'Imported Danger': Trump Slams Biden After Troops Targeted in D.C.

Paul Riverbank, 12/3/2025The D.C. shooting by an Afghan refugee ignites a fierce debate over U.S. security and immigration policy, fueling fear and uncertainty within Afghan-American communities—and raising urgent questions about America’s obligations to its wartime allies.

Details emerged fast. The alleged shooter, Rahmanullah Lakanwal, isn’t a name familiar to most Americans. He’s an Afghan national, part of the vast flow of refugees who found a new home in the U.S. after Kabul fell back into Taliban hands. His presence, and now his alleged actions, have ignited a debate that perhaps no one was quite prepared for—certainly not the city’s Afghan community, still growing new roots after old ones were ripped out.

Within just hours, questions tumbled onto airwaves and into thinkpieces. Who, they asked, let this happen? Was the vetting for refugees too lax, or do deeper failures haunt the process? Partisan blame followed close behind. Some critics of President Biden pointed to the administration’s resettlement program as the weak link; others, eager to defend the approach, suggested that the real problem lay with earlier White House decisions, even invoking Trump-era angles that seem to have become political shorthand for larger resentments.

Behind the noise, there’s genuine distress. “It’s the fear of being blamed for something you had nothing to do with,” said Tamim Bedar, who has built his new life in Kentucky. He’s one of the thousands who fled Afghanistan in 2021, trading old dangers for the promise, if not quite the guarantee, of safety. Now that sense of security feels newly fragile.

Ask anyone in resettlement work—Nasirullah Safi, for instance—and they’ll describe how fresh arrivals still carry old wounds. There’s the trauma of war, and the daily grind of juggling jobs, learning English, navigating paperwork that never seems to end. It’s overwhelming on a good day. After the shooting? “People are nervous to even step outside,” Safi told me. Parents rummage through closets for documents. Some keep children home from school. In online groups, the messages aren’t new—“Go home” and worse—but after the shooting, they’re more relentless.

Policy-makers noticed. Within two days, the Trump camp demanded a freeze on Afghan asylum and green cards. White House spokesperson Karoline Leavitt bluntly announced a review of every single Afghan admitted after the fall of Kabul—a turn that leaves thousands in bureaucratic purgatory, unsure if the future they imagined will simply evaporate.

And as Washington weighed its response, headlines out of Texas made matters worse. Mohammad Dawood Alokozay, also an Afghan evacuee, was charged after authorities said he filmed himself threatening Americans in the name of the Taliban. The cases are different, but in the echo chamber of national security, nuance is a casualty.

Inside these communities, fear is rising. For many, the fear isn’t of extremism—it’s of being seen through its lens. Ahmadullah Sediqi, who risked his life as an interpreter with U.S. forces, put it bluntly: “We love this country. We fought for it.” He’s anxious—hundreds of friends and relatives still wait in visa lines indefinitely lengthened by suspicion.

The stakes are enormous. Around a quarter-million Afghan special visa applicants wait for answers, and resettlement agencies warn me that most face backgrounds checks few Americans would tolerate. Advocates say the process already moved glacially before; now, after D.C., they fear it will grind to a halt, or worse, reverse.

There’s frustration too, and a sense of unfairness. What do you say to a friend who spent five years acting as America’s eyes and ears in Helmand, only to be told now that any slip in paperwork could get them a trip back into danger?

For families trying to find their place—like Bedar’s in Kentucky—certainty seems further away than ever. Every morning, he wakes up wondering what the day’s news will mean for his elderly parents’ path to residency.

In the end, the capital’s shock fades only partly. The bigger dilemma lingers: Can the U.S. keep its promises to those who aided its mission abroad, while maintaining confidence in its own security? If there’s an answer, neither side of the debate seems able to offer it right now. For the Afghan community, the mood is one of grief, anxiety, and—most of all—uncertainty about what comes next.

The heart of Washington, a city hardly unfamiliar with unease, was pierced by violence last week. In the early morning hours, just blocks from the White House, two National Guard members came under attack. One did not survive. The other remains in a fight for his life.Details emerged fast. The alleged shooter, Rahmanullah Lakanwal, isn’t a name familiar to most Americans. He’s an Afghan national, part of the vast flow of refugees who found a new home in the U.S. after Kabul fell back into Taliban hands. His presence, and now his alleged actions, have ignited a debate that perhaps no one was quite prepared for—certainly not the city’s Afghan community, still growing new roots after old ones were ripped out.Within just hours, questions tumbled onto airwaves and into thinkpieces. Who, they asked, let this happen? Was the vetting for refugees too lax, or do deeper failures haunt the process? Partisan blame followed close behind. Some critics of President Biden pointed to the administration’s resettlement program as the weak link; others, eager to defend the approach, suggested that the real problem lay with earlier White House decisions, even invoking Trump-era angles that seem to have become political shorthand for larger resentments.Behind the noise, there’s genuine distress. “It’s the fear of being blamed for something you had nothing to do with,” said Tamim Bedar, who has built his new life in Kentucky. He’s one of the thousands who fled Afghanistan in 2021, trading old dangers for the promise, if not quite the guarantee, of safety. Now that sense of security feels newly fragile.Ask anyone in resettlement work—Nasirullah Safi, for instance—and they’ll describe how fresh arrivals still carry old wounds. There’s the trauma of war, and the daily grind of juggling jobs, learning English, navigating paperwork that never seems to end. It’s overwhelming on a good day. After the shooting? “People are nervous to even step outside,” Safi told me. Parents rummage through closets for documents. Some keep children home from school. In online groups, the messages aren’t new—“Go home” and worse—but after the shooting, they’re more relentless.Policy-makers noticed. Within two days, the Trump camp demanded a freeze on Afghan asylum and green cards. White House spokesperson Karoline Leavitt bluntly announced a review of every single Afghan admitted after the fall of Kabul—a turn that leaves thousands in bureaucratic purgatory, unsure if the future they imagined will simply evaporate.And as Washington weighed its response, headlines out of Texas made matters worse. Mohammad Dawood Alokozay, also an Afghan evacuee, was charged after authorities said he filmed himself threatening Americans in the name of the Taliban. The cases are different, but in the echo chamber of national security, nuance is a casualty.Inside these communities, fear is rising. For many, the fear isn’t of extremism—it’s of being seen through its lens. Ahmadullah Sediqi, who risked his life as an interpreter with U.S. forces, put it bluntly: “We love this country. We fought for it.” He’s anxious—hundreds of friends and relatives still wait in visa lines indefinitely lengthened by suspicion.The stakes are enormous. Around a quarter-million Afghan special visa applicants wait for answers, and resettlement agencies warn me that most face backgrounds checks few Americans would tolerate. Advocates say the process already moved glacially before; now, after D.C., they fear it will grind to a halt, or worse, reverse.There’s frustration too, and a sense of unfairness. What do you say to a friend who spent five years acting as America’s eyes and ears in Helmand, only to be told now that any slip in paperwork could get them a trip back into danger?For families trying to find their place—like Bedar’s in Kentucky—certainty seems further away than ever. Every morning, he wakes up wondering what the day’s news will mean for his elderly parents’ path to residency.In the end, the capital’s shock fades only partly. The bigger dilemma lingers: Can the U.S. keep its promises to those who aided its mission abroad, while maintaining confidence in its own security? If there’s an answer, neither side of the debate seems able to offer it right now. For the Afghan community, the mood is one of grief, anxiety, and—most of all—uncertainty about what comes next.