Written by Sayad Hasil
Wars are cruel, but wars imposed upon an innocent land are crueller than any calamity. When I first opened my eyes, my homeland was already shrouded in the dark shadows of war. My childhood memories are marked by a relentless struggle—a journey from innocence to awareness.
As a child, I left my birthplace, hoping to find a sanctuary in Turbat, a place of education and opportunity. Instead, I found walls adorned with revolutionary slogans, a city alive with the hum of resistance. School holidays were not for celebrations but for wheel-jam strikes and protests. The air was thick with the chants of freedom and justice.
One day during a school break, I saw a rally from behind the walls. Red flags of student organizations waved high, and voices cried for a better future. The language center where I learned English became a place of mourning when our teacher’s abduction turned into the discovery of his tortured body. Nights were filled with the echoes of explosions and gunfire, mornings with the grim news of yet another loss.
Yet, amid all this, I fell deeply in love with Turbat. Its resilience, its unyielding spirit, and its defiance against oppression captured my heart. The city breathed rebellion, and its streets were lined with stories of courage.
In 2012, I joined my first public rally at Fida Ahmed Chowk, standing against the injustices inflicted by the FC. A year later, I marched again, this time in a massive rally led by the Baloch National Front. That was when I first saw Karima Baloch—a symbol of strength, sacrifice, and hope. Her voice echoed across the mountains, inspiring thousands to rise against tyranny.
Turbat was not just a city; it was a symbol of resistance. From the fiery spirit of Fida Ahmed to the unwavering determination of Karima Baloch and Sumayya, the city stood tall against all odds. It was a beacon for those who dared to dream of freedom and justice.
But when I returned after five years, I could barely recognize my beloved city. It was no longer the Turbat I knew—the Turbat that fought back, the Turbat that inspired. The streets felt alien, the people distant, and the once-vibrant city was suffocated by militarization. I walked its streets with unease, longing for the days when it pulsed with life and resistance.
And yet, I dream.
I dream of a Turbat where children laugh freely in the streets, unburdened by the weight of war. A Turbat where the night is silent, not with fear but with peace. Where the mountains of Balochistan echo with songs of joy, not cries of pain.
May the winds of peace blow through the valleys of Turbat, and may its walls no longer bear the scars of oppression but murals of hope. Let the sun rise over the city, not with the shadows of despair but with rays of unity and prosperity.
Turbat, the city of resistance, may one day become a city of joy, where freedom is not a chant but a reality, and justice is not a dream but the foundation of its future. Until that day, I will carry its spirit in my heart, a reminder that even in the darkest times, hope persists.
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.