For the final three years of the Republic, I served in the Office of Administrative Affairs—an institution responsible for core correspondence and strategic meetings at the heart of governance. What follows is not a memoir but a description of the patterns I witnessed firsthand: Ashraf Ghani was a micromanager, not a leader. And the difference became painfully clear in crisis.
Ghani loved details. This, by itself, is not wrong—but when the president personally edited the title of an internal memo, offering alternatives and debating each word, the decision-making machinery inevitably slowed. In economic and administrative commissions, I repeatedly watched files worth millions and files worth only thousands land on the same table and receive the same level of presidential scrutiny. Procurement sessions would sink into subclauses of minor contracts while far more urgent files were postponed to the next meeting. This was not incidental. It reflected the president’s need for control: he kept the details to himself, ministers and deputies lacked authority, and urgent decisions slipped backward.
A presidency exists to run a country, not to operate a small office. Yet even for mid-level appointments, we drafted resolutions that had to go directly to the Palace. If a minister wanted to replace a department head, the recommendation had to pass through several layers until it reached the president’s desk. The effect was structural: department heads were not accountable to ministers, and ministers felt no responsibility toward them. In evaluation meetings, one sentence became routine: “We are waiting for the Palace’s instruction.” Fragmented messages replaced clear and proximate authority.
Most official correspondence that reached us came back stamped “return for revision/completion.” Initial drafts were rarely accepted. Ghani’s handwritten notes were precise and numerous—sometimes helpful, often paralyzing. I recall a three-paragraph appointment notice that went through four rounds of edits simply over whether we should write “is appointed” or “is introduced.” When an institution becomes stuck at the level of individual words, there is little mental bandwidth left for strategy.
The 2019 electoral crisis dragged on from 28 September 2019 to 17 February 2020. Instead of delegating the political transition to a dedicated crisis-management cell, the Palace pulled everything inward. After the parallel inaugurations on 9 March 2020, instead of repairing the fracture, we created parallel structures: new committees, new councils, new deputy positions—each with overlapping descriptions. This proliferation made the bureaucracy appear busy without resolving the underlying gridlock; the center of decision-making remained frozen on the president’s desk.
When the Doha Agreement was signed on 29 February 2020, the landscape shifted. After 14 April 2021, when the final withdrawal was announced, those of us in Administrative Affairs expected redesigned processes: concentrated decision-making, clear delegation, and a short chain of command for the difficult days ahead. None of this came. The same long meetings continued; agendas shifted, but the working style did not. Reports arrived from the provinces, but our sessions still spoke the language of paperwork, not crisis: “a committee is recommended,” “the decision is deferred to the next meeting.” Administrative vocabulary replaced emergency governance.
Ghani believed in data; charts and tables always covered the table. But data becomes detached from reality when filtering increases. His inner circle delivered optimistic assessments; contradictory reports arrived late or were read at the end of meetings. Several times, we presented memos from provinces with bold warnings—“the chain of command is weakening”—and the response was, “a comprehensive plan is underway.” The plans were often good on paper, but time moved faster than the planning.
His speaking style mattered as well. Sometimes sharp, mostly one-way. In small rooms, when he asked a mid-level official, “Do you have an opinion, or are you carrying a message?” the official would instinctively choose the safer answer: “I am carrying a message.” Over time, the intellectual level of discussions dropped; no one dared say, “This path will not work.” In one policymaking meeting on education, a department head reported that female teachers in a certain province could not go to school; the response was, “The system must project strength, not concession.” In principle, this made sense—but true strength requires implementation. Without implementation, strength becomes illusion.
Security appointments in the spring and summer of 2021 were a carousel of reshuffling. In Administrative Affairs, we issued orders, canceled them, and issued new ones. Each fresh appointment meant new learning curves, new networks, and weakened responsibility. A chain of command that trembles every two weeks cannot transmit confidence to the field. Yet the president continued influencing even low-level appointments—not always through direct calls, but through the “remarks” circulating between offices. Everyone knew these remarks restricted ministers’ authority and blurred accountability.
Ghani believed in central control—that if the center was strong, the periphery would fall in line. But in Afghanistan, the periphery comes first; if the provinces are dissatisfied, the center produces only the appearance of order. The political agreement signed on 17 May 2020 could have shifted this dynamic, but instead of empowering mediating networks and local stakeholders, centralization intensified. We produced more memos than ever, but “turning paper into power” never happened.
In the final days before the fall, the atmosphere in the Palace was heavy. Minutes grew shorter but not clearer. Basic questions remained unanswered: If Kabul collapses quickly, who commands? Where do we gather? What mechanism exists for a managed transition? These questions were either unasked or met with vague responses: “Coordination is underway.”
Then came 15 August 2021, and the president left the country. This was not merely a personal decision; it was the culmination of years of hyper-centralization—pulling authority into one person, distrusting ministries and institutions, and reducing the chain of command to a narrow circle.
I do not write about intentions. Calling leaders “corrupt” or “clean” is easy, but it explains little. My point is this: management is not the same as control. Control means everything flows through one point; management means multiple points can decide and be accountable. Ghani was a point of control, not a network of management. When the crisis came, there was no network to carry the weight.
If I had to summarize: Ashraf Ghani built structures but did not build organization. He added layers but withheld authority. In peacetime, this caused delays; in crisis, it caused collapse. In Administrative Affairs, we produced more paper every day—but paper alone cannot hold a country together. That ratio tells the story of the Palace in those years.
I write not for revenge, but for learning. If Afghanistan ever rebuilds a state, it must correct this fundamental mistake: a president must lead a network, not micromanage a system. He should make the big decisions himself while delegating small authority and accountability; keep meetings short and clear; balance data with field realities; and create a short, transparent chain of command during crises. Without these, any Palace becomes a room full of paper—through whose windows one can see the fall, but cannot stop it.
