The explosion at Kabul’s Karzai International Airport on Aug. 26, 2021, shattered Manizha’s world in an instant. As the Taliban seized control and U.S. forces withdrew, the then–21-year-old women’s rights activist managed to secure humanitarian parole for herself and her family. But amid the chaos of the ISIS-K bombing, she was separated from her parents and three siblings.
Forced to make an agonizing choice, she entered the Abbey Gate with her younger brother, Rafi, and sister, Maryam. (We’re not including their last names because while they are legally in the U.S., their Permanent Resident Cards do not protect them from being deported or detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Under the Trump administration, green card status holders may be deported or detained by ICE under specific legal circumstances.)
They boarded a U.S. transport plane together, leaving the rest of her family behind.
We met Manizha by chance. She translated for us as we mentored another Afghan family through the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, which provides services to refugees and asylum seekers. She was raising her siblings alone as their guardian, working full-time and navigating every appointment, form and crisis without anyone to guide her.
Over time, the three siblings began spending holidays with us, calling for advice and sharing their triumphs and heartbreaks. Slowly, they became part of our family. We love them like our own children.
That is why the political backlash following the Thanksgiving shooting near the White House has been devastating. When an Afghan asylum seeker shot two National Guard members, killing one, President Donald Trump immediately seized the tragedy to justify pausing asylum decisions, halting visas and re-examining green card holders from 19 “countries of concern.”
This policy followed fear rather than facts.
The danger here is greater than one horrific crime. It is the idea that entire communities can be punished for the actions of a single individual. If this logic prevails, then nearly 190,000 Afghans now legally living in the United States — many of whom risked their lives to support U.S. forces — could watch their futures evaporate. Collective punishment is becoming an acceptable political reflex.
Sacramento County has welcomed more than 9,000 Afghan evacuees since 2021 — the largest concentration of new arrivals anywhere in the country — and today is home to an estimated 20,000 Afghan refugees and immigrants. Families have put down roots in Arden Arcade, Foothill Farms, Citrus Heights and Elk Grove. They have been supported by local mosques, mutual-aid groups and resettlement agencies that helped them thrive.
Afghans rebuilding their lives in Sacramento face the same uncertainty now hanging over Manizha, Rafi and Maryam. What happens in Washington will determine whether these families can stay, work and feel safe in the city they call home.
The anxiety spreading through Sacramento’s Afghan community is magnified by something more disturbing: the double standard in how Trump talks about violence depending on who commits it. When a white Army reservist killed 18 people in Lewiston, Maine, Trump posted a restrained message calling it a “terrible situation.” But when the accused perpetrator is brown, Muslim or visibly foreign, the language shifts to “animals” and “crimes against our entire nation.”
Last week, Trump repeated this pattern, calling Somalis “garbage” and vowing to remove the entire community from the country. These rhetorical choices are not accidental; they make clear which communities are granted humanity and which are cast as threats.
For Afghan families like the one we love, the message is chilling. Manizha researched the safest neighborhoods in Omaha, determined to give her siblings a life free from the fear they grew up with. She became the household’s primary breadwinner as a caseworker, often staying late to help clients who reminded her of her own family. At night, she studies to become a nurse, poring over textbooks at the kitchen table after her siblings are asleep.
Rafi worked 35 hours a week as a certified nursing assistant while attending high school and learning English. Today, he is studying to become a nurse and is considering medical school. In Afghanistan, he told us, studying felt pointless: how do you plan for a future you might not live to see? Here, he throws himself into demanding coursework, because for the first time in his life, the future feels real.
Maryam made the honor roll while managing a restaurant shift team — a job she started shyly, nervous to speak to customers. During our first visit, Maryam, embarrassed by her English, refused to ask the salesperson a question. Two years later, she cracks jokes effortlessly in English and Dari, switching between languages as she bosses her sister around in the most endearing way.
We have watched them navigate every stage of rebuilding a life. Rafi, once reserved, found a sense of belonging with the medical team at a rehabilitation center. Manizha faces the bittersweet loneliness of a young woman raising siblings who are suddenly becoming independent.
They light Hanukkah candles with us, ask thoughtful questions about American holidays, and bring Afghan dishes from recipes they’ve adapted to the ingredients available here.
America has a long history of scapegoating immigrants, but this moment is especially dangerous because the rhetoric is being weaponized at the highest levels of government.
Manizha, Rafi and Maryam are not threats to this country. They are what this country claims to value: resilience, responsibility and hope. Immigrants strengthen every city they join. When we allow fear to define policy, we don’t just betray our promises to them, we diminish ourselves.
When we think of Afghans, the image we hold is not the one the president wants Americans to imagine. We think of Manizha, Rafi and Maryam — our family. And they deserve better from this country.
Jennifer Obel is a retired physician and writer whose work on immigration, public health and democracy has appeared in national outlets. Kenneth Obel is an attorney who writes about law and civic responsibility. Together, they have resettled many Afghan families through the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.
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