Last night, as the world drifted into its serene silence, I found myself wandering in the boundless realm of dreams. There, in the soft haze of twilight, a vision unfolded—one that felt both fragile and immense, like a melody on the verge of vanishing.
I saw Zakir Majeed Baloch, his face etched with the scars of resistance and the quiet dignity of resilience. He stood there, a figure both worn and victorious, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of despair. He was free—not in a fleeting, symbolic sense, but truly free, breathing the air of liberation that had evaded him for so long. It was the final stage, the twilight of his struggle, yet it was luminous, suffused with a light that only the triumph of the human spirit can emit.
Beside him, I saw his mother. Her eyes, once wells of grief, shone with a joy so profound it seemed to rewrite the story of her sorrow. Her smile—a simple curve of lips—became a radiant revolution. It was the first time I had seen her smile, and in that moment, the years of longing and heartbreak dissolved like shadows chased away by dawn.
The nation of Balochistan stood as one. Streets once heavy with the weight of mourning were now alive with the pulse of celebration. Flags waved high, not just as symbols, but as declarations of a people unbowed. Children danced, their laughter weaving into the songs sung by elders. The air was thick with the aroma of shared meals, of stories retold with pride, and of a freedom that now felt tangible, close enough to touch.
In this dream, time seemed to halt, allowing the moment to stretch endlessly. It was not just Zakir Majeed’s return that was celebrated; it was the vindication of an entire people’s struggle, a reclamation of humanity from the jaws of oppression. The dream did not deny the scars left by years of torment, but it showed how those scars could be transformed into symbols of endurance and strength.
As the dream began to fade, I held onto the image of his mother’s smile. It lingered in the soft glow of the breaking dawn, a reminder that even in the darkest nights of despair, the possibility of light remains.
When I awoke, the world felt heavier, as if reality sought to reclaim the hope my dream had woven. But within me, a quiet resolve burned brighter than ever. Dreams like these are not just the echoes of desire; they are blueprints for change, whispers from the universe urging us to act.
And so, I write this not just as a memory of a dream but as a call—a call to hold onto hope, to keep dreaming of freedom, and to never stop believing in the return of those we hold dear. For in their return, we do not merely reclaim our loved ones; we reclaim our collective soul.