Afghanistan Beyond War: The ‘How Is That?’ Generation |
I am not a diplomat, not a sociologist, and not a strategic thinker. I write simply as a close observer of Afghan society—someone who has worked on the ground, travelled beyond cities, and spent time in some of the most remote and fragile parts of Afghanistan. What I share here is not theory; it is lived experience.
As the horizon burns with the fires of an "open war," the story of Pakistan and Afghanistan has descended into its darkest, most hollowed phase. The air is no longer filled with the sounds of a shared game, but with the roar of aerial bombardments and the sharp crack of border skirmishes. In February 2026, the fragile threads of diplomacy finally snapped, replaced by a brutal exchange of steel and fire as Islamabad strikes at the shadows of the TTP, while Kabul stands accused of sheltering the very hands that draw Pakistani blood.
It is a devastating erosion of a relationship that, since 2021, has spiralled from cold tension into a visceral, bleeding tragedy. Yet, beneath the smoke of these high-altitude strikes and the hollow rhetoric of statehood lies a deeper, more agonising truth that the world chooses to ignore. While governments clash in a theatre of destruction, the underlying societies tell a story not of policy, but of a profound and shattered human connection.
We are witnessing the slow, agonising death of proximity—where a neighbour's touch has turned from a cultural embrace into a lethal strike. This is not merely a conflict of borders; it is a mournful autopsy of a brotherhood lost to the poisons of terrorism and the relentless cycle of betrayal.
For decades, powerful nations have tried to reshape Afghanistan through military force, political engineering, and development aid. The British once occupied Kabul during the First Anglo-Afghan War. More recently, the United States and its allies remained for nearly twenty years. Yet despite this prolonged presence, one basic transformation—spreading functional English among ordinary Afghans—remained largely unachieved. And yet, I have seen that transformation happen—not through war, not through aid programmes, but through cricket.
In the 1990s, Afghan refugees in Pakistan learned cricket in camps around Peshawar. They returned home carrying bats, balls, and something far more powerful: exposure to language, discipline, and a global culture. Today, Afghanistan stands as a full member of the International Cricket Council.
Its national team is ranked among the top sides in the world—around 6th globally in limited-overs cricket—and its players compete internationally, earning millions and inspiring millions more back home. But statistics alone do not capture the real story.
While governments move towards confrontation, people, especially the youth, are quietly moving towards connection
While governments move towards confrontation, people, especially the youth, are quietly moving towards connection
I have seen young boys in remote villages—some with no formal schooling—playing cricket and shouting in English: “How is that?”, “Out!”, “Catch it!” These are not memorised classroom phrases; they are lived language, absorbed through passion. Even madrassa students, often perceived as isolated from global culture, engage in cricket with remarkable enthusiasm, blending local identity with global expression.
One moment remains unforgettable. In Bamiyan, near the cliffs of the destroyed Bamiyan Buddhas, I played cricket with children from the Hazara community. These families, displaced by poverty and conflict, still live in ancient caves carved into sandstone. They own little, yet their spirit is immense.
As we played, their voices echoed across the cliffs—laughing, appealing, arguing like professionals. One phrase stood out again and again: “How is that?” In that moment, in that remote and fragile place, I saw something extraordinary—a connection to the world that no policy had delivered.
Afghanistan’s traditional national sport, Buzkashi, tells another story. It reflects strength, endurance, and a warrior's past. But it is also seen by many as harsh, brutal, and combative. In contrast, cricket—brought indirectly through Pakistani society—offers a different set of values: rules, fairness, patience, and respect. In a subtle but powerful way, it is helping shift social behaviour, especially among youth, from a culture of raw competition to one of structured engagement. This transformation did not come from governments. It came from people.
The ordinary citizens of Pakistan, through proximity, hospitality, and shared daily life with Afghan refugees, influenced Afghan society in ways no official policy could achieve. Along with cricket came the Urdu language, media exposure, and cultural familiarity. Music, including voices like Lata Mangeshkar, became part of Afghan soundscapes. These were human exchanges, not strategic exports.
Yet, while society-built connections, state-level relations deteriorated. Today, the relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan is defined by mistrust, border tensions, and violence. The presence and actions of groups linked to the Taliban, along with cross-border militancy, have pushed both countries into a dangerous phase. For the first time in their history, the situation resembles an ongoing, undeclared conflict.
From my perspective on the ground, this is the central contradiction: while governments move towards confrontation, people, especially the youth, are quietly moving towards connection.
There is also a clear divide within Afghanistan itself. The Taliban leadership, in my experience, operates with a rigid and unchanging mindset. Policies such as banning women’s education and dismantling the women’s cricket team reflect a worldview that resists evolution. But the young Afghans I have met are different. They are curious, expressive, and far more open than often assumed. In many ways, cricket has become their language of hope.
This is why the story of cricket in Afghanistan deserves global attention. It is a powerful case study—one that institutions like Harvard Business School could examine—to understand how cultural exchange and informal social contact can achieve what decades of intervention cannot.
Cricket is often called a “gentleman’s game.” In Afghanistan, it is becoming something more: a quiet teacher of language, discipline, and humanity. In the absence of a fully empowered new generation, these young players—shouting in English on dusty fields, even in the most remote corners—may become the agents of change. They represent a different future for Afghanistan: one that is more connected to the world, more confident, and perhaps gentler.
As someone who has seen both the hardship and the hope, I believe this: Pakistan’s greatest influence in Afghanistan was never political or military. It was social, human, and unintentional.
And in a time of conflict that feels like war, it is this human connection symbolised by a simple game of cricket that may still hold the key to a more peaceful future.