By Ganjal Baloch
I have no words to express you. The alphabets feel too small, too insufficient—as if some drought has fallen upon language itself whenever I try to form you in words.
And you know this too.
I remember my earlier letter. I began it after your martyrdom and finished it in April 2023. It took a year to write you back then. And since then, I never wrote again.
There’s only one reason:
You cannot be written.
And I repeat—
To write you, one must bleed too.
That’s it.
Dear Shari, it’s January 1st, 2025. The first day of the new year.
Okay, here’s a chuckle—what “new year,” really?
For us, a new year is just the calendar shifting. Another number. Another cycle of gathering more courage.
To bear more news of killings, of disappearances.
Sometimes we lose that courage.
Sometimes we pretend—tell ourselves it happens in war.
As the saying goes in Brahui, “jung andun marek.”
In the end, our lives are acts of building courage—
To receive corpses,
Until we become corpses ourselves.
Dear Shari,
It’s now January 5th. Just four days after the new year.
Another chuckle, again.
Like I told you before—for us, a new year means nothing.
Just the gaining and losing of courage.
That’s all it ever is.
Let me tell you where I am—seated in a car, on my way somewhere. A sangat sent me Hakkal’s statement, with a picture of Jend Nadr. Bahar.
Those young eyes—
Eyes that once must have held so many dreams, colors and promises.
He carried out yesterday’s attack in Turbat—Bahman, a bus, enemy soldiers.
He killed many.
To celebrate?
No. I cannot.
The pain shot straight into my throat—God, it stopped my breath.
Tears didn’t fall.
They just stayed in my mouth—raw and painful.
I cried, quietly, as if some desert heat had settled deep inside my chest.
I rolled down the window, tried to breathe.
The world outside kept moving, rushed and indifferent.
A rickshaw driver shouted at a biker.
A man in a fancy car cursed at a donkey cart blocking the road.
Everyone seemed desperate to reach somewhere.
And out there—our kungurs, the brave ones.
Their youth so radiant, their mothers didn’t dare look too long—afraid even their love might put nazar on them.
But these sons—
They carry explosives in their hearts.
Their bodies torn into pieces.
Many without a grave, without a coffin to hold them.
What a love.
What a brutal war.
And Shari—
You know what’s worse?
This is not the end.
This is not final.
The end is yet to come.
And then, I remember you.
And I try to console myself.
If a mother—
who is a whole world in herself—
can sacrifice herself for this end…
Then maybe—
maybe this end will come.
Maybe this end will stay.
Maybe it will haunt the enemy forever.
Dear Sharuli,
The bravest woman I’ve ever known.
It’s January 31st.
5:51 p.m.
I’m writing to you again—after January 5th.
One of my hands is injured. I’m on my way to see an orthopaedic doctor.
You know how traffic feels in these big cities—suffocating.
I’m stuck. No movement. No air.
The only thing I can do now is play Ustad Mir Ahmed’s songs,
just to forget this misery for a while.
And there it was—
“Ni Sharul.”
It wasn’t even in the playlist.
I was listening to something else. Then it came—unexpected, uninvited.
And it reminded me, of you, always.
So here I am.
Opened the Notes app on my phone, typing with one hand.
The other is bandaged. Can’t hold the phone properly.
Just painting the picture for you—
I’m sitting in a rickshaw,
listening to Mir Ahmed,
typing with my right hand.
And yes,
a small part of me is still worried someone might snatch the phone—
it’s happened before.
The rickshaw hasn’t moved.
The city is a mess of noise, dust, and January’s thick air filling my nostrils.
And above all—
in the middle of all this—
I have chosen to write to you.
Sharul jaan,
You know, that picture—it kills me.
Every time I see it on social media, I try to turn away. But it’s impossible, isn’t it?
You—holding your child in that final, deep embrace.
The kind of hug where it feels like you never want to let go,
but somehow, you know you must—
because there’s a land to fight for, a future to carve out,
a liberation we all dream of.
How many more generations will be wiped out before it comes?
I don’t know, Shari, but the pain of that hug…
It’s unbearable.
How does a mother let go like that?
To give a final hug, knowing she may never see her child again.
It’s a pain that doesn’t end—it becomes part of the soul,
woven into the fabric of this merciless war.
Dear Sharuli.
After that 31st of January, I didn’t write to you.
The selfish me, perhaps.
But too much happened in between—
and even though you passed through my mind,
the mind itself was too blocked to write.
We witnessed so many killings.
The enemy has begun targeted killings now.
Maybe that was enough to numb me altogether.
It’s 12:51 AM. April 4, 2025.
I feel like writing to you again.
After all, it’s April—
the month that carries your scent,
the scent of blood you left behind.
Okay—too heavy, right?
But you know… “scent of blood” is not just some poetic phrase.
It’s not a line I’m throwing in to sound profound.
No—it’s a scent, real and raw.
A scent that lingers.
And now, I’m sighing,
taking in a deep breath,
standing by the veranda,
the moon just above my head.
The breeze is cool.
But I won’t romanticize it.
I won’t say nature is beautiful just for the sake of beauty.
A little far off, some cats are meowing,
as if in an argument with each other.
And when the cats go quiet, the dogs begin to howl—
not near, but somewhere far.
Still, they echo here.
And I am still breathing.
Still breathing.
Maybe the cats have vanished now,
scared off by the distant howls.
But it is what it is.
Who knows the language of animals?
You must be thinking—
how foolish of this writer,
telling me all this nonsense.
But trust me,
their noise, and the whir of the fan that slows and speeds with power cuts—
this whole orchestra of midnight—
it just makes your memory sharper.
No other thought hits me—just you.
What should I write you?
I don’t know.
How to finish?
I don’t know.
What to say?
That too—I don’t know.
But I do know this:
Every sacrifice for the Baloch cause is a sacred one.
And still—
you.
You stay with me in ways that make me guilty.
Every breath I take,
every glimpse of life around me,
reminds me of you—
who gave it all.
Maybe it’s your womanhood.
Maybe it’s that you were the first Baloch woman – Jend Nadr.
Maybe it’s you as a wife.
But mostly—
it’s you as a mother of two little children…
and then leaving them.
That thought doesn’t leave me.
A mother—for a cause.
I don’t know how your children are now.
I don’t want to know.
That breaks me—
or anyone with even a thread of humanity.
But I’m not here to measure sacrifice.
Not yours. Not anyone’s.
Still—
you stay.
You haunt me, Sharul.
You make me guilty.
And now it’s 1:30 AM.
I’ll stop here.
The dogs are still howling.
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.