■When protection arrives from outside, who decides whether it is security—or intrusion?■

In the morning Islamabad still smelled faintly of the rain that had fallen during the night.

The air had that rare monsoon freshness that comes before the weather makes up its mind whether the day will turn hot or merely humid. I had gone out for my usual morning walk, watching the grey clouds resting lazily above the Margalla Hills.

I had almost completed my first round when I heard it.

- Advertisement -

Clang.
Then—
Ching… ching.
I did not need to turn around.
I knew those bells.

“Good morning, BāBāTāl.”

“Good morning, bacha.”

He was walking beside me.
As usual.
No introduction was necessary. No explanation either. “BāBāTāl” [the Bell-man] belongs to that private corner of my world where the ordinary rules of time and geography occasionally loosen their grip. He appears when he wishes, disappears when he wishes, and somehow knows when a question has begun troubling my mind.

That morning he walked silently for a while.

- Advertisement -

His brass bells made their familiar, irregular music.
Then he looked at me.
“Bacha…”
“Yes, Baba?”
“Take a surgeon’s knife.”
I laughed.
“Before breakfast?”
He smiled.
“No. For a word.”
“What word?”
He stopped.

The bells settled.
Then he said:
“Foreign forces.”
And walked on.

I followed.
For several moments neither of us spoke.

- Advertisement -

Two ordinary words had suddenly acquired the weight of a geopolitical earthquake.
Foreign forces.
I did not yet know that BāBāTāl had already begun telling me a story.
A story that had taken him far beyond Islamabad.
To Kashan.
To a hidden chāikhāneh.
And to a young student named Fatimah, sitting alone with a cup of untouched tea.

By the time I returned to my rooftop studio, the clouds had lifted slightly above the Margalla Hills.

I made coffee.
BāBāTāl was already there.
He had somehow beaten me upstairs.
I placed a cup before him.
He looked at it suspiciously.
“Coffee?”
“Today.”
“Tea is wiser.”
“Today, coffee.”
He accepted the cup with the solemnity of a man accepting a diplomatic assignment.

For a while we sat quietly, looking through the glass at the rain-washed rooftops of Islamabad.
Then he put his cup down.
“Bacha…”
“Yes?”
“You wanted to know about the words.”
“Foreign forces?”
He nodded.
“But before I tell you what I think those words mean, you should know where I heard them last night.”
“Where?”
He looked towards the distant hills.
“Not here.”

A pause.

“Where, then?”
“Kashan.”
I looked at him.
He smiled.
“Listen carefully, bacha.”
And the room seemed to grow quieter.

KASHAN

“The air inside that hidden chāikhāneh,” BāBāTāl began, “was thick with the ghost of centuries.”

It was tucked away in a damp, brick-lined alley just off Baba Afzal Street of Kashan in Iran. Away from the roaring copper-smiths of the bazaar, the world slowed to the rhythm of bubbling samovars and the sweet, heavy scent of cardamom and rosewater.
“Step inside through my eyes,” he told me.

The heavy brass bells bound around his navy blue robe and wrists announced his arrival before his boots touched the cool turquoise-tiled floor.
The tea house was a sanctuary of shadows and soft amber light.
Above, an ancient skylight pierced the vaulted mud-brick ceiling, sending one sharp beam of dusty sunlight into the centre of the room. Tobacco smoke from traditional waterpipes spiralled lazily towards the heavens.
Men sat cross-legged on high, carpet-covered wooden benches—takhts—their low murmurs blending with the rhythmic gurgle of the water.
Clang.
BāBāTāl’s slow, deliberate steps carried him past the steaming brass pots.
That was when he saw her.
Sitting alone at the far end of a bench, half inside the amber shadow, was a young woman.
She sat perfectly still.
Her fingers traced the rim of an untouched glass of sweet, amber tea.
She was waiting.
Her eyes kept moving towards the heavy wooden door opening onto the alley, carrying the particular longing that only the young seem capable of carrying.
As BāBāTāl’s bells sounded softly, she looked up.
She was a student of International Relations at a university in Kashan, deeply interested in geopolitics.
Her clothing reflected the young generation of Iran: a loose, dark navy-blue manteau, falling to her knees, with a simple black rusari pushed slightly back from her forehead. A few strands of dark hair had escaped.
Beside her lay a canvas backpack stuffed with thick textbooks.
A notebook rested half-open on top.

She was, BāBāTāl thought, a creature of tomorrow sitting in a room built yesterday.
When his shadow crossed her table, she came out of her thoughts.
She recognised the bells.
Then the weathered cloak.
Then the wandering figure beneath it.
She stood.
It was an old gesture of respect for a travelling dervish—a courtesy surviving from another rhythm of life.

BāBāTāl stopped.

The bells around his waist settled with a final resonant thud.
He placed his weathered hand over his heart and bowed his head.
“Ya Ali,” he whispered.

She answered with a timid smile.
Then she gestured towards the empty place opposite her.
“Please, Dervish Baba,” she said softly. “Sit.”
He sat.
“Share a glass of tea with a lonely soul while I wait.”
BāBāTāl looked at the untouched tea.

Then at her.
“What are you waiting for?”
She hesitated.
“Someone.”
He smiled.
“Everyone who says that is actually waiting for something else.”
She looked at him carefully.
Perhaps she wondered whether he was a dervish or merely an old man who had learned too many truths.
“My name is Fatimah,” she said.
“Fatimah.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you study?”
“International Relations.”
That caught his attention.
“Ah.”
She smiled.
“Geopolitics.”

“Then you are not waiting for someone.”
She raised an eyebrow.

“You are waiting for a map to change.”
For the first time, Fatimah laughed.
Then the laughter disappeared.
She looked towards the door.

“Did you hear what Iran said last night?”
“I hear many things.”
“About the Mecca agreement.”
BāBāTāl remained silent.

“Three countries have just signed a new defence arrangement,” she said. “Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and Türkiye.”
She paused.

“Then Iran speaks of foreign forces leaving the region.”

The bells at BāBāTāl’s waist did not move.
Fatimah continued.
“Do you know what troubles me?”
“What?”
“Pakistan could have been something else.”
BāBāTāl leaned slightly forward.
“Something else?”
“A bridge.”
Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Pakistan had relations with Saudi Arabia. It had relations with Türkiye. It had relations with Iran. During the war, Islamabad could have tried harder to use those relationships to push towards an end to the conflict—perhaps towards a diplomatic settlement acceptable to Iran.”

She took a breath.
“But now…”
She looked down at her tea.
“Now Pakistan is standing on Saudi soil with soldiers, aircraft, drones and air-defence capabilities.”

She looked back at him.

“And everyone knows Pakistan is a nuclear-armed state.”
BāBāTāl said nothing.
Fatimah immediately added:
“I am not saying Pakistan has placed an atomic bomb in Saudi Arabia.”
A faint smile crossed her face.
“I am talking about the symbolism of power.”

Now BāBāTāl understood.

She was not speaking about a bomb.
She was speaking about what a nuclear state represents when its military personnel stand on foreign soil.
She continued:
“Perhaps before this agreement, Pakistan could still present itself as a bridge between competing regional interests.”
“And now?”
“Now the cat is out of the bag.”

BāBāTāl raised an eyebrow.
“The cat?”
“Pakistan.”
She smiled sadly.

“It is no longer merely talking about Muslim brotherhood. It is physically participating in a new security architecture.”

She paused.

“And please don’t tell me this is simply hub-e-Ali.”
BāBāTāl remained silent.
Fatimah’s eyes were suddenly serious.
“States do not behave like ordinary people.”
She tapped her notebook.
“People may love one another.”
Another tap.
“States calculate.”
The sentence hung between them.

Outside, a copper-smith struck metal.
Tang.

Fatimah opened her notebook.
Two English words were written across the page:
FOREIGN FORCES
She drew a line beneath them.
“Iran didn’t need to name Pakistan.”
“Why?”
“Because the phrase is bigger than Pakistan.”
She pointed towards the words.

“For decades, Tehran has used this language principally for American military power and Western military presence in the Gulf. Israeli capabilities can fall into the same conceptual category.”
She looked up.
“But now the phrase has become more elastic.”
“How?”
“Any organised military power entering the region with its own command structure, its own interests and its own strategic red lines can potentially be described as foreign.”

She closed the notebook.

“Even if its soldiers are Muslim.”
Even if they pray the same prayers.
Even if the country calls another country its brother.

Fatimah’s conclusion was simple:
Brotherhood is not the same thing as subordination.
Presence is not the same thing as belonging.
BāBāTāl looked at the young student for a long moment.
“Do you believe Pakistan has become a puppet?”
She hesitated.
“I am a student, Baba.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She looked towards the skylight.
“The strings are not always visible.”
She spoke slowly.
“They can pass through strategic dependence, military relationships, financial pressures, institutional interests and the wider influence of Washington.”
She paused.
“But I would not call that proven fact.”
BāBāTāl smiled.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because you have just separated an interpretation from a fact.”

Fatimah smiled.

“International Relations teaches us to do that.”
“Sometimes.”
They both laughed.
But the laughter did not last.
Fatimah looked once more at the words in her notebook.

FOREIGN FORCES.

“Perhaps the real question,” she said, “is not whether Pakistan is foreign.”
BāBāTāl waited.
“Perhaps the real question is…”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“Foreign to whom?”
BāBāTāl stopped speaking.

The rooftop studio returned.
My coffee had gone cold.
Outside, Islamabad was beginning to dry under the August sun.

For a while neither of us spoke.

Then I asked:

“So that was your conversation with Fatimah?”

He nodded.

“And what did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He smiled.

“I was waiting for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, bacha.”

He pointed towards the newspaper lying on the table.

“Because now you have to use the surgeon’s knife.”

I looked down.

There they were again.

FOREIGN FORCES.

Two ordinary words.

Two words capable of carrying an entire regional worldview.

And suddenly I understood what BāBāTāl had meant that morning.

“Foreign” is not merely a passport.
It is, in a sense, a biological word.
It belongs to the vocabulary of the immune system.
The body recognises something as other—something that does not belong to its own structure.

It may absorb it.

Neutralise it.

Reject it.

Or, under certain circumstances, learn to live with it.

And “forces” means much more than soldiers.

It means organised will.

Power with command structures.

Power with interests.

Power with red lines.

Power capable of translating intention into action.

Put the two words together and the nucleus begins to appear:

Foreign forces are organised power that enters a strategic body while retaining a centre of decision-making outside that body.

That is the incision.

But the surgeon’s knife cuts both ways.

If the “body” is the region, Tehran may regard any organised external military presence as foreign.

But then comes the harder question:

Who owns the body?

Is the Middle East a single strategic body?

Is the Gulf a separate security body?

Or are these sovereign states entitled to invite whichever partners they believe necessary for their defence?

Here lies the contradiction.

Saudi Arabia is sovereign.

Pakistan is sovereign.

Türkiye is sovereign.

Iran is sovereign.

Each possesses the right to define its own security interests.

But sovereignty is a difficult word.

Every state wants it for itself.

Every state becomes nervous when another state exercises it.

The Qur’an gives us a principle that should stand above the passions of geopolitics:

 “And do not let the hatred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness.”
— Qur’an 5:8

Not:
Agree with your rival.
Not:
Trust your rival.
But:
Be just.
That distinction matters.

Pakistan does not have to become anti-Iranian in order to deepen its relationship with Saudi Arabia.
Saudi Arabia does not have to become anti-Iranian to strengthen its defence.
Türkiye does not have to become anyone’s enemy because it participates in a regional security framework.

And Iran, equally, has the right to question a military architecture that it believes alters its strategic environment.

The problem begins when every defensive move is interpreted as an offensive one.

Then the cycle starts.

One country strengthens its defences because it feels threatened.

Its neighbour interprets that strengthening as proof of the threat.

The neighbour strengthens its own defences.

The first country interprets that as confirmation of its original fear.

And the circle closes.

The weapon becomes evidence of the enemy.

The enemy becomes the justification for the weapon.

That is how security becomes insecurity.

The Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him] gave humanity a principle that reaches far beyond individual conduct:

 “A Muslim is the brother of a Muslim: he does not wrong him, nor abandon him, nor despise him.”
— Sahih Muslim, Hadith 2564

Brotherhood does not require sovereign states to surrender their interests.

But it does require that security should not become an excuse for injustice.

And perhaps this is where the Mecca agreement must now be judged.

Not simply by what it protects.

But by what it prevents.

If it protects Saudi Arabia while preventing escalation, it may become a stabilising shield.

If it becomes another layer in a widening regional confrontation, the same shield may eventually look like a spear.

That distinction will depend on political wisdom.
George Washington once warned against the danger of “inveterate antipathies against particular nations.”

The warning remains remarkably relevant.

Nations that divide the world permanently into friends and enemies eventually become prisoners of their own vocabulary.

Words matter.

Call something an alliance, and it sounds defensive.

Call it an axis, and it sounds threatening.

Call it a security umbrella, and it sounds protective.

Call it foreign forces, and the same soldiers suddenly look like intruders.

The uniforms have not changed.

The language has.

And perhaps that is why the Iranian formulation is so important.

It does not necessarily tell us who is objectively a foreign force.

It tells us how Tehran sees the regional body.

That is a crucial distinction.

A statement can reveal a strategic perception without establishing an objective fact.

The two must not be confused.

The Qur’an offers another profound principle:

 “O mankind, indeed We created you from a male and a female, and made you peoples and tribes that you may know one another.”
— Qur’an 49:13

That you may know one another.

Not erase one another.

Not permanently demonise one another.

Not assume the worst of one another.

Know one another.

Perhaps regional security begins there.

Understanding the other’s fears before interpreting the other’s weapons.

Pakistan’s great opportunity now may lie precisely in this space.

It has relationships with Saudi Arabia.

It has relationships with Türkiye.

It has a difficult but important relationship with Iran.

That gives Islamabad something that pure military power cannot buy:

Access.

Access to conversations.

Access to confidence.

Access to mediation.

Pakistan does not necessarily have to choose between Riyadh and Tehran.

It could speak to Riyadh without speaking against Tehran.

It could speak to Tehran without speaking against Riyadh.

That would be diplomacy.

And diplomacy is not weakness.

It is what states attempt when they understand that war is too expensive to be the first language of every disagreement.

The Mecca agreement may therefore become more than a defence pact.

It could become a test.

A test of whether Muslim states can construct their own security architecture without reproducing the very rivalries they claim to be protecting themselves against.

The shield must remain a shield.

That is the challenge.

By then my coffee had become completely cold.

BāBāTāl picked up his cup.

He took one sip.

Made a face.

“Cold.”

I laughed.

“You said coffee was unwise.”

“I said tea was wiser.”

“Point accepted.”

He put the cup down.

Then the bells at his waist moved softly.

Ching… ching.

“Bacha…”

“Yes?”

“Do you know the answer to Fatimah’s question?”

“Which one?”

He looked towards the Margalla Hills.

“Foreign to whom?”

I waited.

He smiled.

“The answer is not found in the passport.”

He tapped the newspaper.

“Nor in the uniform.”

Another tap.

“Nor even in the flag.”

He leaned back.

“The real question is…”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who holds the hand that decides?”

Then he stood.

The bells sounded once.

Clang.

And just like that, BāBāTāl was gone.

Only the question remained.

The region’s security architecture is changing.

Saudi Arabia has sought a stronger security arrangement.

Pakistan has entered a more visible strategic role.

Türkiye has added its military weight.

Iran has registered its objection in the language it knows best:

Foreign forces.

But the deeper question is not merely who the foreign forces are.

It is:

Which body claims the right to decide?

If every sovereign state has a right to defend itself, then sovereignty must be respected even when its choices make its neighbours uncomfortable.

If every regional state has a right to object to external military power, then those objections must also be heard without automatically being converted into accusations of hostility.

The answer cannot be perpetual confrontation.

Nor can it be blind trust.

The answer must be something harder:

Strategic maturity.

A defence agreement can build a wall.

Diplomacy can build a door.

A wise security architecture needs both.

Because the Middle East does not need another system in which every door is locked from the inside.

It needs doors that can still open.

And perhaps that is what BāBāTāl meant when he first whispered:

“Take a surgeon’s knife.”

Cut away the rhetoric.