They Are Sending Their Best People
A military career. An Afghan family. An American story.
YOUNG OFFICERS OFTEN ASK ME two questions: What’s my most significant career accomplishment? And were the wars worth it?
This afternoon, when I speak at my retirement ceremony, the answer to the first question will be sitting approximately fifteen feet in front of me: scores of Afghans I helped evacuate.
I ferried some of them into the airport. Others I smuggled through porous borders. And some I fought bureaucratic knife fights over. Many of them came to rely on me when they made it to the United States. I often spend my nights providing advice to them on various issues: how to buy a car, how to craft the perfect resume—the good, ordinary questions of building a life in America. My wife tells me that I’m an Afghan guidance counselor.
To answer the other question—whether the wars were worth it—I want to tell you about one of those Afghans, one whose story of unbelievable heroism and resolve remains my inspiration as I retire from active duty. I want to tell you about how he saved himself, saved his family—and saved me.
August 2021
WHEN GHAZNI PROVINCE FELL, I knew the Taliban had won.
Up to that point, I held out hope that the Afghans could withstand the fall of a few provinces. I even fooled myself into thinking the Afghan government might finally relinquish control of some inconsequential provinces and concentrate its forces on strategically important areas.
Those pipe dreams blew away on August 11 when I, at home in Georgia, saw the news alert on my iPhone: “Taliban Marches Into Ghazni, Road to Kabul Exposed.”
As my heart sank, I quickly turned on my old Afghan phone and started reaching out to my former contacts. I knew hundreds of Afghans, many of them for years. They weren’t just allies; they were my friends.
However, Khial Shinwari was more than that. He was my brother. And I began to panic after I didn’t hear from him. Was he alive? Was his family safe?
It was hours later—hours spent watching my life’s work fall apart—before Khial replied to my text message: “Hey, brother. I’m here. I’m ok.”
“Charity, Khial is alive. He’s alive!” I exclaimed to my wife.
“Which one is Khial?” she asked.
I met Khial during America’s final year in Afghanistan, when I was the air attaché at the U.S. embassy in Kabul. He was something of a celebrity, though nearly all the Afghan pilots were famous. As the country’s first pilot qualified to fly the C-130—the big cargo transport—Khial had risen quickly through the ranks. Not only did he fly one of Afghanistan’s few C-130s, but he also organized everyone’s training. A graduate of the U.S. Air Force Air War College, Khial had that mix of familiarity and outsider’s perspective that meant he often understood Americans better than they understood themselves.
We were a perfect match because I sometimes understood Afghans better than they understood themselves, having spent more than three years over there. For countless hours, Khial and I talked about everything from his time training in the United States to the latest palace gossip. He was funny, gregarious, and always down for a good time.
After I redeployed, we kept in contact. We shared our sorrows at the execution of our dear friend LTC Sohrab Azimi. As the Taliban’s march picked up steam, I became increasingly worried that Khial would meet the same fate.
So my relief at seeing his text was immense.
We exchanged messages over the next few days. Finally, I decided to tell him what I really thought.
“Khial. You’re going to have to make a decision really soon. You might need to put your family on one of your C-130s and fly into a neighboring country to survive.”
When, after a long pause, his response eventually came, it only added to my anxiety: “Let’s see what will happen.”
As I struggled to get our allies into Abbey Gate, Khial was busy too: He was flying across the country rescuing stranded Afghans.
Days before the fall of Kabul, and in the cover of darkness, Khial flew the last Afghan Air Force C-130 into Kandahar Airfield. Kandahar had fallen days earlier. It was a dangerous mission with no guarantee of success. Nevertheless, he safely landed, rescued hundreds of Afghans, and took off before the Taliban could respond.
It’s the type of heroism that takes your breath away.
While Khial was performing these feats, I was unsuccessfully trying to get his brother, Khan, into the airport in Kabul. Khan, a senior-ranking police officer, was stranded in the sea of humanity outside the gate.
However, where I failed, Khial succeeded. When Khial returned to the airport, he quickly leveraged his relationships to ferry his family to safety. Khial’s heroics, amid the most harrowing moments of his life, ensured that his wife, children, two brothers, nieces, sisters-in-law, and brother-in-law survived.
November 2021
AFTER THREE MONTHS of evacuating our trusted Afghan allies, I’m emotionally drained. I need something—anything—to hold on to.
The sense of purpose that my work had provided is slowly wearing off, and the brutal reality is seeping into my consciousness: I’m going to lose a lot of my Afghan allies.
I can feel, physically feel, the futility and shame coursing through my body. I know I need some kind of reaffirmation. I need hope.
So on a crisp fall day, I drive to see Khial.
Khial and his family miraculously survived his journey to the United States. His infant son nearly died from heat exhaustion while confined at Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar. Although the U.S. military’s herculean effort during the withdrawal is rightly heralded, they were unprepared for an evacuation of this magnitude.
But Khial and his extended family made it. After they arrived at Virginia’s Dulles International Airport on August 31, 2021, they were, along with thousands of other Afghans, temporarily housed at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin. The Department of Defense used numerous bases to help process 70,000 Afghans who made it to the United States. Khial and his family impatiently waited for their case to finish processing.
However, Khial, always on the lookout to better his position, leveraged his network. This time, an old Air War College classmate stationed nearby scooped him up and drove him and his family to Tennessee. That’s where I was now driving to meet him.
When I see Khial standing outside waiting for me to pull up, I struggle to choke back tears. I instantly give him a big bear hug. I meet his wife, daughter, and son for the first time, quickly followed by his brother and sisters-in-law. More family arrives in an hour—Khial’s youngest brother along with his eldest brother and his wife and kids.
It’s a party, Afghan style. This means more food than any human can consume in a lifetime—and hosts who won’t take no for an answer.
Khial and I stay up talking until the wee hours of the morning. He provides me a blow-by-blow of the final hours of Afghanistan and the family’s harrowing journey to the United States.
Although Khial is relieved to be here with these family members, his extended family mostly remains in Afghanistan. A great many of them are former Afghan military members. They must be exceedingly careful since the Taliban has already begun its retribution campaign.
As we talk, Khial can see the pain in my eyes. He can sense the weight on my shoulders. So this man, a refugee who came to our country just weeks ago, with only a few bags of clothes to his name, tells me he’s worried about me.
“Brother, you cannot save them all.”
“I know,” I say, choking back tears.
July 2022
AFTER DEALING WITH an overly nosy landlord, Khial has moved to the Tennessee countryside, trading suburban life for something less restricting.
And he’s thriving. His new house is a lot smaller, but it is easier to manage. His wife’s brother and sister have shuffled along to New Mexico, joining up with some family members there, and his older brother, an engineer by trade, has moved to Virginia after securing an entry-level engineering position.
So now it’s just Khial, his wife and kids, and his younger brother, Sultan. Khial and Sultan both work at the Volkswagen plant in Chattanooga. Khial can fix anything and has quickly moved up the meritocratic ladder. He’s already a manager, making good money for a recently arrived refugee.
He’s worried, however, that he might get kicked out of the country without the passage of the Afghan Adjustment Act (AAA). Khial and his family, like most of our Afghan allies, were granted access to the United States on an emergency humanitarian parole. But that won’t last forever, and there’s growing concern throughout the Afghan-American community that without the AAA, they will be deported.
I assure Khial that nobody will ever deport them. However, I level with him on the AAA: It’s unlikely to pass for the foreseeable future. While there’s plenty of bipartisan support, it’s not enough to override concerns from Republican hardliners.
In the meantime, I write letters of recommendation for Khial and his entire family so they can obtain asylum status. Former Afghan soldiers can never return to Afghanistan. The Taliban would kill or torture them, or force them to join their ranks, leveraging their decades of Western training.
While my letter on his behalf soothes some of his concerns, Khial is also restless. He’s grateful for his job, but he misses flying. Flying is his passion, his identity. However, his training records were left in Afghanistan. Moreover, the USAF never provided Afghan pilots with licenses since so many absconded. Regardless, Khial is determined to get recertified. It’s a long process, but he tells me he will fly again.
I remind him that he’s got a great job with further chances for promotion. Once his asylum is approved, he can apply for legal permanent residence (green card) after a year. Then, after five years, he can apply for citizenship. Then, and only then, can he and his brother petition for the rest of his family to join him in the States. It’s a long, arduous process, but I counsel him to be patient and cautious.
“Yes, I know. But I want to fly again. It’s better money, and there’s a pilot shortage in this country.”
Like all Afghans in the United States, part of Khial and his brothers’ salaries go back to support their family. Afghanistan is a humanitarian disaster. Jobs are scarce.
“I need to fly, brother,” he explains to me. “It’s the best chance for all of my family.”
August 2023
“HEY BROTHER, I QUIT MY JOB so I could study for all of my flying certifications.”
I sigh heavily after reading his text message. This is a mistake. Things were going great at work. He recently got yet another promotion. His brother Sultan is doing well and will start taking community college classes. Khial’s wife, Manhiza, is doing some part-time work from home. More importantly, Khial’s entire extended family was granted asylum. Why throw away a stable job? This isn’t the time to take such a reckless gamble.
“When is your test?” I ask.
“In one month,” he responds. “I’m studying six hours a day. It’s a lot harder than I remember.”
Oh God, I think. This is going to end badly. Hopefully, he can get his old job back if he fails the test. His brother, Sultan, still has a job, so he can float them for a bit.
I relay my concerns to my wife, who wisely tells me, “He’s chasing his dream. Isn’t that what you want to do after the military?”
She was right. And so was Khial. He passed his tests and quickly landed a job flying for a major airline. He’s probably flying over your city as you read this.
In less than two years, Khial resettled his family in a new country, found a great job, got multiple promotions, and achieved his goal of flying again.
They are sending their best people.
January 2024
THROUGHOUT THE LAST TWO tumultuous years, Khial’s dogged persistence helped buoy me through moral trauma. I often told myself, If Khial could persist, so can I. If he can successfully transition from one life to another, why can’t I? If he can chase his dreams, why can’t I—why can’t we all?
Which brings us back to that other question I am often asked: Were the wars worth it?
The military is a calling. There is something inherently noble in what we do. You fight for your brothers and sisters to the left and right of you. You kill for them and are willing to die for them.
You’re also fighting for something more. For all of this country’s many sins, we stand for something fundamentally good.
That good is personified in Khial and his entire family. That a refugee can become an airline pilot in less than two years is now part of our great American story. It’s your story, too. Their lives will be interwoven into the fabric of this great nation.
Khial Shinwari renewed my faith in this country, saving me in the process. So, yes, it was worth it. Because they are worth it.
We might not have won. But we have the Shinwaris and thousands of others, and they will help us become a more perfect union.
That’s a victory in and of itself.
 | A guest post by
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