I was born in the rugged mountains of Bajaur District in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan, where communities have endured decades of insecurity, conflict, displacement, and uncertainty about the future.
Growing up in this environment, I witnessed firsthand how deeply violence and instability affected our communities. I saw young people struggling to imagine a secure future and families living with the emotional and social toll of prolonged conflict.
Like many other young people living in a place where the shadow of conflict was always present, I was exposed from an early age to stories that justified violence.
Looking back, one of the main ways I first encountered these ideass was through the religious education I received outside my regular school. Religious education at my school was limited, and one of my teachers encouraged me to attend a madrasa.
A madrasa is generally a school with a particular focus on Islamic studies, often including the study of the Qur’an and Arabic. While I can only speak from my own experience at the particular madrasa I attended, I gradually became exposed there to narratives that rejected democracy. We were taught that democracy was not an Islamic system, but rather one imported from the West. It was presented as illegitimate, and we were told that justice could not be achieved through democratic means.
From there, I was led to believe that if Muslims were suffering under such a system, resistance was necessary and that armed struggle could be justified as a way to challenge it.
These ideas were reinforced by examples from our own social and political realities. We were taught that the denial of rights, the exploitation of local resources, insecurity, and many of the other injustices and hardships faced by our communities were all connected to the existing political system. When these messages are repeated to young people again and again, especially in an environment already shaped by conflict and uncertainty, they can gradually begin to feel convincing and meaningful.
During that period, I joined a non-state armed group and became involved in spreading these same ideas among other young people. I tried to convince them that armed struggle was not only justified, but necessary in order to respond to the problems and injustices they were experiencing.
As I continued this work, however, I could not ignore the suffering around me. I saw ordinary families and children suffering, and people being forced to flee their homes because of violence. Witnessing their experiences made me increasingly aware of the enormous human cost of conflict and violence.
As I witnessed all of this, I began to question whether violence could really solve the problems our communities were facing. I realized that I had a choice: to continue down this path, or to step away.
Gradually, I came to understand that peace could not be built through another cycle of violence. I decided to distance myself from the armed group and from the networks and ideas associated with violence.
Instead, I began supporting people who had been displaced by conflict and engaging in activities aimed at promoting peace and rebuilding trust within the community.
I now understand how powerful and dangerous the narratives I once encountered can be for young people living in vulnerable environments. That is why my work as a peacebuilder today focuses on countering violent narratives, promoting dialogue and encouraging peaceful civic engagement. I also became a writer and columnist, using the power of the pen to raise awareness and share a message of peace from Bajaur.
One of the most important parts of my work today is my engagement with young people. As Federal Secretary of the Youth Tribal Network, I have worked to create opportunities for young people from tribal and conflict-affected communities to take part in peacebuilding efforts.
Through these efforts, we focus on helping young people build resilience in the face of fear and hopelessness. We encourage them to see themselves as agents of positive change.
This experience has taught me that lasting peace cannot simply be imposed from outside. It must be cultivated within communities. Most importantly, young people must be part of building that peace, because they will shape the future of their communities.
Young people should not remain spectators while decisions about their communities are made around them. Young people themselves must become architects of peace.
Because I once had to make that choice myself, I understand how easily young people living in unstable environments can be drawn toward violent narratives. That is why I believe it is important to show young people that there are alternatives to violence and create opportunities for them to become peacebuilders themselves.
It is easy to speak about peace where peace already exists. But working for peace in a place where fear and violence have become part of everyday life is never easy. Still, despite these challenges, I continue my work with the belief that the future of Bajaur can be different from its past.
In the midst of this work, I experienced a deeply personal moment that came to symbolize everything I had been working toward.
One day, my daughter was born and I became a father. I named her Aman. In both Urdu and Pashto, Aman means “PEACE.” Through her name, something that had shaped my work as a peacebuilder became deeply personal. Peace is no longer an abstract political concept for me. It is the future I want for my own child, a world in which the next generation can grow up without having to live with the same fears that shaped the lives of generations before them.
People know me as “Abu Aman,” a name that means so much to me for this reason. It literally means “Father of Aman,” but for me, it also carries the symbolic meaning of “Father of Peace.”
From my own experience, there is something I want to say to young people living in fragile and conflict-affected societies. Your past, and the violent narratives you may have been exposed to, do not have to determine your future.
We can question what we have been taught. And we can choose a different path. For me, that path became the path of peace.
Disclaimer: The views, information, or opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of Global Taskforce for Youth Combatants and Accept International.
