When the sirens cut through the capital: a morning that refused to be routine
It was a day that felt, suddenly and horribly, like every other day in Washington — until it wasn’t. Motorcycles hummed past the White House gates, tourists pointed their phones at the statues, and National Guard soldiers stood watch in the soft winter light. Then shots rang out. Two soldiers fell. Chaos folded into questions: who did this, why, and how had someone who once fought with U.S. forces come to be accused of attacking them?
In the hours after the attack, federal prosecutors and local officials moved with a grim efficiency. They named the suspect: 29-year-old Rahmanullah Lakanwal. They said he had arrived in the United States in 2021 — one of the many Afghans who sought refuge here as Kabul collapsed and U.S. forces withdrew. They said he had been living with a wife and five children in Bellingham, a rainy city near the Canadian border, before driving across the continent to confront the seat of American power.
Who was Rahmanullah Lakanwal?
According to authorities, and to a relative who spoke to U.S. media, Lakanwal had served in the Afghan army for about a decade, working alongside U.S. Special Forces at times and stationed in provinces that were battlegrounds during the two-decade war. He was reportedly from Khost province and had spent time near Kandahar — a place whose name still carries the sharp tang of conflict for Afghans and Americans alike.
A prosecutor announced charges that mirror the worst fears: assault with intent to kill, and the possibility of first-degree murder charges should the two wounded soldiers, who underwent surgery and remain in critical condition, die. Washington labelled the violence an “act of terror” and moved quickly to announce heightened scrutiny of Afghans who arrived in the United States in the chaotic days and months after 2021.
A neighbor’s disbelief
“He seemed quiet. He took his kids to soccer practice. He mowed his lawn,” said Maria Lopez, a neighbor in Bellingham who asked that her full name be used. “You don’t expect the person next door to drive to D.C. and end up like this. We’re shocked.”
Her words carry the blunt sorrow of those who live beside lives half-understood: people who flee war, arrive with trauma, try to sew together new routines, and sometimes move through shadows no one else sees.
Operation Allies Welcome — a rescue, a scramble, and a policy test
To understand how an Afghan soldier came to be in suburban Washington State, we need to rewind to August and September 2021 — a fevered time when the U.S. exit from Afghanistan unfolded in chaotic evacuation operations. The Biden administration mounted “Operation Allies Welcome,” a government-wide effort to bring tens of thousands of Afghans to safety, especially those who had aided U.S. forces.
Under that program, officials say many of the evacuees were eligible for Special Immigrant Visas (SIVs), designed for those who “took significant risks to support our military and civilian personnel.” At the time, government figures suggested that more than 40% of the people arriving under the operation were technically eligible for an SIV — the rest included journalists, advocates, and others who were considered vulnerable.
But the evacuation itself was a sprint, and the screening process was, by necessity, compressed. “We were evacuating people from the immediate threat of an authoritarian takeover,” said a former State Department official familiar with the program. “That meant we prioritized speed and safety at the outset — and yes, that created tension with the desire for deeper vetting.”
Vetting, parole, and political flashpoints
Some officials framed the problem bluntly. “A number of individuals were paroled into the country under expedited processes,” one homeland official told reporters. Others, especially critics of the evacuation, seized on that language to argue the U.S. had allowed people in without adequate checks.
For the families who made the journey — and for the American servicemembers who helped them — the story is rarely so simple. “We didn’t leave because we wanted to start trouble,” said Ahmad, an Afghan resettled in the U.S. who once worked as a translator. “We left because we were at risk. We came with hope. To hear someone from among us is accused of this is heartbreaking.”
From Bellingham to D.C.: the life of a transplanted family
Bellingham, Washington, is not the sort of place most people picture when they imagine foreign policy disasters. Nestled between forested hills and the Salish Sea, it is home to college students, commuters, fishermen, and families who barter recipes and lawn-care tips. In the city’s small shopping district, neighbors speak of soccer practices and PTA meetings — ordinary things that are supposed to stitch a new life together.
Yet resettlement doesn’t erase memory. Veterans of war arrive with wounds large and small. They grapple with lost friends, fractured families, and the disorientation of new laws and systems. “Integration takes time, and hanging over it are mental health struggles and isolation,” said Dr. Lena Ahmed, an immigration clinic director and psychologist who has worked with Afghan refugees. “We need to be honest about those challenges without turning every violent act into a story about an entire community.”
Voices from both sides of the ocean
In Kabul, where streets that once echoed with pickups and market sellers now remember the noise of 2021, reactions were mixed. “He worked with us,” said a former colleague who requested anonymity. “If this is true, it’s a tragic twist. These are people who trusted what was promised to them.” Others, watching online from abroad, voiced fear that a single act could endanger the many Afghans still seeking refuge or family reunification.
Back in Washington, politicians have used the episode to press their agendas. Calls for tighter immigration enforcement mingled with swift pledges to ensure public safety. “We will review the processes that allowed this person into the country,” a federal official said. “We must protect Americans and ensure that our communities are safe.”
What questions remain — and what do we owe each other?
There are procedural questions: Did Lakanwal have an SIV? What kind of screening did he undergo? Why did he travel to Washington, and what was his intent? Prosecutors will try to answer those in court. But there are bigger questions about the human cost of hurried policy choices, the strains of resettlement, and the limits of labeling.
When a city calls something “terror,” the word is meant to capture motive, method, and moral weight. It also fractures communities. For Afghans who risked their lives to aid coalition forces, the label can be another layer of betrayal. For Americans who saw soldiers fall at the heart of their democracy, the label is a plea for protection.
How do we move forward?
There are no tidy answers. We can demand rigorous vetting that respects national security without abandoning refugees who literally ran for their lives. We can invest in mental-health services, language classes, and community programs that help newcomers anchor themselves. We can hold people accountable when they commit violence, while resisting the urge to let one act define an entire people.
And we can ask ourselves, as neighbors and citizens: what does it look like to balance compassion with vigilance? What does justice look like for soldiers, for survivors, for families uprooted by war? These are the questions that outlast the headlines.
For now, two people lie in intensive care. A family in Bellingham waits for answers. A nation watches as prosecutors build a case, and as communities reckon with fear and grief. The rest of us — the readers, the neighbors, the colleagues — must decide whether we will let fear harden our sympathy or whether we will make space for both accountability and care.
What would you want to know next? How should a country that once promised sanctuary reconcile the urgent needs of safety with the moral claims of those who helped it in war? These are questions worth asking, openly and honestly, because the answers will shape lives for years to come.
