Indian express

Cricket in Afghanistan is not just a game — it is defiance. It is survival. It is hope stitched into the seams of a worn leather ball, bowled on battered pitches where dreams are louder than gunfire. This is the story of how a nation, long fractured by war, displacement, and despair, rose from refugee camps to cricket stadiums… and how the game became the pulse of a people looking for meaning beyond war. It is, perhaps, the most unexpected cricketing revolution the sport has ever seen. 

Afghanistan’s link to cricket reaches back to the 1830s, when British soldiers played in Kabul during the Anglo-Afghan wars. But unlike in India or the Caribbean, the game failed to take root. It vanished for more than a century, as conflict reshaped the region time and time again.

It wasn’t until the 1990s — in the midst of the Soviet invasion, civil unrest, and a flood of refugees into Pakistan — that cricket re-emerged, not in Kabul, but in the dust and desperation of refugee camps near Peshawar.

There, among the tents and trauma, Afghan boys found something unexpected: a bat, a ball, and an escape. Pakistan’s 1992 World Cup win became a spark, and cricket — once forgotten — became an obsession.

Among those boys was a visionary named Taj Malik. 


The Architect of a Dream


Taj Malik wasn’t just a cricketer. He was a builder of belief. While others played, he organized. He began coaching, scouting, and shaping the impossible idea of an Afghan national team — years before such a thought made any practical sense.

But returning home to build a team was not easy.

When Malik approached young Afghan cricketers playing in Pakistan, asking them to return to Kabul, many refused. Fathers warned against it — how could their sons trade safety and structure in Pakistan for a life of risk in a ruined homeland?

Still, Malik persisted. And in 1995, against the backdrop of a war-torn country, the Afghanistan Cricket Federation was born — supported by the Afghan Olympic Committee and powered by nothing but grit.

Then came the most unexpected twist: under Taliban rule, cricket survived.

While football and other sports were swiftly banned for being "immodest" or "Western," cricket slipped through. Why? Because it fit the regime’s strict ideals: non-contact, modest clothing, quiet respect.

Ironically, many Taliban leaders had grown up in the same refugee camps where cricket had flourished. They had played it. They knew it. And slowly, what began as tolerance turned to support.

Cricket became more than a pastime — it became a symbol of legitimacy, a way to connect with other Muslim-majority nations where cricket thrived. In an unexpected alignment of interests, the Taliban began promoting the very game they once shunned.

Climbing the Ladder


In 2001, Afghanistan became an affiliate member of the International Cricket Council (ICC). At the time, they had no stadiums, no international experience, and no major funding — only raw hunger.

But they played anywhere they could: sandlots, borrowed fields, even abandoned military bases. Afghan cricketers began entering Pakistan’s domestic circuit, learning, failing, and rising again. They played not for paychecks, but for pride.

By 2010, their relentless climb paid off — Afghanistan qualified for their first ICC event, the T20 World Cup in the West Indies. Though they faced giants like India and South Africa, the world noticed something remarkable: they didn’t play like underdogs. They played like they belonged.

Afghanistan had arrived.

Despite gaining Full Member status in 2017 — the highest honor in international cricket — Afghanistan remained an outsider in many ways. The elite nations formed closed circuits of tours and series, driven by television rights and profit. Afghanistan, despite their performances, were often ignored.

They rarely played against the “Big 3.” Their Test matches were few. Bilateral series? Even fewer.

But they refused to fade. They beat established sides in ICC tournaments. They fought through reduced World Cup spots. They earned their first-ever qualification for the 2025 ICC Champions Trophy — not through invitation, but performance.

They didn’t ask for a seat at the table. They took one.


Support 


Afghanistan’s rise wasn’t powered by passion alone. Behind the scenes, the ICC quietly invested in their development. From Division Five in 2009 to Full Membership by 2017, Afghanistan climbed every level — first-class cricket, one-day tournaments, and the World Cricket League system.

Every tour, every match, every broken bat and bruised arm was part of something larger — a climb from forgotten to feared.

Afghanistan’s early rivals were not India or England, but Nepal and Ireland. Their fierce clashes in neutral venues like UAE became cult fixtures. Slowly, Afghanistan outpaced them.

But with no home stadium, they needed allies. In 2011, the UAE became their cricketing base. In 2016, India extended its hand.

Noida, Dehradun, and Greater Noida hosted Afghan matches. Indian coaches offered training. Even a $1 million grant from Delhi helped construct Kandahar Cricket Stadium.

This wasn’t just diplomacy — it was solidarity through sport.


And then came the IPL.

When Rashid Khan, Mohammad Nabi, and Mujeeb Ur Rahman lit up the world’s biggest T20 stage, Afghanistan wasn’t just playing — it was dominating. These players became global icons, beloved not just in Kabul, but in Kolkata, Delhi, and Hyderabad.

The IPL gave them exposure, resources, and belief. It wasn’t just the cricketing world that took notice — it was the next generation of Afghan youth who now saw cricket as a viable path, not a fantasy.

Afghanistan didn’t just survive on the global stage — they thrived.


A Story Still Being Written


They’ve stunned Australia. Outplayed Pakistan. Shaken England. And moved millions.

Afghanistan’s cricket story is far from over. It’s still being written — one over at a time. They’ve gone from sandlots to stadiums, from silence to sold-out crowds, from war zones to World Cups.

In a world where the powerful dominate headlines, Afghanistan’s rise is a reminder that the most powerful stories are not always the loudest — but the ones built in silence, with soul.


Cricket didn’t just lift Afghanistan’s sporting status — it gave its people something priceless: identity. Unity. Purpose.

And while the world debates rankings and revenues, Afghanistan has already won something greater — respect.

Their journey is not just about cricket. It’s about what sport can mean when everything else is broken.

They were never meant to be here.

And yet — here they are.