Sindhi Civilizational & Historical Research

By: Dr. Nisar Ahmed Solangi 

In the winter of 1026, somewhere in the marshes where the Indus breaks apart into a hundred sluggish channels before reaching the sea, a column of exhausted soldiers was dying by the roadside. They were not dying in battle. They were dying of thirst, of fever, of the sheer punishment of the Sindh desert — and they were carrying, on the backs of thousands of camels, one of the largest hoards of looted treasure the subcontinent had ever seen. Their commander was Mahmud of Ghazni, by then the most feared man between Baghdad and Delhi. And watching them stagger through the delta, from behind the reeds, were the people who lived there.

A Sultan Humiliated

Mahmud made it home to Ghazni with his life and most of his treasure. But something had cracked. For the first time, a scattered, folk community with non-dynastic, without capital, and no standing army had done what king after king had failed to do — bloodied him on the retreat, and gotten away with it.

He could not let his final chapter in India be written by a people he had never even bothered to conquer.

He could not let that stand. Late in 1027, in what chronicle tradition remembers as his seventeenth and last campaign into the subcontinent, Mahmud marched back — not toward another king, another fort, another temple, but toward the river itself.

An Empire Builds a Navy

What he did next was, for a man who had built his entire reputation on cavalry, almost bizarre. Arriving at Multan, Mahmud realized his horsemen were useless against people who lived on the water. So he built a navy — his first and only one — from scratch.

Chroniclers describe fourteen hundred purpose-built warboats, each armed with three iron spikes, one at the prow to ram and split an enemy hull, two along the sides to keep boarders off. The gunwales were raised and pierced with holes so archers could fire while staying under partial cover. Each boat carried about twenty men — bowmen, spearmen, and soldiers armed with fire-projectiles the sources simply call “rockets.”

The Jats, for their part, did not run. They moved their families and their stored wealth to a fortified island in the middle of the river, and put together a fleet of their own — somewhere between four and eight thousand small boats, according to the chroniclers, light and quick but built of reed and unarmored wood.

By the Numbers

1,400 — Ghaznavid warboats built at Multan

3 — iron spikes on each Ghaznavid vessel

~20 — soldiers per boat

4,000–8,000 — Jat vessels, by chroniclers’ varying counts

1030 CE — Mahmud’s death, three years after this campaign

These figures come chiefly from Ferishta’s account, written some six centuries after the battle from earlier tradition — treat them as the chronicle record, not an audited count.

The Trap on the River

It was, on paper, no contest — and Mahmud made sure it stayed that way. Before a single boat touched the water, he lined both banks of the Indus with cavalry and war elephants, sealing the channel so the Jat fleet had nowhere to run once the fighting started. It was less a naval battle than an execution with a river for a killing floor.

When the fleets met, the iron spikes did exactly what they were built to do — punching through hull after hull of unarmored reed boats, spilling fighters into the water. Those who kept afloat were met with arrows and fire. Those who tried to swim for the banks ran straight into the cavalry waiting for them there. The chronicle record describes what followed as closer to a massacre than a battle: most of the Jat fighters drowned or were cut down, and the island refuge — with its women, children, and hidden treasure — fell without a fight.

A Costly Victory

Mahmud got his revenge, and he recovered what had been taken from him the year before. But the river campaign seems to have cost him something he couldn’t recover. Chroniclers place the onset of the illness that would eventually kill him — generally described as malarial — right around this 1027 expedition. He returned to Ghazni already in decline, and died on 30 April 1030, three years almost to the day after his boats went into the water at Multan.

How much wealth changed hands across the whole affair is harder to pin down than popular retellings suggest. The figure most often repeated for the Somnath treasure — twenty million dinars — comes from Ferishta, writing in the early 1600s, six centuries after the fact; a handful of modern accounts put the real number closer to a tenth of that. No contemporary Ghaznavid ledger survives to settle it. What survives instead is the story itself, and the story is the point.

What the River Remembers

Ghaznavid court chroniclers filed the 1027 campaign away as one more pacification of unruly border tribes — a footnote to the real business of temples and thrones. Sindh remembers it differently. In the region’s own telling, this was the moment a community with no army, no fort, and no king looked at the most feared conqueror of the age and decided the river belonged to them, not to him — and made him pay in gold, in humiliation, and, in the end, perhaps in years of his own life, for disagreeing.

He built an entire navy to answer them. That, more than any tribute or title, is the measure of what the “Sindhi Jats” managed to do with nothing but boats built for shallow water and a river they knew better than anyone who came to take it from them.

A note on sources: the numerical details in this account — fleet sizes, crew counts, the Somnath treasure figure — derive chiefly from Ferishta’s early-seventeenth-century Tarikh-i-Firishta, itself compiled from earlier tradition, supplemented by Gardizi’s near-contemporary Zayn al-Akhbar and the Elliot & Dowson translations of the medieval chronicle corpus. Where the sources disagree — as they do on the exact scale of the treasure, and on which Rajput ruler forced Mahmud’s desert retreat — this piece has favoured the most widely repeated tradition while noting, where it matters, that certainty is not available.

Read: Lessons from the Indus Valley Civilization

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Dr. Nisar Ahmed Ali Nawaz Solangi is a distinguished Public Health Specialist with over 28 years of experience in primary healthcare, health management, and policy development. Throughout his career, he has served in leadership capacities, He holds MBBS from the University of Sindh and a Master of Public Health from Griffith University, Australia. He is a dedicated polymath committed to the intersection of ancient civilization and emerging technology. He is deeply engaged in the study of the Indus Valley Civilization—focusing on its maritime history, trade networks, and egalitarian governance. Currently based in Saudi Arabia, Dr. Solangi is a tireless advocate for the digital preservation and global dissemination of the Sindhi language and culture. He is actively involved in pioneering initiatives on social media” Our Digital World”. By bridging the gap between historical heritage and digital innovation, he aims to create a new paradigm for cultural representation in the AI era.

The post THE INDUS RIVER FIGHTS BACK first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

Another destination, another brief rebellion against routine. For some, travel is a luxury; for others, it is a necessity of the soul, a quiet insistence that life must be experienced beyond the familiar. My journey to Kraków began in exactly that spirit.

Day One -6th September 2025: First Impressions of a Living City

The flight from Stockholm to Kraków lasted barely an hour and a half, but somewhere between the clouds and the quiet hum of the aircraft, a subtle shift occurred, the kind that only travel can bring. I had imagined Kraków to be modest, perhaps even sleepy. But as the plane descended, a different reality unfolded beneath me: a vast urban spread, punctuated by rows of apartment blocks, green patches, and the unmistakable rhythm of a city alive with history and modernity.

The weather greeted me kindly, mild, welcoming, almost conspiratorial, as if encouraging exploration.

At the airport, time slowed down as I waited for my friend Jan Mangrio, arriving from Cardiff. A cup of tea at the cafeteria turned into a companion of patience. When Jan finally appeared, the reunion was anything but quiet. Our greeting echoed a familiar “Sain” into the unfamiliar Polish air, drawing smiles and perhaps a few curious glances. Laughter, as always, came easily and loudly.

A short taxi ride took us to our accommodation, the Premium Hostel on Pomorska Street. The check-in was effortless, the reception warm and efficient. Though labeled a hostel, we had chosen the comfort of a private room, our small sanctuary in a foreign land.

Walking into the Pulse of Kraków

Our first steps into the city revealed a calm, almost meditative neighborhood. Clean roads, green surroundings. Jan remarked, with mild surprise, that it felt even more orderly than parts of the UK. But Kraków, like many historic cities, reveals itself in layers.

Armed with maps, directions, and curiously complimentary toffees from reception, we began walking along Karmelicka Street toward the Old Town. With each step, the city’s tempo increased. Quiet streets gave way to a vibrant hum. Tram tracks cut through the roads, and sleek trams glided past with rhythmic regularity, as if marking time in a city that refuses to stand still.

Near the Piasek area, we paused at the elegant Church of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a Baroque structure that stands as both a place of worship and a reminder of Kraków’s layered religious and cultural heritage. Nearby lies a curious relic: a stone slab bearing what is believed to be the footprint of Queen Jadwiga. Revered for her wisdom, humility, and charitable works, Queen Jadwiga remains one of Poland’s most beloved historical figures. Legend suggests that this imprint was left during the construction of a church, a symbolic gesture of her devotion.

Where Evening Becomes Celebration

By the time we reached the Old Town, the sun had already surrendered to evening, and the city had transformed. Cobblestone streets shimmered under warm lights. Restaurants spilled onto pavements, their menus whispering promises of flavors from around the world. Halal kebab shops stood beside European cafés; ice cream parlors competed with bustling bars.

Street performers added a poetic rhythm to the scene. On one quiet cobbled stretch, a young woman played the violin with haunting grace, her music weaving through the crowd, briefly uniting strangers in shared stillness.

Then, suddenly, the city opened up.

We found ourselves standing in the magnificent Rynek Główny, the largest medieval town square in Europe. It is less square and more of a living stage. At its center stands the historic Cloth Hall (Sukiennice), once a major hub of international trade. Nearby rises the iconic St. Mary’s Basilica, its twin towers watching over centuries of history, its trumpet call echoing every hour, a tradition that continues to this day.

The square was alive. Not merely crowded, but vibrant in a way that felt almost theatrical. A young woman approached us with an invitation to a strip club, an offer we politely declined, though we did request something else: photographs. To our surprise, she obliged generously, capturing moments with an unexpected artistic eye. In that fleeting exchange, she transformed from solicitor to storyteller.

We wandered through illuminated arcades lined with souvenir shops, their warm lights casting a nostalgic glow. Purchases could wait; we preferred to absorb first, to understand before owning.

Moments That Stay

In one corner of the square, music played, and people danced freely, children, couples, strangers. It felt like an open-air celebration without invitation. Among them, one moment stood still: a woman in a wheelchair, dancing with the help of a companion who moved her gently, rhythmically. Hands lifted, wheels turned, laughter shared. It was more than a dance; it was inclusion, dignity, and love made visible.

Elsewhere, couples walked hand in hand, dogs trotted loyally beside their owners, and horse-drawn carriages added a romantic echo of another era.

From a distance, we caught a glimpse of Wawel Castle, perched with quiet authority. A visit for another day, we promised ourselves.

A Walk Through Memory: Kazimierz

Our journey continued toward Kazimierz, once a separate city and now a district rich with Jewish heritage. Kazimierz tells stories of coexistence, tragedy, and revival. Synagogues, cafés, and art spaces now stand where history once unfolded in both beauty and pain. Walking through its streets feels like turning the pages of a living archive.

Comfort in Familiar Flavors

Hunger eventually guided us to an unexpected comfort: a Pakistani restaurant named Habibi. Despite its Arabic name, it served authentic desi cuisine. The owner, a warm-hearted man from Punjab, Pakistan, welcomed us like old friends. The food was rich and flavorful, but it was the doodah Patti tea that truly transported us back home, if only for a moment.

Closing the Day

The return journey to our hostel was long but unhurried. We paused for ice cream, captured more photographs, and even picked up a few essentials for breakfast. The city, though quieter now, still pulsed gently under the night sky.

Back in our room at Premium Hostel, conversation flowed effortlessly, reflections, comparisons, and laughter. First impressions of Kraków were unanimous: a city that surprises, embraces, and reveals itself slowly, like a well-written story.

And like all good stories, it left us wanting more.

Sleep eventually claimed us, not abruptly, but mid-conversation, as if even dreams wished to continue the journey.

Day Two- 7th September 2025: Into the Mountains, Into the Moment

Travel has its own way of reshaping plans. What begins as a carefully designed itinerary often transforms into something more spontaneous, more human. Our second day in Kraków began with such a shift.

We had booked two organized trips, one to Zakopane and another to Auschwitz-Birkenau, through a local tour company. But travel, like life, rarely unfolds exactly as planned. The Auschwitz trip was canceled due to the unavailability of an English-speaking guide. Disappointing, yes, but not discouraging. We decided we would find our own way there another day. For now, the mountains were calling.

A Morning of Simplicity

The day began in the shared kitchen of our hostel’s surprisingly large, airy space with windows opening to the outside world. Trams passed rhythmically, birds sang from nearby trees, and travelers from different corners of the world quietly prepared their breakfasts. There is something beautifully democratic about hostel kitchens: strangers sharing space, stories, and sometimes even salt.

We kept it simple: porridge, tea, and muffins, a humble meal, but one that felt complete.

On the Road to Zakopane

Soon, a tourist van arrived, already carrying a small group: an English couple with their child, a mother with her two daughters from the UK, and then us, Jan and I, bringing a touch of Sindh into this European mosaic.

Our driver doubled as a guide. His English was limited, but his gestures were expressive, almost theatrical. Communication found its way through smiles, hand movements, and shared curiosity. The sky remained overcast, adding a soft, cinematic tone to the journey.

Kościelisko: Where the Mountains Breathe

Our first stop was Kościelisko-Biały Potoka, a place that felt like a painting brought to life. Wooden houses stood quietly against the backdrop of the Tatra Mountains, their sloping roofs and rustic textures telling stories of tradition and resilience.

Sheep grazed lazily in open fields, and nearby, a small wooden hut invited us to experience something local: oscypek, the famous smoked cheese made from sheep’s milk. Inside, the air carried a rich, earthy aroma. We tasted the cheese paired unexpectedly with jam. The combination was curious yet delightful. Some in our group hesitated; others embraced it. Taste, after all, is deeply personal.

Outside, wooden benches offered a perfect pause, cheese in hand, mountains in view, and time momentarily irrelevant. Nearby, we even saw the traditional smoking process, where the cheese slowly transformed over a fire of wood into the delicacy it is known for.

Echoes of Craft- Willa Koliba

Our journey continued to Willa Koliba, a masterpiece of traditional wooden architecture and a symbol of the Zakopane style. Built in the late 19th century, it now serves as a museum preserving the region’s artistic and cultural heritage.

Equipped with headphones, we walked through its rooms, guided by stories of craftsmanship and design. Wooden carvings, tools, and furniture reflected a deep respect for nature and skill. At one point, I noticed tools that reminded me of carpenters back home, familiar shapes in a distant land. It made me smile. Cultures may differ, but hands that create often speak the same language.

Visitors from various countries moved quietly through the museum, each absorbing the narrative in their own language, yet sharing the same sense of wonder.

Gubałówka- Above It All

From there, we moved toward the heart of Zakopane, where we boarded the funicular to Gubałówka Hill. The ride itself was brief but scenic, lifting us gently above the town into a world of panoramic beauty.

At the top, the view unfolded dramatically, rolling hills, distant peaks, and a horizon that seemed endless. The place was alive with activity. Families, couples, children, and everyone seemed to be participating in the joy of the moment. There were horse rides, small attractions, cafés, and open spaces designed simply for sitting and absorbing the mountains.

One noticeable detail: a strong presence of Arab families, their warm greetings of “Salam Alaikum” creating a surprising sense of familiarity. The scent of oud lingered in the air, blending with the crisp mountain breeze. Halal food options were abundant, clear evidence of how Zakopane is evolving as a global tourist destination.

Jan, with his usual humor, referred to them as “Hajis and Hajanis,” a label that brought smiles not just to us, but occasionally to those who overheard.

We enjoyed ice cream, followed by tea, simple pleasures elevated by extraordinary surroundings. Photographs were taken, memories captured. Wooden seating areas invited visitors to pause, reflect, and simply be.

However, a small challenge emerged: many shops preferred cash over cards. A minor inconvenience, but one that added to the authenticity of the experience.

Back to the Town Below

Descending once again via the funicular, we spent some time in the lively square below before walking into the town center of Zakopane itself. Often referred to as Poland’s winter capital, Zakopane is a charming blend of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy.

A gentle stream flowed through the town, its clear waters reflecting the surrounding greenery. The streets were filled with life, tourists, locals, laughter, and movement. The mountains stood nearby, not distant, but present, like silent guardians.

We paused briefly at a familiar global landmark, McDonald’s, for a quick bite. Even in travel, there are moments where familiarity offers comfort.

A Gift of Experience

Back in the van, conversations flowed more freely now. Shared experiences had turned strangers into companions. The mother of two daughters shared that one of them had just turned eighteen, and this trip was her birthday gift.

I found that deeply meaningful. Not a material gift, but one of experience of seeing the world, of feeling it. Perhaps the most valuable kind.

Return, Rest, and the City Again

The return journey was quieter. Some of us drifted into sleep, rocked gently by the movement of the van. By evening, we were back at our hostel in Kraków.

After a brief rest and, of course, a cup of tea, we felt the familiar pull of the Old Town once again.

This time, we noticed something we had missed before: Planty Park, a green ring encircling the historic center. Built on the remains of old city walls, it now serves as a peaceful boundary between past and present, a circular embrace of nature around history.

The Old Town greeted us like an old friend. The same lights, the same music, the same vibrant energy.

Dinner once again brought us to Habibi, where familiar faces and flavors awaited. Conversations with fellow Pakistanis and the owner added warmth to the evening, turning a foreign place into something almost like home.

A Walk Along the Vistula

But the night still had one more gift.

We chose a different path back, one that led us to the banks of the Vistula River. Flowing gracefully through Kraków, the Vistula is more than a river; it is the city’s lifeline, its silent witness.

The walk along the river was calm, almost meditative. Lights from nearby bridges reflected on the water, creating a soft, shimmering glow. There were fewer people here, and that made it even more special. It felt like the city had given us a quiet corner just for ourselves.

Step by step, we walked back to our hostel, tired, but in the most satisfying way. The kind of tiredness that comes not from exhaustion, but from fullness. From living a day well.

End of Another Chapter

Back in our room, the ritual continued: tea, conversation, reflections. And then, slowly, sleep.

Another day had ended. Another story had begun.

Day Three- 8th September 2025: Between Memory and Rain

Some journeys are filled with color, laughter, and movement. Others arrive quietly, carrying a weight you cannot see but deeply feel. Our third day in Kraków was meant to be one of reflection, of history, and perhaps of understanding something far beyond ourselves.

A Morning That Turned Inward

The routine had already begun to settle in: breakfast, tea, a few light conversations, and then stepping out into the city. But this morning carried a different tone. The sky was overcast, and a gentle rain had begun to fall, as if the day itself understood where we were headed.

We walked toward the central station, Kraków Główny, intending to travel to Auschwitz. The plan was simple: take a bus or a train, arrive early, and explore one of the most significant historical sites in the world.

At the FlixBus counter, we learned that the next bus would take an hour. Time, on this particular day, felt too valuable to wait. So, we turned toward the trains, more immediate, more certain. Tickets were booked, platforms located, and soon we were seated inside a train that was already full of quiet anticipation.

A Conversation Between Stations

Across from us sat a woman reading a book, absorbed in her own world. Meanwhile, I indulged in one of my small travel habits, reading out station names as they passed. Polish names, often complex at first glance, became a kind of rhythm for me.

At the first station, she smiled.

Second, she closed her book.

Curiosity had replaced silence.

She asked how I was able to pronounce the names so accurately. I laughed. There was no method, no learning, just instinct and perhaps a bit of playful confidence. She complimented my pronunciation, and what began as a simple exchange turned into a conversation about life, travel, and purpose.

When she learned we were heading to Auschwitz, her tone softened.

“You might want to visit,” she said gently, “but it may also change how you feel.”

There was something in her words that lingered even after she stepped off the train, wishing us a good journey.

Auschwitz- Where Silence Speaks

We arrived at Auschwitz-Birkenau, a place that needs no introduction, yet resists full comprehension.

Established during World War II by Nazi Germany, Auschwitz became the largest concentration and extermination camp, where over a million people, mostly Jews, but also Poles, Roma, and others, lost their lives. Today, it stands preserved as a memorial and museum, not just of death, but of remembrance.

From the station, the path was clear. Signs guided us, and so did the flow of people, tourists, visitors, and learners. Many were walking fast, almost rushing. It soon became clear why: access, especially with an English-speaking guide, is limited and in high demand.

By the time we reached the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum, the reality was unavoidable; no tickets were available for guided tours in English. Despite starting early, we were still late.

A quiet disappointment settled in.

But we stayed.

We walked through the areas open to the public without tickets. And sometimes, perhaps, silence teaches more than guided words ever could.

Standing there, Jan and I tried to imagine the past, not as history written in books, but as lives once lived in this very space. The barracks, the fences, the pathways… everything carried an invisible echo. It was not loud, not dramatic, but deeply unsettling in its stillness.

There are places where you speak less, not because you have nothing to say, but because words feel insufficient.

Auschwitz was one of those places.

Return with Rain

After some time, we made our way back to Kraków. The rain had grown heavier now, as if the sky had fully surrendered to the mood of the day.

Back at the hostel, we did something simpler. Tea, once again, became our quiet companion. Outside, the rain continued its soft conversation with the city.

There was no urgency, no rush to explore. Just stillness.

Evening Reflections in a Wet City

Later, as the rain eased, we stepped out again toward the Old Town. The streets were wet, glistening under soft lights. Fallen leaves from nearby trees clung to the cobblestones, creating a scene that felt almost cinematic.

This time, we chose something different for dinner, a Turkish döner kebab. Warm, flavorful, and comforting, it matched the mood of the evening perfectly.

There was something about Kraków in the rain, quieter, more reflective. The usual vibrancy softened into something gentler, more intimate.

We walked slowly, without a plan. No rush to see, no checklist to complete. Just presence.

A Day That Stayed Quiet

Unlike the previous days filled with movement and discovery, this one remained calm, almost introspective. Not every day of travel needs to be loud or eventful. Some days simply ask you to feel.

And this was one of them.

We returned to our room, carrying not souvenirs, but thoughts.

No long conversations that night. No laughter echoes through the walls.

Just a quiet understanding.

And then, sleep.

Day Four- 9th September 2025: Sunlight, Goodbyes, and Gentle Endings

Every journey, no matter how vibrant, eventually leans toward a quiet conclusion. Our fourth day in Kraków carried that familiar feeling, the awareness that time here was coming to an end, even as the city still had more to offer.

Our flights were scheduled for the evening, but the day belonged to us.

Leaving, Yet Not Leaving

After breakfast, we packed our belongings, but not without a small gesture of continuity; we left behind some food items in the common kitchen for other travelers. A silent tradition of hostels, where strangers care for strangers without ever meeting.

With our bags lighter and hearts a little heavier, we stepped out once more, walking toward the Old Town, this time under daylight.

A Familiar Square, A New Perspective

We reached Rynek Główny again. Though it was a weekday, the square was alive, busy, energetic, and somehow even more revealing in daylight. The details stood out now: statues clearer, architectural lines sharper, and the rhythm of daily life more visible.

Cyclists moved effortlessly through space, weaving between tourists and locals. Arab families, once again, added a familiar warmth to the surroundings. This time, we didn’t just pass through; we paused, observed, and absorbed.

We finally gave in to the temptation of souvenirs, choosing small items to carry a piece of Kraków back with us.

Above the City- Wawel’s Quiet Authority

From the square, we walked toward the iconic Wawel Castle, a symbol of Polish pride and history. Perched on a hill overlooking the Vistula River, the castle complex is not just a structure, but a narrative carved in stone.

Once the residence of Polish kings, Wawel has witnessed centuries of coronations, decisions, and defining moments. Its courtyards, towers, and cathedral stand as reminders of a nation’s resilience and identity.

From the elevated grounds, the view stretched beautifully across the river and beyond. The city seemed calmer from above, orderly, poetic.

It was here, amidst photographs and laughter, that one of the day’s most unexpected moments occurred.

As Jan was taking my picture, a woman suddenly stepped beside me, posed naturally, and laughed:

“I can be in your photo too!”

And just like that, a stranger became part of a memory.

Her carefree spirit, her openness, captured something essential about travel itself. Moments that cannot be planned, only received.

Kazimierz in Daylight- Stories in Silence

We returned to Kazimierz, this time under the clarity of day. What had felt atmospheric at night now revealed deeper layers.

Cafés, bookstores, and souvenir shops lined the streets, many reflecting Jewish heritage. We paused outside a synagogue, its quiet presence speaking of history, faith, and survival.

Inside one small shop, a woman shared an insight: while a few hundred Jews live in the area, only a small number actively practice religion. The rest, she explained, are more cultural than religious.

It was a subtle but powerful reflection of how identity evolves with time.

An alphabet chart in Hebrew caught our attention, a simple display, yet deeply symbolic. Language, like memory, preserves what history tries to erase.

A Quiet Pause in Nature

Later, we found ourselves seated in a small park. There, time slowed again.

Birds moved freely, some swimming in the water, others perched quietly, drying their wings under the gentle sun. The scene was simple, almost ordinary, yet deeply calming. After days of movement, this stillness felt earned.

Travel is not only about seeing new places, but it is also about learning to sit, observe, and simply exist within them.

Through the Gate- Floriańska Street

Our walk continued toward Floriańska Street, entering through the iconic St. Florian’s Gate (Brama Floriańska). This historic pathway once served as a royal route, connecting the city gates to the heart of the Old Town.

Today, it is one of Kraków’s most vibrant streets, lined with shops, cafés, and a constant flow of life. Walking through it felt like moving through layers of time, where medieval walls coexist with modern energy.

Moments of Trust

Back at Rynek Główny, we sat on benches, watching birds gather and disperse, horse-drawn carriages passing by. The drivers, often elegantly dressed women, invited tourists to experience the city in a slower, more romantic way.

Amidst this, a young girl approached us. She showed a photograph of a young man and explained that she was collecting donations for his medical treatment. She accepted any currency.

Without hesitation, I offered her some Swedish currency I had in my wallet.

There was no verification, no certainty, just a moment of trust. Travel, sometimes, asks you to trust without knowing why.

A Final Quiet Corner

Our last stop was Skwer Andrzeja Wajdy, a small but meaningful space named after the renowned Polish filmmaker Andrzej Wajda. Surrounded by greenery and calm, it felt like a fitting place to pause before departure, a gentle closing note to a layered journey.

The Journey Home

From there, we made our way to Kraków Główny, had a simple lunch, and then boarded a train to the airport.

And just like that, the journey began to dissolve into memory.

Jan continued toward Cardiff.

I returned to Stockholm.

Back to routine. Back to life.

But not quite the same.

Final Reflection – What Kraków Leaves Behind

Kraków is not a city that overwhelms you. It does something quieter; it unfolds.

In four days, it showed us joy and reflection, history and modernity, silence and celebration. From the lively pulse of Rynek Główny to the heavy stillness of Auschwitz-Birkenau, from the mountain air of Zakopane to the calm flow of the Vistula River, every moment added a layer.

Some strangers became stories.

Some places became feelings.

There were simple acts like sharing tea, walking in the rain, and offering help that became memories.

And perhaps that is what truly travel is:

Not just movement across geography,

But a quiet transformation within.

Read: A Day Beyond the Marathon

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

The post Where History Whispers and Rivers Flow first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Aziz Kingrani

During the rule of Jam Nizamuddin-II, also known as Jam Nindo, of the Samma dynasty in Sindh, the correct history of the brave general and son of Sindh, martyred Dolah Darya Khan, has been subject to historical confusion. Contemporary historians considered Dolah Darya Khan and Jam Mubarak Khan Samma to be the same personality and attributed the war events of Khanul Azam Jam Mubarak Khan to Darya Khan. In this way, historians also created confusion regarding his name, caste or tribe.

About a century after the martyrdom of Dolah Darya Khan, in 1621, Tahir Muhammad Nasyani wrote Tarikh-e-Tahiri, in which he described Darya Khan as a Syed (1995, p. 63) and mentioned his names as Darya Khan, Qabooliyo, and Mubarak Khan (pp. 63, 64, 65). Tarikh-e-Masumi mentions Darya Khan (p. 92), and Tuhfat-ul-Kiram describes his caste as Syed, his name as Qabooliyo, and states that Jam Nindo-II gave him the name Darya Khan and the title Mubarak Khan (pp. 50–149).

In these early histories, there is no mention of him being Lashari. His village is recorded as Gaha, which still exists today in Deh Gaha of Johi Taluka in Dadu District Sindh, near the Gaha Mori  (Bridge) on the Johi–Bhan Saeedabad road by the Channa branch (shakh), which is now village Bahar Shah also known as Bahar Ali Shah (Dadu at a Glance, 2011, p. 33). Tarikh-e-Masumi and Tuhfat-ul-Kiram refer to Gaha as “the village of the Gahas.” It is likely that Gaha village and the surrounding area belonged to the Gaha tribe, hence it was known by that name. Based on this, it can be said that Dolah Darya Khan originally belonged to the Gaha caste.

Like his original name and caste, the question of whether Dolah Darya Khan was a disciple of Syed Miran Muhammad Mahdi of Jaunpur has also been mentioned in history. Among early historians, Mir Ali Sher Qani’a mentioned this in Tuhfat-ul-Kiram. Qani’a writes: “When Miran Syed Muhammad Jaunpuri arrived in Thatta, despite the insistence of Jam (Nindo) and the influence of scholars (Makhdum Bilawal?), he did not initially show devotion to him (Mahdi). However, he (Darya Khan) served that noble figure with sincere heart and gained the pleasure of the noted saint of the time (Mahdi Jaunpuri)” (2004, p. 150).

Ghulam Muhammad Lakho writes in his book Sindh Jo Tareekhi ain Tehqeeqi Jaizo: “When Mahdi Jaunpuri reached Thatta, his stay there is recorded in the years 906 AH and 907 AH. Jam, assessing the situation, realized that Mahdi’s presence would lead to disorder and unrest in Sindh, so he ordered Darya Khan to go to Makli and take action against him. Instead, Darya Khan returned to Thatta as his disciple. Jam became angry and ordered that Mahdi should be killed if necessary. Even then, Darya Khan handled the matter very diplomatically. Meanwhile, Mahdi, seeing the growing opposition, decided to leave Sindh. Despite this, Mahdi suffered considerable harm at the hands of Shah Haider Sanai in central Sindh” (1997, p. 84). In his English book The Samma Kingdom of Sindh, Lakho presents a similar account, writing: “Along with scholars, two notable figures, Qazi Qazan and Minister Darya Khan, accepted the sect of Miran Muhammad Jaunpuri. Jam Nindo was not inclined toward him. It is said that Jam Nizamuddin ordered the killing of Syed (Mahdi) along with his followers. However, upon the request of Minister Darya Khan, he instead ordered him (Mahdi) to leave the region (Sindh)” (2006, p. 91).

Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro also described Darya Khan as a Mahdavi in his article “Heroic Saint of Baghban” published in The Friday Times, Lahore (2023). In Jannat-ul-Sindh, Rahimdad Khan Molai Shedai’s account also indicates that Darya Khan was inclined toward Syed Muhammad Mahdi Jaunpuri. Molai Shedai writes: “Syed Miran Muhammad Jaunpuri began calling himself Mahdi and, traveling through Deccan (Dakhan) and Gujarat, reached Thatta during the time of Jam Nindo. Jam ordered his arrest, but on the advice of Darya Khan, he instead ordered him to leave Thatta. Syed Miran Muhammad Jaunpuri then went from Thatta to Qandahar” (2000, p. 302).

In addition to these clear references in the history of Sindh, there are other noteworthy references that not only raise the question of whether Darya Khan was truly a Mahdavi, but also strongly suggest that he, like Qazi Qazan, was indeed a Mahdavi. Molai Shedai writes in Jannat-ul-Sindh: “Mirza Shah Baig Arghun sent his experienced general Mirza Isa Tarkhan with an army to capture the fort of Bukkur. Qazi Qazan was the governor of Bukkur under Jam Nizamuddin, but Jam could not assist him in time, and he was compelled to hand over the fort to the Arghuns” (2000, p. 306). Qazi Qazan was the governor of Bukkur. Would he not have had an army to manage the fort or to face a potential enemy attack? Even if Jam Nizamudin could not assist him in time, could he not have resisted with his own forces? The fact that he handed over the fort without resistance suggests that both Qazi Qazan and Shah Baig Arghun were followers of Syed Muhammad Jaunpuri, which may explain why Qazi Qazan surrendered the fort without resistance.

Similarly, when Shah Baig Arghun moved from Bukkur toward Thatta, why did he only plunder Baghban? The Sammas and Samejas resisted in Baghban, and there was significant bloodshed. Historians, either due to lack of knowledge, inability to assess, or intentionally, did not mention whether Makhdum Bilawal was present or resisted during the attack. They only mention that some landlords submitted to Shah Baig. It is possible they submitted after the bloodshed, but it can be said with certainty that Makhdum Bilawal, leader of the Bilawali movement and a strong opponent of the Mahdavi movement, was present in Bhaghban, which is why it suffered such devastation. Near Baghban were Darya Khan’s village Gaha and his jagir village Talti, but why were these not attacked? There was no resistance from Gaha. According to Tarikh-e-Tahiri: “After plundering Baghban, Shah Baig moved along the riverbank via the Kandahar route and camped opposite Thatta” (1995, p. 67). Qani’s account in Tuhfat-ul-Kiram (2004, pp. 296–297) confirms that at that time, in “the village of the Gahas (Gaha),” Abdul Aziz Abhari (a Mahdavi) from Herat, along with his sons Asiruddin and Yar m Muhammad Abhari, was running a Madras at Gaha.

Tarikh-e-Masumi also clearly mentions the plunder of Baghban but does not mention any attack on Gaha. It only refers to unrest in Talti. According to it: “When Shah Baig came to Baghban, its landlords submitted to him. In Talti, Mithan, Mahmood, and others raised rebellion. Shah Beg wanted them also to surrender. After plundering Baghban, he moved toward Thatta via the Lakki hills and camped south of Thatta” (2006, p. 122). Despite rebellion, the attacker could have launched an assault—so why did he not? In my view, these were Darya Khan’s areas, and he himself was a follower of Syed Muhammad Jaunpuri.

Mir Masoom Bakhri in Tarikh-e-Masoomi mentions the destruction of Baghban (2006, p. 120) but does not mention any attack on Gaha or Talti while moving toward Thatta. He writes: “When Shah Beg came to Baghban, its landlords submitted. In Talti, Mithan, Mahmood, and others rebelled. Shah Baig wanted them to surrender. After plundering Baghban, he moved through the Lakki hills toward Thatta and camped south of it” (2006, p. 122).

Traditional histories of Sindh clearly describe the confrontation between Darya Khan and Shah Baig Arghun near “Khan Wah” close to Thatta, and Darya Khan’s martyrdom  as well. However, Ghulam Muhammad Lakho writes in Samma Ji Saltanat: “Some scholars believe that the Arghuns invited Darya Khan for negotiations and later had him killed” (p. 44). If negotiations did occur, what were they about? What outcome led to his murdered? It appears that at that time, differences arose between Shah Baig Arghun and Darya Khan. The patriotic general Dolah Darya Khan may have refused to betray Sindh, rejected its subjugation, and prioritized patriotism over Mahdavism, which led to his martyrdom. It is possible that the Arghuns had him killed and, due to his association with the Mahdavis, buried him in the Mahdvi cemetery at Makli.

According to Tarikh-e-Masumi: “After Thatta, Shah Baig came to Sehwan. From there, his opponents gathered in Talti. Shah Baig sent Qazi Qazan to negotiate with Mahmood and Mithan, but no settlement was reached. He then advanced toward Talti. After three days, someone informed him that Mian Mahmood, Mithan, Jam Sarang (Sehto), and Ranmal Sodho were ready to submit, but a scholar and saint of the region, Makhdum Bilawal, was preventing them and encouraging resistance. This is why, after victory, Shah Baig punished Makhdum Bilawal and imposed a fine on him” (2006, p. 125). This account suggests that initially, Shah Baig treated Darya Khan and his sons leniently due to their Mahdavi affiliation, but when differences arose over the plunder and subjugation of Sindh, Shah Baig, acting as a foreign usurper, had this patriotic commander martyred and Shah Baig attacked Talti fort, killing Darya Khan’s sons and other leaders, thus dealing a severe blow to the unity of Sindh.

Read: Thull Mir Rukan: Sindh’s Buddhist Heritage

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Aziz Kingrani, hailing from village Haji Manik Kingrani, Johi, Dadu District, Sindh, Pakistan, is poet, short story writer, playwright and a researcher. He has been contributing in the fields of history and literature. He has served as a professor as well. His 17 books are published in English and Sindhi language. 

The post Dolah Darya Khan: Debunking the Myths first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Mohammad Ehsan Leghari

History does not always move in straight lines, but its patterns are often too consistent to ignore. The unfolding crises in West Asia, particularly the intensifying confrontation around Iran and the Strait of Hormuz in 2026, are not isolated geopolitical events. Rather, they represent the continuation of a much older strategic logic, one that began over five centuries ago with the arrival of European naval power in the Indian Ocean. This long arc of history suggests that what we witness today is not merely a modern conflict, but the latest chapter in a 550-year-old struggle for global dominance.

The Lost Order of the Indian Ocean

Before the arrival of European fleets at the close of the 15th century, the Indian Ocean was not a battlefield; it was a shared commercial space. Known in Sanskrit as Ratnakara, or the “mine of gems,” it functioned as a decentralized yet remarkably stable network of trade and cultural exchange. This system was governed less by coercive naval dominance and more by environmental rhythms and ethical norms. The monsoon winds dictated the pace of commerce, compelling merchants from Arabia, East Africa, South Asia, and Southeast Asia to coexist, cooperate, and often reside temporarily in foreign ports. These interactions cultivated a cosmopolitan maritime culture grounded in trust and mutual benefit.

Islam played a particularly important role in shaping this order. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), himself a merchant, provided a moral and commercial framework that emphasized honesty, contractual integrity, and cross-cultural engagement. Trade was not merely economic; it was civilizational. Equally significant was the existence of indigenous maritime legal systems, such as the Undang-Undang Laut Melaka, which regulated shipping, hierarchy, dispute resolution, and safety. These codes demonstrate that the seas were far from lawless; they were governed spaces with their own constitutional logic.

1494: The Beginning of Maritime Violence

This equilibrium was shattered at the end of the 15th century. The Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494 symbolically divided the non-European world between Spain and Portugal, while Vasco da Gama’s arrival in 1498 physically inaugurated a new era defined by militarized trade. European ships were fundamentally different from the merchant vessels of the Indian Ocean; they were not merely carriers of goods, but floating artillery platforms. The integration of heavy bronze cannons into naval design transformed maritime interaction from negotiation to coercion.

Vasco da Gama’s second voyage in year 1502 demonstrated this shift with brutal clarity. His actions, burning a ship full of pilgrims, bombarding Calicut, and mutilating captives, were not aberrations. They were calculated strategies designed to impose a new order through terror. Under this new paradigm, trade was no longer a shared enterprise; it became a monopoly enforced at gunpoint.

The Cartaz System: From Commerce to Control

The Portuguese institutionalized this violence through the Cartaz system, a naval licensing regime that required all ships to obtain permission and pay fees to operate in the Indian Ocean. This system effectively transformed the ocean into a controlled economic space where ships without permits were seized and crews were often killed. What had once been a free-flowing commercial network was converted into a “toll-gated” maritime empire. This logic of controlling trade by controlling movement did not disappear with the Portuguese; it evolved. Later European empires, and eventually modern global powers, adopted similar strategies, replacing cannons with sanctions, blockades, and surveillance.

Global Expansion and Human Catastrophe

The maritime revolution did not remain confined to the Indian Ocean; it expanded outward, producing one of the most devastating demographic collapses in human history. In the Americas, indigenous populations declined by up to 90% within a century and a half of European contact. Disease, mass killing, forced labor, and ecological disruption combined to dismantle entire civilizations. This was not merely conquest; it was systemic transformation. Ecosystems were reshaped, economies reoriented, and societies restructured to serve external interests. The so-called “discovery” of new lands was, in reality, the beginning of their reconfiguration.

Chokepoints: The Geography of Power

At the heart of this transformation lay a simple but enduring idea: control key maritime chokepoints, and you control global trade. In the 16th century, this meant places like the Strait of Hormuz and the Strait of Malacca. Portuguese strategist Afonso de Albuquerque recognized that dominating a few strategic locations could yield disproportionate power over vast trade networks. By the 20th century, the commodity had changed from spices to oil, but the geography remained almost identical. Hormuz, once vital for spice routes, became indispensable for global energy flows. Pipelines, naval bases, and military alliances were all designed around this enduring reality: whoever controls the chokepoints shapes the global economy.

The Geopolitics of Oil and Intervention

Iran’s modern history reflects this long arc of geopolitical contestation. Its strategic location at the Strait of Hormuz and its vast energy resources have made it a focal point of external intervention. The 1953 coup against Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh, triggered by his attempt to nationalize oil, set a precedent for regime change as a tool of economic control. Subsequent decades saw cycles of conflict, including the “Tanker War” of the 1980s, where maritime routes themselves became battlegrounds. These episodes reinforced a consistent pattern: ensuring that no regional power could independently control critical trade corridors.

2026: A Modern Echo of an Old Strategy

The recent military strikes against Iran in 2026, framed in terms of countering nuclear threats and ensuring regional stability, mirror earlier strategies in both form and intent. Technologies have changed; precision-guided missiles have replaced bronze cannons, but the underlying logic remains strikingly similar. The objective is not merely military victory, but strategic reordering: securing chokepoints, ensuring compliant regimes, and maintaining control over global flows of energy and trade.

Conclusion: An Unfinished Historical Project

The story that began in 1494 is far from over. What started as a maritime rupture has evolved into a global system where power is exercised through control of movement, of ships, goods, and resources. The Indian Ocean was once a shared space governed by cooperation and legal pluralism. Its transformation into a contested arena of military and economic dominance marked the beginning of a new world order that continues to shape contemporary conflicts. Understanding today’s crises, particularly in regions like the Strait of Hormuz, requires looking beyond immediate events. It demands recognizing the deeper historical structures that continue to guide global politics. Until the logic of chokepoint control and coercive dominance is replaced by a more equitable framework, the cycle initiated over five centuries ago is likely to persist, adapting in form, but not in essence.

References

Boxer, C.R. (1969) The Portuguese Seaborne Empire, 1415-1825. London: Hutchinson.

Chaudhuri, K.N. (1985) Trade and Civilization in the Indian Ocean: An Economic History from the Rise of Islam to 1750. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Kinzer, S. (2003) All the Shah’s Men: An American Coup and the Roots of Middle East Terror. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons.

Mahan, A.T. (1890) The Influence of Sea Power upon History, 1660-1783. Boston: Little, Brown and Company.

Yergin, D. (1991) The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Money & Power. New York: Simon & Schuster.

Read: The War, Trade, and Transit

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Mohammad Ehsan Leghari is a water expert, former Member (Sindh), Indus River System Authority (IRSA), and former Managing Director, SIDA.

The post From Vasco to Hormuz: Maritime Might first appeared on Sindh Courier.

A short travel narrative from 6–7 March 2026

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

From Stockholm’s Snow to Rome’s Gentle Breeze

Travel often begins with contrasts. On the morning of 6th March 2026, I left behind the icy, snow-covered landscape of Stockholm and flew south toward Italy. When the plane descended into Rome, the difference was immediately noticeable. The biting Nordic winter had been replaced by Rome’s relatively mild and pleasant weather.

As frequently happens during my travels, my friend Jan Mangrio was also joining the journey, flying from Cardiff in the United Kingdom. His flight was scheduled to arrive about an hour and a half after mine. Having some time to spare, I settled at an airport cafeteria.

Airports are fascinating places to observe human movement. Sitting with a cup of tea, occasionally browsing social media, I watched travelers arriving and departing. People moved with different rhythms, some rushing toward their gates, others patiently waiting. Among them were also travelers accompanied by dogs, calmly walking beside their owners, adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise hurried atmosphere of an international airport.

Memories of Rome and an Old Friend

Whenever I think of Rome, my mind naturally returns to my friend Prem Sagar, who introduced me to the Eternal City during my first visit several years ago. Since he was not in Rome this time, he kindly connected me with a gentleman living there, Mr. Alaptageen, a warm and kind-hearted young man originally from Mansehra in Pakistan.

After completing his studies in Rome, Alaptageen started working with the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). He invited us to join him for iftar, as the visit coincided with the holy month of Ramadan. Although he suggested that we come directly to his place, we decided to check in first at our accommodation.

A Comfortable Stay in Prati

Our bed-and-breakfast was located in Prati, one of Rome’s elegant residential districts. Developed in the late nineteenth century after Italy’s unification, Prati is known for its wide streets, orderly urban planning, and beautiful residential buildings. The neighborhood lies just a short distance from Vatican City and is popular among visitors seeking a quieter stay while still being close to Rome’s historic attractions.

After Jan arrived, we made our way to our B&B named Vatication, located near the Vatican. The journey involved a direct bus followed by a short ten-minute walk.

The self-check-in process was smooth and efficient. The place was neat, beautifully decorated, and welcoming, exactly what a traveler hopes for after a long journey.

Without wasting much time, we stepped out again to explore the nearby area.

Entering the World’s Smallest State

Within minutes, we found ourselves approaching Vatican City, the smallest independent state in the world and the spiritual center of the Roman Catholic Church.

The area around St. Peter’s Square was lively with visitors. Pilgrims and tourists from across the globe were strolling through the vast square, admiring the grand architecture and taking photographs.

Although the square was busy, it was not overwhelmingly crowded. Still, I must admit that during my earlier visit to the Sanctuary of Fátima in Portugal, I personally felt a deeper spiritual atmosphere than I experienced here.

Nevertheless, standing in Vatican City, surrounded by centuries of religious history, remains a remarkable experience.

After spending some time walking around and taking photographs, we followed the signs toward the nearby metro station.

Rome’s Beating Transport Hub

From Ottaviano Metro Station, we took the metro toward Roma Termini.

Termini is the largest railway station in Rome and one of the busiest transport hubs in Europe. Trains, metros, buses, and airport connections all converge here, making it the heart of the city’s transportation network.

Because it was the weekend, the station was bustling with people. Many young travelers seemed to be heading out for nightlife and social gatherings. In such crowded places, however, one must remain alert. Rome’s Termini is also known as an area where pickpockets operate.

From Termini, we changed trains and continued toward the Basilica San Paolo Metro Station.

A Small Detour and a Warm Welcome

From there, we boarded a bus toward Alaptageen’s residence. Unfortunately, we got off at the wrong stop, which meant an additional twenty-minute walk.

Thankfully, modern technology came to the rescue. By sharing our live location, Alaptageen was able to locate us easily and even walked toward us to guide the way.

It was our first meeting in person, yet he welcomed us with the warmth of an old friend.

A Desi Iftar in Rome

At his apartment, we were greeted with genuine hospitality and a delicious desi iftar.

As we say in Sindhi:

“Sabh thak lahee wya” means all the tiredness simply melted away.

Mr.Alaptageen had previously studied at IBA Sukkur, one of Sindh’s leading educational institutions, before moving to Rome for higher studies.

We were soon joined by Abbas Shah Rizvi from Khairpur Mirs, who was pursuing his PhD in Rome.

Later, another young man entered the living room. At first glance, I assumed he might be Italian, but he introduced himself as Shafay Shaikh from Larkano, who had recently arrived in Rome for his studies.

At that moment, the apartment transformed into what felt like a Sindhi otaq, a traditional gathering place filled with conversation, laughter, and shared stories.

Exploring Rome by Night

Because our time in Rome was limited, we decided to visit some of the city’s most famous landmarks that same evening. Alaptageen and Shafay kindly offered to accompany us, making the exploration much easier.

The Altar of the Fatherland

Our first stop was the impressive Altare della Patria, also known as the Altar of the Fatherland.

Constructed to honor Victor Emmanuel II, the monument symbolizes the unification of Italy and contains the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

At night, illuminated by soft lights, the white marble monument looked magnificent.

Ancient Rome: The Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

Nearby lie the ruins of the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill.

The Roman Forum was once the political and commercial center of the Roman Empire, where senators debated, and citizens gathered.

Palatine Hill, overlooking the Forum, is believed to be the birthplace of Rome and once housed the luxurious palaces of Roman emperors.

Even from a distance, the ruins carried a powerful sense of history.

The Colosseum Under the Night Sky

From there, we walked toward the iconic Colosseum.

I had seen the Colosseum during the daytime before, but seeing it illuminated at night was an entirely different experience. The ancient amphitheater, built nearly two thousand years ago, once hosted gladiator contests and public spectacles for thousands of spectators.

Even at that late hour, the area remained lively with tourists, including many visitors from South Asia.

One interesting detail nearby caught my attention was a public drinking-water system that offered still or sparkling water at the push of a button. Travelers could fill a bottle, a cup, or even half a liter. It was a simple yet impressive example of how cities can encourage public water usage instead of bottled water.

The Ever-Busy Trevi Fountain

Our next destination was the world-famous Trevi Fountain.

Although the buses were relatively comfortable, the square around the fountain was extremely crowded. Visitors of all ages were enjoying the atmosphere.

Naturally, everyone was taking photographs. In today’s digital age, it sometimes feels as if people spend more time capturing a place than truly experiencing it.

Still, the fountain’s beauty, its dramatic sculptures, and flowing water remain unforgettable.

After about half an hour there, we purchased a few souvenirs and continued our walk through Rome’s historic center.

Pantheon and the Temple of Hadrian

We briefly passed the ruins of the Temple of Hadrian and then reached the majestic Pantheon.

Originally built as a temple to all Roman gods, the Pantheon is one of the best-preserved buildings from ancient Rome. Its enormous dome, with a circular opening at the center, remains one of the greatest architectural achievements of the ancient world.

Returning to Prati

It was getting late, and although our hosts wished to treat us to Rome’s famous gelato ice cream, we decided to return to the hotel.

They helped us find the correct bus, and after exchanging warm farewells, we returned to the Prati neighborhood.

Back at the B&B, I enjoyed a simple but comforting luxury, a cup of tea prepared in the room with the kettle and tea supplies I had requested earlier.

Breakfast and Small Memories

The next morning’s breakfast was simple yet satisfying.

One charming detail of the B&B’s decoration caught my attention: small toy Vespa scooters and miniature cars displayed on the shelves. Seeing them reminded me of what we used to call “Dedri cars” in Sindhi, frog-like small cars similar to one once owned by DSP Qazi Abdul Haq of Moro.

Meeting Inspiring Sindhi Entrepreneurs

Before leaving Rome, we planned to meet two remarkable young Sindhi girls, Anoshi Chabarya and her business partner, who had opened a restaurant in the city.

Both originally come from the districts of Kandhkot and Jacobabad in northern Sindh. These districts are culturally rich but often lack opportunities for young women to pursue international careers.

Their achievement, therefore, becomes even more inspiring.

We took the metro from Ottaviano Metro Station to San Giovanni Metro Station, changing trains at Termini.

From there, we chose to walk and enjoy the surrounding neighborhood.

Hungry Scholars: A Sindhi Corner in Rome

Eventually, we arrived at their restaurant, Hungry Scholars, a unique and meaningful name reflecting curiosity, learning, education, and global experiences.

Anoshi had come early just to meet us before the restaurant opened. Her warm welcome made the place feel less like a restaurant and more like a Sindhi home.

Where there are Sindhis, tea is inevitable.

We were served desi chai and biscuits, though we politely declined additional food since we had already eaten breakfast.

During our conversation, we learned about their journey, studying at IBA Sukkur, moving to Rome for higher education, and eventually launching their own restaurant business.

Starting a business abroad is never easy. Their determination and courage are inspiring for many young people, especially girls from Sindh.

Their story sends a powerful message:

Spread your wings, and you will discover the world is larger than you imagined.

Anyone visiting Rome should consider stopping by Hungry Scholars, not only for food but also for the warmth of Sindhi hospitality thousands of kilometers away from home.

Onward to the Next Journey

After planning our route carefully, we headed toward the Roma Tiburtina railway station, from where our FlixBus to Naples would depart.

The bus ride to the station took about forty-five minutes due to rush-hour traffic, but we arrived comfortably on time. After confirming the departure platform at the FlixBus office, we sat down and relaxed.

Soon, the bus arrived.

As it departed from Rome toward Naples, our short yet memorable chapter in the Eternal City came to an end, filled with history, friendships, and a surprising touch of Sindhi hospitality in the heart of Italy.

A City of History, Encounters, and Memories

As the bus slowly rolled out of Rome toward Naples, I looked back at the city that had witnessed more than two thousand years of human history. Rome is often called the Eternal City, and after spending even a short time there, one begins to understand why. Every street corner seems to carry a story, every monument whispers memories of empires, faith, art, and human ambition.

Yet for me, this visit to Rome was not only about ancient ruins, grand monuments, or famous fountains. It was also about people, the warmth of friends, the generosity of strangers who quickly became companions, and the surprising feeling of finding a small Sindhi world thousands of kilometers away from home.

From sharing iftar in an apartment that felt like a Sindhi otaq to meeting young entrepreneurs who carried their dreams from Sindh to Italy, the journey reminded me that travel is not merely about geography. It is about human connections.

Cities impress us with their architecture, but people leave the deeper impressions.

As the lights of Rome slowly faded behind us and the road stretched toward the south, I realized that journeys are never measured only in kilometers. They are measured in moments: a warm cup of tea after a long walk, a familiar language spoken in a distant land, and the quiet realization that the world, despite its vastness, can sometimes feel surprisingly small and wonderfully connected.

And with that thought, our Roman chapter closed, not as an ending, but as another beautiful memory added to the endless journey of travel.

Read: Long Moroccan Turban Speaks Desert Winds

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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.

The post Sindhi Hospitality Shines In Rome first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Noor Muhammad Marri, Advocate | Islamabad

Iran’s history is inseparable from war. Situated at the crossroads of Central Asia, the Middle East, and South Asia, the Iranian plateau has served both as a bridge of civilizations and as a battlefield of empires. From the rise of the first Persian Empire in the sixth century BCE to the present confrontation involving the United States and Israel, Iran’s wars have repeatedly reshaped regional balances and, at decisive moments, altered global history. Geography made Iran strategic; ideology made it resilient; great-power rivalry made it contested.

The imperial tradition began with Cyrus the Great, who united Persian tribes and constructed a vast empire stretching from Anatolia to the Indus Valley. Under Darius I and Xerxes I, Persia confronted the Greek city-states in the Greco-Persian Wars. Although battles such as Marathon and Salamis checked Persian expansion into Europe, these conflicts also stimulated Greek unity and political consciousness, indirectly contributing to the intellectual flowering of classical Greece. When Alexander the Great conquered Persia in 330 BCE, the result was not merely imperial collapse but a vast cultural synthesis that fused Hellenistic and Persian traditions, shaping governance, art, and philosophy across West and Central Asia.

After Alexander’s empire fragmented, Iranian power revived under the Parthians and later the Sasanian Empire. For centuries, these dynasties confronted Rome and Byzantium. The Parthian victory at Carrhae in 53 BCE demonstrated that Roman expansion had limits. Continuous Roman-Persian wars militarized Mesopotamia and exhausted both empires economically. Under Khosrow II, Sasanian forces briefly captured Jerusalem and Egypt, but prolonged war left the region drained. When Arab Muslim armies emerged in the seventh century, the Sasanian state collapsed in 651 CE. The consequence was transformative: Iran entered the Islamic world, Persian administrative and intellectual traditions blended with Islamic civilization, and a new cultural synthesis influenced theology, science, literature, and governance from Spain to India.

In the early modern era, the Safavid Empire institutionalized Twelver Shiism as the state religion. This decision entrenched sectarian identity and triggered prolonged wars with the Ottoman Empire. The Battle of Chaldiran in 1514 confirmed Ottoman superiority in gunpowder warfare but also solidified the Sunni–Shia divide that continues to shape Middle Eastern geopolitics. In the eighteenth century, Nader Shah revived Persian military prestige, defeating Ottoman forces and invading Mughal India in 1739. His sack of Delhi weakened the Mughal Empire and accelerated political fragmentation in South Asia, indirectly smoothing the path for European colonial expansion.

The nineteenth century marked a period of decline. Qajar Iran suffered defeat in wars with Imperial Russia, losing the Caucasus under the Treaties of Gulistan and Turkmenchay. These territorial losses entrenched Russian and British interference and weakened Iranian sovereignty. During World War II, Britain and the Soviet Union jointly invaded Iran to secure oil fields and supply corridors. Reza Shah Pahlavi was forced to abdicate. Iran’s occupation reinforced nationalist resentment and deepened suspicion of foreign intervention—sentiments intensified by the 1953 coup against Prime Minister Mossadegh, which reshaped Iranian politics for decades.

The 1979 Islamic Revolution replaced monarchy with a theocratic republic, redefining Iran’s domestic and foreign policy. In 1980, Iraq under Saddam Hussein invaded Iran, beginning an eight-year war that devastated infrastructure, normalized missile exchanges in the Gulf, and caused over a million casualties. The conflict reshaped regional security doctrine, embedding asymmetric warfare and proxy alliances into Iran’s defense strategy. After 2003, the U.S. invasion of Iraq removed Saddam but expanded Iranian influence in Baghdad. Iran’s involvement in Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon deepened its regional footprint. The killing of Qasem Soleimani in 2020 symbolized escalating confrontation between Tehran and Washington.

Today’s tensions—marked by sanctions, cyber operations, targeted strikes, and proxy conflicts—extend beyond bilateral rivalry. Economic sanctions have strained Iran but also pushed it toward closer alignment with Russia and China, accelerating global multipolar competition. The Strait of Hormuz remains a vital artery of global energy; any disruption risks worldwide inflation and recession. Regional states have intensified arms acquisitions, missile programs, and defense cooperation, increasing militarization across the Middle East.

The broader consequences are profound. Prolonged instability weakens already fragile states, strains governance structures, and creates political vacuums in which separatist movements and non-state actors can expand. Sectarian polarization deepens social fractures. Energy insecurity destabilizes global markets. Great-power competition intensifies as rival blocs consolidate influence in the region. History demonstrates that wars centered on Iran rarely remain confined to its borders; they radiate outward, reshaping neighboring states and often reverberating across continents.

Thus, while current confrontations may threaten Iran’s internal stability and even risk fragmentation under extreme circumstances, the wider fallout would likely extend far beyond immediate battlefields. The weakening of regional states, the rise of separatist forces, disruptions in global energy supply, and intensifying geopolitical polarization could produce consequences lasting far longer than the strategic objectives that initiated the conflict. Iran’s past reveals a consistent lesson: conflict on the Iranian plateau is seldom local—it is regional by nature and global in effect.

Read: Living in a World of Silent Conflict

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Noor Muhammad Marri is an Advocate & Mediator, based in Islamabad

The post Iran at War: Ancient Roots, Modern Conflicts first appeared on Sindh Courier.

• Religion and science are not enemies; they are successive responses to the same human need for meaning and stability. Each addressed the limits of knowledge of its time.
• The history of order teaches us that the human struggle is not between religion and science, but against meaninglessness

Noor Muhammad Marri Advocate | Islamabad

Human history is not merely a record of events; it is a continuous search for order. From the earliest moments of conscious thought, human beings have attempted to understand the universe, society, and their own existence through systems of meaning and structure. In its earliest form, this order was articulated through religion, where the universe was explained as divine creation, society was governed by sacred commandments, and morality was rooted in revelation. Over time, this religious order gradually transformed into social and political institutions, and in the modern age, into scientific explanations based on reason, observation, and empirical laws.

This essay proceeds from the central premise that no form of order—religious or scientific—exists outside time, intellectual capacity, and historical context. Religions addressed human beings in the language they could understand at a given stage of intellectual development. When superstition and myth dominated human consciousness, religious narratives employed symbols, miracles, and supernatural forces. As human understanding expanded, the language of order changed accordingly. The movement from religion to science, therefore, is not a rejection of order but a historical reconfiguration of it. Order did not disappear; it evolved with time.

From the earliest civilizations, human beings were confronted with an unpredictable and often hostile world. Natural disasters, disease, famine, and death shaped a worldview in which causality was poorly understood and fear was a constant companion. In such conditions, the human mind sought stability through explanation. Religion emerged as a comprehensive system that provided cosmology, morality, and social discipline in a single framework. The universe was understood as purposeful, governed by divine will, and human suffering was given meaning through supernatural logic. This was not irrationality but a rational response within the limits of available knowledge.

Religious order functioned as the earliest form of social regulation. It legitimized authority, defined acceptable behavior, and established moral hierarchies. Kings ruled by divine sanction, laws were framed as sacred commandments, and social obedience was reinforced through fear of divine punishment and hope of reward. This system was effective precisely because it corresponded to the intellectual level of the people. When natural laws were unknown, miracles were credible explanations. When scientific reasoning was absent, divine intention offered coherence.

Read: History of science, religion and the ‘big picture’

It is essential to understand that religion did not invent superstition; it spoke within it. Superstition was not a deviation from reason but the dominant form of explanation available at the time. Religious language—angels, demons, spirits, divine wrath—mirrored the cognitive universe of its audience. To judge these explanations by modern standards of rationality is to commit a historical error. Order, by its very nature, must be intelligible to those who live under it.

This historical reality is visible even in societies that had reached significant levels of intellectual and artistic sophistication. As late as the sixteenth century, William Shakespeare constructed the moral and political universe of Hamlet around the presence of a ghost. The ghost of King Hamlet is not symbolic or psychological; it is an objective moral authority demanding justice. This reflects a period in which supernatural causality remained an accepted explanation of reality. The boundary between rational and supernatural order had not yet fully emerged.

The gradual shift from religious to rational explanations of order is best understood through Max Weber’s concept of the “disenchantment of the world.” Weber argued that early societies interpreted reality through magical and religious frameworks, while modern societies increasingly rely on rational-legal systems. This transformation did not abolish order; it altered its form. What was once explained through divine will came to be understood through law, bureaucracy, and scientific reasoning. Authority shifted from priests and prophets to administrators and experts.

Weber’s typology of authority—traditional, charismatic, and legal-rational—demonstrates how order is historically constructed. Charismatic authority often emerges during periods of crisis, offering revolutionary meaning and direction. Over time, this charisma becomes institutionalized, giving rise to traditions and bureaucracies. Religious movements, once dynamic and transformative, solidify into structured systems. This process confirms that even sacred orders are subject to time and institutional necessity.

Karl Marx approached the question of order from a materialist perspective, yet his conclusions reinforce the same historical logic. For Marx, social and political orders are rooted in economic relations. Religion, law, and morality form part of the ideological superstructure that reflects material conditions. When human beings lacked control over nature and production, supernatural explanations provided psychological comfort and social stability. As productive forces advanced and scientific knowledge expanded, religious explanations lost their central role.

Marx did not deny the historical function of religion; he contextualized it. Religion was meaningful within a world of uncertainty and exploitation. Its decline was not the result of moral failure but of historical transformation. As material conditions changed, the form of order changed with them. This again affirms that order is not eternal; it is responsive to time.

Émile Durkheim further deepened this understanding by emphasizing the social function of religion. For Durkheim, religion was not primarily about gods but about society itself. Religious symbols represented collective values, and rituals reinforced social cohesion. What a society declared sacred reflected what it valued most at a given moment in history. As societies evolved, their sacred symbols evolved as well. When moral frameworks failed to adapt to changing conditions, societies experienced anomie—a breakdown of social order.

Durkheim’s analysis shows that order must align with collective consciousness to remain effective. When intellectual development outpaces moral adaptation, disorder emerges. Religious decline, therefore, is not simply loss of belief but a symptom of temporal mismatch between social reality and inherited systems of meaning.

Centuries earlier, Ibn Khaldun articulated a remarkably advanced theory of historical order. His concept of ʿasabiyyah explained how social cohesion gives rise to political and religious authority. Strong solidarity enables societies to establish order, while luxury, complacency, and intellectual shifts weaken it. For Ibn Khaldun, no religious or political system could escape this historical cycle. Geography, economic activity, and intellectual habits determined the lifespan of civilizations.

Ibn Khaldun’s cyclical view of history leaves no room for timeless order. Religious authority is effective only when it resonates with the social and intellectual conditions of its time. Once those conditions change, the order collapses, regardless of its sacred claims.

The emergence of science did not eliminate the need for order; it provided a new language for it. Scientific order replaced supernatural causality with natural laws, experimentation, and predictive models. Where religion offered certainty through faith, science offered provisional truth through evidence. This transition was not abrupt but gradual, marked by conflict, resistance, and adaptation. Even science remains bound by time, subject to revision and replacement.

Thus, the history of order is not a linear march toward absolute truth but a continuous process of reinterpretation. Religion and science are not enemies; they are successive responses to the same human need for meaning and stability. Each addressed the limits of knowledge of its time.

The historical journey from religious to scientific order reveals a consistent pattern: humanity has never accepted chaos as a final condition. In every age, humans have constructed systems of order that reflected their intellectual limits, material conditions, and social needs. Religious order was effective when supernatural explanations provided coherence in an uncertain world; scientific order gained dominance when reason and empirical knowledge offered more reliable tools of understanding. The relationship between religion and science, therefore, is not one of absolute opposition but of historical succession.

The works of Weber, Marx, Durkheim, and Ibn Khaldun collectively affirm that order is always temporal. No religious system remained static, just as no scientific framework can claim finality. Time continuously tests every structure of meaning, reshaping or replacing it according to new conditions. The critical question, therefore, is not which order is eternally true, but which order was intelligible and functional for its time.

Ultimately, the history of order teaches us that the human struggle is not between religion and science, but against meaninglessness. Any system—religious, scientific, or social—that provides meaning, stability, and coherence remains valid within its historical moment. When it fails to do so, it is left behind by history. Order, in all its forms, has always been bound by time, and time remains the final authority over all human constructions.

Read: Technology Triggers Panic: Safety Illusions Shatter

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Noor Muhammad Marri is an Advocate & Mediator, based in Islamabad

The post History of Order: From Religion to Science first appeared on Sindh Courier.

In a world where borders become symbolic and cultures intersect, national identity becomes even more precious

Xoʻjyozova Dildora | Uzbekistan

A homeland is not merely a piece of land marked on a map. It is a living memory, a sacred trust passed down from generation to generation. It is the soil that has absorbed the tears and hopes of our ancestors, the sky under which our history was written, and the spiritual space where national values are born and preserved. For every nation, history and national values serve as the moral compass that guides society toward dignity, unity, and progress.

The Homeland as a Sacred Concept

The concept of homeland holds a deep emotional and philosophical meaning. It is the place where language finds its voice, traditions find their rhythm, and identity finds its roots. A person may travel far, live in different countries, and learn foreign cultures, yet the homeland remains a silent force within the heart — calling, reminding, and uniting. For the Uzbek people, the homeland has always been associated with honor, patience, and resilience. From ancient civilizations that flourished on this land to the modern independent state, the idea of protecting and honoring the homeland has remained unchanged. This devotion is not only reflected in heroic battles but also in peaceful labor, scientific achievements, and cultural preservation. History is not a collection of dry dates and events; it is a living teacher. It teaches nations who they were, who they are, and who they can become. A nation that forgets its history risks losing its identity, while a nation that respects its past gains strength and wisdom. The history of Uzbekistan is rich and multifaceted. This land has been home to great scholars, thinkers, and leaders whose influence extended far beyond their time and geography. Figures such as Al-Khwarizmi, Al-Biruni, Ibn Sina (Avicenna), and Amir Temur not only shaped regional history but also contributed significantly to world civilization.

Their legacy reminds us that intellectual power, moral integrity, and national pride are inseparable. History teaches us that progress is born where knowledge and values walk hand in hand. National Values as Moral Pillars

National values are the invisible pillars that support society. They shape behavior, social relationships, and collective responsibility. Values such as respect for elders, hospitality, honesty, patience, and devotion to family are deeply embedded in Uzbek culture. Hospitality, for instance, is not merely a social custom; it is a moral principle. Opening one’s home and heart to a guest reflects generosity of spirit and respect for humanity. Similarly, family values emphasize unity, responsibility, and mutual care, forming the foundation of social stability.

In a rapidly globalizing world, preserving national values becomes a moral challenge. While modernization brings innovation and progress, it must not erase cultural identity. True development occurs when a nation modernizes without losing its soul. The future of any nation lies in the hands of its youth. Young people are not only inheritors of history and values but also their interpreters and reformers. Understanding national heritage allows youth to build a future rooted in confidence rather than imitation. Today’s youth face a complex world shaped by digital influence, cultural exchange, and ideological diversity. In such an environment, historical awareness and national values serve as protective shields against moral emptiness and cultural alienation. Education plays a crucial role in this process. Teaching history not as memorization but as inspiration helps young people develop critical thinking and national pride. When youth understand that they are heirs to a great civilization, they feel responsible for its continuation. Independence marks a turning point in the life of a nation. It is the moment when historical memory is restored, suppressed values are revived, and national dignity is reaffirmed. For Uzbekistan, independence opened the door to rediscovering its true identity. National holidays, cultural festivals, restoration of historical monuments, and promotion of the native language are not symbolic acts alone; they are practical steps toward strengthening national consciousness. Independence allowed history to speak freely again and values to be lived openly. However, independence is not only a political achievement; it is a moral responsibility. It requires citizens who are aware, educated, and devoted to the common good. One of the greatest challenges of the modern era is maintaining harmony between tradition and innovation. Some view tradition as an obstacle to progress, while others fear modernization as a threat to identity. In reality, these two forces can coexist and enrich one another. National values do not reject progress; they guide it. When technology is used ethically, education is pursued sincerely, and development serves humanity, tradition becomes a source of wisdom rather than resistance.

A nation that respects its roots can reach higher branches. Cultural identity provides stability in a world of constant change. Every generation holds a moral responsibility toward history. We are not only beneficiaries of past sacrifices but also guardians of future memory. How we preserve monuments, teach history, and practice values determines how future generations will judge us.

Respecting history means learning from mistakes, honoring heroes, and understanding the complexity of the past without distortion. It requires honesty and courage, not blind glorification or denial. Homeland, history, and national values form an inseparable triangle. Together, they shape identity, guide progress, and protect moral integrity. A nation that honors its homeland, learns from its history, and lives by its values possesses an unbreakable spiritual foundation.

In a world where borders become symbolic and cultures intersect, national identity becomes even more precious. Preserving it is not an act of isolation but a contribution to global diversity.

The strength of a nation is not measured only by economic power or technological advancement but by its loyalty to its homeland, respect for its history, and commitment to its values. These are the treasures that time cannot erase.

Read: Otkir Hashimov: People’s Writer of Uzbekistan

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Xoʻjyozova Dildora is a writer from Uzbekistan

The post Homeland, History, and National Values first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nazarul Islam | USA

People born six decades ago, have seen this iconic picture. An American helicopter perches atop a building as would-be evacuees clamber up a ladder to the roof. They’re desperate to flee Saigon, capital of a doomed South Vietnam, before it falls to the communist troops advancing somewhere out of shot below.

A Dutch news agency photographer, Hugh van Es, snapped that picture from his office balcony, on 29 April 1975. The roof belonged to a nearby apartment building where senior CIA staffers were based. It was not the US Embassy, though that’s how it’s been misremembered ever since. Exactly half a century later, van Es’ shot remains engraved in memory as the defining image of how America made its exit.

It also points to something more. In the decades after 1945, the helicopter became the embodiment of the United States’ nimble superpower modernity, descending from on high to bring salvation, or vengeance.

Presidents had ducked under the rotating blades to be buzzed from the White House lawn to Camp David, to decide the fate of nations.

Aerospace corporations kept thousands at work in places such as Fort Worth, Texas, the home of Bell Helicopter, which made the UH-1 Iroquois, nicknamed the ‘Huey’. It was one of those Hueys up on that the Saigon roof – at one point, Bell was making 150 every week.

Imagine a movie where war came to America itself? And, imagine a scenario where the Soviets nuke the largest cities, amidst chaos business leaders are busy planning to pile into choppers and flee to the luxury bunkers awaiting them beneath a popular location in the countryside.

When young protesters rebelled against what they saw as their authoritarian, militaristic elders, those same authorities retaliated by sending in the choppers. In August 1968, the Democratic National Convention in Chicago became a fortress. Outside, furious, thwarted left-wing activists demanded a say in the selection of the party’s candidate for president.

Mayor Richard Daley sent in baton-wielding cops – and ’copters. In No One Was Killed, his book-length report on the mayhem that followed, the journalist-novelist John Schultz detected the shadow of the hated war in Asia looming over the protesters below:

Overhead, a helicopter hummed up and down the length of Michigan Avenue from the Hilton to 18th Street, playing its searchlight on the crowd rushing north and on the alleys. Perhaps the helicopter was radioing information to the [National] Guard and the cops, but mainly it was there to frighten, to intimidate. Everyone in the crowd knew that in Vietnam a machine gun could be working away behind the searchlight.

America’s film director George Shultz, is angrily shaking his fist at the cop behind the bulb, imagining him ‘curling his lip at my affront, fingering a trigger and saying, “Oh, what I could do, buddy boy, oh, yes, what I could do”’.

Likewise, nine months later, to disperse huge campus protests at Berkeley, Governor Ronald Reagan dispatched the National Guard. They surrounded the students, while a helicopter swooped in past the university bell tower, pumping out tear gas.

No wonder that, by 1970, such images had come to symbolize implacable, centralized force. In EL Doctorow’s novel The Book of Daniel, the military-industrial complex is described as ‘highly visible’. On a dystopic Californian plain, the protagonist watches a mysterious dark green helicopter track back and forth across the sky all day, ‘its compressions beating the white air till it’s thick’.

Around this time, the US military formalized its long-standing practice of naming its helicopters after Native American tribes (Iroquois, Apache, Chinook) and leaders (Black Hawk). This was reportedly meant to invoke American history while evoking the aircrafts’ stealth and speed. It also underlines the power of the state that was commissioning them. It’s not hard to imagine what the 19th-century federal government would have done with Apache helicopters to actual Apaches.

All the same, these images are more ambiguous than they seem. Helicopters may have left John Schultz feeling powerless as he stared up from the ground, but finally it’s just another person up there, trying to control a tiny, vulnerable vehicle. The helicopter is irreducibly hubristic. It is this that makes it such a potent symbol of the image America presents to itself, and to the rest of us. It hovers, all-powerful, over everything, but sometimes seems a shot away from calamity.

The historian Christian Appy has pointed out that it was helicopters, rather than the far more destructive B-52 bombers, that came to symbolize America’s war in Vietnam. But this is not just because they were incessantly visible over Vietnam itself, and on television: it’s because they embody both sides of the US intervention – omnipotent, and impotent. In Chickenhawk, his bestselling memoir of his year spent flying Hueys early in the war, Robert Mason recalls watching a Viet Cong soldier with a rifle hopelessly trying ‘to take on our entire air-assault battalion, machine guns blazing’.

He also describes the intense fear induced by flying low, his ‘chickenshit’ commander hunched low in the seat beside him, and how other Viet Cong fighters took out US pilots – such as Mason’s successor – by shooting vertically through the cockpit from the ground.

This duality was captured in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 movie Apocalypse Now, in another spin on these images that are seared into the collective memory. The ascending Wagnerian strings of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ are blasted from a helicopter convoy as it swoops in across the sea, effortlessly wiping out scurrying Vietnamese peasants. Yet as soon as one of the choppers lands, a Vietnamese woman runs up and throws in a grenade. And of course that photo from the Saigon roof was only partly an image of American power. It also signified defeat.

More dispiriting images followed. In 1980, with Apocalypse Now still in cinemas, President Carter sent commandos from the Delta Force special missions unit to carry out ‘Operation Eagle Claw’. This was a bid to rescue American diplomats being held hostage in Iran. Three of the eight helicopters malfunctioned. The mission was aborted, in the course of which another crashed into a cargo aircraft, killing eight servicemen.

Three years later, under Ronald Reagan, Delta Force landed in another debacle. ‘Operation Urgent Fury’ was a plan to invade Grenada on the dubious premise that this small Caribbean island, a member of the British Commonwealth, had become a ‘Soviet-Cuban colony’, and a Launchpad for terrorism. At one point, Delta Force descended in daylight in Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks, struggling through anti-aircraft fire at point-blank range on a mission to liberate political prisoners – only to find the prison empty.

Overall, the invasion amounted to something of a political triumph, but, as Reagan’s biographer Max Boot writes, it ‘suffered from many of the same dysfunctions as Operation Eagle Claw’. As if to rub the point in, Robert Mason’s groundbreaking account of the Viet Cong shooting US pilots had touched down in bookstores just weeks before.

By far the most devastating such incident arrived under President Clinton, in October 1993. US forces operating with the United Nations in the war-torn Somalia capital Mogadishu attempted to capture an insurgent leader who had ordered the ambush of a peacekeeping convoy. Once again, Delta Force led the operation in Black Hawks – which had become a focus of Somalis’ anger towards the UN forces. According to the New York Times, even when they weren’t visiting deadly force from the air, their rotors ‘whipped the roofs of whole neighborhoods’.

The operation, ‘Gothic Serpent’, was a disaster. A soldier fell to the ground from 70 feet up. One Black Hawk crashed; another was shot down. Two Delta Force snipers, deployed by helicopter to secure one of the crash sites, were among the 18 Americans killed. The mutilated body of a US soldier was dragged through the city streets. A helicopter pilot was captured. Images of both men horrified Americans back home: it felt like Vietnam all over again.

After Saigon fell, the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote that America’s ill-fated intervention ‘was exclusively guided by the needs of a superpower to create for itself an image which would convince the world that it was indeed “the mightiest power on earth”’. Yet that was not shattered by what happened in Iran, Grenada and Somalia. Instead, the image of American power that had once spooked many on the 1960s left began to spook many more in the 1990s, this time on the political right.

When America won the Cold War, it lost its unifying enemy. The ‘New World Order’ that emerged instead felt to some Americans less like victory than defeat, shaped as it was by globalization, disappearing jobs, the closure of defense manufacturing plants, and then the ascent of Bill Clinton to the presidency: a man they cast as a Vietnam draft-dodger, hell-bent on confiscating patriots’ guns. In reaction against all this, and the violent resolution of sieges at Waco and elsewhere, a large-scale militia movement emerged, some of whose leaders had served in Vietnam.

The beliefs that shaped the movement varied from the extreme right to a much more general discontent, but some of those involved harbored a remarkably detailed vision of imminent tyranny, in which a treacherous federal government, in cahoots with the United Nations, would carve up the republic.

This was an early sign of the worldview that has now come to dominate US politics, with its fears of a phantom ‘deep state’, rooted in unease about the federal government’s power. In the 1990s, the image that crystallized this fear was a sinister apparition on the skyline: the unmarked black helicopter.

Read: Reviving Islamic Discourse and Rationalism

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The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his articles.

The post Images tell the real story first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nazarul Islam | USA

Let me begin this article with my assessment that the great conquerors and Turkish Sultans who fought their wars in Europe did not try to build a modern civilization, but acted in haste to usurp the wealth of the vanquished kingdoms. The Ottomans’ lightning conquests have reshaped the geopolitical landscape of Europe and the Middle East, before the expense of governing a vast territorial empire began to take its toll. Little did the Ottoman Sultans foresee the need of their Jannisarees’ (loyal soldiers) long and continuous military engagements in Europe, could also lead the Ottomans to build a new civilization in the continent.

A quote from the historian Alan Palmer, describes the beginning of the end of Turkish conquests.

“Mahmoud, desperate to defend his capital, sought aid from the most formidable of his neighbors: three flotillas of Russian warships were invited to sail down the Bosphorus to moorings off the Golden Horn. They were followed by a Russian expeditionary force which established advanced headquarters on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus at Hünkar İskelesi, a bay some twelve miles up the straits from Constantinople and generally transliterated as Unkiar Skelessi. By early April nearly 30,000 Russians were deployed in defence of Mahmud’s capital, with a camp at Buyukdere on the European shore as well as at Unkiar Skelessi.” (Alan Warwick Palmer: The Decline and Fall of the Ottoman Empire)

An uncomfortable realization had dawned on me as I read Crescent Dawn. Despite being a student history relating to the central Middle Ages (10th-14th centuries), by this book’s ending I saw no alternative but to concede that the 15th and 16th centuries were truly very interesting times. So was the recorded history. Having staved off this conclusion for many years, I simply could not deny the sheer number of world-changing developments taking place at this time. Two years ago, I travelled to the historic, centuries-old small towns and hamlets to understand the landscape, geographical features and cultural responses of the people who are descendants from Portugal, France, Spain and Turkey.

From the rise and rise of the Ottoman Empire to the establishment of the Safavid Empire in Persia, from the emergence of Protestantism in Western Christendom to the explosion of Portuguese shipping into the Indian Ocean, there really was a great deal going on – events, moreover, with historic implications.

All these developments receive attention in this remarkable piece of scholarship by Si Sheppard. In essence, Crescent Dawn provides a detailed military-political history of the Ottoman Empire and its neighbors/adversaries during these crucial centuries. Moving briskly through the empire’s origins in the 13th century as a group of displaced refugees seeking refuge from the Mongols and its early rise to prominence in Western Anatolia during the following century, this history enters its stride as the empire established itself as a major power during the 15th.

Providing detailed discussion on events such as the conquest of Constantinople in 1453, the Ottomans’ persistent wars of expansion into the Balkans, rebellions in Anatolia, and naval battles in the Aegean, the well-known historian Sheppard offers an almost blow-by-blow account of the empire’s many campaigns.

Moving into the 16th century, the discussion turns to the Ottomans’ epic struggle with the Safavids, their defeat of the kingdom of Hungary at the Battle of Mohács (1526), and their bitter duel with the Habsburg Empire. Sheppard also elaborates the Ottomans’ actions on other frontiers, considering, for example, their reactions as the Portuguese reached the Indian Ocean, setting up a network of naval bases and seeking to cut the Ottomans off from the Spice routes.

A key word underpinning Crescent Dawn’s core argument is ‘containment’. Sheppard does not simply provide a history of the Ottoman Empire’s rise; rather this account shows how the empire reached its culmination point – its high-water mark (or thereabouts). In their early years, the sultans carried all before them, but their wars of conquest began to stall as conquest piled on conquest and the sheer bulk and expense of the empire’s vast territorial mass began to take its toll.

Over time, the Ottoman military encountered forces they could not subdue, whether on their European frontiers (the Habsburgs), in the Mediterranean (Italian city states, Habsburgs and Knights Hospitallers), North-west Africa (Saadian Morocco), East Africa (Ethiopia), Persia (Safavids), or in the Indian Ocean (Portuguese). In time, these powers formed a quasi-perimeter around the Ottoman Empire that it was unable to breach and, by the end of the 16th century, the time of sweeping advances was all but over.

Crucially, this is not a history describing a ‘clash of civilizations’ between Christianity and Islam. True, the campaigns of this era included many instances of holy war and brutal acts of religious violence, but the armies blocking the Ottoman advance included both Muslim and Christian protagonists, complicating any simplistic portrayal of these events as solely an inter-faith war. Likewise, Christian Europe confronted the Ottoman advance while in the throes of the Reformation.

Again, Sheppard has made it clear, the doctrinal disunity of Christendom affected its leaders’ efforts to unite against a common adversary. The ongoing struggle between the Holy Roman Empire and the Kingdom of France also diverted attention away from the Ottomans, while the French frequently aligned themselves with Turkish, rather than papal, interests. In other words, this was a complex and messy set of conflicts that defies easy interpretation along religious lines.

This narrative itself is superbly explained and Sheppard is an expert guide. He has the remarkable ability to vividly and succinctly sketch out complex military encounters, whether sieges, naval battles or raids, capturing a real sense of tempo and pace, without any loss of scholarly authority. I frequently found myself catching my breath and – even though I know this history reasonably well – a palpable sense of suspense hovered in the air across the drumbeat of events. More importantly, the bigger global picture comes across very clearly.

The confused and evolving tangle of rivalries and international alliances that ensnared so many different societies during this era – from South East Asia to the Atlantic seaboard – is extremely well explained and you can see how the world (or this chunk of it) took shape as these centuries developed. This is a crucial strength for two reasons: first – and most obviously – because this wide panorama helps to explain the book’s main subject, the rise of the Ottoman Empire; second, because it serves to remind us of the straightforward importance of a really solid work of political-military history.

Too frequently, phrases such as military-political history prompt an instant and yawn-inducing dismissal as indicating something that’s a bit geeky, niche, or tedious. All these assessments are problematic. Even for those with no interest in the cut-and-thrust of early modern warfare, a really thorough and well-researched piece of military-political history can prove invaluable. It can provide a sense of framing that, in turn, can help those interested in other themes – whether economics, theology, gender, architecture etc. – to better grasp the background to the events with which they are concerned.

History is largely situational; once you understand the broader panorama of events, contextualizing an individual or community’s life, then their actions and choices come into sharper focus.

In an era where conflict and war tore apart so many different societies, acquiring a strong understanding of the developing fortunes of war – coupled with all the terrors, hopes, aspirations, and tragedies this entailed – brings so many other dimensions of history into relief. In other words, books of this kind have implications extending far beyond the borders of military-political history – and Crescent Dawn is a case in point.

Among the many battles and sieges that punctuate this work, there are also many fascinating points of detail. Did you know, for example, that the Ottomans seriously discussed the idea of building a channel between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean (i.e. the Suez Canal)? Did you know that some Portuguese commanders considered diverting the Nile so as to weaken the Ottoman Egypt? These are just a couple of examples of such moments among many found across the book.

The final chapter also covers Europe’s ongoing conviction that somewhere in the wider world lay a Christian kingdom ruled by an emperor called Prester John who one day would march to their aid. This particular myth can be traced back to the 12th century and played a centuries-long role in shaping Christendom’s conception of the wider world; in this era, the myth coalesced around the ongoing diplomacy between European powers and the kingdom of Ethiopia.

This is an exciting and thought-provoking book with a great deal to offer. Towards the end, it provides a brief summary of the Ottoman Empire’s history after the 16th century, but I couldn’t help wondering whether Sheppard can be persuaded to offer up a sequel? It would certainly be welcome.

Read: Resurgence of the Ottoman Power

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The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his articles.

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