I will not talk about what it feels like to see Taliban terrorists dressed in our American military uniforms, carrying our rifles and sitting in our Blackhawk helicopters. But I will talk about human beings – our people. 

After I left Phnom Penh, Cambodia, in April 1975, one week before the fall of Saigon, it took many, many years to find out the fate of my friends and the Cambodian people under communist dictator Pol Pot. I will not describe the genocide of 1.5 million people. If you want to know you can look it up now. 

There is a difference today from 50 years ago: the cell phone. At check points in Kabul, Afghanistan, where they were stopped, American families with children have sent photos of themselves, so their families will know what happened to them if they don’t come home. Our government wants you to believe that being left behind was their idea. Really? You can think that if you wish. But I will believe their voices, in their own words, while they still have voices we can hear. 

Until every single American is home safe, I will fly my American flag. It will fly every day. And I will remember.