By Shahab Baloch
He took an oath when he was still young, an oath spoken quietly under the open sky of Balochistan. There was no crowd to witness it and no uniform to mark him as a soldier. There was only the land beneath his feet and the belief that freedom was worth more than comfort, more than safety, more even than life itself. He promised to serve his nation until his last breath, until the land he loved was no longer occupied and the people no longer silenced.
He left his home with nothing but conviction. The mountains became his shelter, their sharp edges cutting into his skin and his soul. Days passed with empty stomachs, and nights stretched long under freezing winds. Hunger became a familiar companion. So did thirst, sickness, pain, and fear. He learned to walk silently, to listen more than he spoke, to survive on hope when food ran out. Every scar on his body carried a memory of sacrifice. Every breath he took felt borrowed from the future he dreamed of for his people.
Years slipped away unnoticed. Seasons changed, and villages forgot the faces of the boys who had left. In the mountains, time did not move in days or months. It moved in losses and small victories, in comrades buried without names, in letters never sent home. Yet he never questioned his path. Freedom, he believed, was slow but inevitable.
When he finally returned, it was not in triumph. He returned thinner, quieter, older than his age. The world he came back to felt unfamiliar. Streets had changed. Faces had hardened. People spoke in whispers now, afraid of being heard. He expected understanding, maybe even gratitude. Instead, he found suspicion.
They did not ask about the hunger he endured or the sickness he survived. They did not ask about the friends he buried in shallow graves. They remembered only one thing: he had left the war.
They called him a traitor. They said he had abandoned the struggle. They said real fighters never return. His years of sacrifice were erased by a single moment of return. Words cut deeper than bullets. Each accusation felt like another wound, one that no medicine could heal. He learned then that a nation can forget its fighters long before it forgets its enemies.
He did not defend himself. He had grown tired of explaining pain to those who had never tasted it. Instead, he found other ways to serve. Quiet ways. He carried messages, sheltered the hunted, shared what little he had with families who had lost sons to the same cause. Even when broken, he remained loyal. Even when misunderstood, he refused to surrender his belief.
The woman he loved watched all of this in silence. She had loved him since they were young, since before the mountains claimed him. When he left, she waited. At first, waiting was filled with hope. Every distant sound felt like his return. Every rumor carried his name. As years passed, hope softened into patience, then into something heavier.
Many came asking for her hand. She refused them all. Not because she believed he would surely return, but because her heart had already chosen and did not know how to choose again. Her love was quiet and stubborn. She lived her life with dignity, caring for her family, growing older with grace. People whispered about her too. They said she was wasting her life. They said love does not feed a household. She listened and said nothing.
When he and the woman finally crossed paths again, there were no grand words. They stood facing each other, both changed, both carrying the weight of years apart. They did not speak of marriage. They did not speak of the past. Their eyes said enough. Love does not always need a future to be real.
As time passed, his health began to fail. The mountains had taken their toll. Old injuries returned with vengeance. Nights grew longer, and pain refused to leave him. Still, he remained involved in the struggle. Even when his body weakened, his spirit did not. He believed freedom was larger than one man, larger than recognition.
In the end, he died not as a celebrated hero, but as a quiet servant of his nation. There were no flags, no speeches, no official mourning. A few stood by his grave. The woman he loved was among them. She did not cry loudly. Her grief was deep and private, like her love had always been.
She never married. Not out of tragedy alone, but out of loyalty. Her life became a testimony of silent resistance, just like his. While others measured success in families and wealth, she measured it in faithfulness. People forgot his name with time. They forgot the details of his fight. But she remembered everything.
History is often cruel to those who give everything without asking for anything in return. Fighters are praised when they are useful and discarded when they are inconvenient. Love stories like theirs are rarely written because they do not end neatly. Yet somewhere in the soil of Balochistan, their sacrifices remain. Not in monuments, but in memory, in silence, in the quiet strength of those who continue to hope.
He died serving his nation. She lived honoring that service. And between them exists a story not of glory, but of truth, endurance, and a love that refused to surrender.
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.