On a dark and ominous night, with dust-laden clouds shrouding the sky and deepening the blackness, Mukhtar Abdaal sat in a corner of the Kandahar National Directorate of Security (NDS), fully equipped and hoping for a miraculous calm. But as the night’s darkness gave way to the light of dawn, the sounds of gunfire and artillery explosions grew louder. Mukhtar recalls: “In those moments, order and cohesion had vanished; sounds were chaotic, movements aimless, and faces were filled with fear and uncertainty. I felt Kandahar, the city we had fought for over the years, was taking its last breaths before my eyes.”
As daylight fully emerged on one of the fateful days of summer 2021, Mukhtar Abdaal and twelve of his colleagues at the Kandahar National Directorate of Security (NDS) received orders to evacuate the premises. They were instructed to head to a house on the city’s outskirts and await further orders via radio.
Mukhtar Abdaal, a former national security officer, told the Hasht-e Subh Daily: “We grabbed our military equipment and hurriedly left the building. We were told the house was safe, but no one knew exactly where the situation was heading.” Just one hour after Mukhtar and his colleagues left the security directorate, Kandahar fell completely. According to Mukhtar, security forces at the time were grappling with confusion, a lack of clear leadership, and absolute uncertainty.
The former officer added, “Everything happened so quickly. We didn’t even have time to say goodbye or secure important documents. It was as if the power went out in an instant; everything went dark.”
Mukhtar says that with Kandahar’s fall, he not only lost his role and position but also felt his entire past and identity crumble. He described his feelings: “It felt like everything was over. The fall of Kandahar was our fall—the collapse of trust, pride, and years of effort and fighting.” Mukhtar believes many security forces sank into depression and feelings of worthlessness after those nights. Those who had stood on the frontlines against terrorism for years were suddenly left without support, without a mission, and a future. He emphasized: “We thought at least if we died, we’d die for our homeland. But the fall was so swift and silent that even the chance to sacrifice was taken from us.”
The former officer recounted that they spent two days and nights in the temporary shelter without food, living in fear and confusion. He explained: “The Taliban were everywhere, like ants and locusts. We could hear the sound of their vehicles, their aerial gunfire, and their patrols around us. The only thing we could do was stay silent and still.”
With the fall of Kabul, which occurred just two to three days after Kandahar’s collapse, any hope of returning to normalcy vanished. Mukhtar and his twelve colleagues decided to flee—a decision, he says, born out of necessity to save their lives.
The former national security soldier recounted: “It was unbelievable that Ghani had fled and the Taliban now controlled all of Afghanistan. Everything happened so quickly and unexpectedly. None of us imagined the end of the system would be so silent and defenseless.”
After two days and nights hiding in a shelter on Kandahar’s outskirts, Mukhtar Abdaal and his comrades concluded they had no choice but to escape. Their first act was to bury their military uniforms. They donned local clothing and blended in to appear as civilians.
Mukhtar narrated: “We buried our military uniforms in the yard, put on local clothes, and dirtied ourselves to blend in with the people. But the Taliban were everywhere—checkpoints, patrols, sharp and suspicious gazes. We had no way out.”
To deceive the Taliban, Mukhtar and his companions decided to pose as shepherds. They bought a few sheep from a herder and carried a plastic sack to complete the disguise. With this ruse, they embarked on the perilous journey from Kandahar to Spin Boldak, near the Pakistan border, occasionally hitching rides to reach Pakistan.
The former soldier recounted: “Along the way, Taliban fighters boarded our vehicle. They demanded ID cards and passports from passengers, nitpicking at one person’s beard or another’s hair. They moved seat by seat, scanning with their eyes. I thought to myself: ‘It’s over, you’re done… what will happen to your two children now?’”
Mukhtar says that in that moment, he could only pray. He whispered his prayers under his breath and waited for a miracle. “I don’t know how it happened. They didn’t reach us. They passed by. Maybe they were tired, maybe they weren’t suspicious, or maybe it just wasn’t our time.”
Nearly four years have passed since the fall of the government, but for Mukhtar Abdaal, the memory of those nights remains like a dagger lodged in his throat—nights filled with relentless calls from family, the cries of his parents, the wails of his wife, and the trembling voices of his children.
Mukhtar recalls: “In those days, we were a few people, left without a future. We had no country to go to and no place to stay. And the most painful part was the talk among people who said the soldiers of the homeland didn’t fight, that they abandoned the battlefield.”
The fall of Kabul, just days after Kandahar’s collapse, was hard and unbelievable for them. Mukhtar remembers that day, sitting with his twelve colleagues in a quiet room. Each person sat in a corner, stunned and silent, phone in hand—one calling family, another crying quietly, and others, like him, seeking refuge in silence. After crossing the border with great risk, he took shelter in Pakistan, hoping conditions might improve and he could return to his country.
Mukhtar added quietly, “My only wish was to be one of Afghanistan’s best security forces. I entered this path with a passion to serve the people of my homeland, a motivation that still flows through my veins.”
Mukhtar Abdaal was among the officers who served for years in the intelligence section of Afghanistan’s National Directorate of Security (NDS). He said: “We prevented numerous suicide attacks through our intelligence work, identified and neutralized hideouts of ISIS, al-Qaeda, and the Taliban. But after the system’s collapse, everything became worthless. Pakistan, where I sought refuge after the fall, later deported me.”
Following the Taliban’s general amnesty announcement and without official documents, Mukhtar decided to return to Afghanistan to relocate his family. With help from his brother-in-law’s connections, he obtained a passport and began the migration journey through Iran.
The former officer said, “We lived in Iran for a while. But in recent months, without even nearing the Dogharoun border, I was arrested and deported from inside Iran. I returned to Pakistan—the same place that had previously expelled me.”
Now, Mukhtar, one of thousands of former Afghan security forces, lives in a foreign country under harsh conditions. He has no income, no secure shelter, and no clear future for his children. He said: “The sense of being without a homeland weighs heavier than ever. Neither Afghanistan accepts me, nor does any other country. I’m stuck between earth and sky.”
From Mukhtar’s perspective, the fall of Kabul remains an open wound for him and his colleagues, unhealed and salted each year by the Taliban’s celebrations.
You can read the Persian version of this report here:
