There exists a land where the soil is soaked in blood, where pain and tears flow as freely as rivers. A land where even the greenery does not dance in joy, but sways in sorrow, carrying the weight of grief. Farmers bend over their fields, not only with tools in their hands but with burdens on their hearts.
The sea that touches this land carries silence within its waves. Fishermen stand at its shores, feeling its grief. The waves crash with anger, yet the moment they touch the soil of their motherland, they become calm: calm, but full of sadness.
The mosques of this land bow their domes toward the sky, whispering prayers for peace. They ask Allah: “ Why has this land become so hopeless, so drenched in the cries of its people?” Children still play upon this wounded soil, their innocent smiles glowing like fragile light. Yet behind those smiles lies the harsh truth, no one knows when or where the enemy’s cruelty will strike.
Across every street, there are posters. Posters of the missing. Faces of fathers, brothers, sons and daughters who were taken away. Mothers, sisters, wives and children hold onto those pictures, waiting endlessly not knowing whether their loved ones are alive or dead. Their only companion is silence, their only prayer is hope.
This is the land where a young man was shot in front of his parents’ eyes, Eight bullets piercing his body, eight wounds scarring his mother’s soul. With trembling hands lifted to the sky, she prayed: “ O Allah, destroy those who killed my son.”
We cannot forget, nor can we ignore, that this is the land whose daughter, Mahjabeen, suffers within the black walls of captivity. Many others remain trapped in torture cells, their families left waiting-waiting for news, waiting for justice, waiting for freedom.
And yet, in this sea of sorrow, there are those who rise with courage. Brave men, carrying rifles in their hands, stand as freedom fighters. But they are more than just fighters, they are the heartbeat of their people, the hope of the hopeless, the strength of the weak. They are the dawn that promises to break this endless night.
And it is more than its wounds, it is the spirit of resilience and the dream of a dawn when its children will no longer play under the shadow of fear but under the light of peace. It is the voice of every mother who prays, every father who waits and every fighter who stands, declaring that no occupation can silence the soul of a nation.
This is the land that was occupied by Pakistan on 27 March 1948.
Yes! This is our land.
Balochistan.
A land of pain.
A land of sacrifice.
But above all, a land of unshaken resistance.
Note: The ideas and opinions expressed in this writing are the author’s own.
