Turning on the Creator: TTP and the Military’s Deadly Gamble

Analysis

By Arun Anand

The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) today epitomises the unintended consequences of Pakistan’s own strategic miscalculations — a Frankenstein’s monster birthed by the very establishment that once nurtured it as a supposed asset. For years, the Pakistani military establishment has engaged in the perilous tactic of fostering militant proxies, under the mistaken belief that such forces could be wielded with precision and control. The TTP is a direct outcome of this approach, conceived within the shadows of domestic power plays and geopolitical strategies, only to evolve into a force that now torments its originators. This is not a narrative shaped by external actors or foreign agendas, but one firmly grounded in Pakistan’s internal policies, particularly the militarisation of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK) province and the consistent marginalisation of the Pashtun community. At the core of this destructive trajectory lies the military’s entrenched reliance on coercion over governance in managing the tribal regions. In the wake of 9/11 and Pakistan’s alignment with the United States in the war on terror, the tribal belt — especially South and North Waziristan — became a battleground of competing interests. The Pakistani military, balancing international expectations with domestic imperatives, initiated a series of operations across the tribal zones. What started as a mission to eliminate foreign militants rapidly expanded to include local tribes, most notably the Mehsud — the very community from which the TTP would ultimately arise.

The military’s strategy was blunt and indiscriminate. Entire villages were displaced, with little distinction made between suspected militants and civilians, as the region underwent intense militarisation. Daily life for the Pashtun population became dominated by curfews, checkpoints, and constant surveillance. The Mehsud tribe, in particular, bore the brunt of these operations, enduring severe hardship and loss. The military’s incursion into their lands, homes, and way of life sowed deep-seated resentment. Within this climate of humiliation and forced displacement, the TTP found both a steady stream of recruits and a rationale for its existence. It presented itself as a guardian of Pashtun honour, even as it perpetrated horrific acts of violence against both civilians and the state. A significant parallel in this pattern of radicalisation was the 2007 Lal Masjid incident in Islamabad. What began as a confrontation between the state and a radical Islamist faction escalated into a full-scale military operation, resulting in the deaths of numerous students, including young girls. The operation’s brutality, widely broadcast and sensationalised, had a profound impact across conservative and tribal areas of Pakistan, intensifying anti-state feelings. For many, especially among the Pashtun population, it exemplified the duplicity of a state that had long enabled religious extremism when advantageous, only to crush it with force once it posed a threat to the capital’s stability. This contradictory stance further entrenched the perception that the Pakistani state regarded its peripheral regions — particularly Pashtun communities — as disposable.

The treatment of the large-scale displacement of Pashtuns during and after military operations starkly illustrates the state’s profound indifference towards the community. Millions were uprooted from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) and surrounding regions, only to encounter neglect and suspicion in urban centres such as Peshawar and Karachi. Refugee camps were overcrowded, underfunded, and lacked even basic provisions. The displaced were frequently regarded as second-class citizens. Rather than support and reintegration, they were met with poverty, constant surveillance, and routine profiling by police and intelligence agencies. For many young Pashtuns — already suffering from trauma and anger — the TTP offered not just vengeance, but a sense of identity and belonging. This systemic exclusion was not merely a bureaucratic failure but a manifestation of deeper cultural and political biases. For decades, dominant national narratives — largely shaped by Punjab-centric perspectives — have stereotyped Pashtuns as primitive, uncivilised, and innately violent. Such dehumanisation served dual aims: it legitimised the aggressive militarisation of Pashtun regions and deflected attention from their political demands. In textbooks, mainstream media, and public discourse, Pashtuns were seldom depicted as integral contributors to the nation. Instead, they were constructed as ‘others’, romanticised as valiant fighters when useful, and vilified as security threats when expedient.

This cultural mischaracterisation has carried significant political ramifications. It fostered a deep distrust between the Pashtun population and the state — a void the TTP was quick to exploit. By presenting itself as the champion of the oppressed and the avenger of injustices, it garnered sympathy and support from a community that felt consistently marginalised and mistreated. The state's unwillingness to engage with genuine Pashtun concerns — including demands for political inclusion, equitable resource distribution, and fundamental rights — only widened the divide. The rise of movements such as the Pashtun Tahafuz Movement (PTM) is a clear manifestation of this estrangement, as is the state's heavy-handed repression of it. Ironically, despite PTM’s emphasis on nonviolence and democratic reform, the state has often regarded it with greater suspicion than the TTP, revealing its confused and contradictory approach to Pashtun dissent. The TTP, in many respects, represents the consequence of the establishment’s flawed policy of distinguishing between “good Taliban” and “bad Taliban” — a dichotomy more relevant in strategic deliberations than in real-world outcomes. During the early phases of Pakistan’s involvement in the Afghan jihad, military and intelligence agencies provided support to militant actors, including those from the tribal belt, in efforts to project influence into Afghanistan and counter India. This patronage persisted beyond 9/11, with certain factions shielded or permitted to operate in anticipation that they could still serve strategic objectives. However, these entities — particularly the TTP — soon evolved independent agendas, shaped by radical ideology, tribal traditions, and a desire for retribution. The creation had developed a mind of its own.

Today, the TTP has redirected its violence inward, targeting the very military convoys that may once have harboured its founders. It assaults outposts, police stations, and civilian targets across Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and beyond. Despite repeated declarations of its defeat, the group has consistently demonstrated a disturbing ability to regroup, not solely due to external sanctuaries, but because the domestic conditions that facilitated its rise remain unresolved. Each failed operation, each instance of extrajudicial killing, each displaced household — these are not mere incidental costs; they are the fertile ground from which insurgency resurfaces. There is a bitter irony in observing the Pakistani military — long regarded as the state’s most dominant institution — struggle against a creation of its own making. Ordinary citizens — particularly Pashtuns — find themselves caught between state oppression and militant brutality. The enduring lack of critical reflection within the establishment further exacerbates this tragedy. The prevailing discourse remains fixated on external threats, cross-border terrorism, and international conspiracies — all deflecting attention from the internal policies that have continually backfired. The TTP cannot simply be eradicated through military force, for it represents more than a security challenge; it is a manifestation of political and societal failure. Its existence is entrenched in decades of marginalisation, distortion, and abuse. Lasting peace will not be achieved through violence alone; it requires genuine justice, inclusive representation, and a confronting of historical wrongs. Until the state acknowledges the humanity, rights, and legitimate grievances of the Pashtun population — and abandons the militarised lens through which dissent is seen as betrayal — the cycle of violence will persist. Pakistan’s establishment now faces a harsh reality: it cannot endlessly wield fire without facing the consequences. The TTP is no longer merely an insurgency; it is a violent reflection of the state’s own persistent failures. The Frankenstein is no longer restrained — it roams freely across the mountains and valleys of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, a chilling reminder that once unleashed, such monsters do not fade quietly.

Disclaimer: This paper is the author's individual scholastic contribution and does not necessarily reflect the organization's viewpoint.

The writer is a distinguished fellow with Usanas Foundation