Written by Shubeen Baloch
In the desolate Dasht region of Dahdeh, a small, innocent, and impoverished family lived—a father, Murad, who toiled as a farmer in a neighbor’s field; a mother, Zargull; and their only son, Raahchar. He was the light of his parents’ lives, especially his mother’s. Zargull adored Raahchar and shielded him from the outside world, never allowing him to explore the lands of his own birthplace.
The region was plagued by constant turmoil—clashes between armed groups and relentless search operations by state forces seeking rebels, whom they accused the villagers of harboring. These operations often targeted young boys, subjecting them to harassment and brutality. Fearing for her son’s safety, Zargull forbade Raahchar from wandering beyond the confines of their home, restricting him to school and back.
As he grew older, Raahchar’s curiosity deepened. Questions swirled in his mind—Why am I not allowed to see my own land? What are those explosions and gunshots I hear every night before I sleep? He often sought answers from his mother, but she only told him to focus on his studies, dismissing his inquiries as beyond his understanding.
Time passed, and Raahchar reached his final year of school. One day, while taking his matriculation exam, a thunderous blast echoed through the school walls. Chaos erupted—the explosion had struck a military camp nearby, and soon after, rebels claimed responsibility for the attack. Panic consumed the students as they scattered in all directions. Raahchar, gripped by fear and concern for his mother, grabbed his books and rushed home.
As he ran through the streets, desperation in his steps, a group of security forces stationed near the military camp spotted him. Seeing his hurried pace, they suspected him of being involved in the attack. Without warning, a bullet tore through Raahchar’s chest. He collapsed, his books slipping from his hands, his feet no longer carrying him toward home—toward Zargull.
Villagers, drawn by the gunshot, rushed to the scene. At first, the boy’s identity was unrecognizable, his body lifeless on the cold earth. Then, among the scattered pages, someone picked up a book with his name inscribed on the front: Raahchar, son of Murad. A wave of grief swept through the crowd as they realized who he was—the boy raised with so much love and care, now gone in an instant.
Meanwhile, at home, Zargull sat by the door, gazing at the path Raahchar always took home from school, waiting for her son. When the villagers arrived carrying his lifeless body, they hesitated to break the tragic news. But when she finally learned the truth, shock gripped her. She refused to believe it. As neighbors wept and mourned, Zargull sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the road.
Days turned into weeks, but Zargull never moved on. She became lost in a world of delusion, repeating the same words—Raahchar is at school. He will return home one day. But Raahchar never returned.
(A fictional story depicting the life of a Baloch)
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