liturgy of talking points was repeated in Washington. Our leaders were well aware that Afghanistan was an archipelago of cut-off cities and forward operating bases, while the Taliban dominated the countryside, roads, and the night. It was no secret that Ashraf Ghani was surrounded by a circle of sycophantic advisors. The economy was sustained by a continuous flow of aid and war-related industries. Yet, speaking candidly about this was rare until after the Afghan government collapsed.

A cognitive dissonance made it acceptable for U.S. lawmakers, foreign elites, military-aged men who had fled their conflict-ridden countries, and even human rights organizations to not only call for the perpetual deployment of American soldiers but to claim we owed such a commitment. Of course, the U.S. military was more than enthusiastic to oblige. And for soldiers, there is an unrelenting desire and pressure to deploy. I too volunteered to deploy. However, the enthusiasm of young warfighters shouldn’t grant a blank check for putting them in harm’s way.

Since the U.S. withdrawal, unsettling truths emerged. Although tens of thousands of Afghan soldiers made the ultimate sacrifice, when push came to shove — even before the Americans’ departure — Afghan forces fell to the Taliban. Their supplies ran out and corrupt leaders in Kabul left them to die or surrender. The strongman warlords, elevated by Washington and summoned by Ashraf Ghani to save the republic, fled to neighboring countries.

Over the years, the Taliban were dismissed as a proxy of Pakistan, disconnected from Afghan society, yet, it was the Afghan government, created through an international conference in Bonn, Germany, and supported with billions of U.S. aid, that failed to inspire Afghans to fight for its survival at a crucial moment. Many observers, myself included, were confident that Afghans would fiercely resist the Taliban and the country would rapidly descend into civil war. The country has instead fallen into a haunting silence.

One prediction that has come true is the dire situation for women under the Taliban’s rule that can only be described as gender apartheid. They have progressively restricted girls and women’s right to education, closed gathering places and livelihoods like beauty parlors, and even banned women from a national park. Their actions seem more driven by an obsession with control of every aspect of women’s lives than religious doctrine.

Additionally, the Taliban have stifled dissent and used torture against rivals. We must confront these harsh realities and take meaningful actions, but we must also avoid making promises we cannot fulfill, both for the sake of Afghans and our own credibility.

Today, Afghanistan is not at war for the first time in twenty years, with violent deaths decreasing from well over 20,000 per year in the years leading up to the U.S. withdrawal to under 2,000 last year. The country hasn’t turned into a narco-state. The Taliban also haven’t abandoned their extremist beliefs, disavowed al-Qaeda, or restrained the Pakistani Taliban.

However, their current focus seems to be inward on Afghanistan. The Afghan economy is struggling, partly due to Taliban mismanagement, though it doesn’t appear to be much worse than the previous government at management, and their corruption seems to be less. Their cruelty, however, seems unfailing.

It’s worth reflecting on why so many of our predictions were inaccurate. The U.S. facilitated Afghanistan’s development, but it also prolonged the war. Now, Taliban rule and the isolation it creates has plunged Afghans into deeper poverty and created a nightmare for women, a bargain from hell, created by Washington and its partners in Kabul, but that ultimately can only be resolved by Afghans themselves.

Predictions of an Afghan ‘security vacuum’ were all wrong
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Hollywoodgate review – a fascinating insight into the Taliban’s insular world

Xan Brooks

The Guardian

Fri 1 Sep 2023

Venice film festival: It’s no surprise that Ibrahim Nash’at’s documentary lacks in-depth interviews – his subjects barely tolerate his presence as he reveals the fighters’ lack of purpose after the US withdrawal from Afghanistan

The spoils of war are a chore in this fascinating fly-on-the-wall study of the Taliban’s first year in power. Ibrahim Nash’at’s documentary is named for its principal location, a former CIA stronghold on the outskirts of Kabul, hastily abandoned and haphazardly vandalised by its previous tenants. The base contains treasures but it has been left in a state. Afghan fighters pick their way through the corridors, weighing up their surroundings, wondering just where to begin. They could be a band of hotel cleaners called in to mop up after a heavy-duty stag weekend.

Leading the band is Mawlawi Mansour, a bushy-bearded Taliban commander whose father was killed in a US airstrike. Nash’at shows him doggedly going about his duties. He stretches his legs on the newfangled treadmill in the gym. He checks the expiration date of cough drops and calamine lotion in the medical stockroom. “Our head doctor is lazy,” one of his lieutenants explains, at which point Mansour flashes a pained look at the camera.

The commander likes to boast that his own wife was a doctor before giving up work as a condition of marriage. If Mrs Mansour was still free to practise, she might have been able to lick this small hospital into shape.

Nash’at – who was born in Egypt and is based in Berlin – spent 12 months trailing Mansour and his crew, loitering in the background and shooting from the sidelines. If his finished film is light on probing interviews and rigorous analysis, there’s an obvious reason: his subjects all hate him.

The Taliban fighters view every journalist as a foreign spy and have accepted the presence of this one only under duress. “That little devil is filming again,” one mutters when Nash’at draws too close. If the director misbehaves, says another, he will promptly be taken outside and killed.

When US forces quit Afghanistan in the spring of 2021 they left behind an estimated $7bn (£5.5bn) worth of military equipment. Mansour’s main task – in addition to checking expiration dates – is to oversee the repair and repainting of the fighter jets and Black Hawk helicopters, officially in advance of a victory parade but also conceivably in preparation for a war against neighbouring Tajikistan.

This prospect appears to provide the soldiers with a sense of purpose, something to fill their days and plug the gaps in their hearts. The Taliban are triumphant, but this win feels like a loss. “My burning wish is to see American troops still here,” one soldier admits. “That way I could ambush them, kill them, die and become a martyr.”

While it would have been good to have Nash’at properly cross-examine these men, his film’s careful approach pays handsome dividends. Hollywoodate teases back a corner of the curtain to reveal a Taliban regime stitched awkwardly over the bones of US occupation. It shows us the soldiers pining for the caves where they once hid, and mourning the glorious death that has somehow been snatched from their grasp.

The film hits its head-spinning crescendo during the surreal celebrations at Bagram airbase, which feature a motorbike parade by “the suicide bombing battalion”, a unit that wouldn’t have been out of place in Chris Morris’s Four Lions. The battalion’s members pass through in some haste, trailing their broken dreams and dashed ambitions. For these men in particular, there has been no happy ending. They ride off into an uncertain future; unfulfilled, still alive.

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 Hollywoodgate screened at the Venice film festival

Hollywoodgate review – a fascinating insight into the Taliban’s insular world
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An Ambassador Without a Country

The Afghan statesman Zalmai Rassoul is recognized by the governments of the United Kingdom and Ireland—but not by the Taliban.
Closeup of the Afghan diplomat Zalmai Rassoul.
Photographs by Silvana Trevale for The New Yorker

King Amanullah Khan of Afghanistan, who reigned after his country gained independence from Great Britain, in 1919, collected automobiles and tried to modernize Afghan society through reforms such as compulsory education. In 1925, his government purchased a new Embassy in London, a four-story mid-Victorian edifice at Princes Gate, across Kensington Road from Hyde Park, near the Royal Albert Hall. The King’s change agenda provoked a violent revolt, however, and in 1929 Amanullah fled Kabul, reportedly in a Rolls-Royce. (He died in Switzerland in 1960.) Yet the London Embassy remained—a graceful and rapidly appreciating possession of an isolated, often vulnerable nation.

Zalmai Rassoul, a nephew of Amanullah’s who is now eighty years old, today lives alone in an apartment on the Embassy’s upper floors. In 2020, President Ashraf Ghani appointed Rassoul as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom and Ireland. In June, 2021, Queen Elizabeth II met him over Zoom, to accept his credentials in the U.K. By that time, the Taliban had stormed dozens of Afghan district capitals, in an escalating offensive against Ghani’s Islamic Republic, the constitutional regime that had been created after the U.S.-led invasion in 2001 and was protected for almost two decades by nato troops. On August 15th, Kabul fell, and Ghani fled in a helicopter. As the Taliban took over the government, Rassoul stayed put at Princes Gate.

Since then, neither the United Nations nor any of its member states has recognized the Islamic Emirate, as the Taliban call their regime, largely because it seized power by force and imposed draconian restrictions on female education and on the ability of Afghan women to work freely. In the autumn of 2021, the British Foreign Office informed Rassoul that he could carry on as Ambassador. Almost two years later, the Islamic Republic’s red, green, and black flag still flies above the Embassy’s entrance. “So far, we are guests of the United Kingdom,” Rassoul told me recently, over tea in a cavernous ground-floor office. “It’s very strange,” he conceded. “When I’m asked who you are representing, I say, ‘The Afghan people,’ because we don’t have anymore a government.”

The Taliban, of course, would beg to differ. “We believe that all embassies belong to the state of Afghanistan and should be handed over to the authorities in power” so that the Islamic Emirate can run them in a “transparent and effective manner,” Abdul Qahar Balkhi, a spokesperson for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Kabul, told me. Rassoul is not the only Ghani-era squatter in an Afghan Embassy. When Kabul fell, the country maintained around forty Embassies around the world. Today, as many as twenty—mainly in Europe, but also in Ottawa and Seoul and a few other places—are still run by Republic-era diplomats. In Beijing, Islamabad, and other capitals, however, governments have accepted Taliban-appointed diplomats, even while withholding formal recognition of the regime. Balkhi said that fourteen Embassies are now managed by “newly appointed diplomats,” while at a number of other outposts diplomats from the Republic era “are fully coördinating with Kabul.”

Of all the Republic-era Ambassadors, Rassoul is by far the most politically prominent. He was educated in France as a nephrologist and worked as a doctor and a medical researcher in Saudi Arabia during the nineteen-eighties, after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan stirred an uprising by mujahideen rebels armed by the C.I.A. Later, during the first era of Taliban rule, he moved to Rome to serve as a political adviser to Zahir Shah, the exiled former King whose father had restored the country’s monarchy after Amanullah’s departure, and who reigned over a period of relative stability and prosperity from the early nineteen-thirties until 1973, when he was ousted in a coup d’état. After the Taliban were removed from power, Rassoul became national-security adviser and then foreign minister under President Hamid Karzai. (Karzai has remained in Kabul since the Taliban takeover. Ghani is in the U.A.E.) Later, in 2014, Rassoul ran unsuccessfully for the Presidency. Youthful-looking for his years, he possesses the gentle manners of a royal scion, and is a rare leader from the Republic era who is not a lightning rod for his compatriots’ anger. “He’s a gentleman. People respect him,” Nasir Andisha, a Republic-era diplomat still serving in Geneva, and an informal adviser to the anti-Taliban National Resistance Front, told me. “He was probably the least controversial figure in politics in Afghanistan.”

Rassoul has lately been working with other Republic-era Ambassadors and diaspora figures to develop a plan for their country’s future. “I’m a politician, and, wherever I am, I’m involved in politics,” he told me, speaking publicly for the first time about his work and life at the London Embassy. “You know, politics is like a disease, when you get it.” In March, Andisha hosted a meeting of twenty-one Republic-era envoys in Geneva, where they formed the Council of Ambassadors and named Rassoul as a permanent co-chair, with a rotating partner. The envoys all oppose the Taliban. But “war is not a solution,” Rassoul said, and the best place to start is with intra-Afghan dialogue.

Rassoul’s apartment has a charming view of Hyde Park, and it is comfortably if impersonally furnished, suggesting a four-star hotel with Central Asian accents. For a touch of home, the Ambassador has mounted black-and-white photos of his royal ancestors. Each weekday morning at about nine o’clock, he goes downstairs to his office, where he meets Embassy colleagues as well as Afghan and other visitors. (A handful of salaried diplomats, mainly engaged in consular work, and a driver also remain at the Embassy.) At midday, he returns upstairs for lunch, and then goes down again to check on new developments. Sometimes, there aren’t any. Most evenings, he takes a long walk in the park. About twice a week, he plays golf at a nearby course. (He took up the sport while in exile in Rome.) Other London embassies still invite him to receptions celebrating national holidays or fêting distinguished visitors, and other rituals of diplomatic life. “I will go there and spend half an hour or an hour, just to show that Afghanistan exists,” he said.

Rassoul never married—work always seemed to get in the way, he said—and the only surviving member of his immediate family is a sister living in Brazil. I asked whether he was lonely. “I’m very comfortable here compared to all my compatriots, who, unfortunately, are running around to find a place to stay,” he answered, referring to the tens of thousands of Afghan refugees who had settled in the U.K. in 2021, many of whom have had to navigate overnight transformations from lives of relative privilege to the insecurities and indignities of refugee status. “But, intellectually, I am very frustrated.” Among other things, he still grieves for the Islamic Republic, “this tremendous international effort to bring Afghanistan from ground zero to, despite all the problems, an advanced country in the region.”

Zalmai Rassoul in the London Embassy
Zalmai Rassoul, in the London Embassy.

In the initial months after the Republic’s fall, the Biden Administration and European allies engaged with the Taliban, hoping to address Afghanistan’s severe humanitarian needs and to coöperate on counterterrorism. But, in March of 2022, on instructions from the arch-conservative Supreme Leader, Hibatullah Akhundzada, the Taliban decided to prohibit girls from attending secondary school. Since then, such restrictions have tightened, and, according to U.N. human-rights experts, they now constitute the most oppressive regime for women and girls worldwide. In late June, Richard Bennett, the U.N.’s human-rights rapporteur for Afghanistan, denounced the Taliban’s gender policies as “grave, systemic and institutionalized discrimination.” In this atmosphere, although British and U.S. engagement with the Taliban has continued, Rassoul and other Republic-era diplomats find that they are being welcomed at more official meetings than before. With the Taliban’s permission, Hamid Karzai visited London from Kabul this spring for a private visit with King Charles III; Rassoul joined him for a meeting at the Foreign Office. At a recent session of the U.N. Human Rights Council, in Geneva, the Taliban were excluded, and Nasir Andisha, the Ghani-era diplomat, introduced several Afghan women as speakers.

The Taliban’s strategy appears to be to wait out the recalcitrant Ambassadors while its government pursues formal recognition, aided by what has thus far been qualified but significant diplomatic support from China and Russia. Strikingly, the Taliban’s foreign ministry has not tried as yet to disrupt the consular work of non-Taliban Embassies. Indeed, according to Rassoul, the London Embassy funds its reduced operations with fees earned from issuing travel visas, passport extensions, birth certificates, and marriage certificates—and the Taliban still recognize most of these documents. “We attach great importance to serving and resolving problems of Afghans,” Balkhi said, when I asked him why the Taliban do so. Some Taliban officials travel on Islamic Republic-era passports, a Western official told me, because the Taliban have not yet issued their own. Even if they did, Taliban passports might not work very well, since the Kabul government has not been formally recognized.

Rassoul declined to say how much revenue the London Embassy generates through consular work, but it is apparently enough to fund the salaries of the staff. There is some tension between those Republic-era Ambassadors who can raise revenue from consular services provided to sizable Afghan populations (there are some hundred and fifty thousand Afghans living in Britain, according to Rassoul) and those who have no such population to serve. Afghanistan’s U.N. mission, in New York, which has never had a consular function, has fallen into arrears on utility bills. Naseer Faiq, a Republic-era career diplomat, is the mission’s chargé d’affaires—recognized by the U.N. but not the Taliban. “I have been trying to communicate this situation to the management of the building,” he told me. “Of course, this is not easy.” I asked how he pays for groceries. “My wife is working, and she is supporting us,” he said.

The struggle for control of the Embassies is partly rooted in the unsuccessful U.S. diplomacy that aided the Taliban’s military victory two years ago. In 2018, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo chose Zalmay Khalilzad, who had served as the U.S. Ambassador to Afghanistan, Iraq, and the U.N. during the George W. Bush Administration, to negotiate with the Taliban. In February, 2020, the two sides announced a deal in which the U.S. promised to withdraw all its troops by May, 2021, in exchange for pledges that the Taliban would prevent Al Qaeda and other groups from launching attacks. Because the Taliban refused to deal with Ghani’s regime, the Republic was largely left out of the negotiations, and later talks between the Taliban and Ghani’s representatives foundered, leaving the Taliban free to pursue a military victory. Joe Biden inherited the diplomatic accord, and, although he described it as “perhaps not what I would have negotiated myself,” in April, 2021, he nonetheless said that the U.S. would pull out all its troops by September 11th. That announcement precipitated the Islamic Republic’s rapid collapse, culminating in the infamous scenes of evacuation and chaos at the Kabul airport in August. “It was a de-facto recognition of the Taliban as the future government of Afghanistan,” Rassoul said, of the U.S. decision to negotiate directly with the Republic’s enemies. He now wants to give diplomacy a chance partly because Afghanistan’s history suggests that no dictatorship of the Taliban’s kind is likely to last long, and so preparations should be made now for what may follow. In any event, “We cannot just sit,” he told me. “If we don’t want the use of force, a war, and we don’t do anything politically, that means we accept the situation with the Taliban there.”

After the Taliban takeover, a number of nations—including the U.K., France, Germany, Poland, Australia, India, and Kuwait—allowed senior Republic-era diplomats to remain at Afghan Embassies. In Washington, D.C., however, a different story unfolded. When Kabul fell, Adela Raz, a thirty-five-year-old woman with a master’s degree in law and diplomacy from Tufts, led the Embassy in Washington, on Wyoming Avenue. On October 27, 2021, Citibank froze the Embassy’s accounts, citing the requirements of U.S. sanctions imposed against the Taliban. Raz and her then counterpart at the U.N., Ghulam Isaczai, wrote to Secretary of State Antony Blinken, urging him to unblock the accounts. They cited the “critical services” that the Embassy provided to tens of thousands of Afghan refugees then pouring into the U.S., and argued that Citibank’s application of sanctions was mistaken, saying, “We continue to function solely as servants of the Afghan people and do not maintain any association with, work at the direction of, or pay any funds to the Taliban.” In January, after some back-and-forth, the State Department sent the Afghan Embassy an unsigned diplomatic note—a kind of official memorandum—that described Citibank’s actions as “independent” of the Biden Administration, and judged that it was “highly unlikely” the bank would unblock the Embassy funds. (Citi declined to comment.)

So the Biden Administration proposed to take “custodial” charge of the Washington Embassy and two Afghan consulates in the U.S.—but not the mission to the U.N.—meaning that the U.S. would pay for the properties’ upkeep and manage access. Raz could remain as Ambassador, the diplomatic note said, but all other Afghan diplomats accredited in the U.S. would be terminated, and their diplomatic visas would be cancelled. Raz declined to stay in place without her colleagues, according to people familiar with the matter, and took a position at Princeton’s School of Public and International Affairs. (Raz declined to comment.) Early in 2022, the State Department took control of the Afghan properties and shut them, which was a “normal procedure for embassies when they cannot support operations financially,” a department spokesperson told me. “U.S. officials engaged with the Afghan Embassy and its bank, but were unable to identify an immediate solution. . . . The Embassy’s underlying financial challenge was that it was no longer receiving funds from Kabul.” When I walked by the chancery on a recent weekday, no flag flew from it.

The D.C. Embassy’s fate reflects a larger truth about Afghanistan in Washington these days: it is an unpopular subject, partly because the Islamic Republic’s fall has become a talking point in polarized partisan politics. On a recent visit to Washington, Andisha was struck by the indifference and resignation he encountered among policymakers and regional specialists. He summed up what he heard as “The Taliban suck, but we have to have some coöperation with them. . . . And there is no alternative.”

It is appealing to imagine that diplomacy—an “intra-Afghan dialogue,” or the like—might address Afghanistan’s fragmentation and perhaps coax the Taliban toward political pluralism. But, in 2021, at a time when Ghani’s regime controlled a large army, the capital, and major cities, the Islamic Republic’s efforts to negotiate failed miserably; it is hard to see why the Taliban would make concessions now. The Council of Ambassadors is one of a number of organizing efforts led by Islamic Republic-era figures in exile. The National Resistance Front, led by Ahmad Massoud, the son of the anti-Taliban guerrilla leader Ahmad Shah Massoud, has mounted armed resistance in northern Afghanistan, but has been battered by brutal Taliban counterattacks and reprisals against civilians. In general, there is little comity among the diaspora’s political factions. After the shock of Kabul’s fall, “There’s a level of mistrust,” Sima Samar, the former chairwoman of the Afghanistan Independent Human Rights Commission, told me. “Maybe the U.N. or the U.S. or Europe could bring people together . . . to facilitate an understanding or rebuilding of trust.”

It isn’t clear, though, who should participate in such an effort, or whether Western involvement would help. “My message to Afghan political actors has always been to organize themselves and then summon the international community,” Thomas West, the Biden Administration’s special representative for Afghanistan, told me. Younger Afghan activists are trying to assert themselves, pointing out that they are uncompromised by the Republic’s failures. “I’m not a Talib and I’ll never be a Talib, but I do recognize that we’re all on the same ship and it’s sinking,” Obaidullah Baheer, an adjunct lecturer at the American University of Afghanistan, who is now a doctoral student at the New School, told me. Baheer is part of a loose network of next-generation advocates who have emerged on social media and at international conferences since 2021. “Everyone—especially the international community—wants short-term fixes,” Baheer added. “As always, they look for the silver bullet. That has never really helped Afghanistan.”

I asked Rassoul why he thought the Republic failed. “It’s our fault,” he said. “We could not consolidate democracy.” Afghans “participated in elections, taking the risk. You have seen that. But the institutions in Afghanistan destroyed the democratic process. . . . Corruption played a key role.” So did Afghanistan’s status as a ward of rich nations. “We believed they would be there for a long time and give us money,” he said, but “it was a miracle that the international community believed in Afghanistan for twenty years.”

The Taliban, meanwhile, have shown little interest in talking to exiled politicians or in any process that does not recognize their sovereignty and legitimacy. “The Islamic Emirate has opened its doors for all Afghans, whether living inside or outside Afghanistan, to hold meetings and discussions about issues with the leadership,” Balkhi said. These meetings “take place nearly every single day with tribal elders, scholars, academics, and other strata of society.” If exiles want to participate, he implied, they can come home.

Zalmai Rassoul seems unlikely to do so. In his ninth decade, he is enduring his third exile, and the royalist branches of Afghan politics to which he belongs have had a rough time since the nineteen-seventies, attacked by Communists and Islamists alike. Still, royals in exile can be susceptible to dreams of restoration, no matter how implausible the path may appear. “There is some sort of nostalgia,” he said. “Now that the Republic has been a failure, a lot of people give reference to the monarchy time [as] a really good time in Afghanistan. Maybe some people think that a monarchy—a constitutional monarchy, maybe—is good for Afghanistan.” Rassoul said that he himself does not support that idea, and did not mention his own qualifications, but, when I spoke with Andisha, he volunteered half-jokingly, “If we have a choice later in Afghanistan, we’ll call him a king. That will solve a lot of problems.” ♦

An Ambassador Without a Country
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