2 weeks Ago By Firstpost
At the heart of Quetta, where chaos flows like a bloodstream through the city’s veins, lies Sandeman Provincial Hospital (Civil Hospital) — a lifeline for many and a graveyard for hope for others. With three gates always clattering open and shut, its most heavily used entrance opens out to Jinnah Road — a street that knows the footsteps of the grieving. Step through that gate and you enter the emergency wing, but it is not the urgency of life that overwhelms you.
It is what follows it. Behind the emergency rooms, tucked away on the side where the city turns its face, stands the hospital’s mortuary. A bare, pebbled stretch of land surrounds it.
No benches. No shelter. Just the wind, the dust, and the sharp, unmistakable smell of death.
That smell clings to the air so tightly that most who pass by instinctively clamp their hands over their mouths and noses. But not everyone. Some stay there — unmoved by the stench, untouched by the discomfort.
These are not visitors. They are family. They are waiting.
On the ground, they sit — fathers, mothers, brothers — waiting to see if the lifeless body behind that door belongs to someone they once loved. Some have travelled from distant towns. Others, like Saira Baloch , know the drill too well.
“The smell doesn’t matter when you are looking for someone you love,” says Saira, whose two brothers, Asif and Rasheed, were forcibly disappeared over six years ago by security forces. “You wait because someone has to recognise the body.” The staff inside the mortuary rarely come out to help them.
“Normal cases” are handled upstairs, where forms are filed and hands are shaken politely. But when it is a bullet-riddled corpse, unrecognisable, when it is a case marked by initials like CTD — Counter-Terrorism Department — then the process halts. “They say it’s not their job.
That it’s a police matter,” Saira continues. “But the police post is across the gate. When you go to them, they say they’ll inform CTD.
And then you just wait. That’s what we do here — we wait.” Wait for someone to take responsibility.
Wait for the police to return from lunch. Wait for CTD officers who may never show. “After noon, after 5 in the evening — no one is available,” Saira says.
“It’s like the dead can wait. And the living must suffer.” On March 17, 2025, it was a day like many others — dry wind, silent grief, and families waiting on the ground outside Sandeman Hospital’s mortuary.
But this time, the crowd was larger. There was a new wave of unease. This unease came after Pakistan’s military spokesperson, the Inter-Services Public Relations (ISPR), announced that the hostage crisis aboard the Jaffar Express had ended.
“Clearance operation successful. All 33 attackers neutralised ,” the statement read. But the armed separatist group that claimed the train hijacking — the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) — released just 12 photographs of their fighters confirming only their deaths from the attack.
The numbers didn’t match. And in Balochistan, mismatched numbers often meant something else — someone unaccounted for, someone long disappeared, might have been among the dead. That was enough for the families to come running.
“Whenever bodies are brought to Civil Hospital, the families of missing persons rush here,” said Saeeda Ahmed, sitting under the weak shadow of a boundary wall. Her brother and nephew were both taken years ago. “We come because sometimes.
.. sometimes, they are among them.
And it’s the only way we find out.” So they came — dozens of women and men in dust-stained slippers, faces lined by the sun and sleeplessness. They weren’t there for the official version of events.
They were there for the unclaimed, the unnamed, the ones who had no press release written about them. They waited again — not just for someone to identify the dead but for someone to let them. By sunset on March 17, the gates of the mortuary were still locked.
The families waited all day on the gravel, the cold biting through their clothes after dusk. The staff never came. The next morning, they returned.
And again, no answers. Then on March 19, chaos erupted as word spread that during the night between March 18 and 19, thirteen bodies had been buried in Quetta’s Kasi Qabristan — graveyard. No identifications.
No public notices. Just a burial, done quietly, without families present. And then, the video .
Footage of a man speaking at the graveyard. “They haven’t even laid the bodies properly,” he said. “Just thrown sand on top.
.. These could be eaten by dogs.
” The video swept through WhatsApp groups, Twitter feeds, and Facebook pages of the Baloch missing persons’ networks. And grief turned to fury. By the afternoon of March 19, the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) held a press conference at the Quetta Press Club, speaking out against the profiling and harassment of its members.
During the session, a journalist raised a pointed question to BYC organiser Mahrang Baloch — about the reports of 13 unidentified bodies being buried at Quetta’s Kasi Qabristan . Her response was direct: “Whoever they are, the families have the right to identify them,” she replied. “And we, the BYC, stand with the families of missing persons.
” That evening, grief turned to protest. Dozens of families once again gathered at the gates of Quetta’s Civil Hospital — the same spot where, two days earlier, they had sat quietly on the pebbled ground outside the mortuary, waiting. But this time, they came in greater numbers.
They stood outside the mortuary, not only in mourning but demanding answers. Within an hour, the police arrived. “We were just standing there, crying, asking why we weren’t informed.
Why they buried them like that,” recalls Saeeda Ahmed, whose brother and nephew are both missing. But the state’s response was swift — and violent. A baton charge followed.
Five protesters, including Saeeda Baloch and her sister, were arrested on the spot. The others were chased off into the dark. Sabiha Baloch, BYC leader, shared that after hearing about the arrest of Saeeda and other women activists, Bebarg Zehri — a central BYC leader — immediately called the Assistant Commissioner (AC) of Quetta, urging him to release them.
But the AC response came as a threat: “Inko chhoro, ab tum logon ke liye halat bohot kharab honge” — “Forget about them, now things are going to get much worse for you people.” And then by the early hours of March 20, around 5 am, a joint team of CTD and police officials raided the home of Bebarg Zehri . Bebarg, who has used a wheelchair since 2010, lost the use of his legs after a grenade attack during a cultural event in Khuzdar — an attack carried out by security forces.
He had been a young engineering student then, attending a Baloch Culture Day programme organised by Baloch Student Organisation-Azad. Two others were killed in the explosion. Bebarg survived — but his life would never be the same.
Now, fifteen years later, the same state that once maimed him had returned — not only for him but also for his brother. Hammal Zehri, a gold medallist and PhD scholar in biotechnology, had never been involved in political organising. He had built a quiet life in academia, far removed from activism.
But both brothers were taken — without a warrant, without explanation. By noon, Quetta began to stir with unrest. The disappearance of Bebarg Zehri and the continued detention of Saeeda Ahmed and other Baloch women.
In response, BYC called for a protest at Saryab Road on 21st March, one of the city’s main southern routes. Before the protest could take its shape, it was met with violence . Witnesses describe a heavy police presence , outnumbering the demonstrators.
Groups of five or six were detained almost immediately upon arrival. No slogans had been chanted, no speeches delivered, when the first rounds were fired. What unfolded next resembled a security operation more than a response to civil assembly.
Video footage from the scene shows officers charging at protestors, dispersing them with batons and tear gas. The air was tense, filled with the sound of shouts, running footsteps, and the occasional sharp report of gunfire. During the police firing, three people were killed : thirteen-year-old Naimat , who was shot in the chest, along with Habib Ullah and Imdad.
Several others were injured. In response, the Baloch Yakjehti Committee staged a protest with the bodies on Saryab Road. Quetta, March 22, 2025 The sit-in continued through the night.
At around 5 am, police launched a raid on the protest site. The bodies were taken by force, and several participants were detained. Among those arrested was Mahrang Baloch, organiser of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee.
Baloch is internationally recognised, having been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, named among BBC’s 100 Women, and listed in TIME Magazine’s 100 Emerging Leaders. For four consecutive days — March 21, 22, 23 and 24— Quetta transformed into what Sabiha Baloch, one of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee’s (BYC) central leaders, called a “war zone.” “From head to toe, they were armed,” she said, describing how police in riot gear, armoured vehicles, and water cannons had sealed off Balochistan University and the surrounding streets.
“We were unarmed protesters, yet they treated us as militants.” On March 21, “Whoever was stepping off a rickshaw — they were picked up,” Sabiha recalled. ‘Security forces opened live fire.
“We were dragging wounded protesters into rickshaws while shells were exploding around us.” One of the wounded, she remembered, was a 22-year-old boy shot in the flank. “His intestines were coming out, but we held him still inside the rickshaw, trying to keep him alive.
” The second night — March 22 into March 23 — was worse. “Firing continued from 7pm to 3am,” recalled Sabiha. “FC personnel had climbed rooftops and were shooting down at protesters.
Even those wearing Balochi clothes were picked up. Minors, women, passersby — no one was safe.” With the internet suspended and journalists blocked from reporting, exact casualty figures remain uncertain.
But the sounds of that night — gunshots, sirens, screams — echoed through the alleys of Quetta long after the last shell fell. The government, however, paints a starkly different picture. In an official statement posted on March 22 by the Commissioner of Quetta Division, the administration alleged that the protest “quickly turned violent as BYC protesters and their armed accomplices resorted to stone-pelting, indiscriminate firing, and attacks on law enforcement personnel.
” The note further claimed that “three individuals lost their lives due to the firing by armed elements accompanying BYC leadership.” Sabiha Baloch, a central leader of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee, rejects the state’s claims outright. “We have footage.
We know who was firing, who had the guns, who held the power,” she says. “And it wasn’t us.” She argues that the state’s crackdown isn’t about violence — it’s about dissent.
“The truth is, the state has never tolerated any voice that speaks for Baloch rights — whether it’s raised peacefully or not. From Nawab Noroz Khan and the Khan of Kalat, to Attaullah Mengal and Ghaus Bakhsh Bizenjo — even those within the parliamentary system were crushed. The pattern has never changed.
” She lists a long line of slain Baloch intellectuals and educators: Saba Dashtiyari, Professor Razaq , Zahid, Nazeer Marri — “none of them were militants, none held weapons. They were killed simply for speaking.” According to her, the BYC has remained peaceful from its inception.
“Not even a flower has been plucked,” she says. “From the Baloch Raaji Muchi protest — where four were killed — to the long march to Islamabad, our commitment to non-violence has never wavered.” She points to international recognition, like Mahrang’s inclusion in TIME Magazine, as proof of their peaceful resistance.
“Yet what did the state do? Confiscated her passport. Did the same to Sammi. Arrested us, dragged our people through streets.
” “Let the state bring even one shred of evidence that we — BYC — engaged in violence,” she says. “We will face any court in the world.” The crackdown on Mahrang Baloch and the Baloch Yakjehti Committee’s leadership sparked a wave of mass resistance across Balochistan.
From the remote valleys of Buleda and Dasht-e-Kurmi to the urban sprawl of Karachi, Panjgur, Turbat, Kharan and across Balochistan— people poured into the streets. In villages and cities alike, every alley echoed with slogans of dissent, and every road was filled with those refusing to be silenced. Mahrang’s arrest reverberated far beyond Balochistan — drawing condemnation not just in the streets but on international platforms.
The UN Working Group on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances, along with other UN experts, demanded Pakistan immediately release detained Baloch rights defenders and halt its crackdown on peaceful protests. In response to the UN experts’ statement, Pakistan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs rejected the statement as biased and unfounded. “Any credible assessment must recognize that these elements are not mere protesters but active participants in a broader campaign of lawlessness and violence,” the Ministry of Foreign Affairs said in a press release, accusing BYC and its supporters of “operating in collusion with terrorists” and obstructing state responses to militant threats.
The statement emphasized that the government’s actions were “fully consistent with international law” and necessary to maintain public order. In response to the state’s claim that the BYC is linked to militant outfits, Sammi Deen, a central leader of the BYC, rejected the allegation; “If the state truly believes in facts, then we challenge it,” she said. “Let any third-party, independent body investigate every stage of our struggle.
If they find even a single piece of evidence that BYC has supported armed groups, we will accept the consequences.’ She pointed to what she described as a long-standing tactic of the state — equating dissent with terrorism. “Today, it’s BYC.
Tomorrow, it’s BNP-Mengal or PTI. Even Akhtar Mengal, an elected Member of Parliament, is being branded a terrorist sympathiser .’ “This is not a democratic government.
It’s a mafia-run system — controlled by generals, managed by elites, and obsessed with crushing any voice that resists. They’re using media propaganda to mislead the people, especially in Punjab, linking us to armed groups without proof. Sammi further exposed a broader pattern.
“Every party that challenges state operations are branded a terrorist proxy — a RAW agent, a foreign hand, a soft face of militancy,” she said. “PTI did it to Nawaz Sharif. Now the current rulers are doing the same to us, to BNP, even to PTI itself.
” “There has never been any proof of terrorism support against us. None. These are not accusations — they are tools.
Tools to justify injustice, to hide oppression, and to silence dissent. And people see through it now — even those within the system know these allegations are baseless.” According to Sabiha, “In conflict zones across the world, states have shown rationality — they engage only with armed groups, while making space for political voices, civil society, and journalists,” she said.
“That’s how they prove legitimacy, and isolate violence.” “But in Pakistan, that rationality is absent. Here, peaceful movements like BYC are crushed, while the state reinforces the narrative that only the language of guns is understood.
” “Instead of recognising BYC as a political breakthrough after years of crisis, the state chose repression. It has done this before — in 2005, in 2010 — and it’s doing it again. Today, the armed groups’ message has gained legitimacy in Baloch society: that peaceful struggle is futile.
” And then, with a trace of warning: “The state has left no space for peace. If nothing else remains, only armed struggle will. That will be the state’s doing.
And it has already proven it.” Historical Background of BYC: The Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) did not emerge from a vacuum. Its roots lie in a series of events that left deep scars across Balochistan—each one etched into public memory, each one pulling more people to the streets.
In May 2020, a late-night attack by an alleged death squad on a home in Danuk, Turbat, left Malik Naaz Baloch dead and her little daughter, Bramsh, wounded. The killing triggered widespread outrage. Images of the injured child circulated online, rousing protests across Balochistan.
The anger did not subside. Just three months later, in August, Hayat Baloch, a university student, was shot dead by Frontier Corps personnel while helping his parents in an orchard in Turbat. The killing was unprovoked.
His execution stunned many, including those outside the province. For the Baloch, it was another reminder that civilian lives could be taken without consequence. Protests were held in different parts of Balochistan and outside against his murder.
Then came the news from Canada. Karima Baloch, a prominent activist and former chair of the Baloch Students Organisation Azad, was found dead in Toronto in late 2020. The official cause was ruled as non-criminal, but many in Balochistan were unconvinced.
The hashtag #StateKilledKarimaBaloch trended for days. Her martyrdom was seen as a message—that even exile did not guarantee safety and massive protests were carried out across Balochistan. In 2021, violence again struck the young.
In Hoshab, Kech, two children—Allah Baksh and Sharatoon—were killed by mortar shelling allegedly fired by Frontier Corps. Their family brought the bodies to Turbat’s Fida Ahmed Chowk and refused to bury them. The protest spread.
When the family marched to Quetta, the Baloch Yakjehti Committee helped channel their grief into political mobilisation. Demonstrations erupted across towns and cities. In 2023, another name was added to the list: Balach Mola Baksh.
Killed in what was widely condemned as a staged encounter by the Counter Terrorism Department, his body was left at the same Fida Ahmed Chowk. After his burial, the BYC organised a long march against what it called the “Baloch genocide”. It began in Turbat, passed through Quetta, and moved onwards to Islamabad.
Hundreds of families affected by enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings joined the march. Thousands lined the roads in support. Across Balochistan and Baloch-majority areas of Karachi, protests erupted with renewed force.
The Baloch Yakjehti Committee has since become a central node of civilian mobilisation in the province. “It was the state’s violence that gave birth to us — to BYC,” said Sabiha Baloch. “We rose to carry our struggle politically, peacefully.
But now, after the Jaffar Express hijacking, the state is using that incident to justify a fresh wave of violence against us." As the standoff between the Pakistani state and the Baloch Yakjehti Committee intensifies, the space for peaceful dissent in Balochistan appears increasingly fraught. Supporters of BYC insist the group represents a non-violent political movement born in the shadow of decades of unrest; state officials accuse it of facilitating militant networks and undermining national security operations.
With several of the group’s key leaders still in detention and the international community raising concerns over due process, the coming weeks may prove critical — not only for BYC, but for the broader question of how dissent is understood, addressed, and contained in Pakistan’s most restive province. The unrest in Balochistan is not new. The 2006 operation that killed Nawab Akbar Bugti, rather than ending militancy, deepened it.
And if non-violent expression is stifled, what other outcomes are possible? The responsibility for preventing further escalation rests with the state. It holds both the institutional strength and constitutional mandate to pursue political solutions. Yet, instead of justice or dialogue, the state continues to lean on coercive tactics: a pattern that risks pushing an already marginalised population even further away.
What Balochistan needs is not more repression but an open space for dialogue, justice, and reform. Anything less could further erode the possibility of lasting peace. The author is a Balochistan-based feature story writer and researcher and an MPhil scholar in English Literature.
Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect Firstpost’s views..
