I. Ahmad Wani
A few days ago, a split photograph circulating on social media hit me hard. On the left, General Zia-ul-Haq stood in uniform, medals gleaming, Pakistani flags waving behind him, troops in formation. The Urdu text above him praised the Afghan Taliban as true mujahideen of the Deen-e-Islam—fighters for the faith, worthy of prayers and support from Pakistan. On the right, the current army chief, General Asim Munir, stood against a backdrop of modern military buildings and a mosque minaret. The text beside him was stark: the Afghan Taliban have nothing to do with Islam.
The contrast could not be sharper. When it suits Pakistan’s interests, the same Afghans are hailed as holy warriors. When those interests shift, they become outsiders—even threats. As one viral caption put it: “First Zia-ul-Haq’s Afghans were brothers, and now they are enemies.” Nothing captures power politics better.
The recent Pakistani strikes inside Afghanistan drove this point home brutally. In March 2026, Pakistani jets hit targets deep inside Afghan territory, including areas around Kabul. One strike destroyed the Omid Addiction Treatment Hospital—a massive 2,000-bed drug rehabilitation centre that once served as a NATO base. The Taliban reported over 400 dead, mostly patients, doctors, and staff. UN figures placed the toll lower, but still devastating, with hundreds killed and injured. Bodies were pulled from the rubble for days. Pakistan denied targeting a civilian facility, claiming it had struck terrorist camps linked to groups attacking its soil. But the images of shattered wards and grieving families told their own story. This is the same Afghanistan that Pakistan nurtured for decades with money, weapons, and ideology.
Back in Zia-ul-Haq’s era, Islamabad turned the Afghan cause into a jihad factory. Pakistani madrassas trained fighters against the Soviets. The slogan “Afghanistan se rishta, La ilaha illallah” echoed widely. After the Soviets withdrew—and later, when the Americans arrived post-9/11—the script flipped again. Now those same “brothers” run Kabul, and Pakistan bombs them. General Asim Munir has repeatedly warned the Taliban to choose between Pakistan and the Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), stating that most infiltrators are Afghan and that peace depends on Kabul renouncing support for such groups. Interests decide everything. Brotherhood is just a tool.
For ordinary Kashmiris, this should be a wake-up call. The same double standards have played out in our valleys for decades. In the early 1990s, when militancy was at its peak, groups like Hizbul Mujahideen and Ikhwan-ul-Muslimeen turned on each other. Hizbul, backed by Pakistan and closely tied to Jamaat-e-Islami, clashed violently with Ikhwan. From 1994 onwards, Ikhwan shifted towards the government side, accusing Hizbul of atrocities. Jamaat-e-Islami cadres faced attacks as well. In those bitter years, some Jamaat leaders reportedly quoted General Zia-ul-Haq’s private views—that Kashmiris were “Brahmans by birth” and therefore not fully trustworthy.
A simple question arises: if Kashmiris were seen as unreliable in the eyes of those generals, then why push them into the fire? Why mobilise thousands of young people with slogans of jihad and “Kashmir banega Pakistan”? Why turn our homes into battlegrounds for a “thousand cuts” strategy against India? Pakistani generals never wanted open war; they preferred bleeding India slowly through proxies. As one account of the doctrine put it, the aim was to tie down large Indian forces at minimal cost while keeping India bogged down. We became the cannon fodder. Our youth crossed the Line of Control, took up arms under religious banners, and many never returned. Families still search for graves that do not exist. India remained strong; we paid the price in blood and broken lives.
The “Islamisation” of the Kashmir issue was never about pure faith for those planning it. It was about leverage. When the Afghan mujahideen served a purpose, they were champions of Deen. When they no longer did—or when the TTP began using Afghan soil—suddenly there was “no connection with Islam.” The same logic applied to Kashmiris. We were useful when we could be turned into foot soldiers. When internal rivalries erupted, or when groups like Ikhwan switched sides, old suspicions resurfaced. Yet recruitment never stopped. The slogans sounded noble; the reality was cold calculation.
Look at the human cost. Thousands of Kashmiri families lost sons, brothers, and husbands. Mosques and homes became recruitment grounds, while the real strategists remained far from the battlefield. The same pattern is visible in Afghanistan today—strikes, denials, and shifting alliances. Muslim brotherhood evaporates the moment interests collide. Pakistan aligns with China for strategic depth, engages Iran when convenient, and recalibrates constantly. Ideology bends to necessity.
For the common Kashmiri, the lesson is painful but necessary. We are not cannon fodder for someone else’s war. We are not meant to serve as fuel for endless geopolitical games. Enough of hollow slogans that sound pious but lead only to graveyards. The “thousand cuts” policy has cut deepest into our own society.
This summer, the scenes in Pahalgam and Gulmarg told a different story—families trekking, Dal Lake alive with houseboats, hotels bustling again. Tourists from across India and beyond returned despite everything. That is our strength. Education, sports, honest work, and tourism—these are the paths that can secure our future and preserve our identity. Young Kashmiris are already showing the way: excelling in academics, shining in sports, and building livelihoods through hospitality that reflects genuine Kashmiri warmth.
We must protect that warmth, not destroy it. Our mehmaan-nawazi is not weakness—it is our identity. Let us not wait for tragedy to react. Let us stay vigilant. When harmful agendas creep into our schools, mosques, or tourist spaces, when rumours spread, let us be the first to resist. Support one another. Protect our guests. Rebuild our social fabric instead of allowing outsiders to tear it apart.
Global powers will keep playing chess. Pakistan is not merely seeking strategic depth; its ambitions often run deeper and more dangerous. India will continue to guard its sovereignty, and other powers will pursue their own interests. But Kashmiris must refuse to remain pawns. Our struggle is not about guns in the mountains for someone else’s vision. It is about every child who deserves books instead of bullets, every shopkeeper who seeks steady livelihoods instead of curfews, every mother who wants her son to return home alive.
Let us choose education, sports, and tourism. Let us reclaim our Kashmiri identity—rooted in culture, language, and dignity—without borrowed conflicts or shifting religious narratives. The message from that photograph is clear: today’s mujahideen can become tomorrow’s outsiders when interests change. We have seen enough. It is time to choose life, dignity, and self-reliance over another generation lost to someone else’s game.
