I sat on the floor of my cell checking torture marks on my hands and feet. I wasn’t wearing anything except for my trousers. All I had were the red marks on my entire body. I was shivering because I wasn’t feeling good.
Maybe, I had a fever.
The door opened. A six feet long man with normal build came in, and asked: “Bata kutty Kis camp se Hai tu? (Tell us you dog, from which camp you are from?)”. The same questions were asked again, which I was hearing for many years now.
“Am I here for years, may be not?” I was trying to make sense of my illegal detention period. But, here, each day is equal to one year and nothing makes sense anyway.
I am a student, and a peaceful political worker. I am the information secretary of a students’ organization. I whined.
With his big black jackboots, he kicked me on my face, and repeated the old questions: “Bata tery sath or kon kon hai? (Speak up, who are your accomplices?)”; “Bata tum logo Ko funding kon karta hai? (Tell us who is funding you)”; “India se aaty hain na paisy?(Is it India, right?)”; “Ya kamino tum log Kafir Israil k paisy khaaty ho? (Or is it the infidel Israel that feeds you?)”.
He came and sat in front of me, and asked that, “Bata sab kuch bataa phir tujhy chor dengy. Ek Pakistani ka waada hai tujh se.(Speak up, tell us everything, will release you then, it is a promise of a Pakistani.)” Your promises? I laughed. He slapped me and said “Zuban khol kutty. (Speak up, you dog).”
I remembered April 2010 when I read about Bhagat’s letter to his brother while he was in Jail. He wrote a shaeri (poetry) which I recited on that six feet long man’s face.
اُنہیں یہ فکر ہے ہر دم نئی طرزِ زفا کیا ہے،
ہمیں یہ شوق ہے دیکھیں ستم کی انتہاء کیا ہے’’
“Baraa Ghalib banny ki koshish karta hai kutty. (Trying to Become Ghalib, you dog).” Again he started kicking me again. O barbarous man! This isn’t Ghalib, I told him. This is the great revolutionary Bhagat Singh, who dedicated his life for noble cause that was the
freedom of the country.
He hit on my face again but this time I lost conscious. I don’t know after how many hours I opened my eyes, but, when I came into consciousness, I saw that six feet long army man was already sitting there with a cigarette in his hand. I had no sense of time.
“Uth jaa saaly, kitna soega. (Get up you pig, how much will you sleep).” He laughed. I was literally shivering, and went unconscious again. “Get up,” said an overtone person who was standing on my head. I tried to stand up but couldn’t, two army men held my hands and took me out of the room. I don’t know after how many months I felt fresh air.
These two men took me to the next floor where they brought me to a small room, a small room which only had a light. The long mustache man was already sitting there. Sit here, said the mustache man to me, and he smiled with the fake politeness. I sat down. Once again, the questioning session started. So, since when you’re here? He asked. I don’t know, I replied.
What’s your name? I said, Lakmir. Where are you from? I said, Awaran. What’s your age? I said, I am 24-year-old. Are you a student? I nodded in positive. In which camp you were? I am continuously telling each and every armed person that I wasn’t in any camps, I am a student and I am a political worker, I replied.
I was just about to apply in university. I am a bibliophile, I screamed. He was calm, looking into my eyes, and he asked, so how many guerrilla books you read? You really want to know what I read, I questioned him. I read “The wretched of Earth” by Frantz Fanon. You know who Frantz Fanon is? Or what he talks about? No you don’t know actually you know nothing, because you yourself are imperialist, I replied.
Frantz Omar Fanon was a psychiatrist and a political radical. He wrote and fought against the occupation of France, yes France, the France that considered itself the God of its time. But if nations decide their own destiny, then no God can stop them.The Wretched of Earth highlights the necessity for each generation to discover its mission and fight for this mission; I kept saying.
You think of yourself a God, but you’re forgetting that we are fighting for our land, a land which is our identity. We can stay in these types of jails for decades but will definitely take our identity back. That’s a promise, a Baluch’s promise; I kept speaking. I was fervent, but he was still calm. Take him to the cell and give him electric shocks, army man ordered his collaborator.
Again, they brought me to a dark but a big room. They closed my eyes and laid me on a bed. One man beside the bed was controlling electronic machines. Suddenly, a severe pain prevailed into my body. I shouted, cried and wept. Stop please.” My voice was so quiet and hoarse that no one heard it. More electric shocks were given in a series, and I was no longer able to articulate any words. The next shock sent me into the gallows of unconsciousness.
Moonlight was shining into my cell when I came into it. I started laughing or maybe crying. I don’t know what I was doing. But I didn’t break. The thought which was making me stronger was my leaders and my friends who bore the same or maybe more pain than me. But they didn’t say a word.
I know, my family and my ideological fellows who are more than my family are worried about me. The moment when I was just thinking about my companions, my cell’s guard came to serve me lunch. You seem happy, Gulzar Khan; I asked. Yes, I am really very happy, my wife gave birth to a baby boy after six girls, answered Gulzar. Hahaha (laughing) that’s nice, congratulations! I felicitated him.
I will bring you some sweets tomorrow, Gulzar told me. No, thank you, Gulzar Khan. Salamat mares (Stay blessed), I replied. No, I really want to share my happiness to you, something that can make you smile, he insisted. Okay (alright), then bring me a pen and paper. Pen and paper? Will it make you smile? Asked Gulzar Khan. It will make me happy, Khan Sahab; I replied him with a smile.
Respected Sangats (Friends)!
I am fine here, and all I need is your health and safety. I don’t know the date today, for that I am not mentioning the date in letter. Now Pakistani tortures are not so worse or may be my body has grown addicted. Only one thing I want to say to my all sangats (friends) here, is, our enemy is facing defeat day by day. They are afraid of BSO Azad, and they fear of our literature.
Terrify our enemy more and more by reading more books, and to become able to face our enemy. I appeal to all Baluch youth to work hard to educate Baluch Nation. Education is the only power through which we can defeat our enemy. Remember “Nations only need courage to fight not weapon”.
I saw many ideological friends here. Addi Farzana, I was in Zakir Jan’s cell last month. He is fine, and still has the same speech power. I told Dr Deen Muhamad that your little Mehlab is all grown up. Don’t worry about us, Mehli, and do believe on the statement, “readers are the leaders”. I saw Chairman Baloch Khan just for few seconds. But he was all good with his beautiful smile. I am not alone here. Sangats, all we need is your strength.
ابھی چراغ سر رہ کو کچھ خبر ہی نہیں’’
ابھی گرانی شب میں کمی نہیں آئی
نجات دیدہ و دل کی گھڑی نہیں آئی
’’چلے چلو کہ وہ منزل ابھی نہیں آئی
If they ask me what’s your wish, my wish would be “Send this Letter to my Sangats”.
Your Sangat,
Lakmir Baluch