The Missing Letter - Karim's Story

By: Karim, Former Afghan Interpreter

My name is Karim. Years ago, I made a decision that seemed small at the time — I accepted a job as an interpreter with a Provincial Reconstruction Team in Afghanistan. I was young. I didn’t realize that choice would follow me for the rest of my life.

Working as an interpreter was nothing like people imagine. We weren’t sitting behind desks translating documents. We were out front — walking through villages, valleys, and mountain roads alongside U.S. troops. We were often the first voices locals heard, the first faces they saw, and too often the first targets insurgents looked for.

The area where we served was already one of the most dangerous in the country. Every patrol meant stepping into uncertainty: ambushes, IEDs hidden under dust. Interpreters were easy to identify, easy to remember, and impossible to hide. We carried no weapons, yet we were treated like soldiers — and hunted like enemies.

After some time, I left the job to pursue my education. But leaving didn’t erase the interpreter label. It stayed with me like a shadow. I changed SIM cards again and again, afraid that an old colleague might call and expose me. I learned to live quietly, to move carefully, to trust almost no one.

Years passed. I found work outside Afghanistan. Life became stable — at least on the surface.

Then more Special Immigrant Visas were approved for Afghans who had supported the mission. I decided to apply.

I thought it would be straightforward.

I was wrong.

The application hinged on two things:

1. A letter of recommendation

2. An HR letter verifying my employment

   
   

Of all the Americans I had worked with, only one remained in regular contact. He didn’t hesitate. He wrote my recommendation letter, and two others did the same. Half the battle was won.

But the HR letter — the one piece of paper that proved I had risked my life — became the biggest obstacle. Over the years, the contractor companies had merged, been bought out, or shut down.

Records were scattered or lost, and the successor company said they had no record of Afghan employees like me. It felt like my service had been erased.

I submitted everything I had. My Chief of Mission approval was denied.

Every message explaining the missing HR letter came back with the same answer: provide the HR letter.

It felt like shouting into a locked room. I felt helpless. I felt forgotten.

I told my former colleague about the denial. That changed everything. He stepped in the way only a true friend does — reaching out to members of Congress, contacting advocacy groups, writing publicly, and pushing through endless correspondence. Not everyone has someone like that. I will never forget it.

Eventually, after months of struggle and persistence, we got the HR letter. But the fight was far from over.

When the U.S. announced its withdrawal from Afghanistan, my fear multiplied overnight. My family was still there. My immigration status abroad made it hard to bring them with me. When international forces were present, I could visit them regularly. After the withdrawal, I didn’t know if I would ever see them safely again.

The Taliban gained access to biometric databases. My job abroad wasn’t permanent. If I lost it — especially during the pandemic — I could be forced to return. I knew exactly what that meant.

The next SIV requirement was to submit civil documents like marriage certificates and national IDs. To obtain those, I had to return to Afghanistan. I knew the risks. I went anyway.

Every office, every checkpoint, every question felt like a test of fate. At the airport, the questioning was so intense I could feel sweat running down my back. I kept thinking: If they find out who I am, this is the end.

By some miracle, I gathered the documents and returned abroad. I managed to bring my family with me, and we finally received our interview date.

My wife knew nothing about my work with the U.S. military. I had kept it hidden to protect her. I asked the immigration officer not to mention it. If my visa was denied, I didn’t want anyone — even my own family — to carry a secret that could get us all killed.

And then — after years of danger, fear, uncertainty, and countless moments where everything could have collapsed — our SIV visas were approved and stamped.

It felt like a miracle.

It felt like breathing after years underwater.

Not everyone survives the wait. Not everyone has someone advocating for them. Not everyone makes it out.

I share my story so people understand what Afghan interpreters carried — the risks, the sacrifices, the years of waiting — and how much it means when someone keeps their promise to stand by us.