
It took me seven long years to finally receive my Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) and make it to safety—seven years of waiting, hoping, and wondering if my sacrifice and service would be enough.
"Welcome to America" – A Moment I Will Never Forget
The announcement echoed through the airport: "Welcome to JFK Airport." I had finally arrived in the United States. It was cold, cloudy, and lightly raining—very different from the dry heat of Afghanistan. My body was exhausted from the long journey, but my mind was racing. I had no extra clothes; everything was in my checked luggage. Even then, I didn’t own much—just a few jeans and shirts I had bought in Kabul and a small bag of pre-cooked wheat my mother had prepared for me. It was a simple snack, something familiar, something that carried a piece of home. But it never made it past security—At least it touched American soil briefly.
A New World, But the Same Anxiety
John F. Kennedy Airport was overwhelming—busier and louder than anything I had experienced in Kabul or even New Delhi. But one thing was different this time: I could speak English fluently, with an American accent, and people understood me. That didn’t stop the nerves from creeping in when I reached security.
“U.S. citizens on the left, non-U.S. citizens on the right,” a large officer directed. His uniform, his gun, and his presence reminded me of the soldiers I had worked with in Afghanistan.
A clean-shaven officer approached me. “Where did you come from?” “Afghanistan,” I answered.
“Did you fly from Afghanistan?”
“No, this flight was from India.”
He nodded but remained silent, flipping through my documents. Then, after a pause, he said, "You stay out here; I’ll be right back." And just like that, I was alone again.
Every Minute Felt Like an Hour
I stood there, my hands clenched, my heart pounding. Why was he taking so long?
I ran through every answer I had given. Was my paperwork incorrect? Did they think something was wrong? Would they send me back? Back to where I was no longer safe?
My mind raced with worst-case scenarios. I knew what would await me if I were forced to return. I couldn’t go back.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, the officer returned. He was holding my passport and my sealed immigration packet.
“Sorry, I can’t pronounce your first name. Mind if I call you by your last name?”
Relief flooded through me. “Of course.”
An Unexpected Connection
Inside a small office, the officer surprised me.
“You were an interpreter, right?”
“Yes, for almost eight years.”
His face lit up. “I was deployed to Afghanistan. We had an interpreter named ‘Jakie.’ Great guy. He used to bring us Afghan naan—it was the best thing I ever ate. I’ve been trying to find it here ever since.”
For the first time since I landed, I smiled. We talked about deployments and units and shared experiences in a warzone. He had served with the 101st Airborne. I had worked with them, too. We were strangers in an airport office, but for a moment, we weren’t just an officer and an immigrant—we were two people who had lived through the same war on different sides of the same battle.
The officer looked up from the paperwork, took a brief breath, and asked, “Have you ever worked with the 101st Airborne?"
“Absolutely," I replied. "I had the opportunity to work with the 101st Airborne Division multiple times—they were one of my favorite units. I also served alongside the 10th Mountain Division, the 173rd Airborne Brigade, the 1st Infantry Division, the 4th Infantry Division, the 25th Infantry Division, the 82nd Airborne Division, the 125th Military Police, Special Ops, and the OGA (Other Government Agency), along with many others whose names I can no longer recall.”
Without hesitation, the officer asked, “Did you say OGA? What’s ‘OGA’?”
“Other Government Agency,” I replied.
“American, right?” he clarified.
“Yes, but not with the Army. They handle… secret operations,” I said carefully.
I couldn’t tell him it was the CIA. My mind flashed back to one of my instructors from the TradeCraft course—a man who had spent months in Pakistan under meticulously crafted cover stories. (His journey is one for another time—stay tuned.)
“Oh, I get it. We don’t talk about that here,” the officer said with a knowing smile. He glanced at the paperwork and then back at me. “Alright, we’re almost done, and you’ll be on your way soon. Just one last question—who’s picking you up at the airport?”
“Sergeant Major Kevin Devine,” I answered. “He was my platoon sergeant in 2009 when I worked with Charlie Company, 1-32, 10th Mountain Division in Kunar Province, Afghanistan.”
Before I left, he looked at me and said, “Thank you for your service, and Welcome to America.”
“There are one in a million encounters in life where you meet people you know will change the world or someone’s outlook. The American government and our allies owe him a debt of gratitude for the thousands of lives he has saved due to his experience and knowledge. Absolutely grateful for our friendship and family addition.”
—Kevin Devine, Command Sergeant Major, U.S. Army
I hope this hasn't been too overwhelming to read, especially amidst the chaos and heartbreaking news of the midair crash in which so many innocent lives were tragically lost.
I want to take you back a little further into my journey, but more importantly, I want to highlight that this is the journey of thousands of interpreters who are now stranded in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. They are trapped in a country that is no longer safe for them, abandoned despite their service and sacrifices.
My name is Nasirullah "John" Safi, and I am a former U.S. military combat interpreter and cultural advisor wounded while serving alongside American soldiers in Afghanistan. My journey began as a young teenager, stepping into the dangerous unknown to support U.S. forces on countless patrols, missions, and operations—each day a test of survival where I narrowly escaped death or serious injury. I spent years fighting shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and sisters in arms, just like thousands of other interpreters, in the most treacherous and blood-soaked terrain of Afghanistan. Each day, I faced the reality that I might never make it out alive. My choices were grim: stand alongside my brothers and sisters and face enemy fire or return home only to be brutally hunted by the Taliban or other insurgents.
It’s now happening to thousands of interpreters who are left behind at the mercy of the Taliban. I joined some of the bloodiest battles—moments so harrowing they’ve been immortalized in movies and documentaries. I carry the scar on my right arm, a permanent reminder of the day insurgents fired a rocket-propelled grenade and left me wounded. That scar is not just a mark of survival; it is a daily reminder of the sacrifices and war we fought. But while I carry these memories, my deepest fear is that those we left behind will be forgotten.
I lost many brothers and sisters in arms, and the pain of losing them—including my brother-in-arm Specialist Alexander J. Miller in 2009—remains raw. He was more than a soldier—he was a brother to me. For over a decade, I have worn a bracelet in his memory, never taking it off, as a small but unyielding promise to honor his sacrifice and our bond.
The Price of Freedom
War leaves deep scars, both visible and hidden within the soul. As an interpreter for the U.S. military, I faced life-or-death situations, personal losses, and the constant threat of death. My commitment to the mission came at a significant cost—my brother Ahmad was critically injured in an IED attack, my sister Fatima was shot multiple times, and my brother-in-law and his child were killed due to our support for American soldiers. A tragic ambush by the Taliban left my brother wounded while others in our convoy were beheaded. These horrors are etched into my memory, a reminder of the sacrifices we made.
On January 20, 2025, President Donald Trump signed an executive order titled "Realigning the United States Refugee Admissions Program," effectively suspending the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program (USRAP) as of January 27, 2025. Hundreds of flights, including those carrying interpreters and other vulnerable individuals, have been canceled, which were once a flicker of hope now turned into an abyss of despair. Thousands of interpreters—my fellow combat interpreters, their families, and even my brother—who risked everything to support American soldiers are now left stranded with no clear path to safety. The very people who stood beside U.S. forces, who fought in every battle and faced unimaginable dangers, are now trapped in a nightmare with no end in sight.
For years, they believed they would be given a chance, a lifeline, a way out, an American dream, but with each passing day, the door to safety seems to close further and further. After the executive order, the situation for those once desperate to find safety has become even more hopeless.
A Call to Action
Suppose we, as Americans—the greatest nation in the world—don’t take action. In that case, countless brave allies will be harmed badly, left homeless, not only here in the United States, their supposed new home, but also in the very country they risked everything to support. These people stood by our side through the darkest days, and now their futures hang in the balance. Let us raise their voices, the voices of Afghan interpreters, and share their stories. They deserve to be heard and the chance to rebuild their lives after the sacrifices they made for our safety and freedom.
I co-authored an article with Rep. Michael Waltz, now the National Security Advisor, where we discussed the plight of interpreters. The same interpreter we spoke about almost five years ago is still in Afghanistan, waiting to get to safety with his family. His family members have been targeted, and now he lives in hiding.
https://www.militarytimes.com/opinion/commentary/2020/09/23/leave-no-afghan-interpreters-behind/
Nasirullah John Safi graduated with degrees in Journalism and Science. Safi is a multilingual U.S. resident who lives in Oregon. He is the author of “Get the Terp Up here!” and Indispensable,” and the third one " A thousand miles to Freedom,” soon to be published. His father was a history teacher, and his mother was preliterate; both worked on a small farm deep in the Hindu Kush mountains of eastern Afghanistan. Nasirullah John Safi became interested in writing after sharing his story as an interpreter with his American friends in Martha's Vineyard, MA. He has written numerous articles and interviewed national and international media. He has also been invited to various platforms, including universities, schools, colleges, and companies, to share his story and discuss trauma. He was invited to Duke University to discuss policy and what went wrong in Afghanistan.