Abdulhaq Sodais wears an easy smile. He smiles when he talks about where he’s explored since moving to the Chicago area. He smiles when his wife shares how well she’s doing in her English lessons, when he sits down to a home-cooked spread of Afghan dishes, and when he talks about his friend and former platoon leader.
After more than a decade of waiting and grief, even the flash of a grin is a testament to how much Sodais cherishes his American dream despite having every reason to feel angry or afraid.
Sodais is an Afghan immigrant and former interpreter for the United States military who — after 13 years of trying to gain entry to the country he fought for — is starting his life anew in Chicago’s north suburbs. He made the long-awaited move last December.
Amid an increasingly complex and antagonistic immigration system, his story is one of rare success.
Sodais heard he was approved for entry to the U.S. in February 2025, weeks after President Donald Trump started his second term and took swift aim at immigration — including longstanding avenues that, in part, helped Afghans find safety in America.
By September, he officially had his visa in hand. Two months later, an Afghan national allegedly shot two National Guard members in Washington D.C., prompting the Trump administration to halt the program that had granted Sodais his green card.
But on Dec. 17, the day finally came. Sodais arrived at O’Hare International Airport.
Time and time again, Sodais had beat the odds. He made sure of it.
“I got my right,” he said. “I got what I was deserved.”
Sodais still worries. He worries for family back in Afghanistan, especially through the monthslong war that the U.S. and Israel launched against Iran in late February. He wrestles over the future for refugees and immigrants in America, and whether his loved ones will ever join him abroad.
But he’s taken solace in how welcoming Chicago has been to him and his wife. And he’s fervent in his push for and pride in something better.
“United States is opportunity’s land,” Sodais told the Tribune one evening. He spoke over a cup of green tea at his Evanston apartment, his wife sitting across from him. “(We) still think about our dream to have that.”
***
When Sodais was three days old, the Afghan government — which was already crumbling after years of Soviet occupation — was overturned. Civil war followed for the next four years. Much of Kabul was destroyed, and tens of thousands of people were killed.
By 1996, the Taliban had captured the capital. Sodias recalls that, as a young student under Taliban rule, the militant group dictated his curriculum, down to what language he’d speak in class. It wasn’t his own. He wondered why not.
Everything changed when the United States invaded in 2001. Sodais, who was nine at the time, still remembers the shift. How happy people were to go to school, go to work. He especially remembers Afghanistan getting a standard school system and having access to a new breadth of classes for the first time, including English lessons. He was glad to study English and continued the courses through high school.
After he graduated, Sodais decided to become an interpreter for the U.S. military, a path he thought could do some good — for him and his country.
“I was thinking that it’s a good opportunity for me to help my people, at least to improve our government,” he said.
In 2010, at 18 years old, Sodais joined the Western war effort. He was one of tens of thousands of Afghan nationals who, through the course of America’s 20-year operation in Afghanistan, aided U.S. troops on the ground. Records examined by the Tribune indicate Sodais was hired as a linguist by U.S. government contractor Mission Essential Personnel.
Two years after Sodais’ first assignment, he met Spencer.
***
In July 2012, Sodais joined Spencer Sullivan’s platoon for a four-month mission. The interpreter and the scout reconnaissance leader were fast friends. Sullivan remembered that trust and rapport with Sodais came easily and that it was clear how much the interpreter cared about his work. Sodais recalled how protective and friendly Sullivan was. They could, and did, talk about anything.
Towards the end of Sullivan’s deployment in November 2012, though they hadn’t known each other long, Sodais approached him with a request: He needed a recommendation letter so he could apply for a special immigrant visa.
Afghans who aided America’s forever war have long sought to emigrate to the U.S., seeking safety abroad as they fear retribution from their country for aligning with Western forces. When U.S. troops invaded Afghanistan in 2001, the government promised safe harbor to Afghan allies in exchange for their services.
One of the longstanding pathways had been the SIV program, which was established in 2009 to allow Afghans who closely supported the war effort to apply for entry into America with their families.
Sullivan readily agreed to help. But Sodais, ultimately, was denied.
Over the next few years, Sodais reapplied again and again and again. Each time, the government he looked up to, that he’d donned fatigues for, told him no.
“You did not provide faithful and valuable service to the U.S. Government, as required by the law,” U.S. embassy officials in Kabul wrote to Sodais in January 2014.
Meanwhile, Sodais struggled. Shortly before his first denial, he was on a mission near the border of Pakistan when he got caught in an explosion. While on a drive back to base in an armored vehicle, he had passed over an improvised explosive device buried underground. The IED detonated. Though Sodais remembers little about the blast itself, he does recall the pain afterward and how it radiated in his back, his leg, his head.
Sodais returned to his family home in Herat to recuperate, and while he had accumulated some leave, he couldn’t go back to work due to his injuries, he said. Employment records show Mission Essential terminated Sodais in April 2013 due to “job abandonment.” Still, the next year, he was rehired for the war effort, not for combat missions this time but other translation work. That was his last assignment. In March 2016, a civilian contractor terminated Sodais “due to incompatible skill set with (the) unit’s mission,” according to documentation of his release.
Sodais told the Tribune he believes the termination stemmed from false accusations that he violated security by using his personal social media at work. Attempts to reach Mission Essential were unsuccessful. Sodais later filed a workers’ compensation claim against Mission Essential for the IED blast. The case settled in 2022, and Sodais received $15,000, claim records show.
Not long after Sodais ceased working with the military, he and Sullivan fell out of contact. That is, until Sullivan reached out about a year later to ask how his former interpreter was doing. Sullivan was worried, with good reason. In the preceding months, Sullivan received word that another interpreter he worked with during his time in Afghanistan was killed by the Taliban. Like Sodais, the interpreter had been trying to get a special immigrant visa. He died waiting.
In the wake of his shock and loss, Sullivan sent word to Sodais. But he didn’t hear back.
***
Sodais missed the messages. At first, it was because he’d traveled to India to get back surgery (the pain from the explosion still hadn’t let up). And then he was on the run.
At the end of 2017, Sodais decided to leave Afghanistan. He faced difficulty finding a new job, and he feared for his safety should he stay. So over the course of several long months, Sodais fled from Afghanistan to Germany. To get there, Sodais climbed mountains in the snow, moved from border to border with the help of smugglers, got captured a dozen times and spent time in jail.
When he finally got to Germany, Sodais thought this was it — maybe the worst was almost over, and he could start again. But Germany, too, denied his request for refuge. Sodais was left at the mercy of appealing the decision and needed help proving his case. He contacted the one person he knew could help.
It was Christmas Eve when Sullivan saw the email. He practically spit out his drink seeing Sodais’ name come through his inbox after a year and half of silence. They immediately began exchanging messages, and Sullivan started pulling together whatever he could “to prove to the German courts that Abdulhaq … was who he said he was and had, in fact, served us faithfully.”
For nearly three years, the pair worked to build Sodais’ case file. That file would eventually form the idea for a memoir the friends would write together.
The endless uncertainty, though, ate at Sodais. Feeling helpless and overwhelmed, he twice tried to take his own life, he said. A medical evaluation Sodais underwent while psychiatrically hospitalized in April 2021 diagnosed him with post traumatic stress disorder and major depressive disorder, records shared with the Tribune show.
Sullivan half expected the suicide attempt. To see Sodais endure so much and reach the point of wanting to give up, it was heartbreaking. He sent a care package and letters. And they talked often.
“(I wanted) to show him that there was at least one person who cared about him,” Sullivan said. “That if the United States had turned its back on him, at least this American would not.”
Having a friend helped, Sodais said later, owing much of his resolve to Sullivan’s unwavering company.
A few months after Sodais left the hospital, he had a hearing in his appeal for German asylum. Sullivan flew out ahead of the proceedings. He got there early to help Sodais prepare but, mostly, to spend time together. They tried to keep their focus on each other, despite the hearing — and the news reports.
That summer, after two decades, the U.S. withdrew from Afghanistan. Around the time of Sullivan’s visit, the last of the troops pulled back, and upheaval swiftly followed. It took a matter of days for the Taliban to take back control of the government. Sullivan and Sodais watched together as the militants seized Herat.
A week after the war officially drew to a close, Sodais pleaded his case to the court.
He waited two weeks for a decision. The judge granted his appeal.
Sullivan, who had returned to the U.S., was sitting in a parking lot when Sodais texted him the good news. He dropped his phone and bawled.
***
With asylum, Sodais could start to settle down — more than he’d been able to in years. In 2022, he met his wife, Weeda, a refugee from Afghanistan, through a family connection. He and Sullivan started to write a book capturing their story.
But Germany didn’t feel like home, and Sodais held onto the hope that he’d finally get the U.S. to welcome him. It’s that mindset that had Sodais reapplying for his SIV in 2024. Sullivan, again, supplied a recommendation letter.
“Abdulhaq does not pose any security threat to the United States of America, and granting him a special immigration visa is the least that can be done in order to express America’s gratitude for his service and sacrifices on our behalf,” Sullivan wrote, nearly the same verbiage he used in his first letter 12 years earlier.
Despite Sodais’ propensity to hope, it was still a shock when the approval came through the mail early last year.
Sodais officially received his visa last fall. With the authorization valid for five months, he’d planned to leave earlier this year. But after the D.C. shooting, he fast-tracked his timeline for fear of the Trump administration imposing retaliatory restrictions that’d keep him in Germany.
Sullivan researched cities that could be a good landing place for the couple, narrowing his hunt to areas that were affordable, had career opportunities and welcomed immigrants. Chicago, which at that point was coming off two months of fighting back against the Trump administration’s harsh immigration enforcement, fit the bill. One Google search for “refugee organizations in Chicago” later, Sullivan came across West Ridge-based resettlement nonprofit RefugeeOne.
With a “hope and a prayer,” Sullivan left a voice message with the organization. Within an hour, he got a call back.
Since its founding nearly 44 years ago, RefugeeOne has resettled more than 22,000 refugees from all the major world crises to the Chicagoland area, according to communications director Sally Schulze. The nonprofit helps rebuild lives. From the moment new arrivals step foot on American soil, RefugeeOne welcomes them with a slate of resources and programming: housing, employment, case management, mental health support.
The services and support are made possible primarily through government funding, followed by donations. Amid federal cuts, RefugeeOne has lost more than $3 million in funding and laid off 24 staff members since Trump took office. Still, the cuts haven’t hamstrung the nonprofit’s mission. RefugeeOne has enrolled more than 350 new program participants over the past year and a half.
When Sullivan called, “We immediately said yes,” Schulze told the Tribune.
On a Wednesday in mid-December, 13 years of waiting came to a head. Sodais and Weeda touched down at O’Hare. There to greet him was Sullivan, flanked by a handful of RefugeeOne staff.
The anxieties hadn’t abated. On the heels of Sodais’ trip, the Trump administration issued another round of travel restrictions.
But when he stepped through the gates, there was nothing but relief.
“After all this time, after all that he went through, after all that he suffered,” Sullivan said, “we finally pulled it off.”
When Sodais heard the words “Welcome to the United States,” he was just happy.
“They like me to be here,” he thought. “Part of these people.”
***
On Dec. 18, Lynda Nadkarni posted on Facebook.
“Amazing news!” she wrote to the Riverside-Area Refugee Resettlement Team page. “A couple in their 30s from Afghanistan was able to come to Chicago yesterday on an SIV. … We are looking to put together a furniture collection and delivery between Christmas and New Years.”
People flooded the comment section with offers to help. “I have a floor lamp!” someone replied. “Can help move,” another person wrote.
Alongside the nonprofit’s own staff, an integral part of RefugeeOne’s resettlement efforts hinges on community members’ help. The organization works in tandem with a network of volunteers to support newcomers and make them feel at home.
For years now, Nadkarni has helped welcome and integrate refugees as part of a Riverside-based volunteer resettlement team. Volunteers are often those working closest with new arrivals — showing them how to navigate public transit, getting them library cards, just chatting with them so they can practice their English.
RefugeeOne enlisted Nadkarni and the Riverside team’s help with resettling Sodais and Weeda a day before they arrived. The group was tasked with preparing the couple’s housing.
Within a week, the team had a fully furnished apartment ready to go.
The months since have been a flurry of connecting Weeda with English courses, securing medical benefits for the couple and trying to find Sodais employment. They’ve also spent time exploring.
Nadkarni remembered Sodais saying that among the things he and Weeda did to prepare for their move was watch American movies. One of Sodais’ favorites was Chicago-based “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Inspired by the film — which features a scene at the Art Institute — Sodais arrived wanting to see the museum for himself. But when he looked up the tickets, they were more expensive than anticipated.
Nadkarni bought the tickets.
“Our job is to help you be happy, to help you settle in,” Nadkarni recalled telling Sodais after he tried to protest. “This shouldn’t be a trial.”
Meanwhile, Sodais and Weeda have started to establish a routine of their own. In the mornings, Sodais practices his English and computer skills while Weeda goes to her lessons. In the afternoons, they cook together and go on walks.
***
The transition hasn’t been without its difficulties. After months of looking, Sodais only recently found employment working part-time at a hotel. He’s still hoping for full-time work soon.
He also recognizes that it’s an incredibly difficult time to be an immigrant in America and laments that loved ones still in Afghanistan, under the current administration, cannot come to the U.S. He worries for their safety.
Sullivan likewise wades through unease. He sometimes finds himself worrying Sodais and Weeda will be targeted for what they look like and all this effort will be undone. But he tries to focus on what he can control.
“I don’t want Abdulhaq to have to worry about his life anymore,” Sullivan said. Instead, he chooses to focus on all the good to come, on the future they earned together.
Sodais dreams about being a teacher one day and starting a family with Weeda. He envisions his kids reading his and Sullivan’s memoir and seeing how important it is to fight for something better.
“I’m pretty sure in future, our children … (are) proud of us,” Sodais said.
In late February, Sullivan visited Chicago. They hit all the spots: The Bean, deep dish pizza. It was relaxing and peaceful and the first time in their whole friendship that they had the chance to just hang out.
Last month, Sodais returned the favor. He and Weeda flew out to Virginia, where Sullivan lives with his wife and young son, to celebrate the release of their book. Titled “Not Our Problem: The True Story of an Afghan Refugee, an American Promise, and the World Between Them,” the memoir hit the shelves in April.
Recently, Sodais sent the Tribune a series of pictures from the trip: he and Sullivan standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, another with the National Mall stretching behind them.
From place to place, in the seat of the U.S. government, there Sodais was, smiling wide. Next to him, Sullivan smiled, too.
The Tribune’s Stacy St. Clair and The Associated Press contributed.
