A recent comment on social media by a very senior and seasoned politician has stirred a storm. The gentleman, perhaps unaware of the weight of his words, suggested that a soldier’s life is merely a transaction, a modest paycheck exchanged for the potential of death. This utilitarian arithmetic may work in boardrooms, but it crumbles entirely when measured against the soul of a man in uniform. Let us step beyond the keyboard and truly look into the life of that soldier.
It begins in childhood. Often, he is not the sharpest intellect in the room, but his heart beats to a different, primal rhythm. From the very start, he knows what he is meant to be. He is born with a visceral understanding of hierarchy, duty and honour. He does not constantly question or challenge; he learns to execute and obey. This is not a lack of intelligence, but a supreme form of emotional and instinctual wisdom, the profound knowledge that some duties transcend personal opinion. He is the right fit to receive orders, not to critique them.
He steps onto the training grounds and the crucible begins. The pay is meagre, barely enough to tide a family over through the month’s end. Yet, you will never hear him grumble. Sweat drenching his uniform, discipline and rigour bring him an unexplainable thrill. He has been taught by his superiors to never hesitate to lay down his life. This readiness is particularly significant to him, as it reflects his pride and belief in the highest reward promised.
Look closely at his family. Often, he is second- or third-generation military. For a civilian parent, sending a child to a dangerous profession is one thing; for a parent who has already lived that life of terror and separation, it is a calculated sacrifice of the heart. These mothers and fathers are angels in human flesh. They live with the fear of losing their child every single day, while knowing the pride equally well. Their prayers are not whispered passively; they are fierce, tear-soaked battles fought in the silence of the night. Their connection to the Divine is forged in anxiety and unwavering hope. Then, his wife. She marries him fully aware of the scarcity that awaits, the empty chairs at dinner tables, the long separations and the relentless thriftiness of a soldier’s salary. Yet, she falls in love with the dignity of that dusty, worn-out uniform. She knows the intense pride of seeing him return from operations, the profound love that is reborn every time he walks through the door. She also knows the terror of the unforeseen. She is the paragon of resilience, praying endlessly for his safety, always aware that the next knock on the door might bring the honour she dreads, yet desires most. These wives are a gift of Allah to the to-be Shuhada, as they are the biggest support and the bearers of their children, whom they raise alone and seldom marry again.
When the time comes, he leaves early, often much too young. He departs wrapped in the green flag, leaving behind a proud widow, equally proud parents, an unborn child who will only know him through faded photographs and medals. His parents, who once dreamed he would carry them to their graves, now find themselves in the unbearable position of burying their own son. Yet, in this profound grief, there is a celestial honour. This is Shahadat, martyrdom. It is the highest pinnacle of success, the ultimate love of the Almighty. He is not lost; he is chosen. Not every soul earns this elevation; it is granted only to the elite of creation, the ones selected for a station that no wealth can purchase.
We must visualize where he serves. On mountain glaciers where the air is thin and the cold seeps into the marrow. In the dark, damp riverlands where the silence is broken only by the lapping of murky water. Patrolling terrifying, desolate dungeons where civilization feels like a distant myth. He cannot call home for weeks. He eats when he can, sleeps when he must and stands guard while the rest of the world slumbers peacefully.
The critic on social media argued about a paycheck. But ask this: Would you trade your comfortable, warm existence for that meagre salary to live in those frozen wastelands? Would you gladly watch your son march toward that fate, or kiss your husband goodbye knowing it might be the last? If the answer is no, then we must recalibrate our respect. We owe these heroes and their families our reverence, our love and our silence when we have nothing but contempt to offer. To mock their sacrifice is not just poor taste; it is the highest form of national disloyalty.
They do not ask for wealth; they ask only that their tears and blood are acknowledged with unshakeable honour. We sleep soundly under the blanket of their vigilance. Let us never desecrate that blanket with careless words. The ultimate truth rests with the Almighty, who says in His final revelation: “Think not of those who are slain in God’s way as dead. Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord.” And He further declares: “Indeed, God has purchased from the believers their lives and their wealth in exchange for Paradise. They fight in His cause, so they kill and are killed. That is a true promise upon Him.” This is the unbreakable covenant that binds the soldier to eternity, a transaction far beyond the grasp of a worldly paycheck and a common man’s imagination.
—The writer is an international law expert and an internationally accredited arbitrator and mediator.
