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By Ahmetcan Uzlaşık | Curated by Ömer Sirkecioğlu
The first thing travelers say about the Wakhan Corridor is not about its breathtaking peaks or nomadic valleys. It’s about tires. The road, if it can be called that, is a narrow ribbon of dirt carved through the high mountains of northeastern Afghanistan. Black ice lingers even in spring. Rocks slice rubber like paper. Local drivers warn: expect to change your tires more than once on a single trip.
The corridor stretches almost 400 kilometers, 300 in Afghanistan, the last 100 climbing into China’s Xinjiang region. At its narrowest, it squeezes to just 15 kilometers across, sandwiched between the Hindu Kush mountains and the Pamir Plateau. Its altitude climbs over 5,000 meters at the Wakhjir Pass, where oxygen thins and winter never quite lets go.
Yet this treacherous route, once crossed by Marco Polo in the 13th century, has re-emerged as one of the most closely watched frontiers in global geopolitics.
For centuries, caravans passed through Wakhan on the Silk Road, moving silk, jade, and spices between China, Persia, and India.
In the 19th century, during the “Great Game,” it became something else: a buffer. British India and Tsarist Russia, fearful of each other’s expansion, agreed in 1895 to let this thin strip remain Afghan territory, a no-man’s-land that kept their empires apart.
That status, remote, ungovernable, a seam rather than a bridge, has endured. The corridor remains sparsely populated by Wakhi herders and Kyrgyz nomads, whose yaks outnumber cars by far. Until recently, it was considered the edge of the map.
All that changed in 2021, when the Taliban swept back to power after the U.S. withdrawal. Within months, Taliban leaders began speaking of direct access to China.
Last year, the governor of Badakhshan province announced the completion of a 50-kilometer project known as the “Little Pamir Highway.” Though still a dirt track, it signaled the Taliban’s ambition: to connect Afghanistan’s isolated east directly with Xinjiang.
At a time when most of the world treated Taliban 2.0 like a pariah, keeping their distance, suspending aid, and refusing recognition, some regional powers chose engagement over isolation. Chief among them was China, which quietly expanded contacts and trade even as Western capitals turned away.
To give an example, from August 2021 to February 2024, the Taliban held 1,382 diplomatic meetings with 80 countries. China led with 215 meetings, reflecting its interests in the region.
On August 21, 2025, China’s foreign minister Wang Yi landed in Kabul, his first visit in three years, after trips to Pakistan and India. The symbolism was clear: Beijing was willing to talk about the road that could one day link its Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) to Afghanistan.
“China’s first reaction in 2021 was very skeptical,” says Eurasia analyst Yunis Sharifli. “Understandably so, Afghanistan had just come out of decades of war, and the Taliban’s return was uncertain. Beijing feared Afghanistan could once again become a safe haven for extremist groups, especially those with ties to Xinjiang.”
China has long worried about the East Turkistan Islamic Movement (ETIM), also known as the Turkistan Islamic Party, a Uyghur separatist group with roots in Afghanistan and Syria. Its fighters, some battle-hardened from years in the Middle East, are active in Badakhshan, not far from Wakhan.
“Security comes first for China, even before economics,” Sharifli notes. “Afghanistan does have huge reserves of rare earths and minerals, but exploiting them is extremely risky. No investor will come unless there is stability.”
That cautious approach is visible in trade. Since 2021, China has doubled exports to Afghanistan, machinery, textiles, heavy equipment, but Afghan imports into China remain limited, mostly pine nuts and a trickle of zinc. The trade deficit has tripled. Big investments, like the Mes Aynak copper mine or the Amu Darya oil fields, remain stalled.
Even if politics were easier, geography resists. The Wakhjir Pass is snowbound most of the year. Landslides cut off valleys without warning. Maintaining any road here costs millions.
“The corridor climbs to altitudes above 5,000 meters,” Sharifli explains. “Building is one thing. Keeping it usable, secure, and safe from attacks is another.”
That last point is crucial. The Islamic State Khorasan Province (ISKP), a sworn enemy of the Taliban, has staged repeated attacks on Chinese nationals in Afghanistan. In July 2025, four Chinese workers were killed in Badakhshan. Earlier that year, another was murdered near the Tajik border.
Beijing responded by urging joint patrols with the Taliban to secure the area. But a militarized Wakhan raises its own risks: drawing Afghanistan back into great-power rivalries reminiscent of the Cold War.
For Pakistan, Wakhan is a double-edged sword. Historically, Islamabad was the Taliban’s sponsor, providing support through madrassas in the 1980s. But relations have soured since 2021. Cross-border clashes, Taliban support for the Pakistani Taliban (TTP), and disputes over the Durand Line have strained ties.
The Taliban now sees Wakhan as its chance to bypass Pakistan. A direct link to China would mean no more dependence on Pakistani ports or border crossings like Chaman and Torkham, which Islamabad has closed repeatedly to pressure Kabul.
“From Pakistan’s perspective, losing that leverage is dangerous,” Sharifli says. “For Kabul, it’s strategic independence. For Beijing, it’s a balancing act, China wants to keep both its ‘iron brother’ Pakistan and its pragmatic partner, the Taliban.”
For Beijing, Wakhan’s value may lie less in trade than in control. Some Chinese strategists view it as a modern buffer zone, shielding Xinjiang from instability just as it once separated empires.
Yet the Taliban’s vision is the opposite. Kabul imagines Wakhan as a gateway: a new Silk Road carrying minerals, goods, and military convoys eastward, cementing Afghanistan’s role in BRI.
That gap in expectations explains why progress has been slow. The Taliban pushes for recognition and infrastructure; China hesitates, citing terrorism and instability.
Meanwhile, the people who live along the corridor, Wakhi shepherds and Kyrgyz nomads, remain on the margins of decisions made in Kabul and Beijing.
The stakes are high. Militancy in the region is intensifying.
The East Turkestan Islamic Movement (ETIM) has an estimated 750 fighters in Afghanistan, many in Badakhshan.
Islamic State Khorasan Province (ISKP) recruits Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Uyghurs, with propaganda in multiple languages. It openly calls China an oppressor of Muslims.
Attacks on Chinese nationals in Afghanistan and Pakistan show the vulnerability of BRI projects.
Despite Taliban pressure, many ETIM members have defected to ISKP, creating fluid alliances that Beijing cannot easily track. Cooperation between these groups, sometimes joint attacks, sometimes shared propaganda, has blurred the lines of threat.
For China, the nightmare scenario is clear: a fully opened Wakhan Corridor that becomes not a trade lifeline but a pipeline for militants into Xinjiang.
The Wakhan Corridor’s significance extends beyond China, Afghanistan, and Pakistan.
For India, it is a strategic headache. Wakhan borders Gilgit-Baltistan (controlled by Pakistan) and lies close to Aksai Chin (disputed with China). Any Chinese expansion here tightens what Indian strategists call a “northern string of pearls”, an encirclement from the Himalayas to the Indian Ocean.
For Central Asia, Wakhan could mean greater integration. Tajikistan, bordering the corridor, already hosts Chinese security outposts. A functioning Wakhan road could link Dushanbe to Kashgar via Kabul.
For global powers, from the U.S. to Russia, the corridor is another square on the Eurasian chessboard, a place where influence is contested less through troops than through roads, investments, and security deals.
For now, Wakhan remains more symbol than reality. Construction has been piecemeal: one “Little Pamir Highway,” one phase of a planned 121-kilometer route, partially complete. But the terrain is unforgiving, the security situation fragile, and China’s checkbook cautious.
The Taliban calls China its “most important partner.” Yet Beijing keeps its distance, wary of overcommitment. Trade grows, but in China’s favor. Investments stall. Other players, the UAE, India, have begun to fill gaps, much to Beijing’s concern.
As Sharifli puts it: “Without security, all these plans remain on paper.”
The Wakhan Corridor embodies a contradiction. To the Taliban, it is a road out of isolation, a route to sovereignty. To China, it is a buffer best kept under control, not opened too widely.
If completed, the road could shift trade flows across Eurasia, alter alliances, and redraw regional maps. If left undeveloped, it remains what it has long been: a dangerous, mountainous passage where tires shred and empires hesitate.
Either way, this narrow strip at the “Roof of the World” continues to punch far above its size, reminding us that in geopolitics, the hardest roads often lead to the highest stakes.
