By Ganjal Baloch
I am the red man, driven from the land. My tiny, wounded feet are bruised by pebbles, abused by snow and soil. Where do I come from? I come from the homeland of the Reds, beneath the shade of date trees in a farmer’s garden, experiencing the dry seasons and the wonders of spring. I come from years of growing pale, fishing in the sea, and walking through the soil-covered alleys of red.
I come from a place so dampened by the scent of blood that still lingers fresh, the tomb of those young hands. I come from a land where flowers are massacred, mothers’ laps are empty, and children lack shelter. I possess the secrets of seasons, and I comprehend the meaning of fleeting moments. The redeemer lies buried, while the soil, this hospitable soil, beckons for salvation. The land, the land, is calling for help.
I emerge from carnivorous plant roots, and my mind is still haunted by the terrifying shriek of a butterfly crucified with pins onto a notebook. Throughout the city, they were tearing apart the lanterns of my heart. The man who used to lull me to sleep with his stories is no longer here.
When the fragile thread of justice suspended my trust, they would blindfold me with a dark handkerchief, and fountains of blood would spray. When my life had become nothing but the clock ticking, I discovered that I must rise madly. I must not become the red man driven from the land; instead, I will be the red man who drives them out of my land.
I come from a place where thousands of heads are buried without proper ceremony or remembrance. I come from a place where we have lost our way, unsure of who rests in each grave. Yet, I come from there, for I know this land is our mother, a sanctuary for the living and the deceased alike.
In the face of the impending cold season, as the world around me reveals the somber state of the earth’s weary soul and the desolate despair of the sky, I find myself standing resolute. Despite my frozen hands, I refuse to let go of the grip on my gun, clenched tightly in my grasp. Here I stand amidst the tumultuous waves of a thunderstorm, driven forward by the indomitable spirit of Rehan Jan that resides within me and guided by the vision of Ustad Aslam.
For it is only in the last flickering blaze of a dying candle that the luminous secret of its existence is truly known. And so, I stand unwavering, ready to face the challenges that lie ahead. The biting cold cannot extinguish the fire that burns within my heart, fueling my resolve to preserve my land. With each step I take, I carry the essence of those who came before me, their spirits interwoven with mine, driving me forward with unwavering determination.
In this tempestuous journey, where uncertainty prevails, I draw strength from the legacy of Rehan Jan, a beacon of inspiration who kindles my spirit. And I embrace the vision that Ustad Aslam’s caravan imparts, guiding my path with wisdom and purpose.
So let the winds howl and the storm rage, for I stand unyielding. I will navigate through the darkness, my frozen hands a testament to my resilience. With the flame of hope flickering in my heart, I forge ahead, driven by the spirit of those who have paved the way before me.
So I am the red man, embodying the essence of love, passion, and danger. The color red signifies rebellion, resistance, and the unyielding spirit. It is the hue of bloodshed but also the symbol of liberation. As the red man, I dream in vivid shades of red, envisioning a future where my land is liberated.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Balochistan Post or any of its editors.