Four years after the chaotic U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, the fate of tens of thousands of Afghan evacuees remains deeply uncertain. For Hanifa Girowal and many like her, every August is a painful reminder of the trauma they endured in 2021, when the Taliban swept into Kabul and forced a desperate exodus. Today, that sense of limbo has only intensified, as sweeping changes in U.S. immigration policy under President Trump have left Afghans, Cubans, and other migrant communities facing new threats to their security and stability.
"I somehow feel like I'm still stuck in August 2021 and all the other Augusts in between, I can't remember anything about them," Girowal told Al Jazeera. Her journey from Kabul to Virginia was marked by terror and uncertainty: gunfire at the airport, days spent hiding, and a flight that took her from Qatar to Germany and, finally, to the United States. The trauma of those days is never far from the surface. "Everything just comes up again to the surface, and it's like reliving that trauma we went through, and we have been trying to heal from since that day," she said.
Girowal is one of approximately 180,000 Afghans currently in the U.S., according to Al Jazeera. About 75,000 of them arrived on evacuation flights in the immediate aftermath of Kabul's fall. Others have entered through a patchwork of Special Immigrant Visas (SIVs), State Department Priority 1 and Priority 2 programs, or by seeking asylum after perilous journeys to the U.S. southern border. Many were granted humanitarian parole—a temporary status that allowed them to live and work in the U.S. for two years, later extended in 2023. But that program is set to expire soon, and with it, the legal protections for thousands of Afghans.
"I have an approved asylum case, which gives a certain level of protection, but we still don't know the future of certain policies on immigration," Girowal told Al Jazeera. "I am very much fearful that I can be subjected to deportation at any time."
The sense of insecurity has been stoked by a series of policy shifts under the Trump administration. In a move that advocates say has "pulled the rug out" from under Afghan allies, the administration ended Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Afghans, citing what it called an "improved security situation" and a "stabilising economy" in Afghanistan—claims contradicted by numerous human rights reports. At the same time, Afghanistan was added to a new travel ban list, and special status was terminated for those entering via the CBP One app as of April 2025. These changes have left many Afghans fearing that they could be deported at a moment's notice.
Adam Bates, a supervisory policy counsel at the International Refugee Assistance Programme, told Al Jazeera that while some pathways—like SIVs and refugee programs—offer a route to residency and citizenship, others do not. "A lot of the advocacy to the Biden administration officials was about finding more permanent legal pathways for Afghans," Bates said. "That was with one eye towards the potential of giving the Trump administration this opportunity to really double down and target this community."
The uncertainty isn't limited to Afghans. Cuban migrants, too, are feeling the squeeze of the Trump administration's enforcement priorities. As reported by the Tampa Bay Times, Cubans held at detention sites like Alligator Alcatraz face an especially precarious future. Historically, the U.S. has limited deportations to Cuba due to Havana's reluctance to accept returnees and fears of persecution for those sent back. But under Trump's crackdown, Cuban migrants are increasingly in the crosshairs of immigration officials, with their fate hanging in the balance.
Meanwhile, the Trump administration's reach has extended into the realm of health and privacy. In June 2025, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services began sharing the personal information of millions of Medicaid enrollees—including Social Security numbers and home addresses—with the Department of Homeland Security. By July, a new agreement gave DHS daily access to the data of all 79 million Medicaid enrollees nationwide, according to the Associated Press. The policy was not publicly announced and immediately triggered alarm among privacy advocates and immigrant communities.
Washington state's Attorney General Nick Brown voiced the concerns of many, stating, "Protecting people's private health information is vitally important. And everyone should be able to seek medical care without fear of what the federal government may do with that information."
The Medicaid data sharing was part of a broader suite of enforcement tools. In May, a federal judge refused to block the Internal Revenue Service from sharing immigrants' tax data with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), further fueling worries that everyday activities—like visiting a hospital or filing taxes—could expose immigrants to detention or deportation. The chilling effect was immediate. Advocates warned that the disclosure of personal data could discourage people from seeking emergency medical help for themselves or their children, undermining the very purpose of Medicaid's emergency coverage.
On August 13, 2025, federal Judge Vince Chhabria in California stepped in, issuing an order temporarily halting the Department of Health and Human Services from sharing Medicaid enrollee data with deportation officials in 20 states, including California, Arizona, Washington, and New York. "Using CMS data for immigration enforcement threatens to significantly disrupt the operation of Medicaid—a program that Congress has deemed critical for the provision of health coverage to the nation's most vulnerable residents," Chhabria wrote. The order will remain in effect until the health department provides "reasoned decisionmaking" for its policy.
For Afghan evacuees and others caught in the shifting tides of U.S. immigration policy, the stakes could not be higher. The Trump administration has paused asylum claims at the southern border, nearly suspended the U.S. Refugee Program (USRAP), and sharply curtailed resettlement operations. Agencies like Lutheran Social Services have had to cut staff—about 120 jobs lost by March 2025—after a stop-work order from the administration in January. The special P1 and P2 refugee programs for Afghans have all but ground to a halt, with the administration refusing to publish updated refugee admission numbers.
The global context is equally grim. The Taliban government, despite international condemnation for human rights abuses, has seen its diplomatic status rise, with Russia formally recognizing the regime in July 2025. Meanwhile, countries like Pakistan and Iran have expelled more than 1.4 million Afghans from January to July 2025, according to the UNHCR. Even Germany, which does not recognize the Taliban, conducted its second deportation flight to Afghanistan in July.
For those left in the U.S., the message is clear and sobering. "We know that Afghanistan is no more a priority for the world," Girowal said. Yet she clings to hope that the U.S. will "not forget its allies." As Susan Antolin, executive director of Women for Afghan Women, told Al Jazeera, organizations are "diversifying our funding and trying very hard, as so many other organisations are, to find other avenues to bring in that funding to continue to support our programmes." The resilience of these communities, tested by trauma and uncertainty, remains a source of inspiration—and a reminder of the human cost of political decisions.
As the legal and political landscape continues to shift, the lives of thousands hang in the balance, waiting for clarity that may never come.