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Afghans in California reeling amid Trump administration travel ban, end of deportation protections

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  With the end of Temporary Protected Status for Afghan nationals, one organization estimates that as many as 11,700 Afghans in the U.S. are now vulnerable to deportation.


Afghans in California Reeling Amid Trump's Return to Power


FREMONT, Calif. – In the bustling neighborhoods of Fremont, often dubbed "Little Kabul," the air is thick with a mix of anxiety and resilience. Here, thousands of Afghan immigrants and refugees who fled the chaos of their homeland now find themselves grappling with a new wave of uncertainty following Donald Trump's decisive victory in the presidential election. For many in this tight-knit community, Trump's promises of mass deportations and stricter immigration policies evoke painful memories of displacement and fear, threatening to upend lives painstakingly rebuilt on American soil.

The Afghan diaspora in California is one of the largest in the United States, with estimates placing over 50,000 Afghans in the state alone, many concentrated in the Bay Area. Fremont, with its array of Afghan markets, restaurants serving mantu dumplings and kabobs, and mosques echoing calls to prayer, has become a cultural haven. But beneath the vibrant facade, the community is reeling. Trump's campaign rhetoric, which included vows to "seal the border" and conduct the "largest deportation operation in American history," has sent shockwaves through immigrant groups, particularly those from war-torn nations like Afghanistan.

Take the story of Fatima Ahmadi, a 32-year-old mother of two who arrived in the U.S. in 2021 amid the frantic evacuations following the Taliban's takeover of Kabul. Ahmadi, a former teacher in Afghanistan, now works at a local nonprofit helping resettle refugees. "We escaped death there, only to face this here," she said, her voice trembling during an interview at a community center in Fremont. "Trump talks about deporting people like us. Where would we go? Back to the Taliban? They would kill us." Ahmadi's family was airlifted out during Operation Allies Welcome, the U.S. government's effort to evacuate allies after the withdrawal from Afghanistan. She recalls the harrowing scenes at Kabul's airport, where crowds surged in desperation as American forces pulled out.

Ahmadi's fears are not unfounded. During Trump's first term, his administration implemented a travel ban affecting several Muslim-majority countries, including Afghanistan, and drastically reduced refugee admissions. The number of refugees admitted to the U.S. plummeted from over 80,000 annually under Obama to fewer than 12,000 in Trump's final year. Now, with Trump poised to return to the White House, advocates worry about a revival of such policies. "We're preparing for the worst," said Waheed Momand, director of the Afghan Coalition, a Fremont-based organization supporting immigrants. "Many of our clients are on temporary statuses like humanitarian parole or Temporary Protected Status (TPS). If those are revoked, it could mean deportation for thousands."

The Biden administration had extended TPS for Afghans until March 2025, providing temporary relief from deportation and work authorization for those who arrived after the Taliban resurgence. But Trump's team has signaled intentions to end such protections, viewing them as loopholes in immigration enforcement. In campaign speeches, Trump repeatedly criticized the Biden-Harris administration's handling of Afghan evacuees, claiming it allowed "unvetted" individuals into the country. This narrative has fueled anti-immigrant sentiment, leaving many Afghans feeling targeted.

Community leaders are mobilizing in response. At a recent gathering at the Afghan Cultural Center in Fremont, dozens of families shared stories over cups of green tea. Elders recounted their escapes from Soviet invasions in the 1980s, drawing parallels to today's uncertainties. "We've survived wars, bombs, and betrayals," said Mohammad Qasim, a 65-year-old veteran of the Afghan mujahideen who fought alongside U.S. forces against the Taliban. "But this feels different. America was our hope. Now, it feels like it's turning its back."

Qasim's son, Amir, 28, who served as an interpreter for U.S. troops in Afghanistan, echoed his father's sentiments. Amir arrived in California via the Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) program, designed for Afghans who aided American forces. "I risked my life for the U.S. mission," he said. "Without us, many soldiers wouldn't have made it home. Now, they're talking about sending us back?" The SIV program, plagued by backlogs, has been a lifeline for thousands, but under Trump, processing times lengthened, stranding applicants in danger.

The emotional toll is palpable. Mental health professionals in the community report a surge in anxiety and depression cases since the election. Dr. Nadia Rahman, a psychologist specializing in refugee trauma, noted, "Many are experiencing flashbacks to the fall of Kabul. The uncertainty triggers PTSD. Families are hoarding documents, preparing emergency plans, even discussing fleeing to Canada." Support groups have formed, offering legal clinics and counseling sessions. Organizations like the International Rescue Committee and local mosques are ramping up efforts to help with asylum applications and citizenship pathways.

Yet, amid the fear, there's a undercurrent of defiance and hope. Young Afghans, many born or raised in the U.S., are stepping up as advocates. Sara Noori, a 24-year-old student at UC Berkeley, organized a vigil in San Francisco's Union Square shortly after the election results. "We're not just victims; we're contributors," she said. "Afghans are doctors, engineers, entrepreneurs here. We built businesses, paid taxes, enriched this country. Deporting us would be a loss for America too." Noori's family fled Afghanistan in the 1990s during the civil war, and she grew up hearing stories of resilience. Now, she's channeling that into activism, lobbying lawmakers to protect immigrant rights.

The broader context of U.S.-Afghan relations adds layers to this distress. The chaotic 2021 withdrawal, marked by the deaths of 13 U.S. service members in a suicide bombing at Kabul airport, left a scar on both nations. Many Afghans feel abandoned, having been promised safety for their collaboration. Reports from human rights groups indicate that returning to Afghanistan under Taliban rule means severe risks: women barred from education and work, ethnic minorities persecuted, and former U.S. allies hunted down. "It's a death sentence," Ahmadi emphasized.

In Sacramento, state legislators are responding. California, a sanctuary state, has laws limiting cooperation with federal immigration enforcement. Assemblymember Mia Bonta, whose district includes parts of the Bay Area, pledged to bolster protections. "We'll fight tooth and nail to shield our communities," she said in a statement. Governor Gavin Newsom has also vowed to resist federal overreach, potentially setting up legal battles with the incoming Trump administration.

Nationally, immigrant rights groups are gearing up for court fights. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) has already filed suits against previous Trump-era policies and plans more. "Mass deportations would require massive resources and face constitutional challenges," said ACLU attorney Lee Gelernt. "But the human cost is what worries us most."

For now, in Fremont's markets, conversations buzz with a mix of worry and determination. Vendors sell saffron and pistachios imported from Afghanistan, symbols of a homeland they may never safely return to. Children play in parks, oblivious to the storm clouds, while parents whisper about contingency plans. "We've rebuilt before," Momand of the Afghan Coalition reflected. "We'll do it again if we must. But we hope America remembers its promises."

As Trump prepares to take office, the Afghan community in California stands at a crossroads. Their stories are a testament to the enduring human spirit, but also a stark reminder of the fragility of refuge in an era of shifting political winds. Whether through legal battles, community solidarity, or sheer perseverance, they vow to weather this latest challenge, holding onto the American dream that brought them here.

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