Region 
 

Kabul

Runway to Nowhere

U.S. President Donald Trump’s recent demand that the Taliban hand Bagram Airbase back to the United States comes with a mix of nostalgia, nationalism, and geopolitical theater

By Muhammad Arslan Qadeer | November 2025


Wwarned Afghanistan of “bad consequences” if it did not return the Bagram Air Base to the United States, it sparked a storm of commentary from Kabul to Washington, from Islamabad to Moscow. On his social media platform Truth Social, Trump declared that if Afghanistan failed to hand back Bagram “to the party which built it, namely the United States,” the results would be disastrous. The statement, made with characteristic bravado, reopened old wounds, revived strategic anxieties, and reignited debate over one of the most symbolic pieces of real estate in modern military history.

The irony is that Bagram was not built by the United States at all. Its origins stretch back to the 1950s, when the Soviet Union, eager to strengthen its Cold War footprint in the heart of Central Asia, constructed the base roughly 50 kilometers north of Kabul in Afghanistan’s Parwan province. During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan between 1979 and 1989, Bagram was Moscow’s principal military hub—a sprawling complex of runways, hangars, and barracks, serving as the nerve center for operations across the rugged Afghan landscape. It was from here that Soviet gunships and transport planes rose daily into the Hindu Kush, and it was here that Moscow learned the bitter lesson of overreach.

When the Red Army withdrew in 1989, the base lay battered and largely abandoned. Afghanistan’s civil war in the 1990s turned it into a ruinous patchwork of craters and wreckage, a silent monument to the futility of foreign conquest. Then, in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks, the United States and its NATO allies invaded Afghanistan to dismantle al-Qaeda and topple the Taliban regime. In 2001, American engineers and contractors poured millions into reviving the skeletal Soviet base. What emerged was no ordinary airfield: Bagram became the beating heart of U.S. military power in Afghanistan for two decades.

For nearly twenty years, it was America’s most fortified outpost in the region—a small city enclosed within walls of concrete and barbed wire. It had two long runways capable of hosting massive cargo aircraft and B-52 bombers, a vast detention facility that drew human rights criticism, and a sprawling infrastructure that included fast-food chains, coffee shops, electronics stores, and Afghan carpet stalls. For American troops, Bagram was a strange mix of war and normalcy; for Afghans, it was both an economic hub and a symbol of foreign dominance. When U.S. forces abruptly abandoned it in July 2021—under the cover of darkness and without notifying their Afghan allies—the withdrawal became a metaphor for America’s chaotic exit from its longest war. Within weeks, the Taliban had seized the base, just as they reclaimed the rest of the country.

Donald Trump’s recent demand that the Taliban hand Bagram back to the United States, therefore, comes with a mix of nostalgia, nationalism, and geopolitical theater. His claim that the U.S. “built” the base is historically inaccurate but politically useful. It allows him to frame the issue not as an imperial ambition, but as a reclamation of American property and pride—an echo of his earlier musings about buying Greenland or “taking the oil” in Iraq. Trump has long viewed Bagram as a strategic jewel lost by what he considers the “humiliating” withdrawal executed under former U.S. President Joe Biden. In his view, giving up Bagram meant handing China and Russia a gift: a ready-made military platform near their borders. “Bagram,” he once remarked, “is one hour away from where China makes its nuclear weapons.” The statement was exaggerated, but the sentiment captured his worldview—seeing global politics as a series of transactional possessions rather than sovereign territories.

Predictably, the reaction from Afghanistan was swift and uncompromising. The Taliban government dismissed Trump’s statement as “unrealistic and insulting.” Senior Taliban official Fasihuddin Fitrat declared that “not an inch of Afghan soil” would be ceded to any foreign power. The Afghan Ministry of Foreign Affairs reiterated that while Afghanistan sought positive relations with the United States, “there is no space for the presence of foreign troops.” The Taliban’s position, for once, resonated across Afghan political divides. Even Afghans critical of the regime regard Bagram as a national symbol—its reoccupation by U.S. forces would be seen not as diplomacy but as recolonization. The irony is that the same airfield once targeted by Taliban insurgents has become, under their rule, a matter of national sovereignty.


Regionally, the statement sent ripples through a fragile geopolitical web already strained by rivalries. Russia, still nursing memories of its own disastrous Afghan campaign, quickly voiced opposition to any American re-entry into the country. The Kremlin warned that such a move would destabilize Central Asia and provoke a new cycle of conflict. China, for its part, accused Washington of “Cold War thinking,” emphasizing that Afghanistan should not be used as a staging ground for any power competition. Beijing has invested heavily in outreach to the Taliban regime, eyeing Afghanistan’s mineral wealth and strategic location as a potential link in its Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). The prospect of an American base within an hour’s flight of China’s western borders is, to Beijing, an unacceptable provocation. Iran, too, has warned against any renewed U.S. military presence, viewing it as a direct threat to its security. Even Pakistan, long a reluctant ally of both Washington and Kabul, has quietly opposed any move that could reignite conflict on its western frontier.

Trump’s words, dramatic as they are, are unlikely to alter Afghanistan’s sovereignty or regional balance

In this charged environment, Trump’s rhetoric—part threat, part performance—seems less like a concrete policy proposal and more like an attempt to project toughness in a campaign season. Yet words from a former (and potentially future) U.S. president carry weight. When he speaks of “bad consequences,” the ambiguity is deliberate. Does it mean diplomatic isolation, economic sanctions, or something more forceful? The uncertainty itself creates tension, feeding speculation that Washington could use economic coercion or covert means to regain influence in Afghanistan. Analysts warn that even a hint of military coercion would be catastrophic, effectively amounting to a second invasion. Securing Bagram again would require tens of thousands of troops, air defense systems, and an immense logistical effort—something the American public, exhausted by two decades of war, would hardly support.

The controversy raises deeper questions about sovereignty, legality, and international norms. The doctrine of territorial integrity—enshrined in the United Nations Charter and reaffirmed by countless resolutions—prohibits foreign occupation without consent. For Afghanistan, whose modern history has been scarred by foreign invasions—from the British in the 19th century to the Soviets and Americans in the 20th and 21st—the principle is sacred. Trump’s suggestion, whether severe or symbolic, strikes at that nerve. It implies that a powerful state can claim a foreign military installation simply because it once occupied and expanded it. That logic, if accepted, would unravel the very foundations of international law.

Yet the fixation on Bagram may also reveal a failure to grasp Afghanistan’s changed reality. The U.S. no longer commands the moral authority—or local partnerships—it once did. While justified under the banner of counterterrorism, its previous presence left deep social and human wounds. The detention facility at Bagram became infamous for reports of torture, arbitrary detention, and human rights abuses. Afghan civilians, caught between U.S. airstrikes and Taliban insurgency, paid the heaviest price. Any attempt to reestablish American military presence, even in the name of stability, would reignite those traumas. The Taliban, for all their repression, would exploit such a move to consolidate nationalist legitimacy, presenting themselves as defenders of Afghan dignity against foreign intrusion.

Trump’s words, dramatic as they are, are unlikely to alter Afghanistan’s sovereignty or regional balance. But they have already accomplished something subtler: rekindled the debate over how far nations will go to reclaim symbols of lost grandeur. Perhaps that is the true meaning behind his threat of “bad consequences.” The dire consequence, history whispers, is not for Afghanistan if it keeps Bagram—but for any power that tries to retake it.

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