Pakistan's war against the Taliban will be won in the refugee camps as much as in the mountains and cities, writes Graham Usher in Swabi near Swat Four weeks in, the battle between the Pakistan army and Taliban for the Swat Valley has reached a "decisive stage", says the government. Commandos have been dropped near the guerrillas' urban citadel of Mingora. The army has imposed a blanket curfew while the Taliban are reportedly salting approach roads with mines. With fewer than 10,000 civilians left, mostly the old, infirm and hostage, the army is readying for a hand-to-hand, street-to-street, combat. The Taliban -- dug in, armed to the teeth -- "will fight to the last breath," vows spokesman Muslim Khan. Much will depend on the outcome of this war, and not only for Swat and Pakistan. Already cracks are appearing in Pakistan's political and religious opinion over the scale and severity of an action that has caused the displacement of two million people. Those cracks are bound to widen the longer the conflict lasts, the more punitive it becomes, and the more civilian casualties it costs. For now, however, the rare political consensus forged by the government's turn against the Taliban is holding. At an all-party conference in Islamabad on 18 May it won majority endorsement for the counterinsurgency, though some opposition leaders -- like the popular (and populist) ex-premier Nawaz Sharif -- balked at conferring a "positive role" on the army. Similarly while local help for the refugees has been tremendous -- with villagers next to Swat giving food, water, lands, even their homes -- the sight of a ragged people on foot has yet to trigger the same national solidarity as after the 2005 Kashmir earthquake. In fact local politicians from Sindh want curbs put on "Swatis" entering their province, lest they bring "Talibanisation". And while President Asif Zardari's recent trips to New York, London and Paris stumped up some cash for the displaced, it was only a third of the amount required, said the United Nations. You can see the same varying levels of commitment among the victims of the fighting. At a military hospital in Peshawar casualties from the front-line are ferried in on stretchers, ambulances and helicopters. Nadir Khan is one of them. Young, zealous, hypertense, he was hit in the back by sniper fire hours after being parachuted behind Taliban lines in the Swat mountains. He is a "guerrilla commando", he says, and eager to return to the front. "This is not America's war," he said, in answer to the inevitable question. "It's our war. It was imposed on us. The Taliban said they wanted Islamic law. The government implemented Islamic law. So why are the Taliban fighting? It shows they have another agenda." You will find similar sentiments in the massive tent encampments that speck the plains descending all the way from the hills of Swat to outskirts of Islamabad. Support for the army operation is strongest amongst those who suffered most at their hands: women and the urban, educated middle class. Misbah Ahmed Jan is a schoolteacher with two wives and seven children. "The army had to bring peace," he said in a camp in Swabi, an hour's drive from Islamabad. "The Taliban were planting bombs and attacking police stations. They did terrible things in our village. It was the Taliban that forced us out, not the army." Rukshana is from Swat. A teenager she lost a year's education because the Taliban bombed her school. "The Taliban shattered my hopes of becoming a doctor," she said, simply. But among the rural poor -- the bulk of those displaced -- the mood is more ambivalent. One reason for this is the trauma of their flight. In the camps you hear stories of how the army gave them only a short reprieve to flee their homes, how they were caught in crossfire between Taliban snipers and army helicopters, how farms, cattle, livelihoods, even relatives were left abandoned. Mir Taj is a driver from Swat. He steered his family and taxi through a sea of people, donkeys and handcarts to reach the shore of Swabi. On the way he saw corpses unburied in fields and piled up in ditches. "They weren't Taliban," he said. "They were civilians." Mohammbar is a civilian. He sits cross-legged under a tent in Swabi surrounded by wives, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. With languid eyes, he says he's "100 years old". He could be. He was forced to leave three daughters in Mingora "because of the curfew". He thinks the Taliban may have captured a son. He shrugs his shoulders in resignation and anxiety. "We're just ordinary villagers," he said. "We don't know the cause of the fight between the army and Taliban. Sometimes they have wars; sometimes they have ceasefires. Only one thing is clear: it's the ordinary people who suffer." Sirajuddin is less reserved. He arrived in Swabi with his family from Swat with 2,500 other refugees in a single day. He stands in the shade of a tent away from the blistering heat while hundreds jostle to be seen by a solitary clerk. He smiles when asked if he thinks this is "his" war. "The army says it's ours. But it's actually to kill us. They want to take our lands. Look," he said. "The army cannot stabilise Swat. Only the Taliban can. If there is a Taliban government, there will be peace. If there is no Taliban government, there won't be." There is a ripple of approval among the men. These are some of the hearts and minds that hang in the balance in the battle for Swat. If the operation is swift, surgical and the refugees can return to their lands, they can be won. Most are farmers: they want to harvest their crops and tend their cattle. Islamic law comes a distant second. But if they are left adrift in camps -- if there is no compensation for the losses they've suffered -- there will be no greater seedbed for the Taliban. And Pakistan will be the latest state to learn that it is useless to win the war only to lose the peace.
