In the forgotten landscapes of Balochistan, a silent scream echoes through the valleys and mountains. It is the cry of a generation lost, of childhood shattered, and of families torn apart by the brutal forces of conflict and state-sponsored violence. For decades, the people of Balochistan have endured the unimaginable: enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and a culture of impunity that has become the hallmark of their existence. And yet, amidst this chaos and despair, there is a story that needs to be told—a story of resilience, courage, and the unyielding quest for justice. This is the story of Balochistan’s children, who have grown up with the haunting question: “What happened to my father?”
Mahrang Baloch, a 31-year-old human-cum-Baloch rights activist, has dedicated her life to exposing alleged enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and other human rights abuses in
Balochistan.
On May 20th, while addressing a gathering organized by PEN Norway in Oslo, Norway, Mahrang underscored the gravity of the situation: “If I were to detail the human rights abuses in Balochistan, I would need to speak day and night, and still, the stories of human rights violations would be endless.”
Hence, the Pakistani government’s forceful response to separatist movements has escalated tensions, perpetuating a vicious cycle of violence and mistrust.
The human cost is staggering, with women and children bearing the brunt of the conflict. Men are often targeted, picked up, and either killed or vanished without a trace, leaving families shattered and vulnerable. Therefore, death may mark the end of a story, but what about those left behind, suspended in limbo? For children whose fathers have vanished, the pain is palpable. Are they orphans, or merely waiting for a parent’s return? The uncertainty gnaws, leaving gaping holes in young hearts.
While, on Eid’s joyous eve, when families reunite, these children stand alone, tears welling up in their eyes, their hearts heavy with anguish. They bite their lips to stifle sobs, masking the depth of their sorrow. And their colorful world of childhood has faded to shades of gray.
Their days blend together in an endless cycle of longing and doubt. Where is father? Is he alive, or lost forever? The questions haunt, with no answers in sight. Love and affection, once warm and nurturing, now seem distant memories. For these children feel forgotten. Their laughter silenced; their smiles rare. Their lives, once full of promise, now hang in the balance.
In last summer’s vacations, when I was in my hometown, I encountered a haunting reminder of the trauma plaguing Balochistan’s children. During a picnic in the palm fields of my hometown, I met a young boy with shining, hopeful eyes, tending to his goats. Curious, I asked why he wasn’t attending school. His response left me stunned. With a faint smile, he said, “I used to go to school, but it’s been closed for a while. Our school is now a Frontier Corps (paramilitary force) check post.”
I felt a deep sense of embarrassment for asking such an insensitive question, but for him, it was a harsh reality—not a question, but an answer, a life he knew all too well.
I continued our conversation, inquiring about his family. His tone turned sorrowful as he revealed, “My father was forcefully disappeared when I was a child. I don’t remember his face, but Mom says he looked like me.”
His tormenting words reminded me of Waqar Nisar, a friend and son of the forcefully disappeared Nisar Baloch, who called on me when I was in Islamabad. He shared the documents to register his father’s case with the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) while they arranged a sit-in on the outskirts of Islamabad last December. I asked about the circumstances surrounding his father’s disappearance.
Waqar’s voice trembled as he recounted the fateful night: “It was a dark, silent hour when law enforcement agencies (LEAs) stormed our home in Gwadar. They grabbed my father’s neck, dragging him to their vehicle outside.” His eyes welled up as he continued, “My mother pleaded and begged not to take her husband, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She clung to my father’s shirt, refusing to let go, until one of the security personnel slapped her and pushed her back.”
Waqar’s account revealed the devastating aftermath: “Since then, my mother has been unstable, struggling to cope with the trauma. My younger sister is haunted by nightmares, fearing they’ll return and take her away like they did our father.”
The shepherd tending to his goats and Waqar Nisar, whose father went missing right before his eyes, are just a few examples of the countless individuals affected by the turmoil in Balochistan.
However, their experiences pale in comparison to the collective punishment faced by a single family in Nasirabad, a town in southwestern Balochistan, near the Iranian border. Three brothers, Ustad Khalid Baloch, Ustad Ghulam Qadir, and Noor Baksh, an ambulance driver, were picked up and later found with their mutilated bodies dumped one after the other. The depth of pain inflicted upon their illiterate, homely wives and tender children is immeasurable. The mere existence of these children has become a question, leaving one wondering what to say or write about their suffering, as words have yet to be invented to convey the depth of their insufferable pain and agony.
The family’s ordeal didn’t end there. A 28-year-old nephew of Shaheed Ustad Ghulam Qadir, Eva, suffered a heavy attack and died during a military raid on their slum-like muddy homes. Later, Eva’s father, Muhammad Baksh, was brutally killed in broad daylight on Zubaida Jalal Road in Nasirabad, District Kech. This was the harsh reality they faced—an inescapable collective punishment amidst chaos.
Across Balochistan, countless families endure similar agony. Even more disturbing are the cases where two individuals with similar names were subjected to enforced disappearance. After their mutilated bodies were found, a small piece of paper in their pocket revealed only their names, as their bodies were unidentifiable due to months or years of brutal torture. The victims’ bodies were severely disfigured, with their eyes gouged out, noses smashed, lips cut, and tongues removed, making identification nearly impossible. Families would gather at the morgue, desperate to identify their loved ones.
Often, two families would claim the same body, while other times, no family would come forward. They would rely on faded memories to recall the color of the shirt their loved one was wearing or a distinctive birthmark that might aid identification. Some would suggest that the authorities should include a small photograph of the victim to facilitate identification and allow families to mourn the loss of their loved one.
Mothers with their children would stand in an endless queue, their hearts filled with frustration, anxiety, and despair, while the children wondered why they were waiting. For these families, this was a grim and heartbreaking routine. Every time a mutilated body was discovered, they would be summoned to identify whether it belonged to their missing family member.
Saira Baloch, sister of the forcefully disappeared Asif Baloch and Rasheed Baloch, is one of the many examples. In an interview with Gidaan.tv, she shared her heartbreaking experience: “When I visit the morgue to identify whether the mutilated body is that of my brother Asif Baloch or Rasheed Baloch, I’m often unable to do so due to the severe disfigurement. Other families, too, claim the bodies as their missing loved ones. The uncertainty haunts me, leaving me wondering if I mistakenly failed to identify my own brother.”
Saira further expressed the emotional toll on her family: “We live in a state of perpetual uncertainty. Asif Baloch’s daughter constantly asks me when her father will return home. His wife anxiously awaits her husband’s return.”
The relentless uncertainty leaves families like Saira’s in extreme mental anguish, forever trapped in a cycle of doubt and fear. But, years of anguish turn into decades, yet their loved ones remain unaccounted for, neither produced in court nor acknowledged by the authorities. Instead, they languish in dark dungeons, forgotten by the world. Their children, now grown, sit outside press clubs, clutching placards that demand justice—a justice that has eluded them for far too long.
These children grow up with the haunting question: “What happened to my father?” The silence is deafening, and not knowing is a constant torment. They struggle to concentrate in school, their minds consumed by thoughts of their missing parent. Their childhood is lost, replaced by a harsh reality of protests, press clubs, and endless waiting.
As they mature, the pain remains, a constant reminder of the injustice they’ve suffered. They become the voices of their families, demanding justice and accountability for their fathers’ disappearances. Despite the trauma, they hold on to hope, refusing to let their fathers’ memories fade away.
Sammi Deen, 25, a recipient of the prestigious Front Line Defenders Award in 2024, has dedicated her life to advocating for the rights of missing persons in Balochistan. Her journey began when she was just nine years old, after her father, Dr. Deen Muhammad Baloch, was subjected to enforced disappearance in Khuzdar, Balochistan, in 2009. Since then, Sammi has spent countless days participating in sit-ins, marches, and demonstrations, seeking justice for her father and countless others. However, in a poignant speech on the eve of Eid-ul-Fitr, outside the Karachi Press Club, Sammi expressed: “I don’t want other children to spend their lives protesting outside press clubs, demanding justice for their loved ones. I want them to experience a normal childhood, attend school, and pursue their dreams without the burden of enforced disappearances and state-sponsored violence.”
The pain, loss, and helplessness are a haunting refrain. The stories of pain and agony are the same, just with different characters—a lost generation, struggling to survive amidst chaos. The plight of Baloch children amidst chaos is a heart-wrenching testament to the devastating consequences of conflict and state-sponsored violence.
For decades, Balochistan has been
embroiled in a cycle of violence, enforced disappearances, and extrajudicial killings. The human cost is staggering, with not only women and children bearing the brunt of the conflict. However, the harrowing reality of enforced disappearances in Balochistan is a tale of two extremes. On one hand, those subjected to this heinous crime cling to the hope of release, enduring unimaginable torture in the process. The prospect of reuniting with their families, who have waited anxiously for years, keeps them going. This glimmer of hope enables them to withstand the brutal conditions, their spirits buoyed by the thought of eventual freedom.
On the other hand, some individuals, exhausted by the relentless torture, reach a breaking point. They become desperate for an end to their suffering, even if it means surrendering to death. A person who endured enforced disappearance for five years and was eventually released poignantly underscored these words. Their testimony serves as a haunting reminder of the extreme physical and emotional toll of enforced disappearance. The trauma inflicted upon these individuals is multifaceted. Prolonged isolation, physical torture, and emotional manipulation erode their sense of identity and dignity. The experience leaves an indelible mark, affecting not only the individual but also their families and communities. The aftermath of enforced disappearances is a complex web of psychological, social, and economic challenges that can persist for generations.
As we reflect on the stories of Saira Baloch, Sammi Deen, and countless others, we are reminded of the resilience and courage of the Baloch people. Despite facing unimaginable trauma and pain, they continue to demand justice, accountability, and an end to the culture of impunity. It is our collective responsibility to break the silence surrounding Balochistan’s suffering. We must acknowledge the historical injustices perpetrated against the Baloch people and work towards a future where their rights are respected and protected.
Ultimately, it is only through collective action, solidarity, and a commitment to justice and human rights that we can hope to bring an end to the suffering of the Baloch people. Let us join hands to demand justice for the disappeared, the killed, and the tortured. Let us work towards a future where the children of Balochistan can grow up without the burden of conflict, violence, and trauma.
