By Ganjal Baloch
Dear Shari, the Sher Zaal’ made of silk and blood, of bravery and flowers, all at once.
It is 3:57 pm, April 12, 2026. And as I sit here in my room, I realize that April is once again slipping through my grasp, fading into the distance. I must write to you now, before my hesitation and laziness steal this month from me completely, and this letter becomes a fragment lost in time. Since your martyrdom, I have come to feel that April belongs to you—weaving into the fabric of your name. And above all, it reminds me of you. Always.
Last night, I promised myself that I would write to you. Yet here I am, faltering, as the days weigh heavily on me. My body feels drained, my mind restless, caught in the space between thought and silence. Words fail me, and you know better than anyone that when it comes to you, I am always speechless. In these moments, I feel as though only blood can speak the depth of your sacrifice. No language, no literature could ever do justice to you, to what you embodied.
I mention the time because, last night, I had a vision of how this letter should begin. But today, I start here. I opened Twitter for a brief moment, and the first post I saw was a shared paragraph from TBP—an excerpt from an article by Dr. Haibtaan Bashir, your Haibtaan. It was about another mother, much like you, who too left behind her nine-year-old son. The words spoke of a fleeting moment, a breath, as Fidayee Yasma prepared for her mission while her nine-year-old son slept, unaware. I didn’t read any further. Something inside me couldn’t bear it.
I have lost my heart these days, Sharu. Instead of reading on, I chose to write to you. For in my eyes, you are always the symbol of courage. And now, in this small act, I find a brief spark of bravery in myself, for I can still write to you.
It is now 4:06 pm. And so, I stop here. I told you, I feel weak these days.
Shari jaanaa’
It is now April 17th, and the clock reads 4:27 am on my screen. I must confess, sleep, as it often does, has abandoned me. I lie awake, thoughts spiraling in endless circles, as April pulses through my veins, relentless. I had promised myself rest, but the thoughts come unbidden, as though they have found a way inside me. And so, here I am again, compelled to write to you. I wrote to you on the 12th, and now, on the 17th, I return to you. It feels as though I am drifting, suspended between time and memory, lost somewhere in between. But in some quiet corner of my heart, I believe you would understand this feeling.
This is my third letter to you now, and at this hour, I no longer wish to speak of your bravery again. It feels like a repetition that does no justice to you. You are what you are—your truth remains timeless, unshaken by the passage of days and years. It is that truth that carries on, far beyond words.
My dearest Shari,
By now, I believe there are countless lights, sounds, and laughter surrounding you. I imagine Summaiya’s innocent eyes gazing at you, Mahal’s laughter filling the air, Mahganj’s strength standing resolute beside you, Zarina’s fiery gaze burning with unyielding purpose, and Droshum’s grace drifting gently on the breeze. Ah, Shari, one must not compare, yet this young woman—God, she is a force. I find myself unable to capture her essence in words. I recall the footage from the day of Herof 2, and there she was—Droshum—holding a rifle with such fearlessness, such strength, and despite it all, such beauty. My breath stopped at that moment. She stands eternal, just as you do, bound to the philosophy of the last bullet.
And Maryam Buzdar—how can I speak of her? Her husband, Rashid Buzdar, was martyred months before, yet she returned to the cause with the same fire, the same love for this land. Maryam, still so young, still filled with promise, her life once rich with color—yet war stole Rashid from her. Rashid, whom we called Meeral. But even then, she came back to the cause, determined in her loyalty, not just to the land but to him, to her beloved Rashid. What else can I say, Shari? I don’t know. The words fail me.
‘Lumma’ Hatam Naz, and ‘Lumma’ Bani—two elderly women, each carrying the weight of this land in their hearts, their wounds cradled in their laps as they sit beside you, whispering the stories of our wretched land since your departure. Perhaps now, you all are sitting together, sharing your silent reflections, wondering who will join you next.
Shari jaan, We have heard tales of Baloch men leaving for war and never returning. But this war—this current phase of Balochistan’s fight for liberation has shattered every notion we once held. It has turned everything on its head, redefined all that we knew, even the boundaries of life and death. It has transformed gender roles. In Operation Herof 2, Hatam Naaz, at sixty, carried out a fidayeen mission with her son, Saif Jan. And Lumma Bani, whose husband, Dur Mohammad Sumalani, was martyred in 2022, continued his legacy in 2026. Then there is young Droshum, who bears the weight of her father’s absence—the same father snatched away by this war. And now, she, too, upheld this war of liberation.
Shari, my dearest Shari, Yasma and her husband, Waseem—both becoming fidayeen in the same moment, their love dissolving into the very essence of this struggle, only to be reborn in the fire of sacrifice. Oh, what a moment that must have been. Two lovers, two partners, their bodies pierced at the same time, eyes locked on the enemy. Who could imagine such a moment? Two souls, giving their lives for a tomorrow they would never see, while beside them, a nine-year-old remains.
How do I speak of this, Shari? How do I write about it?
Dearest, I am not romanticizing war. One must never do so. I have always cherished beauty, peace, and the simpler things in life. But who doesn’t? We did not choose this war—perhaps, it chose us. When survival hangs by a thread, war becomes the only path that leads to peace. And for that, I wonder—how many lives? How many more hearts will be torn, pierced, and left to bleed in agony? How merciless, how ugly, how devastating this war is—and yet, we have no choice but to carry it forward, to continue the fight.
I remember, once, someone told me that when you were leaving for your mission, you kept staring at your little son, Meero. And all you said was, “If I ever get a chance, I will carry Meero back in my womb again.” Then, on the night of your departure, you turned to Maho, your little daughter. You told her you were leaving. You embraced her tightly, and as she begged, “Don’t leave, mother,” all you uttered was, “Pakistan Allah tara tabba bekant, tao mara esh halatha aaortag.”
I feel a sharp pain in my head now. Dawn is breaking slowly, the first light seeping in, and I must stop. My vision is blurring, and the weight of it all presses heavily upon me. I will continue tomorrow, God willing.
17 April: 2:08 pm, Dear Shari, Dear Sher Zaal
I sip my chai, though it feels strangely out of place, for I am restless, disturbed by a picture I saw on social media. It was of Marwan from Paroom, Panjgur, a young boy forcibly disappeared by Pakistani forces on April 5, 2026. Then, yesterday, on April 16, his mutilated body was found, along with three others. I then saw his picture before his death, such a handsome boy, full of life, and then I saw his lifeless body. A small bullet hole caught my eye, right in his chest. But that wasn’t what troubled me the most. It was his finger. One of his fingers had been taken, torn from his hand with merciless brutality that seemed beyond comprehension. I could see the half-remaining flesh, the broken and burned remnants of his fingers.
I stop here, Shari. You know I have no heart left for this anymore.
18 April, 12:12 am
Dear Shari, tonight, a strange sadness weighs heavily on me, like the cold shadow of hopelessness, as I scroll through social media and see the face of a friend now forcibly disappeared. A wave of shame washes over me, and I realize how powerless I am—powerless to help him, powerless to speak out for his release. And then, the truth strikes me hard: there are too many friends, too many people I hold dear, and yet I can do so little for them. That’s what war does—it gives power to those who choose it, while offering only helplessness to those like us. We become mere witnesses, struggling to hold on, hoping that by some twist of fate, we might somehow cling to the line of power you and all those brave-hearts hold.
12:16 am, Sharuli, Just four minutes into writing, and already I must stop. How strange this mind has become, Shari. How alien my own thoughts feel to me now.
It’s now 1:03 am, and I sit here wondering what else to share with you.
By now it’s 3:37 am. I had started writing earlier, around 1, when I first thought about writing. But then, a dear friend came online—a notification pinged on my phone and I stopped writing. The smile on my face grew wider, because it had been over a month or two since we last spoke. He’s in the mountains, a freedom fighter, a sarmachar. And for a while, all the sadness just lifted, because these brave hearts, they are our beloved. When they return, it’s like the first drop of rain on the parched soil of the heart. For a moment, everything eases.
We were talking, and now when I’m typing this. He’s still online, talking, but I’m writing because I don’t want to miss these moments. After all, it’s April, and you must know this too.
We were talking, and I told him, “It’s 3:40 am, you should sleep now.” He replied, “After such a long conversation, it’s worth staying up.” I asked, “When will you wake up tomorrow?” He said, “At 6 am.” I told him to sleep. And now, at 3:43 am, he told me he’s going to sleep, but maybe by morning, when he comes online, I might be offline. With a heavy heart, I told him, “May Allah protect you and all of the brave hearts.”
It’s 3:47 am now, and he’s still laughing at my joke. I’m funny most of the time—if I’m not crying, then yeah, hahah. Anyway, after that, he went offline.
Shari, while we were talking, I asked if any of his companions were people he knew. He wondered why I asked, and I told him I just wanted to know you weren’t bored. He said, yes, there were a few he already knew, and then he said, “No, I’m not bored like you.” I asked him, “Why do you think I’m bored?” And he replied, “I know you’re bored.” I told him, “Yeah, these days I feel so alone.”
Well, I didn’t tell him the whole truth about how wretched I feel these days. Most of my friends, my dearest, most beloved people, have joined this war of liberation. Most of the time, I either miss them or worry about their safety. And in either case, it’s just hopeless, you know? Because we know the art of war—it just takes, and that’s it.
Shari, I also told him, “Yes, my friends are you people, and all of you have gone for ‘Inquilab’.” He laughed and said, “Tao shar nbey.” I don’t know how to translate that into English, so I’ll leave it here. He told me, “Yes, our time was so short.” And I couldn’t help but think about how the people who are so dear to us—one day, we realize they’re offline. How do we know they’ve gone to the mountains? How silently, how right in front of our eyes, do they leave, without ever letting us realize that perhaps, this is the last meeting? Once they go, we know there’s no coming back from there.
How handsome, how beautiful these people are, and how challenging the path they’ve chosen. How their bodies are torn apart, how we never know if they even have a grave. How this war is—how many heads, how many precious lives, how many legendary stories—who knows? What kind of heart do they carry? What is it in those mountains? I don’t know, Shari. It’s just driving me crazy. My mind is working like a machine—different tabs open, none of them with an answer. My eyes blink at the thought of your two kids and your decision of self-sacrifice. Not yours alone, but of hundreds.
It’s 4:00 am, and I stop here.
My mind worked so fast and furious that I stopped writing and just wanted to sleep. Sleep, bloody sleep—it’s so personal to me, it never comes.
It’s 4:51 am now, and the only thought that keeps coming to me is that someday, Shari, you’ll hear I’ve died. And may Allah forbid, if by any chance it wasn’t a death like yours or your other companions, just consider me your companion too. Don’t think I wasn’t brave enough, or weak enough. No, it’s not like that. Just consider it that perhaps I was even bad luck in death. I stop here at 4:53 am.
Shari, it’s now 5:19 am, and I realize how I’ve lost most of my friends. Now, I wait for days, for weeks, for months, just to get a single text from them. Sometimes, they’re in a hurry and go back offline for months. Other times, they’re online for a day or two, and that’s a relief. At least I know they’re alive, at least I know they’re fine.
Dear Shari, it’s 19 April, 1:17 am
and I imagine your face and grace as a field of sunflowers, radiant and full of warmth. It’s not that any sacrifice is lesser or greater. I’ve mentioned so many names: women, young, wives, mothers, fiancées, sisters, daughters. But there’s something about you that doesn’t leave. You know, because that’s where it all began. That’s where it was born. You gave birth to that vision—the vision of women equal in war. That’s how it is, and that’s how you will forever remain timeless. The first Baloch female jend nadr ‘fidayeen’ of the Baloch war of liberation.
Shari, it’s April 22nd, 2026, and the time is 1:42 am.
I don’t even know what I’ve written here. I’m just conflicted, wondering whether I should send it to you or keep it for myself.
I almost decided to leave this letter as it is, but then I received such devastating news: the martyrdom of someone whose name I can’t even bring myself to utter here. His name is so sacred that it would burn my tongue if I spoke it. A dear friend texted me, telling me to check TBP, and my heart just stopped. So many names flashed through my mind, wondering what had happened. Since he had sent an emoji of a broken heart, I knew something tragic had occurred. I checked TBP, and the news was about the identification of a sarmachar who had embraced martyrdom in the Zamuran operation. And in that moment, it felt as though the earth beneath my feet was slipping away.
I took a deep breath, connected to the VPN, opened the link… and I felt like life itself had been ripped from me. I was numb, so numb. It was Ustad’s name, my God. I read it three times, hoping there was a mistake, hoping it wasn’t him but it was him.
Ah, Shari, nothing in me is working anymore. How many beautiful and powerful souls have already gone, Shari, and how many more must follow? What will this war lead us to? I don’t know. But may this cowardly enemy of ours rot. We shall have no mercy. We shall not forgive them. We shall raze their homes and hunt them in their so-called safe havens.
Shari, I stop here.
It’s 24 April 2026, 12:27.
By now, I should have already stopped writing and sent this letter to TBP-English, but here I am, still stuck, uncertain whether to send it or not. Above all, I just want to cry, to let it all out. What a strange time this is, Shari. I can’t even cry at this hour. People are around me, but my head is exploding, and nothing feels right. My mind is trapped at the thought of the martyrdom of that great sangat, whom we all called Ustad. What a man of strength, and he truly will remain in power, eternally.
The friend I mentioned earlier came online today around 3 in the afternoon. He and Ustad both are the closest, the most dear, and it broke my heart when his notification appeared. This time, there was no smile on my face. My smile didn’t widen, it just sank. I don’t know, like a small child, I cried. When I managed to open his message, it was a voice note. In such a broken, raspy voice, he said, “I am not well.” He and I always shared jokes; he would remind me of my jokes, and I would make more, laughing together. But today, he was shattered. He told me life would never be the same after his loss. We kept consoling each other until we couldn’t anymore, and then we said, “Pakistan ey adyyyy ‘Masayy*****..” After all, life is never the same, Shari, in times of war. There’s only loss and endurance, to hear of corpses until we become one.
It’s now 1:19 am, Dear Sharul jaanaa’
Your martyrdom, and to all the warriors of Baloch land, who with their blood nourished this drought-stricken land with rain. I won’t speak of anything more. I want this letter to be the last with ink. For next year in April, if I write to you, let it be with my blood. Wish me luck.
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.