The Syrian jihad is a distraction. Pakistan's diehards are the real threat

By Rob Crilly

Every few weeks we hear of another Briton killed in Syria, fighting for al-Qaeda linked groups. So far as many as 20 are thought to have been killed fighting government forces, reigniting fears of a new generation of British Muslims learning jihad overseas before returning to launch terrorist attacks at home.

Maybe, but I'm told MI6 remains far more exercised about the dozens of Brits in Pakistan's tribal areas. And with good reason. Syria has proved a welcome distraction for both the government of Pakistan and the terror groups based in its territory. Security officials and members of the Pakistan Taliban have tried to talk up something of an exodus of jihadis to the Middle East. For Pakistan, it is a way of sweeping the problem under the carpet, and for the likes of the Pakistan Taliban it suggests the sort of global reach of which they can only dream.

And for British Muslims it provides something of a five-star jihad experience, as my colleague Ruth Sherlock reported last week: Unlike the much more ascetic jihad in Afghanistan in the 1980s, where fighters followed the puritanical Wahhabi practices of Osama bin Laden and were cut off from the outside world for months, nights in Syria can be spent online gaming, chatting to family in the UK or watching al-Qaeda videos on the internet connection that is provided at their sleeping quarters. Indeed, the frontline is a taxi ride away from comfortable Turkish cities. Young jihadis have used Twitter to post pictures of Kit Kats and cans of Red Bull. Fight an oppressive regime by day, and be home for tea and YouTube.

In contrast, Pakistan's tribal regions are an arduous journey away, skirting military checkpoints and the all-seeing, ever-present drones. Recruits are expected to survive on little more than dry bread and rice for days at a time. There are no Kit Kats for several hundred miles. Forget Wi-Fi: communications are limited to the occasional use of landlines or satphones.

This is not for the fainthearted. And there are plenty of Four Lions-esque tales of soft, Western arrivals finding that perhaps this kind of jihad is not for them. Take this example from Der Spiegel, describing how a bunch of Germans decided that maybe they couldn't do without the comforts of home.

Likewise, winters in the Hindu Kush region can get really cold. For days and weeks on end, the would-be jihadists had to do without meat, bathrooms and warm showers. And then they had to sit around with Uzbeks without being able to understand a single word they said. During their telephone calls and in their e-mails back home, they sounded less and less enthusiastic and more and more discouraged about waging jihad. Rami M, for example, the overweight one, would complain about having to march for long distances with a heavy weapon on his shoulder.

The truth is that Pakistan remains at the centre of terror nexus. This is where groups like al-Qaeda, the Taliban and the Haqqani Network run training camps swapping bomb-making skills and jihadi rhetoric. Life is tough. Death circles in the sky 24/7. The weather is brutal in winter. And there's not much on TV. It's no surprise then that I'm told Britons at training camps in Pakistan's tribal areas number "in the tens" – far, far fewer than the hundreds who have joined the Club Med jihad. But they have shown a dedication of purpose simply to get there. There's no taxi home. Nor a romantic fight against a brutal oppressor. While Syria is attracting the headlines and the militant wannabes, we must not take our eye off the real threat.