In both of the Republic’s final elections, I voted for Abdullah Abdullah. What follows is less a political essay and more the reckoning of a voter trying to understand why the political weight Abdullah could have wielded failed to translate into decisive action when it mattered most.
The proper starting point for assessing Abdullah is 2014—his entry into the National Unity Government as its newly created “Chief Executive.” Whatever one’s criticisms of that structure, it offered him an unprecedented opportunity to convert the symbolic capital and public vote he had received into institutionalized mobilizing power: through clear delegation to ministries, measurable accountability, and building a nationwide network of citizens, parties, and civil society actors who would stand behind political action in a moment of danger. Part of this project was blocked by Ashraf Ghani’s hyper-centralization, but part of it was the result of Abdullah’s own choices. Instead of evolving into an effective counterweight and policy-driven force, his political weight dissolved in endless palace negotiations.
When the 2019 electoral crisis escalated into parallel inaugurations, the absence of institutionalization became painfully obvious. Politics shrank into symbolic displays of power. A political agreement was eventually signed, placing Abdullah at the head of the High Council for National Reconciliation. On paper, the Council was more than a “peace table”: it was meant to serve as an internal authority capable of consolidating the public voice into a unified framework, clarifying the Republic’s red lines and flexibilities, and turning them into policy directives. In practice, the same old pattern persisted. The Palace kept all executive levers to itself, and while Abdullah chaired the Council, he lacked the tools to enforce decisions. This part of the story highlights Ghani’s responsibility: his monopoly over power, sidelining of all external bodies, reliance on a narrow circle, and structural mechanisms designed to lock authority inside the Palace.
Yet recognizing these constraints does not absolve Abdullah. A leader who campaigns under the banner of “Stability and Convergence” must, when denied authority, publicly state that denial, fight for it, and if still unsuccessful, construct an alternative path. His Council held meetings, traveled, and took photographs, but the unified, binding document that commanders or civil society actors might rely on never materialized—and the field felt this absence.
Reality in the field had already shifted with the Doha Agreement. Kabul was pushed out of the core negotiations; the narrative of the Taliban as a “government-in-waiting” strengthened. Then came the withdrawal announcement, reshaping expectations among all actors. Critical support systems weakened, supply chains thinned, and provinces saw a rise in bloodless local deals. Under such circumstances, a leader claiming “stability and convergence” should have crafted a managed transition plan—securing internal assurances, obtaining external guarantees, and forming a crisis cell of rivals and critics alike. Not only for “peace,” but to prevent collapse. But here, too, Abdullah remained more a “polite partner” than a “decisive leader.” He did not publicly define the limits of his authority, did not turn the demand for authority into a costly political stance, and produced meetings rather than binding documents. Meanwhile, Ghani further narrowed the political space. The outcome was inevitable: in the summer of the collapse, the Council was more symbolic than ever.
This judgment may be bitter, but it reflects reality. It was precisely at this moment that “mobilizing power” was supposed to work. Scattered doubts needed to be forged into joint decisions; meetings into documents; documents into action. If Abdullah could not open this path, he should have loudly explained why, and who was obstructing it—so the public would know where they stood, and history would record what was not done, and by whom.
Today, the Taliban have removed Abdullah from the official political sphere. No one expects ministries or chairmanships from him. But documented testimony, declassification of archives, and non-positional network building are still possible—and necessary. If he wishes to remain relevant, he must return to the public arena with evidence and history. He should publish the record of the High Council for National Reconciliation: what proposals he made, what responses he received, where he lacked authority, and where he possessed authority but failed to use it—and accept his share of responsibility without ambiguity. If he cannot or will not, he should say so plainly and hand his documents to history so others may fill the vacuum. This is not partisan politics; it is the minimum human responsibility.
My conclusion, as a voter who once hoped and now seeks accountability, is simple: Abdullah needed to evolve from “polite partner” to “decisive leader.” Because that transition happened too late—or not at all—he stood empty-handed at the moment of collapse. The fall of Afghanistan was not the work of one man, but the manner of its fall was shaped by the decisions of individuals. Ghani narrowed the space through monopolization; Abdullah failed to fill the remaining space through chronic caution. If there is still hope for redemption, it begins with acknowledging mistakes—and without that, history will judge his record as “dark and destructive.”
