Saleem Bukhari
Bagram Air Base is not merely a patch of land in Afghanistan; it is a symbol of the struggles, ambitions, and failures of global powers. For decades, its runways and hangars have carried the weight of empires—first the Soviets, then the Americans, and now the Taliban. To mention Bagram is to evoke a story of conquest, resistance, betrayal, and an unending contest for dominance in South and Central Asia. Today, former U.S. President Donald Trump speaks of reclaiming it as though it were a piece of lost treasure. Yet the question lingers: is this genuine strategy, or simply the rhetoric of politics?
Bagram’s history stretches back to the 1950s, when the Soviet Union laid its foundations during the early years of the Cold War. It became Moscow’s lifeline during its decade-long occupation of Afghanistan. Fighter jets and bombers roared from its runways to strike Afghan rebels, and even refugee camps across the border in Pakistan were not spared. In retaliation, Pakistan shot down Soviet and Afghan aircraft, while disillusioned Afghan pilots defected, carrying their planes into Pakistani territory. After the Soviet retreat and the collapse of the USSR, Bagram changed hands several times before falling to the Taliban in the mid-1990s.
When the United States invaded Afghanistan in 2001, Bagram became the heart of its war machine. From here, every major counterterrorism operation was launched, every drone campaign coordinated. The Americans expanded it into a fortress-city, building hospitals, detention centers, and a massive 3.5-kilometer runway capable of hosting the largest aircraft in the world. For two decades, it stood as the most visible reminder of U.S. presence in Afghanistan. Yet when American forces abruptly withdrew in 2021, they left it in the hands of Afghan forces who surrendered it within days to the advancing Taliban.
Trump now laments that Bagram was “given away for nothing.” He describes it as a vital outpost, less than an hour from China’s nuclear facilities, and warns the Taliban that consequences will follow if the U.S. is not allowed to reclaim it. Such remarks reflect Washington’s enduring desire to keep Afghanistan as a strategic lever. But this time, the situation is vastly more complicated. The Taliban insist that Afghan soil is not for sale, while ordinary Afghans live under the shadow of foreign drones that still patrol their skies. Sovereignty, it seems, remains a fragile illusion.
For China, Bagram represents the potential disruption of its multi-billion-dollar investments in Afghanistan, linked to the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor. For Pakistan, the dangers are even sharper. The nightmare is not merely the return of U.S. forces to its doorstep, but the reality that Afghan soil is already being used to launch cross-border attacks. Each day, militants strike Pakistani territory from across the border, despite repeated promises from Kabul that Afghan land will not be used for hostile actions. Far from enjoying peace after the American withdrawal, Pakistan finds itself bleeding once again from the same wounds it hoped had closed.
The refugee question, once central to Pakistan’s burden, has also shifted. Millions of Afghans have already returned home, and many of those who remain are under growing pressure to leave. Pakistan’s real struggle today lies not in housing displaced Afghans, but in confronting the violence that continues to seep across the Durand Line. The Taliban’s inability—or unwillingness—to restrain these groups has reignited debates in Islamabad about whether diplomacy alone can secure Pakistan’s safety.
Bagram also holds a grim memory for Pakistanis. It was here that many of their citizens were detained without trial, languishing for years in the infamous cells of the base. No legal counsel, no justice, only silence. For many Pakistanis, the very name “Bagram” is synonymous with humiliation and suffering. The prospect of its reoccupation by U.S. forces is therefore not just politically unacceptable, but emotionally unbearable.
If the United States were to attempt a return, the consequences would stretch far beyond Afghanistan’s borders. It would spark a new conflict, drawing in Pakistan, China, Iran, and Russia. The Taliban would resist, and insurgency would flare once more, plunging the region back into chaos. For Afghans themselves, already exhausted by decades of war, this would be yet another cycle of violence imposed from abroad.
Pakistan today faces a paradox. On the one hand, it insists on dialogue and diplomacy with Kabul, seeking regional cooperation as the only sustainable path to peace. On the other hand, it cannot ignore the bitter reality that Afghan soil continues to harbor those who strike at Pakistani cities, soldiers, and civilians. The patience of the Pakistani state and public is wearing thin, and calls for a tougher stance are growing louder.
Bagram, then, is not just a military airfield. It is a stage where the ambitions of the United States, the anxieties of Pakistan, the sovereignty of the Taliban, and the investments of China collide. For Washington, it is a strategic foothold against China. For the Taliban, it is a test of independence. For Pakistan, it is both a memory of injustice and a symbol of current insecurity. For China, it is a possible threat to its regional vision.
The truth is stark: any attempt by America to reclaim Bagram will not pass uncontested. And for Pakistan, already battered by daily attacks launched from Afghan soil, such a move would not simply be a geopolitical challenge—it would be nothing short of a nightmare.
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