By Hayal Baloch
Waja, this land has become “یک پُل کِشتگیں کبريستانءِ” (a field of grave-flowers). Ustad, I know the sun will set and you won’t wake up in the morning anymore. But the flag! The flag you raised still stands honored, carrying your breath! Comrade, do you hear me while you are under “gulzameen’s” soil?
I remember a good man. His name was Ustad Shahkaram “Baloch,” but I always called him “Waja.” You remind me of the tearful April 22nd, 2026, at 8:43 PM.
Oh Shantul, I still dream of being you! I still cry “کور” (rivers) for you. Oh our fighter, come back. Gulzameen needs you! Needs your gun, needs your guerrillas…!
Oh our fighter, come back! Oh Shantul, who left his family, his happiness, whose clothes were torn, whose chest was soaked in blood, while Gulzameen’s mountains drank his sweat.
I said, “Waja pull”, I want to see you one last time before death claims me too. He replied, “انشالله، اگاں پلوچستان ازات پوں، ءُ من اگاں زِندگ بوتُ” (if Balochistan becomes free, if I live). A moment where my tears streamed down my face as I sent crying emojis. He then promised, “ من ترا گِندا زہر مابوں، الله هير كنت”. The words offered a pillow of comfort, but my heart remained broken. Anyhow, we talked and talked.
Before April 22nd 2026 at 8:43 PM, we talked in March. But then, after two weeks, I sent a text saying “ واجہ هـال كن” (Waja, how are you?). He didn’t reply. Then, on this day, before going to bed, I had a bad dream about “Waja,” where he was no more. Anyway, I ignored it. But my “Waja” hadn’t replied to me for weeks. I was waiting for days. And I kept on talking to myself.
Then came the tearful April 22nd 2026 at 8:43 PM. I received a post from “The Balochistan Post.” It was forwarded by someone I love. And in this news, it was your martyrdom. At that second, my tears and screams came out, felt like earth’s weight was thrown on my head. I lost my mind because you were the whole world itself. I’m already emotional, and you knew me. Then I prayed, and I continued crying, holding your picture and what you left for me. And I kept on talking to myself.
My ustad, oh comrade! Oh freedom fighter, I’m dead inside, I’m not myself anymore after your martyrdom. I cried to you, and now I have no shoulders to cry on! You always motivated me even while being in these hot mountains of “gulzamen”! How can you bear all of that? How can you bear my problems from within the ground? Are you a human, “mni waja,” or a god?
Yes! He knew freedom isn’t born from compromise or fear not today, not this year. We have the same right as anyone else to stand on our own two feet, to claim “chiltan’s” soil, to raise guerrillas. Gulzamen, do you hear me? We don’t need freedom when we are dead. We cannot live on tomorrow’s bread. We want freedom, comrades! soon.
Mni hambal, your small-hearted نودربد (student) was speaking with you just a few months ago. You sent a voice note asking, “How are you, banuk?” I said, “I am fine,” while I was crying inside. I asked you, ustad: “گوہرو آسلءَ رُخصت بوت؟” (Did Major Gohram really embrace martyrdom and leave us?). And what did you tell me? “ٹیٹ بوں” (Be strong). But i couldn’t. But even you were grieving, you loved “Gohro” with all your heart. Who was Major Gohro? A Baloch comrade. A freedom fighter. Ustad, of course, had feelings! He was human, after all. But this is a vast war. And still, he loved his land more than anything.
But will you come back to me? I was crying even then, because I already knew I would lose you one day too. He said, “ائی مزنءِ جنگءِ، ءُ ار چیز بيت” (This is a vast war, expect anything). I told him, “I can’t bear another wound.” And still, we talked and talked, as if words could hold back what was coming.
And then he spoke, and I spoke. He told me he rarely talks to anyone now, there’s little time, and the network barely reaches the huge mountains. I said, “If you’re not comfortable, I’ll stay quiet.” He replied, “No, I iam always here for my people.” So I spoke. I told him everything happening around. And we talked and talked, like two souls stealing time from a vast war.
My ustad, my brave man, my “waja”.
Ady mni mehrwani سرمچار (oh my beloved freedom fighter), who showed me the path, who taught me that bravery isn’t just words. It’s actions. I have learned from my ustad where we Baloch truly belong.
Comrades of Balochistan! Do you hear me?
I repeat: these little birds who left the earth for “Balochistan’s independence” left drops of blood! So that Pakistan’s (evil) chapter could end. A little more to go… a little more blood to bleed! Do you hear me, comrades? I repeat. Hear me!
“Kana mehrwani ustad” (my beloved comrade), it’s me, your “banuk” (dear). I’m racing other writers to write the most about you, to prove my love for you runs deeper than Gwadar’s sea.
Oh Gulzameen! Oh Commander shakoo jaan , your guerrillas are loved by us, but my love is unmatched! It’s stronger, my words are fighting to make you feel it. It’s a love that even my gone “abba jan” (beloved father) didn’t get it from me…!
Waja pull! Do you remember when you asked me how “qado” is? Let me tell you now! Every corner of “qado” burns us. There is nothing left but your memories. Comrade, can you hear me through the earth? Oh, Shantul! I still feel you breathing. I won’t and I can’t accept that you are gone! Oh, Freedom fighter, hear me!
My dearest comrades, I can’t go on.
I have to close this chapter. My heart and my hand are still in Zamuran, where Ustad’s blood was spilled. Writing about “waja” leaves me goosebumps.
I’m sorry, but I can’t continue. It feels like no one reaches out anymore. No one texts to ask, “How are you, Banuk?”
I will open my eyes from the shores, and read the names carved in my own soil. Learn from these fighters, these fearless, these great who walked among us.
But,
“I will remember the tearful April 22nd 2026. At 8:43 PM.”
Ohh waja mni! What am i without my land?
And what is my land without the ones I love?
اُستاد! تئی نودربر ترا هـر وڈے زمانگءَ يات كنت۔۔!
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.