Where the Dust Never Settles: A Waziristani’s Reflection on a Century of Foreign Wars

I was born in Waziristan, a rugged, beautiful region tucked between the jagged folds of the mountains on Pakistan’s northwest frontier. It’s a place where poetry lives in the same breath as war, and the sound of drone engines is as familiar as the call to prayer. To outsiders, Waziristan is often seen only in headlines—tribal, lawless, extremist. But those words barely scratch the surface of a place shaped not by its people’s will alone, but by a legacy of foreign wars that have passed through like storms, leaving behind scars and silence.

This is not a political essay. This is not a condemnation or an appeal. This is a reflection—one man’s attempt to piece together what it means to live in a land constantly caught in someone else’s war.

Chapter 1: The Great Game — Echoes of Empire

Before the Soviet tanks and American drones, there were British redcoats and Russian agents, playing a 19th-century version of chess with Central Asia. The Great Game, they called it.

My grandfather used to tell me stories passed down from his elders—of British colonial officers riding into the tribal agencies, speaking a language no one understood but demanding loyalty nonetheless. The tribal elders, fiercely independent, often resisted. Clashes broke out, agreements were signed and broken, and the British eventually drew a border they called the “Durand Line.” But to us, that line meant nothing. Our people moved with the mountains, not with maps.

That invisible scar—the Durand Line—still exists. It sliced through families, tribes, and centuries of migration. It turned our homes into a buffer zone, a permanent frontline between Afghanistan and whatever empire wanted to control it next.

Chapter 2: The Cold War — When the Soviets Came

In 1979, when the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, everything changed. Our valleys, which had always been tough and poor but peaceful in their way, began to fill with refugees. Afghans came across the border, not as invaders but as brothers, cousins, fellow Pashtuns seeking shelter.

But soon after the refugees came the weapons. The CIA poured in money, arms, and ideology, training local fighters and foreign jihadis in what they called a “holy war” against communism. We were told it was a righteous fight. Mosques and madrassas swelled with young men ready to take up arms. American dollars and Saudi influence flowed like rivers through Waziristan.

Some of my uncles joined the fight. Others stayed to protect their homes. But none of us remained untouched. The local culture began to shift. Where there had been poetry gatherings, there were sermons of fire and fury. Where boys had once been trained to farm or trade, they were now trained to fight.

The Soviets left in 1989. But the guns did not.

Chapter 3: The 1990s — Between Two Storms

The years between the Soviet exit and 9/11 were perhaps the most quietly destructive. Pakistan, Afghanistan, and the West left behind a generation of young men trained for war but given no future. Factions emerged. Some fighters became warlords. Others tried to return home, only to find their villages riddled with uncertainty.

In Waziristan, we had no real infrastructure, no hospitals, no universities—just faith and family. And then the Taliban emerged across the border. Some saw them as saviors who would restore order. Others feared their interpretation of Islam. But what mattered to most of us in Waziristan was not who ruled Kabul, but whether we could live our lives in peace.

Peace never came.

Chapter 4: The 21st Century — War on Terror, War on Us

After the towers fell in New York, the dust settled halfway across the world—in Waziristan.

Suddenly, our mountains were no longer just a buffer; they were declared a haven for terrorists. The Americans invaded Afghanistan, and Pakistan became a frontline ally in a war that we didn’t start, didn’t vote for, and didn’t understand.

I was a young man when the drones started flying overhead. At first, we didn’t know what they were—small buzzing sounds, like mechanical bees. Then came the strikes. Weddings were hit. Tribal councils were obliterated. Homes were reduced to craters, and with them, entire bloodlines were erased.

I lost two cousins in one such strike. No one ever explained why. Their names were never published. They were not militants—just farmers visiting family. But in war, due process is a luxury. Labels are applied posthumously.

And yet, we were told this war was about saving us—from terrorists, from ourselves, from becoming the “next Afghanistan.” But what happens when the saviors drop bombs? When foreign soldiers march through your villages, guns drawn, asking questions in a language you don’t speak?

Chapter 5: The Psychology of Occupation

Living in Waziristan during the War on Terror was like living under occupation by ghosts. You couldn’t always see the enemy, but you knew it watched you from the sky. Suspicion became a part of daily life. If you had a beard, you were a target. If you shaved it, you were a target too.

The government built checkpoints, but offered no security. They asked for loyalty, but gave us no justice. Militants moved in as a parallel power. Some people supported them out of fear, others out of anger. And so we were squeezed—between drones above and insurgents below.

Young people like me were left with impossible choices: flee, fight, or freeze. Some fled to cities like Peshawar or even abroad, if they had money. Others joined the conflict, drawn by either ideology or desperation. Most of us just tried to survive, year after year, as the war continued without end.

Chapter 6: After the Withdrawal — Still No Peace

When the U.S. finally left Afghanistan in 2021, we thought maybe, just maybe, the dust would settle. But it hasn’t. The border remains tense. Extremist groups still find space to operate. Development never came. The wounds are deep—not just physical, but psychological. Trust in government, in neighbors, even in faith itself has been eroded.

We are told the war is over. But for us, the war was never just about bombs or borders. It was about being seen, being heard, being human. And in that sense, the war continues.

Final Reflection: A Land of Resilience, Not Just Resistance

I don’t want pity. Waziristan doesn’t want pity. We want understanding.

We are not all militants. We are not backward. We are not pawns. We are poets, teachers, mothers, traders. We are a people whose land has been invaded not just by armies, but by narratives written far away.

So the next time someone in Washington or London talks about “tribal areas” or “strategic regions,” I hope they remember there are people here—people who have lived through the Great Game, the Cold War, and the War on Terror—and who are still waiting for peace.

In the end, we may not have shaped the wars that reached our doors. But we live with their consequences every single day.

And we are still standing.