Watching the fall of Kabul in 2021 play out on television and across my social media feeds, I was overwhelmed with a mix of emotions—anger, sorrow, disbelief, and, most of all, exhaustion. After two decades of war, after billions of dollars spent, after countless lives forever changed, this was the ending: a return to the beginning.
I was sixteen years old on September 11, 2001. Sitting in my AP U.S. History class, I watched in real time as the second tower collapsed into a cloud of smoke and dust. The room was silent except for the sound of my teacher’s shaky voice and the TV news anchor stumbling to describe what we were all seeing. In that moment, I realized something that most of us instinctively felt: my generation would bear the brunt of whatever was coming next. And we did.
Living in the Shadow of 9/11
The years since 9/11 have reshaped American life in ways we sometimes forget because they’ve become so ingrained. Airports transformed into militarized zones, with TSA screenings and body scanners now treated as normal inconveniences rather than extraordinary measures. Government surveillance grew, often with little public debate, as national security agencies gained powers to watch, track, and collect data on citizens.
The attacks also reshaped our politics. Fear became a tool wielded by pundits, politicians, and authors. Conspiracy theories flourished, and books questioning the “real story” of 9/11 climbed bestseller lists. Talking heads filled cable news slots debating wars, policies, and strategies that seemed to stretch on without end. And through it all, corporations, contractors, and consultants profited enormously from war.
At the center of this was Afghanistan. In October 2001, less than a month after the towers fell, U.S. forces invaded with the immediate goal of dismantling al-Qaeda and capturing Osama bin Laden. That mission, on its surface, seemed achievable. But wars have a way of morphing, of expanding to fill the space left by uncertainty. Within a few years, the mission wasn’t just about defeating terrorists—it was about building a functioning Afghan government, training an army, and trying to graft democracy onto a nation fractured by decades of conflict.
The Longest War
Afghanistan became the backdrop to American foreign policy for two decades. It was the war that stretched on in the background of our lives. Kids who were toddlers when 9/11 happened grew up, enlisted, and deployed to the same war that had begun before they could read. Service members rotated in and out, some on three, four, or even more deployments. They missed birthdays, anniversaries, and funerals. Some came home physically wounded; many more came home carrying invisible injuries. Others never came home at all.
The official story changed over the years. We weren’t just hunting bin Laden—we were stabilizing Afghanistan. We weren’t just stabilizing Afghanistan—we were preventing terrorism from spreading. We weren’t just preventing terrorism—we were promoting democracy and human rights. And yet, with every new justification, victory seemed further away. Because how do you win a war against an idea? Terrorism isn’t a country you can invade or a government you can topple. It’s a tactic, an ideology, a shifting and unending target.
President Trump began the process of withdrawing U.S. forces, and President Biden completed it in August 2021. The images from those final weeks will be etched into history: desperate Afghans clinging to airplanes, Taliban fighters taking selfies in the presidential palace, American helicopters evacuating diplomats from Kabul in scenes eerily reminiscent of Saigon in 1975.
Heartbreak and Anger
When Kabul fell, my heart broke in many directions at once. It broke for Afghan women and girls, who had made hard-fought gains in education, employment, and public life, only to see many of those rights stripped away overnight. It broke for the refugees who fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs, forced to leave behind homes, families, and lives they had built.
But most of all, my heart broke—and my anger rose—for the servicemembers who bore the weight of this war. So many deployed with a sense of duty, with the belief that their sacrifices would build a safer world. Some gave their lives. Others returned home carrying invisible wounds that never healed. And in the end, Afghanistan looked disturbingly similar to how it did in 2001: ruled by the Taliban, fractured, and unstable.
That sense of futility lingers even in 2025. Friends of mine who fought there ask the same questions I do: What was it all for? Why did so many people have to die, only for the war to end where it began? The official answers feel hollow. Words like “stability,” “training,” and “nation building” collapse under the weight of reality.
My Own Service, My Own Questions
In 2007, I joined the U.S. Army because I wanted to serve my country. My time in uniform was brief—I was medically discharged after 35 days—but even in that short span, I felt connected to the larger story of service and sacrifice. I carry a deep respect for those who gave so much more than I did. And I also carry the same nagging questions.
Why did we fight a war with no defined end state? Why did we sacrifice so much without ever articulating what victory would look like? Why did we march into battle against an idea—terrorism—without reckoning with the fact that it could never be defeated in the way wars traditionally are?
Nearly twenty-five years after 9/11, those questions remain unanswered. And maybe they always will.
The Legacy of Afghanistan
As we look back from 2025, the legacy of Afghanistan is complicated. For Afghans, especially women and minorities, the return of Taliban rule has been devastating. Some progress has survived, often through underground networks of activists and educators, but the risks are enormous. For Americans, the war reshaped everything from foreign policy to domestic politics. It influenced how we view government power, how we debate national security, and how we treat veterans who bear the weight of decisions made far from the battlefield.
And for my generation—the so-called “9/11 generation”—the war left a deep imprint on our identities. We came of age in its shadow. It shaped our politics, our careers, our families. It taught us hard lessons about the costs of war, the limits of military power, and the consequences of fighting without a clear strategy.
Still Wrestling With the “Why”
I don’t pretend to have answers. What I have are memories—of a classroom in 2001, of friends who served, of watching Kabul fall twenty years later. What I have is a deep sense of gratitude for those who served, coupled with a frustration that their sacrifices were tied to a mission that was never truly defined.
And I have questions. Questions that, in 2025, we are still wrestling with as a country:
- How do we honor the service and sacrifice of those who fought, without glorifying a war that had no clear end?
- How do we learn from Afghanistan, so that we do not repeat its mistakes in future conflicts?
- And how do we, as citizens, demand clearer answers from our leaders before they commit us to wars that will shape generations?
It has been nearly twenty-five years since the morning that changed everything. We are still living in its shadow. And we are still searching for the “why.”
