Written by Murtaza Baloch
Bahad Baloch was only eight years old when he first heard the name Balochistan Liberation Front (BLF). It was a freezing January night in Mashkay, Balochistan. He and his family sat around a bonfire, sharing stories from their day. His eldest brother, Assad, kept everyone laughing with his jokes. The warmth of the fire, along with steaming cups of Siah Chah (black tea in Balochi), made the night feel comforting.
Amidst their laughter, a massive explosion shattered the moment, followed by rounds of gunfire. The ground trembled beneath them. The sheer intensity of the blast sent shivers down Bahad’s spine. It was the first time their village had heard such a loud explosion.
“Don’t move!” Doda Aslam, Bahad’s father, commanded when Bahad instinctively tried to step outside. He knew the risks and instructed the family to stay indoors as long as the gunfire raged.
For a moment, silence filled the room—an eerie, unsettling silence. Fear and uncertainty hung in the air. Bahad sat frozen, his legs warmed by the fire, but his mind raced with questions.
“They are the fighters of the Balochistan Liberation Front,” Doda Aslam said, his voice steady and filled with pride. “They’re attacking the army barracks.”
The barracks were barely a stone’s throw from their home. Bahad had often seen the uniformed men patrolling, stopping villagers, demanding identification. He had always known they were outsiders. But until now, he had never questioned why they were there.
Doda Aslam continued, “The BLF is an armed Baloch organization fighting for the independence of Balochistan.”
The word independence struck Bahad like a bolt of lightning. It clung to his thoughts, refusing to leave. That night, he lay awake, the echoes of gunfire mingling with his father’s words. Independence. Freedom. What did it truly mean?
The next day at school, the question still burned in his mind. His school was three kilometers from home, but even as he walked, he was lost in thought. He wanted to ask someone—someone who could explain.
Sir Shafiq, his Balochi teacher, was the only one who came to mind. He was different from the other teachers—patient, kind, always encouraging students to ask questions. However, Bahad was hesitant to approach Sir Shafiq, fearing he might be reprimanded for asking a question that wasn’t part of the syllabus
For three days, Bahad wrestled with his curiosity, hesitating to approach Sir Shafiq. Finally, on the fourth day, he could no longer hold back. He decided to approach Sir Shafiq’s office, hoping to get answers to his questions. After mustering up the courage, Bahad knocked on Sir Shafiq’s door, finding him engrossed in a Balochi book.
With a mix of excitement and nervousness, Bahad prepared to ask Sir Shafiq about the meaning of “freedom” and the “BLF”
Bahad nervously asked, “May I come in, sir?” His voice trembled as he felt the ground beneath him squeeze. This was his first time approaching a teacher in their office. Sir Shafiq, known for being different from other teachers, welcomed Bahad with a friendly tone.
“Come in, Bahad,” Sir Shafiq said, offering him a wooden chair with a small cushion. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Bahad declined, but Sir Shafiq’s kindness helped ease his nerves.
“Do you have a question?” Sir Shafiq asked.
Bahad hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, “Sir, what is freedom? Why is the BLF fighting for it? Will they win?”
A heavy silence filled the room. Sir Shafiq’s expression softened, but his eyes carried a weight that Bahad did not yet understand.
“The Balochistan Liberation Front,” he began, “is an armed organization fighting for the independence of Balochistan. It was founded by Dr. Allah Nizar, a leader in the struggle against the colonization of our land.”
He leaned forward, his voice quieter but firm. “For over seventy years, we, the Baloch people, have been subjugated. Our land is rich—blessed with minerals, gas, and a vast coastline. Yet, we live in poverty while our resources are taken. Balochistan is home to Mehrgarh(The treasure of love), one of the world’s oldest civilizations, but we are treated as if we have no history, no voice.”
Bahad listened intently.
“Our land gives us our identity,” Sir Shafiq said. “Without it, we are nothing. That is why we fight—not just for resources, but for our dignity, our existence. Without freedom, we are nameless, invisible to the world.”
The words settled deep in Bahad’s heart. Over the next month, he frequently visited Sir Shafiq’s office, discussing freedom, colonization, and the struggle of their people. Meanwhile, the explosions, gunfire and destruction continued in his village. The elders whispered that BLF fighters were targeting enemy forces.
Yet, these conversations with Sir Shafiq remained a secret. No other teachers knew.
When winter break was announced, Bahad felt disappointed. Three months away from school meant three months without their discussions. At home, he worked in the fields with his father, but at night, as the bonfires crackled, his mind wandered back to freedom. Yet, he kept his thoughts to himself.
After the vacations, Bahad eagerly returned to school. On the first day, he arrived early, excited to meet Sir Shafiq. However, when he reached the school gate, he found it locked. He waited an hour before other students arrived, embracing each other after the long break.
During the morning PT session, he scanned the crowd, searching for Sir Shafiq—but he was nowhere to be found.
He assumed his teacher would return the next day. But days passed. Then weeks. And still, there was no sign of him.
Bahad asked everyone—other teachers, staff, students—but no one had an answer.
One afternoon, while resting beneath a large tree in the schoolyard, he overheard two classmates, Aslam and Ali, whispering. They mentioned Sir Shafiq’s name, and he quickly approached them.
“What happened?” Bahad asked, his voice urgent. “Did you say something about Sir Shafiq? “Where is he? Why isn’t he coming?”
Aslam and Ali exchanged uneasy glances. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, Aslam finally answered.
“Sir Shafiq is gone.”
Bahad’s stomach tightened. “Gone where?”
Aslam hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he said, “He’s joined the Balochistan Liberation Front to fight for our lost freedom.”
Bahad stood still. The world around him blurred. He looked like a statue, unsure of how to react. But then, the memories of the conversations with Sir Shafiq rushed back—the discussions of freedom, identity, and resistance. The words that had once been lessons were now a reality.
Sir Shafiq hadn’t just spoken of freedom. He had left to fight for it.
And for the first time, Bahad understood.
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.