Author: Zameen Zaag
Once again, it is December—a month steeped in memories, a month when every tree sheds its leaves, sacrificing for the promise of future blooms. December holds a unique place in the heart, leaving imprints that range from cherished recollections to profound losses. It is a time when the whispers of the past come alive, often mingling joy with pain, pride with longing.
As I sit with a cup of coffee, the tendrils of cigarette smoke curling around me, they carry me back four years to cold December nights spent with Umar Jan, or as we called him today, Fidayee Sirbuland. Those nights were filled with quiet companionship, brewing tea and coffee for our comrades, and discussing the weight of our lives, our struggles, and the world we wanted to change.
I remember one particular night as we made tea together. He asked me, a subtle smile playing on his lips, “If I embraced martyrdom and you had to write about me, what would the title be?” His words left me silent and wondering. How could I encapsulate someone like him in mere words? After a long pause, I replied, “I can’t. I can never write on a martyr. Not because I can’t write, but because I can never do justice to their character and the selfless act of sacrifice.”
His response was different—Umar Jan was different. He smiled knowingly and shared his own story. “I asked Burzkohi the same question once. He asked my real name, and I told him it was Sirbuland (head elevated).” Burzkohi replied, ‘I will make the title: Sirbuland has raised the head of the entire nation.’”
The tea was ready, and we carried it to the comrades, but the mood was heavy. News had arrived of Karima Baloch’s death in Canada. Everyone was in shock, but I vividly remember Umar Jan’s quiet words: “If Karima had embraced martyrdom in Balochistan, she would have been even more beloved to me.”
A few days later, during one of our weekly study circles, Umar Jan spoke about the Tamil Tigers and the significant role women played in their movement. His conclusion echoed in my ears long after: “If I can fight, why not my sister? Why not my mother?” These words were not mere rhetoric; they were a call to action.
That night, it was our turn for guard duty. As the freezing temperature dipped below zero, we shared a single blanket. The fire refused to light, and Umar Jan eventually fell asleep without the blanket. When I woke and saw him shivering, I called his name several times, but he didn’t respond. Panicking, I placed the entire blanket over him and sat by his side, lighting a cigarette to calm my nerves. Hours later, he finally woke up.
We both had plans to go to Bolan together for the battlefields. War, however, spares no one from its unpredictability. Decisions, plans, even lives—all hang by a thread.
Before we parted ways, we met Sangat Basheer Zeb Baloch. The discussions veered toward the role of women in militancy, and he shared stories of Karima Baloch, the first chairperson of the BSO Azad. I asked him about the BLA’s stance on women’s participation, and he replied, “I’d be proud if a Baloch woman also undertakes self-sacrificing missions.”
Weeks later, it was time for me to leave for Bolan. Before sunrise, I hugged Umar Jan for what would unknowingly be the last time. His words lingered in my heart: “Ruksat aff Awarun Sangat.” His words were a promise, a hope for a reunion that war would never allow.
Months passed. While imprisoned, a soldier taunted me repeatedly about my comrades’ actions, claiming they targeted innocents. One day, he mentioned a “suicide” attack. When I asked who had carried it out, he said the name Sirbuland. My world crumbled. The news hit me like a storm—waves of anger, pride, grief, and love crashing over me.
After 192 days in prison, I was released. The first thing I did was search online for confirmation. There it was—Umar Jan, Fidayee Sirbuland, had carried out a self-sacrificing attack on a convoy of Chinese engineers in Gwadar on August 21. I learned this a month later, on September 20, from that soldier in the prison.
A friend later shared Umar Jan’s final message with me. “If he returns, give him my greetings,” he had said, knowing well the weight of those words. Umar Jan had also written about my abduction—an article I read after my release.
Years have passed, but not a single day goes by without thinking of him. His memories remain vivid, his presence lingering in my solitude. He was my companion on cold nights of war, the friend who shared cigarettes, and a beloved soul who lives on in my heart.
Some bonds transcend time, and some losses echo forever. Umar Jan was not just a comrade—he was a piece of my soul. December will always remind me of him—a season of sacrifice, a month of memories, and the enduring legacy of those who gave everything for freedom.
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.