ALEXANDRIA, VA. – Shafi Amani wears a bright red chef's coat and hands out a plate of warm chicken shawarma through the window of his food truck near the King Street Metro station. The sign on the side of the truck says "Seven Guys, Halal food."
We first met Shafi last summer, when he told us about his harrowing, treacherous journey to the United States through Afghanistan, Pakistan and then Mexico – paying smugglers $200 each to get hoisted over the border wall into the United States.
Last week, we returned to see how his family is doing.
They live on the top floor of a massive high-rise building overlooking a highway. Mostly immigrants from Afghanistan and Africa live here. Two women wearing hijabs chat on a couch in the lobby.
When we enter his apartment, we see another addition to the family. His name is Khyber, a new born dozing on a bouncy chair. Another girl Iqra, a shy child with a mass of brown curls, clings to Shafi's chest. He named her Iqra – which means 'read' in their native Pashto – a dig at the Taliban and their ban on educating girls.
And in the corner is Yousra, his 4-year-old daughter, who until two years ago was a healthy child. She now sits in a wheelchair, her tiny feet resting on a toy stuffed frog. When we first met her, she was limp, like a rag doll, her eyes at times rolling back into her head.
Now, her eyes are keenly focused on us. Every once in a while a smile brightens her face. She's still unable to move much, and she's had recent strokes. Will she be able to walk again?
"I think that's uncertain. I think we'll have to see how she develops and grows," says Dr. Karen Smith, a one-time Army nurse turned pediatrician at Children's, who's helped with Yousra's care. "But [I am] hopeful with therapies."
Adapting to a new life in the U.S.
Shafi's wife is quiet during most of the conversation. She picks up little Khyber and we ask her about her life. She doesn't want her name revealed. She worries about her family back in Afghanistan, especially her two younger sisters living under a Taliban rule that is repressive toward women. When she talks about them, her eyes fill with tears.
"Both of them are at home now," she says. "And when I speak with them they are crying my sisters what can I do now. I cannot do anything. My little sister says, 'What is my future?'"
Last year, she could barely speak English.
"I have been learning English since two years," she says, in a soft lilt. "Now I can speak okay but not perfect."
But she knows enough English to help Shafi, when he's talking at length with us and at one point struggles to recall the right word. "Translator," she tells him.
"Now she's better than me," Shafi says. "All the time she's asking me something. 'You know this?' and telling her 'I will learn from you.'"
Shafi worked as a contractor, building bases for the Afghan military. He fled when the Taliban started searching government records, fearing he would be targeted.
He's still waiting for his asylum claim to be approved. But at least he now has work papers. Early each morning, seven days a week, he goes to the food truck where he meets up with his partner Noor Agha, another Afghan refugee who arrived eight years ago. Noor has a brother who worked for the American military in Afghanistan but is still stuck in a refugee camp in Abu Dhabi, capital city of the Emirates, hoping to one day reach the US.
Together Shafi and Noor plan to expand the business, pick up more food trucks.
"In my life, I'm in the first step," says Shafi.
"I have everything I need and I don't just dream about stuff"
Not far away at Goodwin House, a retirement community, twenty-one-year old BH works the front desk. He too has a story of risk as well as sadness. And like other Afghans, he has family back in the country and fears using his name.
When Kabul fell in August, 2021, he was with his family outside the airport, stuck in a desperate crowd of thousands as they surged toward the gates. Somehow he got separated from his family, and found himself inside the airport alone. He was 17.
"I called them several times, but no one was answering because of the crowd, and no one heard the phone ring," he remembered. "It was a dark day for me because I lost my family you know." Before long he was crammed inside a US military C-130, on his way to Doha, Qatar, where he was finally able to reach his mother.
"She was crying," he said. "That's the only thing she did."
Since he was part of the American airlift, he got some assistance from the State Department, an apartment in Alexandria, Virginia. He ended up graduating from Alexandria City High School. And he was also helped by Christ Church in Old Town, Alexandria, which also assisted Shafi and his family.
When we caught up with him last week, he finally had some good news. His mother, father and three brothers were able to reach Pakistan, after paying a thousand dollars each to get smuggled out. He's working with a non-profit group that helps Afghans reach the U.S.. But there are thousands of Afghans either in Pakistan or in refugee camps in other countries, all hoping for the same destination. It could take many months, maybe years.
He has plans on attending Northern Virginia Community College to focus on computers and cyber security. The residents at Goodwin House now consider him a part of their family. And he's been working at Christ Church ministry, aiding dozens of Afghan families in the area.
BH says they need furniture, food and at times rent assistance.
"But at this moment we don't have enough budget to sponsor a new family in the ministry," he says. "If I can't help with the monthly rent I will try to find an alternative for it. I will offer something else instead. I will never say no because it will disappoint them, upset them."
During our first visit with BH, he told us about living in a bustling house with his extended family back in Afghanistan. He seemed so lonely. Now he's used to living by himself, kind of likes it. He seems more confident, works out at a gym and goes to restaurants with his Afghan friends.
When we saw his small apartment it was sparse, barely furnished, really kind of heartbreaking. He showed us pictures of the apartment now. There's a bed, some furniture, a bouquet of roses is arranged on a nightstand. He shares those pictures with his family on the other side of the world.
"I have everything I need," he says, "and I don't just dream about stuff."
Copyright 2025 NPR
