THE HYPHEN WE SHARE

THE HYPHEN WE SHARE
'An Afghan -American Reflection on Belonging & Democracy'
Personal Story by Dr. Leeda Rashid

​On July 22, 2025, the San Francisco County Board of Supervisors introduced a resolution officially recognizing Afghan American Heritage Month. The San Francisco Bay Area has been home to me since my family arrived here as refugees in 1986. I took my first walk along the ocean at China Beach. I ate my first hot dog here. I fell in love with San Francisco.

​I grew up just across the Bay in Alameda, less famous than its neighboring city, but just as formative. Alameda, along with the cities of Santa Clara, Sacramento, San Diego, Los Angeles, and others, has also adopted or is planning to adopt similar resolutions to honor the Afghan men and women who have made California their home. 

What I know about my Afghan-American community is this: most of us came to the U.S. as refugees, many fleeing the Soviet-Afghan war of the '80s, the civil war of the '90s, or more recently, the Taliban’s return to power. We weren’t just escaping war, we were fleeing persecution, instability, and the erasure of our futures. Building a life here hasn’t been easy. It’s taken immense effort, moments of deep loneliness, and the quiet, often invisible work of becoming “Afghan-American.”

It's an interesting journey to have a hyphenated identity, but aren't we all split in some form or another? Navigating the playground of identity, who we were, who we are, and who we wish to be isn't a story of this community alone. It's indeed the American journey. It's the single mom with an aspiring singing career. It's the young cashier with his PhD on the horizon. It's the entrepreneur caregiving for a sick parent at home. It's all of us, finding ourselves in the greatest democratic experiment in the history of mankind and doing the work to keep its delicate balance. America is not a monolith, and when we forget this truth, we chip away at the very essence of what it means to be a democracy; a nation strengthened, not divided, by its many ‘Hyphen-American’ identities.

I urge you to visit an Afghan restaurant if you ever get the chance. Say hello to the owner or the server. You’ll meet some of the kindest, most hard-working, hospitable, and genuinely funny people you’ve ever encountered and you’ll eat the best rice and kabob on the planet. Coupling the survival instinct with the opportunity, you will see that besides serving great Kabob many Afghans you meet have moved on to become lawyers, engineers, doctors, policy makers, teachers, and good neighbors. We are known for this resilience internationally, and we have shaped the California around us with it.

Over the years, I’ve left California for school, for work, for love, even just to get away. And yet, I’ve always come back. Despite its frustrations, its imperfections and maybe because of them, it’s still home. Seeing this acknowledgment hit me harder than I would have expected, especially since I’m not sure I would’ve said I needed it if someone had asked. But it turns out I did. There’s something profoundly moving about feeling seen, truly seen, in the place you’ve called home. I think that’s something we can all understand. Today, as I reflect on what this recognition means to me, I’m reminded of why I keep returning: because California, in all its complexity, still makes space for stories like mine… that’s something to celebrate.

In a political climate where we’re too often pulled into fear-driven identity politics; where we’re told to see our neighbors as threats and “the other” as the problem, it feels especially powerful, even courageous, for these counties to take this step. It’s as if someone is quietly saying aloud what many of us already know to be true: that America’s strength lies in its diversity, in the beautiful, complicated tapestry of its immigrant stories.

In 1986, my father, a professor of law, a judge, and a political refugee with everything at stake had to choose between resettling in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Australia, or the United States. He didn’t hesitate. With his wife and four children, he boarded a plane to America with no debate and no doubt. He believed in this country then, and I still believe in it now. ∎