By Umair Baloch
Whether you traveled a long route by sea and land, crossing borders one after another, or boarded a flight straight from your homeland, your journey to a safer country was driven by the hope of protection, economic stability, and better social conditions. You covered this distance in pursuit of a better life and the chance to chase your dreams. But one day, when you are told that you are no longer wanted in the land of your dreams, the impact can be devastating. The effect can be even more severe when your sole intention was protection rather than a lavish life.
Many were worried last week when an ethnic Baloch activist from Pakistan, seeking refuge in Germany, was arrested for deportation. Sympathizers and members of various Baloch political parties in Germany took to the streets of Ingelheim on August 30, 2025, to protest his pre-deportation arrest. The demonstration had been called by Soligruppe Inga, a Mainz-based independent group opposing the incarceration and extradition of asylum seekers. Like many others, I also participated, hoping that the deportation order against the Baloch activist would be revoked, as I knew what awaited him if he were forced back to Pakistan. However, I did not realize that the group’s main purpose was to commemorate the deaths of refugees who, over the last four decades, had either succumbed to physical and psychological injuries or committed suicide during their pre-deportation detentions.
Having little information about the event and motivated solely by the call to stop the deportation of a Baloch activist, I expected to see more Baloch activists than Germans. Upon arriving at Ingelheim’s central transport station, the atmosphere appeared quite normal, as if the meeting point was still further ahead. Meanwhile, I noticed some Baloch men standing near a train platform. “They must have come from different parts of Rhineland-Palatinate, one of Germany’s 16 federal states,” I thought. I recognized one of the men, whom I had met before, and he introduced me to the others. They were Baloch from different parts of Balochistan, each carrying his own story of escape. After a brief exchange, a man wearing a six-panel high-profile cap, like those favored by rappers, approached us and said we should get on the bus and travel a few minutes to the rally’s meeting point.
With no prior knowledge of the location and uncertain whether anyone else knew, I boarded the bus with the others. After a few stops, we reached the venue. We got off and followed Google Maps to the precise location. Yet when we arrived, the place was deserted. “Did they cancel the demonstration? Or did everyone leave when they saw no one else?” I wondered. We started searching online and calling contacts at Caritas, a welfare association, to figure out what had happened. After several unsuccessful calls, we discovered that Caritas was not the organizer at all. “If not Caritas, then who organized it?” a protester asked, fueling speculation that the event might have been postponed. Suddenly, someone received a call: “Where are you? The rally has already started near Ingelheim’s central station,” a fellow activist informed us.
Since the next bus was an hour away, we decided to walk back to the station. After about 20 minutes, we arrived near the central station where the marchers were making their way forward. “We missed the opening ceremony,” someone whispered. It was a large rally, mostly attended by locals. The streets echoed with slogans like “Refugees are welcome!” and “Stop deportations of asylum seekers!” Police escorted the marchers from all sides. One by one, we merged into the demonstration, raising our voices in solidarity with asylum seekers.
The march first paused in front of the main entrance of the immigration office (Ausländerbehörde) in Ingelheim, where participants observed a minute of silence in memory of those who had died during pre-deportation detention or after their forced returns. As the names of the victims were read aloud, I sensed grief ripple through the crowd. At the vigil, candles were lit and flowers were laid on banners mourning the dead. After some time, it was time to continue toward the final destination, the deportation center (Abschiebehaft) in Ingelheim.
The detention center stood on the outskirts of the city. After passing through residential areas and following a narrow lane, the first glimpses of its massive walls appeared before us. The fortification seemed to draw a stark line between us, the free, and them, the imprisoned. “What must life be like behind these walls, with movement and sight so heavily restricted?” I wondered.
As an immigrant myself, I have witnessed the hardships that migrants endure in pursuit of academic, career, or economic aspirations. Yet when it comes to seeking refuge, the struggle becomes far more dire, and when it ends in deportation, life itself can collapse under the weight of psychological despair. One such case was that of Cemal Kemal Altun, who fled his home country, Turkey, in 1983 to seek political asylum in what was then West Berlin, Germany. Although he was granted asylum, the Turkish government demanded his extradition. In order not to jeopardize the friendly bilateral relations between West Germany and Turkey, a Berlin administrative court decided in favor of extradition. At the time, Altun was just 23 years old and had already spent 13 months in a deportation detention center. To escape deportation and the prospect of torture in Turkey, he leapt to his death from a courtroom window in West Berlin on August 30, 1983. His death is now observed every year on August 30 by human rights groups across Germany. Yet his loss failed to draw sufficient attention to German policies concerning immigration and deportation.
The marchers made every effort to ensure their voices reached behind the walls of the detention center in Ingelheim, to show solidarity with the detainees and ease their distress. A pre-recorded message in support of the prisoners and against deportation laws was played in several languages so that everyone could understand. Meanwhile, Baloch activists also shared their thoughts in English and German, recalling the stories of several Baloch who had faced enforced disappearances or arrests at the hands of Pakistani security forces, many of them taken from Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport.
Dost Mohammad Baloch, whose family I personally know, was abducted at Karachi airport in February 2012 while preparing to depart for Muscat, Oman. His whereabouts remain unknown to this day. In another case, Naeem and Qaboos Baloch, two low-profile activists, disappeared from Karachi airport on July 30, 2016, after requesting voluntary deportation from German authorities due to the hardships they faced in Germany.
Reports of security personnel at Karachi airport harassing ethnic Baloch have circulated in media outlets for years. Many men from Balochistan work in the Arabian Gulf as laborers and serve as the sole breadwinners for their families. Yet when they return to Pakistan for vacations, they face the risk of enforced disappearance. They are often arrested as suspects or targeted merely for being relatives of people accused of political activities the federal government deems criminal. Shakar Khan Baloch is one such case. He was forcibly disappeared at Karachi airport on February 9, 2024.
Moreover, Rashid Hussain Baloch has been missing since 2018, after being deported to Pakistani authorities from the UAE. One of his relatives, Abdul Hafeez Muhammad Ramzan, a businessman from Zehri in Balochistan, was detained by UAE authorities in January 2022. He was later deported to Pakistan and, by May 2022, was seen in Karachi Central Prison. His case has raised further concerns about the treatment of Baloch individuals in the UAE and their subsequent deportation to Pakistan. In yet another case, Asad Baloch was deported from Bahrain on August 28, 2024. He has not been produced before any court and remains missing.
The cases of Baloch activists and Cemal Kemal Altun are stark reminders of the human cost of deportation. These individuals fled persecution, violence, and systemic injustice in their homelands, seeking safety and the opportunity to live with dignity. Yet when the countries that promised protection turn their backs, the consequences can be fatal, both physically and psychologically. Deportation is not just an administrative act; for refugees and asylum seekers, it can mean a return to fear, torture, or even death. Germany, as a nation that values human rights, must ensure that its immigration policies do not silence the voices of the vulnerable or turn safe havens into deathtraps. Protecting those who seek refuge is not merely a legal obligation; it is a moral imperative.
The writer is a journalist and a postgraduate at a German university. He can be reached at sky.land66@yahoo.com
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.