It’s 9pm and I’m sitting alone in my cell in block nine as I write these lines. I’ve been in solitary confinement for a year now. In fact, I turned 30 here.
The silence has a weight to it, something that presses in on you the longer you sit with it.
Two other defenders and members of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), the organisation I founded to advocate against human rights violations in Balochistan are here too, in cells next to mine. There are nine cells in this block in Central Jail Huda in Quetta, but we are kept away from the other women. They tell us, because we are political prisoners, we are not allowed to interact. I suppose they are scared we might influence them.
My 20-sq-metre cell is bare, with only a small cot and a corner commode – designed to make solitary confinement as harsh as possible for prisoners.
Books and, until last October, exercise have kept me sane. After a weeklong hunger strike in June 2025, we were allowed a few newspapers and books, though no television. Since last October, severe back and joint pain have prevented me from exercising.
As a doctor, I tried to treat myself. In February, when my condition worsened, I was finally hospitalised and diagnosed with a slipped disc and radiculopathy [compressed or irritated nerve roots in the spine].
Over time, I’ve forced myself into a routine, in an effort to maintain some order. I wake up early and spend most of my time studying politics. Books remind me there is a world beyond these walls. Yet isolation leaves me cut off and suspended in time.
Even as I endure this, the greater pain is knowing my family is being relentlessly targeted for my political activism. My cousin Salal Baloch was forcibly disappeared. On 12 March this year, my 19-year-old cousin, Saifullah Baloch, was picked up and remains missing. My brother is on the fourth schedule – a watch list that imposes strict monitoring, travel bans, mandatory police reporting, and financial restrictions for up to three years – and is continually harassed by the counter-terrorism department. Whenever my sister speaks out in press conferences for our release, she is harassed, and has also been charged. These tactics are meant to break me and force me to abandon my political struggle.
Our cases are heard inside the jail, usually on Saturdays when outsiders cannot attend. Phone calls are banned, despite the jail guidelines allowing two a week.
I know our detention is a punishment for demanding our rights. It has strengthened my resolve and confirmed the justice of our cause.
Since our arrest in March last year, every effort has been made to break us. My companion Beebow Baloch was beaten during her transfer from Pishin jail. Another activist, Beebarg Zehri, suffered a urethral stricture because of the poor conditions in his cell. Yet none of us has given in. Perhaps it is our political grounding, or the strength of our beliefs, that sustains us. Or perhaps it is faith in our people – who, even under oppression, have not lost moral courage. This fills me with pride.
On the night of our arrest, the police killed a peaceful activist and two passers-by and beat up other protesters. This showed me that our struggle is not personal but part of decades of injustice against the Baloch people. It is about our survival. I am certain my purpose is to fight for the justice and prosperity of Baloch families; that is my calling.
State violence means no home in Balochistan is safe. Enforced disappearances are widespread; victims are killed in staged encounters; relatives are targeted, and now even women, including Mahjabeen Baloch, a disabled student, and Hani Baloch, a mother of two who was pregnant, are forcibly disappeared. In 2025 alone, BYC documented more than 1,200 such cases of enforced disapperance.
I’ve reflected on why our peaceful protests are treated as a threat, when nonviolent political engagement is the very foundation of a democratic society. Resistance is often the path to justice, and such movements should not be suppressed. When a state turns its power against human rights groups and peaceful political actors, it reveals not strength, but weakness.
Our peaceful resistance has allowed the message to reach far and wide. People of conscience are aware of atrocities in Balochistan, yet greater global attention is needed to end the genocide.
It is also important to address a persistent distortion: while the presence of armed groups in Balochistan province is an undeniable reality, conflating them with peaceful political movements is deliberate propaganda. Instead of denial, there must be an honest reckoning with the conditions driving Baloch youth toward militancy. BYC has remained firmly within Pakistan’s constitution, committed to resisting human rights violations through peaceful political means.
Some claim I haven’t distanced myself enough from armed groups, especially after attacks on civilians in February. I have always condemned all violence in Balochistan, and any group harming innocent people. Such allegations are used to justify the state’s crackdown on our movement.
Memory sharpens in prison – moments from across my life return with unbearable clarity. At the centre is my beloved Balochistan. I think of my father, the many who stood with us in sit-ins – especially the brave Baloch women. These memories carry pain and strength, leaving me with calm certainty: despite state violence and collective punishment, the Baloch continue their peaceful resistance.
