Categories
Politics

Interpreter describes household’s escape from Taliban in Kabul

Antifullah Ahmadzai, an Afghan national, takes a selfie inside of a U.S. military cargo aircraft before an evacuation flight from Kabul.

Courtesy: Antifullah Ahmadzai

WASHINGTON – One month ago, Atifullah Ahmadzai boarded a flight from Connecticut to Kabul, eager to hold his wife and five young children again.

The purpose of this trip was nearly a decade in the making as Ahmadzai, a former interpreter for the U.S. military, was carrying the final documents needed for his family to complete a coveted special immigrant visa.

While in Kabul, Ahmadzai planned on saying goodbye to friends and extended family members before bringing his wife and children to America, where he had spent the last two years preparing for their new life.

Ten days into his plans, after the rest of Afghanistan had already fallen during the U.S. military’s withdrawal, the Taliban seized the presidential palace in Kabul.

The swift collapse of the Afghan national government forced Ahmadzai and thousands of others to flood the gates of Hamid Karzai International Airport, where Western forces were conducting evacuation flights out of the country.

The story of Ahmadzai and his family is emblematic of the desperation and fear felt by thousands of Afghans as U.S. and coalition forces withdrew the last of their troops from Afghanistan after a nearly 20-year occupation.

Over the course of 17 days leading up to Aug. 31, the U.S. and coalition partners airlifted more than 116,000 people out of Afghanistan on cargo aircraft. The Pentagon said it dedicated more than 5,000 U.S. service members and 200 aircraft to the colossal evacuation mission.

Meanwhile, governments around the world opened their borders to at-risk Afghan nationals arriving on evacuation flights.

“I wasn’t expecting that everything was going to change immediately,” Ahmadzai told CNBC.

“The Taliban made a checkpoint 800 feet away from my house, where they would question you about your job,” he said, adding that he was too afraid to disclose his previous role in the Afghan military.

Taliban forces stand guard in front of Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul, Afghanistan, September 2, 2021.

Stringer | Reuters

At one checkpoint, Ahmadzai said his cell phone was searched by Taliban insurgents looking for anything that would confirm his ties to the previous government or to the United States.

“They were also knocking on people’s doors and asking about their jobs,” he said. “The homes of those who worked for the government or with the U.S. military were marked during the day and at night the Taliban came back to those houses to kill.” Fear of targeted killings by the Taliban fueled many Afghans’ desire to get out of the country.

A rallying cry on Facebook

Desperate for a way out, Ahmadzai sent a text message to a U.S. Army officer he translated for during America’s longest war.

“He addresses me as his brother,” said the officer, Mike Kuszpa, now a teacher in Connecticut, when asked about Ahmadzai’s initial message.

“He wrote to me and said, ‘Brother, my family and I are out here and the Taliban has been looking for interpreters. Who knows what’s gonna happen, they may kill me and my family,'” Kuszpa told CNBC.

A 2004 photo of Antifullah Ahmadzai (left) and Mike Kuszpa (right) in Afghanistan.

Courtesy of Mike Kuszpa

“I was grasping at straws. I didn’t know anybody, so I posted to a neighborhood message board on Facebook asking if anybody had Department of State connections that could help my interpreter and his family get on an evacuation flight,” he said.

The post to the 109-member “Westville Dads” Facebook group triggered a flurry of phone calls, Facebook messages, encrypted text messages and emails to a network that spanned from academia to intelligence analysts to lawmakers to diplomats.

“I got in touch with a former student of mine who is a foreign service officer about getting his documents in the system so that he wouldn’t be turned away at the airport,” said Matt Schmidt, national security and political science professor at the University of New Haven, who reached out to at least 16 people in a bid to help Ahmadzai.

“I counseled Atif to wait for a phone call from State to go to the airport,” Schmidt said using a shortened version of Ahmadzai’s first name, Atifullah. “Mike was uneasy about waiting and told Atif to go to the airport. It was the right call.”

A struggle to flee

Across the globe, Western forces intensified emergency humanitarian evacuations amid a backdrop of security threats and the Biden administration’s self-imposed Aug. 31 withdrawal deadline.

“At one point I started getting news alerts about gunfire at the airport while I was messaging with Atif. It was surreal,” said Schmidt, who breathlessly waited for updates from Ahmadzai.

In Kabul, Ahmadzai and his family were struggling to get out.

“It was difficult to get to the airport. I tried for three straight days but was not able to reach the gates,” Ahmadzai told CNBC, explaining that he had to sidestep Taliban checkpoints each time he and his family returned home after a full day of waiting at the airport.

“On the fourth day, I received a text message advising me to go through another gate. When I arrived, there were more than 1,000 people already gathered,” Ahmadzai said. He said there was occasional gunfire in the crowd.

“My family was very scared and shocked,” Ahmadzai said. “My wife asked me if we could go back because she was afraid for our children, but I told her we have to try and leave because it was better than dying at the hands of the Taliban.”

After more than three hours of waiting at the gate, Ahmadzai was able to get close enough to the U.S. Marines guarding the entry point to show them his green card and visa.

“I then showed them the paperwork for my children and wife,” he said. The Marines were able to verify his information, he said, because two days prior it was entered into the State Department’s system thanks to the network of mobilized dads on Facebook.

Ahmadzai’s next message to his friends coordinating his evacuation came from the interior gates of the airport.

Antifullah Ahmadzai, a former Afghan interpreter for the U.S. military, stands with his children and U.S. Marines at Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul, Afghanistan.

“When he sent that pic of him and his kids safe in the airport with the soldiers flanking him, I broke down in tears,” Schmidt said.

“As a dad, I couldn’t imagine the fate that awaited them if they didn’t get out,” Schmidt continued. “We were just dads reaching across the globe to help a fellow dad. That bound us all together, more than culture or religion. We knew what it meant to need to protect your family.”

A fateful departure

Ahmadzai, his wife and their children, who range from age 2 to 12, boarded a C-17 cargo military aircraft and flew to Qatar, which is about 1,200 miles from Kabul. They spent two nights and three days in the Persian Gulf country.

“Qatar camp was good, but as soon as we got there my second son was feeling very sick and he vomited more than 15 times as he was not familiar with this kind of situation. A medic came and gave him an IV quickly and after that, he was able to start eating and drinking again,” Ahmadzai said.

Antifullah Ahmadzai, an Afghan national, takes a selfie inside of a holding bay from an unspecified location in Qatar.

Courtesy: Antifullah Ahmadzai

After Qatar, the family was flown to Ramstein Air Base in Germany, where they spent the night. The next day they boarded a flight to the United States and arrived at Dulles International Airport in Virginia.

Ahmadzai said he and his family were tested for Covid-19 and completed biometric health screenings before leaving the airport in Dulles. He was vaccinated against Covid earlier this year. The Pentagon has previously said that all Afghan nationals relocating to the United States who want the coronavirus vaccine will be able to receive one.

“I never expected to come back to the States alive,” said Ahmadzai, who spoke to CNBC over the course of a week from Qatar, Germany and the United States. He said he was “thankful that the United States helped us in a very critical situation.”

“There was no option, no flights and no way for me and my family to escape the Taliban,” he said.

When asked about his children, Ahmadzai said they were “doing great and happy.”

“The kids are quite different now. They think they are in a different world and are trying to learn a new language and way of life.”

Ahmadzai and his family recently left a U.S. military installation in Virginia, where they finished their special immigrant visa paperwork. He is returning to Connecticut with his family.

Kuszpa, the Army officer, said there are plans for an outdoor barbecue to welcome Ahmadzai’s family to the community.

“Now he’s here and a part of our family,” said Schmidt, the professor. “His kids will play with ours.”

Categories
Health

Black Lives Are Shorter in Chicago. My Household’s Historical past Reveals Why.

In Englewood, about 60 percent of residents have a high school diploma or equivalent or less, and 57 percent of households earn less than $ 25,000 a year. Streeterville, on the other side of Chicago’s Abyss, has a median income of $ 125,000. The vast majority of residents have at least a university degree; 44 percent have a master’s degree or higher. And predictably, Englewood has long taken an uneven burden of disease. It is among the highest death rates in the city from heart disease and diabetes, as well as child mortality and children with elevated blood levels, according to the Chicago Department of Public Health. These differences all lead to this irrefutable race gap in the lifespan.

“It is very clear that geography affects life expectancy most,” said Dr. Judith L. Singleton, a medical and cultural anthropologist at Northwestern University who is conducting an ongoing study of life expectancy inequality in Chicago neighborhoods. Her father came to Chicago from New Orleans in the 1930s and settled in Bronzeville. In 1960 her parents bought a house in the far south. 40 years after her mother died, her father moved out of his home for good because of the lack of services, including nearby grocery stores, and he feared for his safety. “If you live in a resource-rich, higher-income neighborhood, your chances of living longer are better – and the opposite is true if your community is resource-limited,” she said. “Something is wrong here.”

In the past there has been a damned explanation for why poor communities suffer from crumbling conditions and a lack of services: not that something is wrong that needs fixing, but that something is wrong with the people and the community itself. It’s their fault; They did this to themselves by not eating properly, avoiding medical care, and being uneducated. Almost every time former President Donald Trump opened his mouth to talk about black communities in Detroit, Baltimore, Atlanta and, yes, Chicago, he reiterated the underlying assumption that black communities in America were solely for their own problems are responsible. In 2019, Trump’s former attorney Michael Cohen claimed during an affidavit before Congress that his boss had characterized Black Chicago with contempt and guilt: “While we were once driving through a struggling neighborhood in Chicago,” Trump commented that only blacks could live Gone. “In 2018, the American Values ​​Survey found that 45 percent of white Americans believe that socioeconomic disparities are really due to not trying hard enough – and that blacks might be as well off as they are Whites when they try harder.

What really happened was more sinister. On the south side of Chicago, a pattern of deliberate, government-sanctioned action systematically extracted wealth from the black neighborhoods, eroding the health of generations of people, making them live sick and die young.

Like mine, Dr. Eric E. Whitaker made a route north from Mississippi to the south side of Chicago. I met Whitaker, a doctor and former director of the Illinois Department of Public Health, in 1991 while serving as a health communications scholar at what is now the Harvard TH Chan School of Public Health. He studied medicine at the University of Chicago’s Pritzker School of Medicine and took a year off to do his Masters in Public Health. After we became friends, we discovered that his maternal grandparents owned a three-story building around the corner of our family home on South Vernon Avenue.

He remembers the area as a thriving mixed income neighborhood, a place of comfort, full of life and energy, even though all that remains of his grandparents’ building is a memory and a heap of rubble. “What I remember about my grandparents’ house was the vitality,” said Whitaker, who met his close friend Barack Obama the year he was at Harvard when Obama was at Harvard Law School. “There would be people on porches, children playing in the street. It was ambitious. Now you drive through towns like Englewood and see empty lot after empty lot after empty lot. Every now and then I take my kids with me to see where dad is from. When I show them the vacant lot where Grandma’s house used to be, they think: Wow, that’s sad. “

But what Whitaker and I remember with a warm glimmer wasn’t the whole story. Even as our relatives began their hopeful new lives in the 1930s, the government-sanctioned practice of redlining emerged in response to enforcing segregation, lowering land and property values, and sowing divestment and decay for more than 30 years.

Categories
World News

My Household’s International Vaccine Journey

On February 22nd, Mom wrote that she and Dad had booked an appointment on March 11th to take their first recordings, followed by the second dose in April. A day later, she reported that Dad hadn’t pressed the button to confirm the appointment in the online booking system and had lost the slots.

The next week they texted again: They had gone to a private clinic where Sinovac recordings were handed in. After a short wait, they received the vaccine. On April 2nd, they announced that they had received their second dose of Sinovac and were feeling fine. Mom complained that even though they had an appointment, they “still have to wait half an hour”.

Our responses were more enthusiastic.

“Great news,” I wrote.

“Yay!” Pui-Ying texted him, followed by solemn emojis.

“Congratulations!” Said Pui Ling.

Pui-Ying moved to Malawi with her family in 2016 to work as a doctor and conduct clinical studies on children’s health. Resources at the Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital where she works have been limited. When Madonna’s charity funded the construction of a new children’s wing in the hospital, which opened in 2017, it was big news.

The staff was scarce even before the coronavirus, said Pui-Ying. When the pandemic broke out, the hospital opted for a weeklong, weeklong routine to reduce staff exposure to Covid-19 while ensuring there were enough healthcare professionals working at all times. Masks, gloves and other protective equipment were rare.

In pediatrics, Pui-Ying and her colleagues have set up a “breathing zone” for children with Covid-19. It was essentially a two-room ward with about a dozen beds in the main room. The second room, which was an isolation unit, had space for four children.