The Trump administration has halted all asylum decisions and paused issuing visas for people traveling on Afghan passports days after a tragic shooting near the White House that left a National Guard member dead and another in critical condition.
Investigators are working to uncover a motive behind the shooting, with the suspect identified as a 29-year-old Afghan national who had previously collaborated with the CIA during the Afghanistan War. He is currently facing severe charges, including first-degree murder, following his asylum approval earlier this year.
In response to this incident, the Trump administration is intensifying efforts to restrict legal immigration. Officials have pledged to pause the entry of individuals from underprivileged nations and to thoroughly review Afghans and other legal migrants already residing in the U.S.
Investigators revealed that specialist Sarah Beckstrom, aged 20, tragically lost her life in the shooting incident, while Staff Sgt. Andrew Wolfe, aged 24, remains hospitalized with critical injuries. Both were deployed with the West Virginia National Guard as part of a crime-fighting mission directed by the Trump administration.
U.S. Attorney Jeanine Pirro's office confirmed numerous charges against Rahmanullah Lakanwal, including assault with intent to kill while armed, indicating that more charges are forthcoming.
Asylum Decisions Frozen
Following the shooting, Trump condemned the incident as a “terrorist attack” and criticized the Biden administration for previously permitting Afghan nationals to enter the U.S. in light of their service with U.S. military forces.
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services Director Joseph Edlow announced a suspension of asylum decisions to maximize the vetting and screening processes for all applicants.
Despite existing robust vetting systems for asylum-seekers, experts have noted backlogs complicating claims from within the U.S. Critics have argued that the situation has worsened since the Trump administration took over.
Alongside this issue, Secretary of State Marco Rubio affirmed that the visa issuance for all individuals traveling on Afghan passports has also been officially suspended.
Activists from the #AfghanEvac program have condemned the administration's use of one violent act to justify a broader crackdown on legal immigration, which they believe undermines Afghan veterans and those who served alongside them.
The Suspect's Background
Lakanwal entered the U.S. in 2021 following the Operation Allies Welcome initiative, which aimed to resettle Afghan nationals after the U.S. military withdrawal. He applied for asylum and was granted it this year.
Having served in a CIA-backed Afghan Army unit, Lakanwal's employment history includes working as a security guard, eventually advancing to significant roles within the unit. Residents of his community have described him as a quiet individual struggling to find work before the incident.
Honoring Beckstrom's Service
Sarah Beckstrom, who enlisted in 2023 and served honorably as a military police officer, was recognized for her dedication and leadership. She volunteered for the deployment to Washington D.C., showcasing her commitment to service.
This series of events has not only highlighted the complexities surrounding asylum and immigration policies but also raises profound questions about how the U.S. honors those who risk their lives in service of the nation.
![Caterers, Countless Lives: Detroit Chef's Food Feeds Lebanon's War‑Torn Families","description":"In the suburbs of Dearborn Heights, a 47‑year‑old Lebanese chef turns her catering profits into lifelines for over a million displaced from Lebanon, illustrating how U.S. diaspora communities bridge crises from afar.","summary":"When war in southern Lebanon breaks out, hundreds of thousands flee to neighboring Israel and the United States. Amid rising costs, Mirvet Makki—Detroit‑based caterer—sets aside a portion of her earnings each week to sponsor families back home. Her culinary endeavor, which serves soured couscous stews and savory kibbeh, becomes a quiet lifeline for a nation in economic crisis. The problem mirrors a larger diaspora trend: U.S. Lebanese communities fund relief, rally politically, and keep cultural bonds alive, even as they watch conflict unfold from afar.","image":"https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1588097834006-0edc6c69d944?auto=format&fit=crop&w=640&q=80","text":"<p>In the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, 47‑year‑old Mirvet Makki punches kitchen knives and pushes trays of fragrant Lebanese dishes, the same dishes that stir memories of her childhood village in Bint Jbeil. When the devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah dragged thousands of civilians into tent cities, a wave of refugees hit Lebanon’s southern coast—and the Lebanese diaspora in America felt a pull they could not ignore.</p><p>Every week, Makki allocates a slice of her catering profits to families in Lebanon devastated by aerial bombardments and land mines. She says the money is not a charitable donation in the truest sense. Rather, it is a trans‑national family budget trickle that keeps aunts and cousins fed while they await a return that may never happen. The funds travel across borders to a people whose homes have been reduced to rubble.</p><p>Lebanon’s displacement crisis has reached a scale previously thought unlikely: more than one million of the 6‑million‑strong population—roughly one in six—have fled their homes. The economic damage is brutal and the currency has weakened to the point that the U.S. dollar circulates in many rural markets. Food cost, fuel availability, and basic utilities have all collapsed, leaving communities hungry and desperate.</p><p>“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki says. “So I used my business.” She maintains a strict budget, limiting personal overhead to spare enough money for her sisters, nephews, and a small handful of friends who live in the most affected regions.</p><p>Many Lebanese Americans—some of them in the U.S. since the late 1800s—have become the de facto financial lifeline for Lebanon. According to the last census, roughly 625,000 Lebanese‑American residents live in the United States now, though many estimates claim the number could be as high as 1.4 million. Secretary‑General António Guterres shook hands with families in South Lebanon while speaking in Nairobi, underscoring how diaspora remittances are crucial to the country's survival.</p><p>Christians, Sunni and Shiite Muslims, and smaller Druze communities in Lebanon face distinct hardships, but their U.S. cousins unite over common concerns. When the U.S. voted to provide war aid to Israel, a wave of Lebanese Americans gathered around the “uncommitted movement” to protest, and the community also rallied to condemn a Michigan synagogue shooting. These political coalitions share a single aim: to be the voice and the hand for those who cannot lift themselves.</p><p>“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction … is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” says Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University. “Most rely on one another – they are not looking to Washington for the furniture to rebuild.”</p><p>In February, Makki visited her homeland. She saw how the price of living had skyrocketed: a car rental that once cost $200 would now be a luxury. She felt the loss firsthand in a small roadside food stall that had dwindled to a single dish. That trip cemented her determination to channel her income back to Lebanon.</p><p>Some Americans are moving beyond bank transfers; they meet with families on video calls and, when possible, travel to Lebanon themselves to deliver goods or give a hands‑on hand. Nadia Bryant, a 37‑year‑old mother of Troy, Michigan, sends money to her sisters in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash‑Shab was invaded. “They donated in direct form to orphans,” she says. “They do not even ask to put the money toward their own betterment.”</p><p>While the U.S. still cannot process immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals due to congressional stand‑by, many families despair. Attoui, a Detroit‑based fundraiser, has urged her relatives to immigrate. They are unwilling. “I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” Attoui says. “So if you could bring [people] here, that would be a relief.”</p><p>Despite the personal losses and cultural distance, the Lebanese diaspora in the U.S. remains fiercely alive. They keep the poise of their homeland, raise money, and stand together in protest. As the war stretches on, the warmth of a pot of stew and the generosity of a family’s earnings become a quiet, daily rebellion against impossible hunger.</p>](/m/d1/2a/d12a9a3593712ff0281d85ddca1a552c8f027c57cb44d7ac67e0241a3bd37d9d/o.webp)
