Writer: Naseer Baloch
When the joys of Eid arrive, and the village is filled with colorful decorations and new cars, a shadow
of fear and sorrow quietly settles in.
Three cars raced by at terrifying speed – the sudden screech of brakes shook my body and mind.
I began to run – along with three of my neighbors – through the narrow village streets near the
mosque.
I was running from torture, from shame, from the memory of a painful death I had once witnessed.
Two years ago, I had survived 171 days of brutal torture.
But life had changed. My family had married me to my beloved, MahGul.
It had been nine months since our wedding.
And God had blessed us – we were expecting a daughter, Mahal, who was due to arrive in just a few
days.
That moment felt like a film of memories. I was running not just for myself, but for Mahal, for
MahGul, for the happiness of my family.
I ran as fast as I could through the village streets, joined by three others – each seemingly running to
save their own life.
One of them was my neighbor, a Hafiz of the Quran, a reciter. He ran ahead of me with his brother.
Then suddenly, while running, he bent down, scooped a handful of dirt, and threw it into my eyes.
Everything went dark. I stumbled.
Then I heard laughter – loud, cruel laughter from the two brothers.
In that moment, I understood. Something had changed.
Then the soldiers came – rushing toward me from the vehicles.
They blindfolded me, shouted insults, and kicked me to the ground.
I kept begging them:
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I have committed no sin.
Please let me go. I just want to see my daughter.”
I had so many dreams for Mahal. I wanted to die with her once – just once – to hold her in my arms
and feel like a father.
“Don’t kill Mahal’s future.
Don’t destroy MahGul’s happiness.”
I kept shouting. They kept beating.
For three long hours, they hurled curses at me, pulled my hair, and struck me again and again.
Then, the car began to slow down.
A voice said:
“Take him out. Let him face judgment.
This is it – the order from above has come. We will release him now.”
They dragged me out of the car, pain burning through my body.
My hands were tied, but they removed the blindfold.
My eyes were still blurry from the dirt.
A military officer stepped out of the car. He walked toward me with fury on his face.
He came close, spat in my face, and said:
“We let you go last time.
Now, you’ll do as we say.
You will not speak for the Baloch missing persons.
You will not speak for freedom.
We are the justice.
We are the equality.
We are the law.
And we are God.”
He raised a pistol and pointed it at my chest.
In that moment, images of Mahal, MahGul, my elderly mother, and my homeland – they all flashed
through my mind.
I looked to the God of the heavens, but I felt as though even He was helpless before these earthly
gods.
And then – a bullet pierced my heart.
My blood touched the soil of my land.
That’s when my eyes opened.
It was a dream. A nightmare.
I couldn’t believe it – I was still alive.
But my body felt like a corpse, and my soul like a ghost.
I placed my hand on my chest – there was no wound. I was not lying in a field.
I was alive.
And in that moment, my thoughts turned first to my homeland – to the freedom and dignity of my
people, to everything we had lost and everything we still dream to reclaim.
Then I thought of Mahal. And my love, MahGul.
They were still alive in my heart.
It was only a dream –
