For those of you who know this story, forgive me for telling it again. I’ve acquired new readers since the fall of Kabul, and I’d like to share this story with them, too.
When Kabul fell, I was glued to the news, which I was following on Twitter. I was refreshing the list of Afghans I followed, mostly journalists, over and over to see if they had been evacuated and if not, if they were safe.
I don’t remember how I found myself exchanging messages with a family I’ll call “the S. family.” They knew I was in France, and they knew, from following me, how worried I was for our Afghan allies and how horrified I was to see Kabul revert, almost overnight, to the Dark Ages. I was filled with dread for Afghan women and girls.
I was sick—more than sick—at the thought that our troops, too, were watching these scenes. I was exchanging Tweets with friends and acquaintances who had served in Afghanistan, and I was excoriating the host of politicians responsible for the disaster. My tone may have bee…
