If Hafiz accepts the Nobel Peace Prize — it will be a matter of pride for the Nobel Prize itself.
Should the Nobel Peace Prize also consider those whose greatest achievement is preventing war?
The morning breeze was moving lazily through the eucalyptus and pine trees of F-10 Jinnah Park, carrying with it the scent of freshly watered grass and leaves still wet with dawn.
Islamabad was awake, but only just.
A few determined joggers had already claimed the winding tracks. Elderly men walked in small groups discussing politics with the confidence of retired prime ministers. Young students hurried past with earphones plugged into private worlds. Somewhere above us, a pair of parrots argued noisily over ownership of a branch they had probably shared for years.
I was halfway through my usual morning walk.
Grey T-shirt.
Grey track trousers.
The familiar markhor logo resting quietly on my chest.
The Margalla Hills stood in the distance beneath a pale golden sky, looking less like mountains and more like ancient guardians assigned to watch over the city.
There are mornings when a park is simply a park.
And then there are mornings when it becomes a conversation.
I had almost completed another lap when I heard it.
A bell.
Then another.
Not loud enough to interrupt the morning.
Just loud enough to become part of it.
“BaBa Tal”[the bell-man] had arrived.
His navy-blue robe moved gently with the breeze. Small brass bells hung from its edges, and a larger bell rested beneath the wooden staff he carried. The old man paused beside a cluster of flowering shrubs and looked toward the awakening city.
Then he smiled.
“Bacha! Every morning is a small referendum on hope. Vote wisely.”
I laughed.
He did not.
BaBa Tal never wasted a sentence.
We walked together beneath the shade of the trees. For a while neither of us spoke. The city seemed content to speak for itself.
Then suddenly he stopped.
“Tell me, Bacha,” he asked, “does the world only honour those who end wars, or should it also honour those who prevent them?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
But before I could, he resumed walking.
A few moments later he had vanished into the crowd of walkers, trees, birds, sunlight and morning mist as effortlessly as he had appeared.
I stood there for several seconds.
The question remained.
When I finally turned toward the park gate, I saw my old companion waiting patiently beside the curb.
My beloved “Foxy.”[mustered coloured Volkswagen]
Dusty.
Faithful.
Silent.
As though it had been waiting for me to return from a conversation larger than myself.
The drive home was short.
The question was not.
Today, therefore, I write not as a politician, diplomat, soldier, government official, or representative of any institution.
I write as a citizen.
And as a citizen, I respectfully place before the Nobel Peace Prize Committee a suggestion that many will support, some will reject, and others will debate.
I believe Field Marshal Hafiz Asim Munir deserves serious consideration for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Some readers may already disagree.
That is perfectly acceptable.
The purpose of an opinion article is not to avoid disagreement. The purpose of an opinion article is to present an argument honestly and allow readers to judge it for themselves.
My argument is simple.
The Nobel Peace Prize has often honoured individuals who ended conflicts after violence erupted.
History remembers those who rebuilt bridges after they were destroyed.
History remembers those who signed treaties after battlefields were stained with blood.
And rightly so.
But perhaps the twenty-first century demands a broader understanding of peace.
Perhaps the world should also honour those whose greatest achievement lies in preventing catastrophe before catastrophe occurs.
Modern humanity lives beneath the shadow of weapons capable of destroying entire cities.
The burden of such responsibility is difficult for ordinary citizens to imagine.
The success of deterrence is unlike the success of conventional warfare.
A general wins a battle when he fights and prevails.
A guardian of deterrence succeeds when the battle never occurs.
The greatest victory of a nuclear weapon is never being fired.
The greatest victory of military power is restraint.
Obedient to the teachings of his Leader, Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), he chose to shower olive leaves upon humanity while carrying the burden of a nuclear deterrent at his fingertips.
A passionate soldier who could have spoken in the language of weapons instead spoke in the language of peace. Entrusted with instruments of destruction, he reached instead for the olive branch.
Some may find this description poetic.
I find it accurate.
There is something profoundly significant about a soldier entrusted with immense military responsibility choosing the language of stability over escalation.
Recent events in the Middle East reminded the world how fragile peace can be.
Crises often begin with speeches.
Escalation begins with assumptions.
Wars begin when too many people become convinced that somebody else will blink first.
History teaches us that miscalculations can become tragedies.
And tragedies can become disasters.
The world continues to debate who deserves credit for helping prevent wider conflict in the region.
Some point toward Washington.
Others toward Doha.
Others toward unnamed diplomats and military officials working quietly behind closed doors.
I have no objection to sharing applause.
My concern is avoiding funerals.
In my view, Field Marshal Hafiz Asim Munir played a constructive role during a period when the region desperately needed restraint rather than rhetoric.
Reason rather than reaction.
Dialogue rather than destruction.
Others may evaluate his contribution differently.
That is their right.
But I believe his role deserves consideration.
The Holy Qur’an declares:
“Whoever saves one life, it is as though he has saved all mankind.”
This verse is often associated with doctors, rescuers, and humanitarian workers.
Yet its moral principle extends much further.
It speaks to every individual whose decisions preserve human life.
Every statesman.
Every mediator.
Every commander.
Every leader.
If preventing conflict saves thousands of lives, and preventing wider war saves millions, then surely humanity must recognize the moral value of prevention itself.
Peace is not merely the absence of war.
Peace is the successful prevention of war.
For too long, humanity has celebrated the firefighter while overlooking the architect who prevented the fire.
We applaud those who rebuild shattered cities.
Perhaps we should also acknowledge those whose efforts ensure cities remain standing.
The Nobel Peace Prize has never belonged to a single profession.
It has been awarded to activists, diplomats, presidents, negotiators, organizations, and visionaries.
Its purpose is not to reward a title.
Its purpose is to recognize a contribution.
The question therefore becomes straightforward.
Can preventing conflict be considered a contribution to peace?
If the answer is yes, then the conversation deserves to continue.
As evening approached, I found myself thinking once again about BaBa Tal’s question.
The bells.
The trees.
The morning breeze.
The old man.
The silence that followed.
The sun was lowering behind the Margalla Hills when his final words returned to me.
Words that seemed even more relevant now than they had in the park.
“Bacha! The world saw a soldier in uniform. I saw a man carrying an olive branch in the shadow of a nuclear bomb.”
The sentence lingered.
So did the image.
A soldier.
An olive branch.
A responsibility measured not by destruction, but by its avoidance.
After the assassination of heavenly King Faisal, the Saudi authorities established the *King Faisal International Prize* to honour his legacy. Its very first recipient, in 1979, was the renowned Muslim scholar and dignitary the man of millennium Syed Abul A’la Maududi. The award committee approached him with great humility, essentially saying: “It would be our pride if you accept this award — by doing so, you will honour the prize itself.”
In the same spirit, if Hafiz is accepts the Nobel Prize — *it will be a matter of pride for the Nobel Prize itself*.
History will decide how future generations judge the events of our age.
History always does.
But history is written by people willing to place difficult questions before the world.
This article is one such question.
If the Nobel Peace Prize seeks to honour those who contribute to peace, then perhaps it should not only consider those who ended wars.
Perhaps it should also consider those who helped prevent them.
That is my suggestion.
That is my appeal.
And as a citizen, I place it respectfully before the world.
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