In the early 20th century, Afghanistan was more than just a land of rugged mountains and fiercely independent tribes. It was a geopolitical chessboard upon which empires played their most interesting games. Caught between the crushing weight of British India to the southeast and the glacial encroachment of Tsarist Russia from the north, Afghanistan’s identity as a “buffer state” was both a shield and a shackle. It afforded the country a modicum of sovereignty while simultaneously keeping it ensnared within invisible coordinates drawn by distant powers.

For the British, whose imperial lifeline pulsed through India, Afghanistan’s proximity to the Raj’s vulnerable northwestern frontier made it a constant anxiety. Twice they had invaded—first in 1839, then again in 1878—and twice they had learned the futility of attempting outright control. The mountains yielded no easy victory; the tribes, no submission; and the terrain, no stable occupation. So, the empire adjusted its strategy—not with retreat, but with reinvention.

What emerged was not another campaign predicated solely on conquest, but something more than that. It was a perennial diplomacy of influence. Where colonial administration had failed, subtle courtship would prevail. Britain sought to entrench itself not only through domination, but through embedding itself in Afghan political culture by way of rituals, tributes, flattery, and carefully choreographed engagements. It was a softer touch, a politics of prestige rather than pressure, what might be called, in retrospect, a form of imperial perennialism.

One such diplomatic moment unfolded in 1895. Amir Abdur Rahman Khan—known as the “Iron Amir”—had intended to visit England himself in recognition of Queen Victoria. Ailing health and internal stability issues in Kabul, however, kept him from traveling. Instead, he dispatched his second son, Shahzada Nasrullah Khan, then just twenty years old and heir apparent.

Amir Abdur Rahman Khan, also known as the Iron Amir

Accompanied by more than 90 dignitaries—including aristocrats, engineers, physicians, and Islamic scholars—Nasrullah arrived in Portsmouth on May 23 and was received by the Queen just four days later. The gesture occurred in the aftermath of the 1893 Durand Agreement, which had redrawn the demarcation line between British India and Afghanistan in an effort to curb British influence within Afghanistan’s borders, giving the visit its geopolitical gravity.

His Highness Crown Prince Nasrullah Khan

Nasrullah was a nuanced figure; tenacious, deeply pious, faithful to tradition and the clerical class (Ulema), yet politically astute. While his brother Habibullah would later embrace elements of modernization during his reign, Nasrullah remained anchored in the country’s Islamic political ethos, heavily influenced by the Deobandi strain of Hanafi fiqh. For British observers, this made him paradoxically both difficult and auspicoius for a visit; a princely emissary who strictly followed protocol, respected social hierarchy, and conducted himself with deliberate decorum.

British newspapers greeted the visit with much enthusiasm. Some outlets celebrated it as a historic opportunity for closer Anglo-Afghan ties, recalling Afghanistan’s resistance to prior British incursions. Others, however, couldn’t resist an orientalist gaze. Reports focused on Nasrullah’s ornate attire—a dark frock coat with golden embroidery, an astrakhan hat, and a sword with a gilded hilt. One newspaper quipped that, dressed in full English uniform, he also could pass for a Briton.

Nasrullah’s goal was to secure approval for the very first Afghan embassy in London. Although the mission was ultimately unsuccessful, his father reportedly viewed the polite refusal from Queen Victoria as a personal blow.

“A guest should never return in despair,” Abdur Rahman is recorded as having said, reflecting the depth of disappointment.

On June 6, he made his formal entry into London’s Guildhall in a grand procession. Escorted by state carriages and an honor guard of the Horse Guards Blue, he passed cheering crowds gathered along Trafalgar Square. There, he was received by the Lord Mayor, the Lady Mayoress, and other high-ranking dignitaries of the British-Indian service. Among those present was Lord Griffin, who had recognized Amir Abdur Rahman after the Second Anglo-Afghan War, when the Iron Amir had been allowed to assume his throne almost without British interference.

As expected, speeches were delivered extolling Anglo-Afghan friendship. The Chief Magistrate emphasized that Afghanistan’s goodwill was vital to the British Empire because, in his words:

“Our vast Indian possessions form the most valued and highly prized gem in our imperial crown—possessions which all loyal subjects are prepared to make any sacrifices to retain.”

Nasrullah responded with diplomatic poise. He acknowledged British hospitality and stated that mutual friendship rested on two solid foundations: the transformation of past misunderstandings into present goodwill, and the clear demarcation of the frontier between England and Afghanistan, “so that neither party can transgress his own frontier, except in friendly interchange of visits.”

The following day, Nasrullah traveled to Woking, where he was first received by Dr. Gottlieb Wilhelm Leitner of the Oriental Institute. He then proceeded to the mosque for prayers, offering a donation of £500 on behalf of his father. In a gesture of goodwill, a zincographic Qur’an was presented to him, reflecting Britain’s desire to cast itself as a respectful custodian of Islamic tradition within its imperial fold.

From June 8 to 19, Nasrullah’s tour expanded across the industrial heartlands, visiting Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, and Glasgow. In Birmingham, he toured arms manufacturers, inspecting rifles and munitions. He also visited the Small Arms Factory, Kynoch’s Ammunition Works, and a cotton mill before attending a luncheon and speeches at the town hall in Birmingham. In Manchester, he also chose to tour a cotton mill rather than the Royal Exchange. In Liverpool, he visited the mosque and Muslim Institute, donating £2,500 in gold to Abdullah Quilliam and recommending that Afghan students be sent there. At the mosque, when the Shaikh fell on one knee and tried to kiss his hand, Nasrullah is reported to have said:

“Nay; it is for me to kiss the hand of the sheik—religion is before all dignities.”

Another highlight was the Imperial Institute Ball on July 8. There, in a flourish of ceremonial splendor, composer Eduard Strauss conducted the orchestra in a performance of his newly composed waltz, Sarazinnen Marsch Op. 297, newly rededicated as the “Shahzada March” in Nasrullah’s honor. It was a striking moment, for it was an instance in which the rituals of Victorian high culture briefly bent around an Afghan prince, placing Nasrullah Khan at the centerpiece of empire, music, and diplomacy, and transforming the evening into a gesture of imperial recognition toward Afghanistan and beyond.

The Shahzadah at the State Ball, Buckingham Palace; with the Duchess of Marlborough, the Marchioness of Londonderry, the Prince of Wales, and the Princess of Schleswig-Holstein

On July 10, Nasrullah paid his official visit to Queen Victoria and presented a letter from his father, encased in a gold casket inlaid with lapis lazuli, diamonds, and crescents. Accompanying the letter were Afghan gifts valued at twenty thousand pounds, including intricately woven shawls, rare furs, and polished stones drawn from the mountainous heart of his homeland. The Queen and the British government also bestowed an array of items upon the Afghan delegates: a silver tea service, a chronometer watch, celestial and terrestrial globes, a silver-gilt sabre, a camera, and several other inventions of the Industrial Age.

The British press described Nasrullah’s public demeanor as composed and sincere, balancing praise for British hospitality with firm reminders of Afghan sovereignty.

Indeed, the deeper purpose of Nasrullah’s visit extended well beyond courtesy. The British had invited the prince with strategic intent. With Russian advances in Central Asia and unrest along the North-West Frontier, Afghanistan’s loyalty was critical to the defense of India. British authorities also hoped that Nasrullah's exposure to industrial centers would encourage Afghan purchases of British technology and goods, thereby drawing the emirate further into their economic orbit. Yet Nasrullah’s conduct, while tactful, was underpinned by the same hard realism that defined his father’s reign. He accepted gifts and observed ceremony, yet remained politically distant, serving as a representative of a kingdom whose leader had thwarted both Russian and British attempts at domination.

On July 20, during his farewell audience with Queen Victoria, Nasrullah conveyed a “small request” from his father: that a permanent Afghan representative be stationed in London to enable direct diplomatic communication. The request underscored Afghanistan’s wish to be recognized as a sovereign state rather than treated as a subordinate filtered through British India. Queen Victoria deferred the matter to her ministers. The final decision came not from the Crown, but from Lord George Hamilton, the Secretary of State for India, who firmly rejected the proposal.

Nasrullah’s story did not end with that trip. As the First World War approached, his role evolved. Following the 1919 assassination of his brother, Habibullah, Nasrullah briefly became Amir before ceding the throne to his nephew, Amanullah. Prior to this, he had become a significant figure in anti-British circles in Kabul.

During the war, he cultivated ties with German and Ottoman envoys, envisioning an alliance to join the Ottoman-German jihad and expel the British from India. He supported Pashtun tribes with arms and influence and plotted potential uprisings along the frontier. Intelligence reports suggest he hoped to incite a widespread tribal rebellion, drawing confidence from earlier insurgencies that had defeated British forces.

But by 1919, his ambitions had collapsed, and he was imprisoned by Amanullah’s forces for his alleged involvement in Amir Habibullah Khan’s assassination. Once celebrated at Queen Victoria’s court, Nasrullah died in captivity.

From ceremonial splendor to whispered sedition, the arc of Nasrullah Khan’s life offers a distinct perspective on Britain’s imperial approach to Afghanistan. This was not merely an empire carved by borders and garrisons, but one animated by performance and persuasion. British power here was enacted not solely through soldiers, but through engagement: royal receptions, gifts, waltzes, and the calculated theatre of state diplomacy.

Beneath the formalities of banquets and diplomacy lay a theology of perennial prestige, a belief that Empire could engage Islamic societies like Afghanistan through ceremony rather than conquest. This was diplomacy expressed through honors, gifts, and ritual. Positioned between thrones and empires, Nasrullah Khan became both envoy and symbol in this imperial performance. The legacy of that approach endures; King Charles III’s interest in Islamic art, architecture, and theology reflects a continuing engagement with the cultural traditions once woven into Britain’s imperial worldview.

Sardar Nasrullah Khan’s journey was not a footnote but a hinge point in imperial history. It reveals how empire embeds itself not only through force but through ritual. And it reminds us that even where no gun is fired, the contest for sovereignty persists, waged through symbols, sustained by narratives, and secured by the illusion of shared tradition.

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