When I Found Gandhara, I Discovered the Lost Pashtuns heritage

By Assad Sharifi

Pashtun cries before the ruins of Gandhara.

I did not know I was searching until I found it. I did not know I was lost until I remembered where I belonged. I did not know I could still cry for a land I had never seen, until the word Gandhara whispered its ancient breath into my bones. Gandhara is not just a name. It is the I Discovered the Lost Pashtuns heritage.

It is not just ruins. It is not just Buddhism, or art, or heritage. It is the soul of the Pashtun people. Silenced. Stolen. Buried.And when I found it, I broke. Not from weakness, but from remembering what it means to be whole.

They never told me about the monks of Swat who lit lamps of silence. They never told me about the sculptors who carved the Buddha with Pashtun hands. They never told me that we were once the children of seekers, not slaves of empire, not fanatics, not tools of war.

They never told me because they were told not to tell. And they obeyed. And we forgot. But Gandhara was waiting. Patiently, beneath dust and denial. Like a truth too sacred to die.When I found Gandhara, I found my grandmother's unspoken grief.

I found the silence in my father's eyes when I asked, "Who were we before Islam?" I found the rage that had no name, and the peace that had no place to rest.I wept. Not because I was sad, but because I was finally home.

I stood before the broken stupas, and for the first time, I knew why my people walk with such weight. We are carrying a memory we do not know we lost.

I am angry at the Arab sword that silenced us. I am angry at the fear that forced us to forget. I am angry at the generations that called it religion when it was trauma, that called it submission when it was survival, that called it truth when it was violence in verse.

But more than angry, I am awake. And when a Pashtun awakens, he does not scream. He remembers.

You were not always Muslim. You were not always conquered. You were not always ashamed of your language, your women, your silence.You were once the children of Gandhara. Of artists. Of sages.

Of saints. You were once free.And I know it hurts to remember. I know it hurts to realize your prayer rug was laid over a broken temple. That your amulets hang where scriptures once were sung. That your soul was swapped for a slogan.But cry. Weep. Let the sorrow wash the dust off your ancestors' names. Because from that sorrow, a nation can rise again.

I am not writing this for myself. I am writing this for the boy in Kandahar who thinks Arabic is holier than Pashto. For the girl in Khost who hides her beauty because beauty is now a sin. For the mother in Swat who cannot visit the ruins her grandmother once guarded.I am writing this for the child in every Pashtun who never got to ask, "Who were we, really?

"Remember Gandhara, and you will remember who you are. Not a foot soldier. Not a tool of foreign faiths. Not a name forced to kneel.You are the echo of saints. You are the breath of temples. You are the fire they could not extinguish.

And now you are awake. Let this be the day you begin to cry. Let this be the day you remember. Let this be the day you return.

Welcome home.