In a letter from the heart of Tirah Valley, Ali Ahmed Malik describes the stark contrast between the valley's breathtaking beauty and the brutal realities of war. Amidst profound sacrifice and the loss of comrades, he vows to honor his duty and remain steadfast, holding onto the hope that peace will one day prevail.

Dearest Sara!
When this letter reaches you, the spectacle around me will have changed, so I pray it doesn’t end up wounding your soul. You might read in pain what I am writing in pain. I am in this breathtaking valley, where every inch is scenic beyond words. The mountains sing songs of the brave men who traversed their peaks. Streams, sunrises, sunsets, gorges, meadows, and valleys all call for poetic expression. The experience of it being annexed to the mighty Khyber Valley has been a delight. The history of this land is filled with the heroics of the sons of these mountains, who stood against conquerors like Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and the East India Company, each dictating their own reality—except here. If beauty, courage, mystery, blood, laughter, pain, joy, and tradition could be woven into one fabric, it would be named Khyber. How can anyone not fall in love with this place? Kings have fallen for it. How could I be any exception?
But there is another part of the story. Just as the dungeons are deep beyond measure, the most beautiful rivers can take lives, and an excess of beauty can blind, this land—mysterious as it has always been—claims blood. The days are often ecstatic, but when night falls, there are squeals, whistles, and flames. Some, with no morals and venom in abundance, dark-souled and driven by false fantasies, are paid by our enemies to harm this piece of heaven on earth. But the sons of the soil have other plans. Their oaths, sworn in blood, are too strong to let that happen, no matter the cost. My dearest, tonight we bid farewell to another one of these ironclads from our position.
I am writing this while sitting on the ground with my back against a boulder. The sun is rising, and its rays are gently caressing the spilled blood of a martyr. We had a long night. Bullets, both coming directly at us and ricocheting off these stones, walls, and the ground, all in search of blood, made it seem unlikely we would live to see this morning as we entered the night. We are positioned at the summit of a hillock, dominating the ground to the north and east, though the ascent to the west remains a concern. Moving up there is not possible as the mountain continues beyond the fence marking our frontier, and it is not advisable as it would create a long stretch away from our comrades to the east, increasing the risks. We rarely sleep at night, as darkness often presents questions that need immediate answers. Last night was no different. 
The men on watch scanned the surroundings through night vision scopes, firing volleys into patches likely to be infiltration routes for terrorists. Things went smoothly until about an hour after midnight. Around 01:30, Naik Hameed, manning Fighter 3 position and overlooking the spur to the east of the hillock, noticed a shadow likely beyond the range of his rifle. Nevertheless, he alerted the others of the suspected movement. Soon, everyone was in position, as they always are when a threat emerges from the void. Not long after, Lance Naik Rafique, manning Machine Gun Post Alpha to the west, spotted unusual movement in nearby vegetation. While there was a chance it could have been a wild animal, leaving it to chance would mean giving the enemy the first shot if it wasn’t. So, following protocol, he engaged. The first round fired turned out to be the first shot of battle. It was immediately followed by incoming fire from both directions where movement had been observed.
The exchange of fire was intense. The multi-directional attack on the post was clearly meant to overrun us, but that turned out to be a far cry from success. There was a price to be paid, however, and the sons of the soil were ready. Sepoy Ehtisham was the first to be hit. He fell with two bullet wounds near his left collarbone. The bullets passed through, soaked in blood, and vanished into the night. He was dragged to safety and given first aid, while we continued the fight with our wounded comrade beside us, needing evacuation to the nearest medical facility. Strength, when it becomes the only option, often reveals itself in unimaginable ways. The fierce resistance from the post sent a clear message. Soon, intercepts confirmed the morale of the enemy was breaking, with two dead and three injured. They spoke of the impossible opposition they faced, as their commanders pushed them forward via wireless from beyond the fence.
The fire continued. Bullets whizzed past us, over our heads, ricocheting off surfaces. But that wasn’t all. Destiny had chosen its next martyr: Naik Rahim. A bullet found the gap between his bulletproof plates, entering his body from the side. Blood poured from the wound, too much for him to remain. He was destined for martyrdom. As dawn approached, the gunfire slowed, then stopped entirely. The enemy may have been dragging their dead under the cover of retreating fire, which faded in intensity and distance.
My two men have just left this place—one fighting the wounds sustained at dawn, another in a box wrapped in the flag. The others are busy helping each other bear the weight of what happens here every other night. They are weary, their skin scarred, limbs bruised, and armor torn in places. Saddened by the loss of fallen comrades, they must press on. They don’t have the luxury of expressing their grief through tears. I feel their exhaustion—both emotional and physical.
My comrade breathed his last in my arms. As it happened, we all wished for a miracle, knowing deep down it wasn’t coming. There is no rewriting fate once it takes its course. Some endings, as painful as they are, can still be enviable. If one must die young, is there a more honorable way than leaving behind generations indebted to your sacrifice? But saying it is easier than bearing it. Young martyrs leave behind young widows, elderly parents, and children too small to carry their fathers' caskets. The pain was excruciating as his soul departed, and we recited the verse we say in times of loss. Our eyes followed the vehicle carrying his coffin until it disappeared from sight. He had fulfilled his oath.
The sun is almost fully risen now. I suppose it’s time for me to gather myself and stand. My men need me, and I need courage. There is still a long and difficult road ahead.
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep.”
I must honor the promises made to both my beloveds: this precious motherland and you. I promised to serve it, and I promised you I would hang on, outlasting this war until the day when tulips bloom green again, and this valley, along with others like it, is free from the menace of terror. I hope that this sun will soon rise over my land in peace, spreading across its length, breadth, and frontiers. To make that happen, we must stand strong, no matter the odds. Someday, our generations will be proud of what we are doing—soldiers, families, friends, and all those fighting for this nation, with or without armor. Let us hold on, with the belief that this will soon end, and we will win.
Until I write again.
September 4, 2024