By Asghar Ali Mubarak
In a speech laden with pride, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif stood before the nation’s air force heroes at Kamra Airbase and offered a message that echoed far beyond the hangars and runways of Pakistan’s aviation stronghold. It was a moment stitched with triumph, but woven through with a stark warning: peace will not come without justice. There was nothing casual about the Prime Minister’s tone when he declared that Pakistan’s “falcons had crushed the enemy’s pride.” Standing shoulder to shoulder with the pilots of the Pakistan Air Force, he hailed their role in what he boldly described as the longest air battle of the 21st century. It was a dramatic phrase, but one that seemed to encapsulate the raw emotion of a country that has endured humiliation, provocation and loss, and had now, in the eyes of many, earned a resounding military vindication.
What Shehbaz offered was not just a victory lap. It was a narrative—one designed to remind both domestic and foreign audiences that Pakistan may be fatigued by conflict, but it is not weakened by it. “Three Rafales were shot down. Modi will remember that day forever,” he declared, invoking the name of India’s Prime Minister in terms that left little room for ambiguity. “You have sent a clear message: if you dare look at us again with malice, you will be trampled underfoot.” The Prime Minister’s words were not just for the men in uniform. They were for 240 million citizens watching a dangerous chapter in South Asia’s long and fraught history unfold. They were for regional powers sitting on the sidelines and for international diplomats attempting to navigate yet another cycle of hostility between two nuclear-armed neighbors.
And they were very much for India, whose recent actions—according to Pakistan—crossed several diplomatic and military red lines. The roots of this conflagration are tangled, as they often are in this part of the world. It began, ostensibly, with the April 22 Pahalgam incident in Indian-administered Kashmir, where Indian paramilitary forces were killed in an attack New Delhi blamed squarely on Pakistan. That accusation, fiercely rejected in Islamabad, was followed by a rapid unraveling of what little bilateral goodwill remained. India suspended the Indus Waters Treaty—a move Pakistan interpreted as tantamount to a declaration of war. Diplomatic expulsions followed, as did trade closures and restrictions on civilian movement.
But it was the night of February 6 and 7 that turned this cold hostility into active conflict. Missile strikes by India on multiple Pakistani cities—Kotli, Bahawalpur, Muridke, Bagh, and Muzaffarabad—killed 26 civilians and injured dozens more. These attacks marked a bloody turning point. The response from Pakistan was swift and calculated. Operation Bunyan Mursos, launched on February 10, saw Pakistani forces target key Indian military assets, including airbases at Udhampur, Pathankot, and Adampur, as well as the BrahaMos missile storage site and an S-400 defence system. Fatah-1 missiles, according to military officials, were used to devastating effect. Intelligence centers involved in what Pakistan described as cross-border subversion in Rajouri and Nowshera were also hit.
Yet, in the face of this military spectacle, Shehbaz Sharif chose to double down not just on might—but on principle. “They martyred our children, but we struck their military installations. We made no errors in judgment,” he said, adding that Pakistan’s restraint and dignity marked the essential difference between its actions and those of its adversary. The war, in his words, had been forced upon Pakistan, but it had been answered with courage and clarity. Still, this is not just a story of military retaliation. Shehbaz’s speech at Kamra was also an overture—albeit one built on firm, non-negotiable terms. “To the enemy, I say: your war fever has broken. Now let us talk about peace,” he said, placing Kashmir at the center of any future negotiations.
There is, he insisted, no path to genuine peace in South Asia that bypasses the right of Kashmiris to self-determination under UN resolutions. It is a position that Pakistan has held for decades, but rarely has it been voiced so forcefully in the immediate aftermath of such a high-stakes military exchange. The message was clear: Pakistan is willing to talk—but only if India comes to the table without the arrogance of power, and with an openness to address what Pakistan considers the core of the conflict. The Prime Minister’s words were layered with emotion but also unmistakably strategic. By invoking national pride, military prowess and divine favour, he rallied public sentiment. But by reasserting Pakistan’s commitment to diplomacy—however conditional—he also left the door ajar for a path other than confrontation.
Whether that path will be taken by New Delhi is another matter altogether. The stakes are higher than they have been in years, and both sides have tasted the bitter fruits of escalation. The question now is whether this moment of military reckoning can evolve into a political reckoning—a recognition that neither missiles nor martyrs can bring lasting security, and that no war, no matter how just it feels, can substitute for a just settlement. What remains beyond doubt is that the price of ignoring Pakistan’s red lines has now been made explicit. But whether this newfound clarity brings resolution—or further rupture—will depend not on how loudly leaders speak, but how wisely they listen.
(The writer is a senior journalist covering various beats, can be reached at news@metro-morning.com)
