A return to the zero-sum mentality that dominated earlier epochs — where Kabul was binary: allied or hostile — will not suffice.

For decades Islamabad regarded Afghanistan as a strategic depth and a zone of influence — a buffer to be shaped, not simply neighboured. That assumption has been upended. What was once a relationship of patronage and leverage has become a volatile adversarial space in which Pakistan’s ability to shape outcomes is eroding fast.

The proximate causes are familiar: the Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan’s (TTP) resurgence, the Afghan Taliban’s evolving priorities, and renewed regional manoeuvring — but the deeper story is institutional: Pakistan’s coercive and diplomatic instruments have less purchase in Kabul than they did a decade ago, and the result is a dangerous ambiguity for peace along a porous frontier.

The unraveling of influence

Pakistan’s influence was built on long-term ties with elements of the Afghan insurgency, cross-border sanctuaries for proxies and a security apparatus that assumed it could cajole Kabul.

After the Afghan Taliban’s return to power in 2021 Islamabad briefly believed those ties would translate into control over insurgent groups that threaten Pakistan’s internal security, especially the TTP. That belief has been proven increasingly fragile.

Since 2023 and into 2024–25, the TTP has consolidated, carrying out a wave of attacks inside Pakistan and openly operating from Afghan territory, according to Pakistani officials and independent monitors — a reality Islamabad blames on Kabul’s unwillingness or inability to rein in militants.

The rhetoric has hardened into kinetic confrontation. October and November 2025 saw some of the deadliest border clashes since 2021, with both sides trading heavy accusations of cross-border strikes and of harbouring militants.

Pakistan’s military leadership framed the dispute in stark terms: peace depends on the Taliban preventing attacks originating on Afghan soil — an implicit admission that Islamabad’s old levers of influence are no longer decisive.

Kabul, for its part, denies institutional complicity while insisting it is a sovereign government contending with its own domestic pressures and complex local actors.

Analysts have been blunt. “Pakistan misread the Taliban and lost peace on the frontier,” wrote commentators after a string of confrontations, arguing Islamabad had underestimated the Afghan leadership’s need to assert independence from Islamabad and to cultivate alternative patrons and legitimacy.

The practical consequence is a loss of predictive power: Islamabad cannot reliably forecast which militant actors Kabul will tolerate or contest, and therefore cannot control the border dynamics that have long defined its security calculus.

New players, old grievances

The decline of unilateral influence does not mean Pakistan has been entirely sidelined; rather, the relationship has been recalibrated amid a broader regional realignment.

China and Turkey have moved to mediate and cajole, economic corridors and diplomatic initiatives have proliferated, and even India has quietly sought to re-engage with Kabul, reopening channels that complicate Islamabad’s calculations.

These shifts give the Afghan Taliban alternatives for diplomatic engagement and economic cooperation that do not depend on Pakistan’s patronage.

Inside Pakistan, the domestic politics of counter-terrorism and the resurging profile of the Pakistani Taliban have also altered official thinking. Policymakers face a grim choice: assertive military options across the border that risk escalation and international censure, or a patient diplomatic strategy that depends on a Kabul willing and able to act.

The ambiguity has produced episodic violence rather than a durable settlement; ceasefires have been brokered and violated, and confidence-building measures are fragile. Observers note that Islamabad’s traditional tools — patronage networks, cross-border pressure and economic inducements — are necessary but not sufficient to resolve the multi-layered conflicts now playing out.

The human cost is immediate. Civilians on both sides of the Durand Line have borne the brunt of the violence: displacement, disrupted trade and a renewal of mistrust that undercuts any long-term reconciliation.

The border is not simply a line on a map; it is a lived geography of interdependence and grievance. As violence spikes, international actors — from Qatar and Turkey to regional capitals — are scrambling to re-establish mediation channels even as the ground reality resists neat diplomatic fixes.

What comes next

If Pakistan’s grip is slipping, the strategic implication is that South Asia’s security architecture must be rethought. A return to the zero-sum mentality that dominated earlier epochs — where Kabul was binary: allied or hostile — will not suffice.

Instead, any viable approach must accept multiplicity: a Taliban government with agency, non-state militant actors with transnational reach and regional powers willing to assert influence through economic and diplomatic means. This requires Pakistan to invest in multilateral mechanisms, to deepen intelligence and law-enforcement cooperation that respects Afghan sovereignty, and to concede that punitive cross-border strikes are not a sustainable substitute for political solutions.

The stakes transcend bilateral rivalry. A durable peace on the frontier matters to refugee flows, counter-terrorism, narcotics trafficking and the broader stability of a region that is again the focus of great-power competition.

If Islamabad wants to protect its core security interests it must adapt to an Afghan polity that no longer responds predictably to old incentives. That adaptation will be neither quick nor comfortable, but it is necessary: failing to do so will leave both countries mired in a costly oscillation of strikes, reprisals and diplomatic ruptures that benefits no one.

As one regional analyst put it, the old script for influence has been burned; the question for Pakistan is whether it can write a new, more cooperative one before the next conflagration.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

This duality—preaching unity while practicing duplicity—has become Pakistan’s diplomatic hallmark.

When the Taliban stormed into Kabul in August 2021, Pakistan’s powerful intelligence chief, Lt. Gen. Faiz Hameed, appeared at the Serena Hotel and assured journalists, “Everything will be okay.”

His confident smile captured Islamabad’s belief that decades of strategic maneuvering had finally paid off. Pakistan, long accused of nurturing the Taliban, assumed it would now wield decisive influence over its western neighbor.

Four years later, those hopes have turned to ashes. The Taliban’s rise, once hailed in Islamabad as a geopolitical triumph, has become a source of profound insecurity and humiliation.

The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), emboldened by its ideological kin in Kabul, has unleashed a deadly insurgency across Pakistan’s tribal belt. Hundreds of Pakistani soldiers have been killed in cross-border raids. The Taliban, despite Pakistan’s past support, has refused to curb the TTP.

The so-called “strategic depth” has instead exposed Pakistan’s strategic shallowness. A state that once boasted of controlling its proxies now finds itself hostage to them. The illusion of regional mastery has dissolved into a grim reality: Pakistan is isolated, insecure, and rapidly losing credibility.

Weaponizing Refugees

Having failed to tame the Taliban, Pakistan turned its frustration toward Afghan civilians. In October 2023, Islamabad launched the Illegal Foreigners Repatriation Plan (IFRP), targeting nearly 1.7 million undocumented Afghans. For decades, Afghan refugees had lived, worked, and raised families in Pakistan. Suddenly, they became scapegoats for Islamabad’s security failures.

By mid-2025, more than 600,000 Afghans had been deported in what international observers described as one of South Asia’s largest forced repatriations in decades. Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch chronicled chilling stories of police harassment, arbitrary detentions, and family separations.

Pakistan justified the campaign as a counterterrorism measure, accusing Afghan refugees of harboring TTP militants. But analysts saw it differently: an act of political retribution against the Taliban regime. Kabul condemned the deportations as a breach of international law and accused Islamabad of deepening Afghanistan’s humanitarian catastrophe.

This was more than just a border dispute—it was a symptom of Pakistan’s broader malaise. A state that once prided itself on being a refuge for the oppressed had turned into a place of fear and hostility. The moral cost of Islamabad’s Afghan policy was now unmistakable.

Airstrikes and Escalation

Pakistan’s response extended beyond deportations. Under the guise of pursuing TTP sanctuaries, it began conducting airstrikes inside Afghan territory.

In April 2022, bombings in Khost and Kunar killed 47 civilians, mostly women and children. Similar attacks followed in March and December 2024, targeting Paktika and Khost. In January 2025, fresh strikes were launched along the volatile Durand Line. Over a hundred civilians have died since 2021, according to regional monitors.

Each operation fuelled anger and anti-Pakistan protests across Afghanistan. The Taliban government condemned the attacks as violations of sovereignty, accusing Pakistan of hiding its failures behind a counterterrorism narrative.

By 2025, Pakistan’s western frontier was once again aflame—only this time, without American troops to share the blame. The Afghan war that Islamabad once believed it had outsourced had come home, exacting both human and diplomatic costs.

Diplomacy as Deception

The crisis reached a symbolic peak in September 2025, when Islamabad hosted the “Towards Unity and Trust” conference under the South Asian Strategic Stability Institute.

Despite the event’s conciliatory title, the Taliban government was conspicuously excluded. Instead, the gathering featured anti-Taliban activists and politicians, turning what was billed as a dialogue into an exercise in diplomatic provocation.

Just days later, Defense Minister Khawaja Asif labeled Afghanistan an “enemy state”—a stunning reversal from Pakistan’s earlier rhetoric of “brotherhood.”

This diplomatic whiplash mirrors a deeper inconsistency at the heart of Pakistan’s foreign policy. It speaks of a nation perpetually caught between ambition and insecurity, between Islamic solidarity and realpolitik.

Even its domestic realities now echo this hypocrisy.

In early October 2025, a story broke that underscored how deeply investor confidence has eroded under the current administration. Out of 23 oil and gas exploration blocks offered for bidding, no local or foreign bids were received for 22. The only bid came from Mari Gas, and even that was for a small block with negligible output.

Taimur Saleem Khan Jhagra, Pakistan’s opposition leader, wrote “investors know this is an illegitimate govt,” saying no company—foreign or domestic—was willing to invest in a country “without rule of law.” He accused the government of driving away foreign direct investment through arbitrary governance, economic mismanagement, and political repression.

This episode is emblematic of Pakistan’s larger credibility crisis. When even domestic energy firms shy away from state-backed ventures, the problem is not market dynamics—it is a collapse of trust. The same lack of accountability that defines Pakistan’s regional duplicity now poisons its economic foundations.

The Iran Paradox and the Palestine Hypocrisy

Pakistan’s double-dealing extends far beyond its Afghan misadventure.

In June 2025, Islamabad publicly condemned U.S. airstrikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities, declaring solidarity with Tehran. Yet, only days earlier, Army Chief Gen. Asim Munir had met privately with Donald Trump, reportedly discussing “regional stability.” In a surreal twist, Pakistan went on to nominate Trump for the 2026 Nobel Peace Prize, effectively undercutting its supposed alignment with Iran.

This duality—preaching unity while practicing duplicity—has become Pakistan’s diplomatic hallmark.

The same contradictions stain its stance on Palestine. While Pakistani leaders have long professed unwavering support for the Palestinian cause, history tells another story. During Black September 1970, Brigadier Zia ul-Haq, later Pakistan’s military ruler, helped Jordan crush the Palestine Liberation Organization, a massacre that claimed thousands of lives.

In July 2025, Pakistan awarded the Nishan-e-Imtiaz to U.S. CENTCOM Commander Gen. Michael Kurilla, despite his role in coordinating American military support for Israel during its Gaza operations.

At the UN General Assembly’s 80th session, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif met Daniel Rosen, head of the American Jewish Congress, signaling a quiet but unmistakable outreach to pro-Israel circles.

For a country that brands itself the guardian of Muslim causes, the hypocrisy is striking. From Amman to Gaza, Pakistan’s leaders have consistently traded principle for expediency.

A Consistent Inconsistency

Across every theater—Afghanistan, Iran, Palestine, and even its own energy sector—a single pattern emerges: Pakistan’s promises collapse under the weight of its own contradictions.

It seeks influence in Kabul but alienates Afghans through bombings and deportations. It pledges brotherhood with Tehran while courting Washington. It proclaims solidarity with Palestine while decorating America’s military commanders. And now, it claims to welcome foreign investment while creating an environment so lawless that even local companies refuse to bid.

In the end, Pakistan’s gravest betrayal is not of its neighbors, but of itself. The erosion of credibility abroad mirrors the decay of governance at home. As investors flee, allies distance themselves, and insurgents advance, the message is clear: a nation that manipulates every alliance eventually stands alone.

For decades, Pakistan’s generals and politicians have built policies on the illusion of control. The Afghan gamble was meant to cement regional influence; instead, it has exposed a state adrift, distrusted by friends and foes alike.

The “everything will be okay” optimism of 2021 now rings hollow. For Pakistan, everything is decidedly not okay—and the world, finally, has stopped believing its promises.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Far from empowering Muslims, Akbaruddin’s rhetoric is downright foolish.

In the complex and often combustible landscape of Indian politics, few figures have stirred as much controversy as Akbaruddin Owaisi—the younger brother of Asaduddin Owaisi, head of the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (AIMIM), a Muslim-centric political party with influence in southern and parts of northern India.

Akbaruddin became a national—and international—talking point in 2012 when a provocative excerpt from one of his public speeches in Nirmal, Telangana, went viral. In the clip, he is seen declaring: “If the police are removed for 15 minutes, we are 250 million and you are 1 billion. We will show you who is more powerful, who has balls.”

The statement was a blatant threat wrapped in communal arithmetic, referencing the Muslim and Hindu populations of India. The crowd erupted in applause. Shortly afterward, Owaisi was arrested on charges of hate speech, released on bail, and ultimately acquitted in 2022.

But revisiting this case solely as a legal episode misses the point. It is a revealing lens into the enduring toxicity of communal rhetoric in Indian politics—particularly within some segments of the Muslim leadership—where hate is no longer an outlier but a weaponized tool, used across the spectrum to polarize and provoke.

Hate Speech Is Not a One-Way Street

Akbaruddin’s speech stands as one of the clearest examples of hate speech by a Muslim politician in India. It was not vague or symbolic rhetoric aimed at resisting “Muslim oppression,” but a direct provocation against an entire (albeit imaginary) community—articulated through communal arithmetic: 25 crore versus 100 crore.

Ironically, the speech played right into the hands of those it ostensibly opposed. It gave the Hindu Right a moral and political tool: “If Muslim leaders can openly threaten us, why shouldn’t we respond in kind?” In that sense, Owaisi’s speech, like many instances where the idea of Muslim empowerment morphs into rabid communalism, deepened the communal fissures that the ruling dispensation now capitalizes on with its own stream of hate speeches.

Yet, here lies a deeper hypocrisy within sections of the Indian Muslim community. Many Muslims, in private conversations, while disagreeing with AIMIM’s political opportunism, tend to justify Akbaruddin’s words as a symbolic show of resistance—an assertion that “we will not take oppression lying down.” But symbolic resistance through hate speech is a double-edged sword. It only reinforces existing suspicions and increases hostility.

The Dangerous Myth of Communal Arithmetic

The core of Akbaruddin’s speech rests on a fundamentally flawed idea: that Muslims are a monolithic, homogeneous bloc of 25–30 crore standing against 100 crore Hindus.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The Muslim community in India is deeply diverse and internally fractured—across sects, castes, regions, and languages.

Sunni–Shia, Deobandi–Barelvi, and Ashraf–Ajlaf–Arzal divisions are an open secret. The imagined “25 crore Muslims” myth collapses the moment these internal differences are acknowledged—which, in the age of Hindutva, seems conveniently forgotten.

Likewise, the notion of “100 crore Hindus” is equally imaginary. Caste, regional, and linguistic divides among Hindus remain sharp and visible, only temporarily papered over by the Hindutva project. Communalism gives life to these mythical numbers because communal politics thrives on binaries—usually imaginary, always forced.

When Akbaruddin says “15 minutes without police,” he frames the state—particularly the police—as the central oppressor during pogroms. There is some truth to this. The history of riots, from Nellie (1983) to Delhi (2020), shows police complicity or selective inaction. But his imagined scenario is suicidal. If the police disappear and the battle is framed as 30 crore versus 100 crore, it effectively calls for Muslims to engage in self-annihilation.

Three Hindus for every one Muslim—Owaisi’s way of calling for suicide reminds one of the now-famous meme: “Marwana ka tareeqa thoda casual hai.”

Far from empowering Muslims, Akbaruddin’s rhetoric is downright foolish.

The Responsibility to Condemn Across the Board

Akbaruddin Owaisi has made many such remarks, including derogatory statements about Hindu gods—calling them “manhoos” (inauspicious). Imagine if any Hindu politician had used even mildly similar language for Allah or the Prophet—the reaction from Muslims and the media would have been explosive. This asymmetry in moral outrage is dangerous.

It is also telling that his elder brother, Asaduddin Owaisi—otherwise vocal in dissecting Hindu right-wing hate speech—has never meaningfully condemned his brother’s 2012 remarks. This selective silence undermines the moral standing of anyone claiming to fight hate.

If Muslims wish to oppose Hindutva hate speech with credibility, they must also hold their own leaders accountable. Tacit approval or silence emboldens hate-mongers from within, leaving ordinary Muslims to face the consequences of fires lit by their ‘leaders.’

Communalism Is a Two-Edged Sword

The truth is stark: speeches like Akbaruddin Owaisi’s do not protect Muslims. They further communalize Hindus, provide ammunition to the ruling party, and push India’s already fragile social fabric closer to collapse.

Muslims must therefore develop a politics rooted not in reaction, but in principled opposition to all forms of hate. That essentially means condemning both Hindu and Muslim hate speech—without excuses, without bias.

The flames of hate consume the weakest first. Those who light them rarely burn. Let us never forget: hate can never be fought with hate.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.