Tariq Saeedi
In an era when the world seems perpetually pulled toward extremes, true neutrality shines as something far more profound than simple non-alignment. When it is active, positive, and dynamic—when it refuses to be passive or static—neutrality reveals its deepest essence: it is another name for balance and harmony. It is the courageous choice to occupy the center, to hold space where opposites can meet without destroying each other.
It is the quiet, unshakeable strength that refuses to add fuel to any fire, yet never withdraws from the duty to extinguish flames. It is the art of seeing the shared humanity beneath every flag, every faith, every border. In this highest form, neutrality becomes sacred—an almost spiritual discipline of reconciliation, trust-building, and peaceful co-existence.
This understanding of neutrality is not a modern diplomatic invention for Turkmenistan. It is woven into the very blood and memory of the Turkmen people. Across centuries, whenever history placed Turkmens at dangerous crossroads, they instinctively chose the path of balance, mediation, and bridge-building—even when it cost them dearly.
Nadir Shah Afshar, born into the Afshar Turkmen tribe, conquered half the known world with his sword, yet his most enduring dream was unity. He saw the bleeding wound between Sunni and Shia and refused to accept it as eternal. At the Najaf Assembly of 1743 he proposed the Ja’fari madhhab as a fifth school of Islamic jurisprudence—not to erase differences, but to illuminate the vast common ground.
He wanted Muslims to pray behind one another again, to stop killing over interpretations while forgetting the essence of the faith. Though political winds prevented complete success, the very attempt remains one of the boldest acts of religious reconciliation in Islamic history—and it came from a Turkmen heart.
The national poet Magtymguly Pyragy sang of sorrow and hope across the eighteenth-century steppes, but even his family paid the price of diplomacy. Two of his brothers accepted a mission in the service of Nadir Shah and vanished forever in distant lands. They never returned home to the banks of the Etrek, yet their willingness to carry words instead of weapons became part of the same legacy: Turkmens stepping into danger so that others might live in peace.
Centuries earlier and far to the south, another Turkmen—Bairam Khan—held the Mughal Empire together while a child-emperor grew to manhood. For four critical years he ruled with absolute power, yet when Akbar reached maturity Bairam Khan did something rare in the annals of power: he laid down authority willingly, gracefully, completely. No coup, no poisoning, no exile in disgrace—he simply stepped aside because balance had been restored.
In that single act of voluntary withdrawal, he embodied the deepest principle of true neutrality: power must never become attachment.
History has long recognized this gift in the Turkmen character. Old chronicles and travelers’ accounts often referred to “Turkmen the diplomat” and “Turkmen the architect”—the one who could quiet warring tribes with a single wise word, the one who built not only magnificent caravanserais and mosques along the Silk Road but also lasting channels of understanding between civilizations.
This same instinct for harmony governs Turkmenistan’s internal life. The Halk Maslahaty—the People’s Council—is not a twentieth-century creation; it is older than the Mongol-Turkic Kurultai most people know. Its roots reach back to the governance traditions of the legendary Oghuz Khan, the great ancestor whose council of elders ensured every clan, every voice, every region had its place.
The Halk Maslahaty uniquely blends equal and weighted representation so that neither the smallest tribe nor the largest province can dominate. It is, in effect, neutrality in motion applied to self-governance: a living mechanism that prevents extremes, heals divisions before they fester, and keeps the nation in perpetual balance.
In Central Asia, no older continuous institution of participatory democracy exists.
Today, as Turkmenistan marks the 30th anniversary of its permanent neutrality—solemnly recognized by the United Nations on 12 December 1995—this ancient soul reveals itself in dazzling clarity.
The international conference to be held in Ashgabat on 12 December 2025 will not be merely a celebration; it will be a global invitation to remember that peace is not the absence of conflict but the presence of balance. And 2025 itself, declared by the United Nations as the International Year of Peace and Trust at Turkmenistan’s initiative, carries the same message to every corner of the earth.
Turkmenistan is showing the world something profoundly moving: a nation that could have chosen revenge, or dominance, or cynical distance, instead chose harmony as its highest calling—and has been rewarded with three decades of peace, prosperity, and genuine respect among nations.
In the Turkmen example we see a truth that touches the heart: when a people carry balance in their very bones, neutrality ceases to be a policy. It becomes destiny. And in our fractured age, that destiny feels like hope made visible. /// nCa, 1 December 2025