“Indian forces have entered Lahore.” It was 1965 and that was a Broadcast by BBC Urdu. Tears rolled down from parents’ eyes. I was barely three years old-living in Bangkok and it was my first encounter with the word “WAR”. The radio crackled through the night, and though I didn’t understand words like conflict or invasion, I felt the weight of fear. I learned, war doesn’t begin with bombs—it begins with a whisper of terror in a child’s heart.

The war drums rolled again in 1971. This time, we were in India—living among those we were told were the enemy. My father was posted at the Pakistani Consulate in Bombay, now Mumbai. I was just a boy in Class Two, more enchanted by gulab jamuns than geopolitics. But the innocence didn’t last. I still remember the day my father rushed home, his face drawn, his steps brisk. We began stockpiling basic necessities—rice, matches, oil—without quite knowing what we were preparing for. The phone lines went dead. The city seemed to pause. It wasn’t the age of internet or television—just BBC Urdu at 1413 kHz, crackling through the static. We clung to it—not just for news, but for a sense of connection, of bearing, of hope

From our fourth-floor flat in Ramesh Mahal, I scanned the sky for a Pakistani jet. It never came. Anti-aircraft guns thundered in the distance. Shelling left local injuries, some tragically self-inflicted. One day, a kind Hindu neighbor smuggled in a newspaper. The headline read: “Dacca in a Day”, Niazi Sues for Peace-Sam Says Surrenders.” It was December 16, 1971. East Pakistan was no more. The grief etched on adult faces baffled my young mind. What does it mean to lose a nation?

After the ceasefire, the Indian soldiers at our doorstep were replaced by police. Streets once tense became alleys for chor-sipahi games. The war had shifted rhythm, but not memory. Then came a midnight knock—Swiss diplomats had arrived. Trunks were packed. We were evacuated. Karachi awaited.

Back home, Karachi welcomed us not with peace, but paranoia. Anti-aircraft guns still pointed skyward from Drigh Road. Kemari port smoldered. Radios blared war songs. My cousins spoke of diving into trenches during air raids. But wars don’t end with ceasefires. They evolve. They find new masks.

Later, in Kathmandu, I met Pakistani POWs returning from Indian camps. They were hailed as heroes, but many bore the blank stare of men who had seen too much. With flights over India banned, we took circuitous routes via Bangkok. Every layover carried fresh tales—of captivity, escape, survival. I began to understand that war isn’t always about the battlefield—it’s fought in memory, pride, and silence.

Back in Pakistan, another kind of war was brewing—this time internal. Sectarian riots, ethnic violence, Bhutto’s execution, Zia’s authoritarian years, and the Soviet-Afghan war blurred into a montage of unrest. At university in Karachi, my days were marked by curfews and fear—an education interrupted, a year lost to unrest. Neighborhoods became no-go zones. The enemy no longer wore foreign colors—it looked like us.

As a young police officer in the 1990s, I faced war’s urban mutation. Karachi had become a battleground of mafias—political killings, sectarian bloodshed, turf wars. Violence wasn’t spontaneous; it was structured, incentivized. Behind every gang stood a patron.

In 2001, posted as police chief in Rawalpindi, I witnessed military preparations again—this time following the Indian Parliament attack. Tanks rolled. Borders bristled. Mosques prayed for peace, or victory, or both. And again, in 2019, as IGP Sindh, I watched my friend and classmate, Air Chief Marshal Mujahid Anwar Khan, lead Pakistan’s aerial response during the Balakot episode. He served with honor. Yet behind the bravado lay a hard truth—war consumes even those who never choose it.

Outside Pakistan, I saw war’s aftermath in rawer forms. As a UN peacekeeper in Liberia, Mozambique, and Sudan, I watched diplomacy descend into theater. Rebels were condemned by day and courted by night. Civilians were bargaining chips. Peace, too often, was performance. And war? It whispered with a handshake before it screamed with a gunshot.

Today, that whisper grows louder. The world order born from global wars is fraying under populism and performative patriotism. Slogans differ, but the script is familiar: punish, isolate, dominate. As Sun Tzu warned, “The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.” Yet here we are—trading artillery for airtime, nuance for nationalism.

The India-Pakistan conflict is no longer just territorial. It has metastasized—emotional, cultural, curated by outrage. National pride is weaponized. History is not taught—it is tailored.

It may still be too early to fully unpack the bilateral crisis. But one thing is clear: India, in seeking global shine, sometimes blinds itself to the costs of sustained hostility. Pakistan, internally strained, cannot afford endless reaction. We are nuclear neighbors with fragile economies and shared wounds—malnutrition, poverty, youth unrest. We suffer alike, but heal apart.

I’ve spoken in classrooms, boardrooms, and police briefings about war and peace. Some argue war preserves dignity. Others say only strength deters. But as Bertrand Russell wrote, “War does not determine who is right—only who is left.”

What does war really do? It razes more than cities—it razes childhoods. It buries not only soldiers, but futures. Sometimes it shouts through missiles. But more often, it whispers—when laughter vanishes from streets, when schools fall silent, when only the radio remains, telling you your side has lost. Many among us, who were in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), are still alive and can tell what war really means. Any rhetoric for war must be overpowered by the sincere efforts for peace.

When the dust settles—and it always does—India and Pakistan must embark on a sincere journey of truth and reconciliation. This is not sentiment—it is survival. Dialogue is not surrender. Peace is not appeasement. War may project strength, but it never guarantees safety.

If we care about our children, our futures, and our standing in the world, let this be the generation that finally learns to win—without war.

The people of both nations want peace. It is the elites who politicize their pain. Pakistan has extended an olive branch. Will India reciprocate the same way?

Dr. Syed Kaleem Imam
The writer is a former federal secretary/IGP- PhD in Politics and IR-teaching Law and Philosophy at Universities. He tweets @Kaleemimam. Email:skimam98@hotmail.com: fb@syedkaleemimam