As a Baloch child growing up in Balochistan, the years 2009, 2010, and beyond remain engraved in memory—memories that can never be erased. I often ask myself: how do the events of 2009 and years beyond, those that consumed lives, drowned memories, and silenced voices, continue to haunt us? Who can claim how a child’s inerasable memories might return to distort adulthood?

I remember those years as a school student in my hometown Pasni, when, every other day or week, the peon would ring the bell, signaling that school was shutting down. “The city is out of control,” we would hear—out of control because someone had been picked up or killed by the forces. The bazaars would close, shops would shutter, and people would rush home from work. Every morning, we sat in silent dread, wondering: would the peon ring the bell today? Until the last class ended, the uncertainty loomed over us. On the days we didn’t hear it, there was relief—at least, for now, the peon had not rung the bell.

But there were days when, in the middle of a lesson, the bell would sound. We would learn that someone had been taken or killed. If that person had a relative in our class, their grief would ripple through us, even as children who couldn’t fully make sense of it. We would feel the sorrow, sometimes cry, sometimes sit in stunned silence. Some days, classmates didn’t show up because, in another city, the same fate had unfolded.

That was our childhood—spent in prayer, hoping it wouldn’t be our loved ones next. But our prayers failed. This grief was shared equally: someone lost a brother, someone a father, a cousin, an uncle. At that time, one thing was certain—anyone who disappeared was almost always found within three months, their body returned, lifeless. And for those whose bodies never returned, their whereabouts remain unknown to this day. We never found out what happened to them. And maybe we never will.

Recently, while traveling, I was reading Mubarak Qazi’s poetry collection Hani Mani Maty Watan. I paused when I came across a particular poem—Miandad Tae Darda K Zanth (Miandad, who knows your pain?). I stopped there, unable to move forward, lost in contemplation. I knew this story. It had happened. But when? How? Why? I had forgotten. I kept pressing my mind, forcing it to remember, until the memory emerged—clear, sharp, and painful, just as it had been.

Though the exact memory of the event remains vague, but I remember we were a group of children—boys and girls—playing in the neighborhood, and boys around us were playing with toy pistols, that day, as they played, a neighbor warned them, “Don’t play with those pistols. They will cause you trouble.” We were confused—these were just toys. But then, he told us what had happened: an insane man had been shot dead in the bazaar. He had been holding a toy pistol, and the Coast Guard fired at him.

I didn’t remember his name then, and over time, I forgot the event too—lost among the many tragedies that followed. But today, while reading that poem, I finally learned his name- Miandad. 

The Poem

In this poetry anthology titled ‘Hani mani Maten Watan’ (Hani; My Motherland) published in 2012, The prominent modern Balochi poet Mubarak Qazi dedicated a powerful poem to Miandad Passund, a man who had a psychological disorder and was martyred in Pasni by coast guard fire. The poem, translated as follows, carries his tribute:

‘Who knows your pain, dear Miandad?

Who is blessed with a fate as radiant as yours?
For the motherland, you braved the bullets,
Martyrdom is not written in everyone’s destiny—only in yours.

When I hear the whispers of the sea,
And the breeze sheds its silent tears,
Even the wings of soaring birds tremble with sorrow.

Your madness carries the weight of centuries,
Yet the wise and knowing remain blind to you—
They do not even know themselves.

Who knows your pain, dear Miandad?’

This poem is an elegy that mourns the martyrdom of Miandad Passund while also celebrating his sacrifice. Qazi suggests that martyrdom is not an ordinary fate; it is reserved for those whose devotion to their land transcends fear and personal survival. ‘Who knows your pain, dear Miandad’ here the poet expresses that Miandad suffering and martyrdom is beyond the understanding of ordinary people. 

He then follows ‘Who is blessed with a fate as radiant as yours?” framing martyrdom not just as suffering but as a sacred honor—one granted to only a chosen few. Qazi further reinforces this idea in the lines: ‘For the motherland, you braved the bullets, / Martyrdom is not written in everyone’s destiny—only in yours.” Here, he ties Miandad’s death to a broader understanding of oppression and resistance. Miandad’s willingness to face bullets becomes the ultimate act of sacrifice, underscoring the idea that true devotion to one’s homeland comes at a cost. 

Qazi then turns to imagery drawn from nature to evoke the atmosphere of loss: When I hear the whispers of the sea, / And the breeze sheds its silent tears, / Even the wings of soaring birds tremble with sorrow.” These lines imbue nature with mourning. The sea whispers, the breeze weeps, and even birds—symbols of freedom—tremble, as if the very land grieves for Miandad’s loss. The poet creates a powerful image where nature itself becomes a witness to his sacrifice. 

‘Your Madness carries the weight of centuries.’ Here Qazi refers to the valiant act of Miandad, who has a mental disorder, as an act deeply embedded with the collective consciousness of the Baloch nation, that endured the legacy of resistance for centuries. Though Miandad was not considered mentally stable by conventional standards, his actions truly embodied the essence and spirit of those who have upheld cultural and national conscience throughout history.

The word ‘madness’ here indicates not insanity, but consciousness that even sane and stabled have forgotten and could not grasp.

 Qazi reinforces this idea when he states: ‘Yet the wise and knowing remain blind to you—They do not even know themselves.’ Qazi utilizes a satire here by using the phrase ‘wise and knowing’ to mock those who have forgotten the spirit and conscience they upheld for centuries. Unable to ‘know themselves’ is the psychological disorder, the identity crisis that has deepened under oppression. 

This crisis has veiled the legacy their ancestors endured. That is the reason Qazi ends with the line, ‘Who knows your pain, dear Miandad.’ referring who can interpret the sane and rational act you performed out of insanity, since the others have forgotten who they actually were from the centuries.

I

It was July 15, 2011

On a scorching july day, with the sun blazing at its peak. Thirty-year-old Miandad returned to the Pasni fish harbor jetty, carrying fish in two telas—one for his mother and the other for his wife, Sakina.

He arrived home around 11:30 AM and, with a cheerful grin, called out, “Sakina, you’re in luck today! I’ve brought fish.”

Sakina quickly came over and picked up the fish. Miandad’s mother owned a cow at the time, so he handed her the fish and asked for some milk, exhausted from the relentless heat. Afterward, he returned to his small mud house.

As Sakina prepared to cook, she asked him to look after their two-month-old infant. But Miandad suddenly snapped, “Hey, Sakina, I don’t have any kids! I’m not looking after them.”

Saying this, he stormed out and headed to his brother’s house, where he picked up a black toy pistol. He tucked it under his shirt, slipping it into the back of his trousers.

Afterward, he returned to Sakina’s room. Their two daughters were at school, and Sakina, torn between cooking and tending to their infant, hesitated for a moment.

“Sakina, I’m thirsty. Give me some water,” Miandad said. She handed him a glass, and that day, he drank three full glasses.

“Okay, Sakina, I’m leaving now,” he said, and walked out. It was around 12 PM.

He left home and walked to Babarshoor, an area not far from his house. Across Babarshoor stood a military check post—manned by the Coast Guard at the time. Miandad took out the toy pistol and pointed it at one of the Coast Guard officers. In an instant, gunfire erupted. Bullets tore through his body. He collapsed onto the road, blood pooling around him, his intestines spilling out.

A crowd gathered, recognizing him. They carried his lifeless body back home. News of the incident spread through Pasni like wildfire—an “insane” man had been gunned down by the Coast Guard over a toy pistol.

Two days later, military officers arrived at his home to apologize. “We will pay for his blood,” they said. His father asked, “How?”

“We are willing to fund his children’s education and compensate his death with money,” they replied.

His father rejected the offer. “God will raise these children. My son’s blood cannot be bought.”

Miandad was declared a martyr, and his gravestone was inscribed: “Martyr Miandad.”

Miandad; When Too Much Sanity Is Called Madness?

In Miandad’s rusted, worn-out hut, a picture hung on the wall—a young man, Ilyas Nizar.  Nizar was a Baloch journalist and a member of Baloch Students Organization (BSO) Azad. He was the editor of the first Balochi-language monthly magazine for children, “Darwant,” which remained in circulation for two years until his enforced disappearance and killing. On December 22, 2010, he was abducted by Pakistan’s secret agencies from Pasni Zero Point, district Gwadar. Days later, on January 5, 2011, his bullet-riddled, tortured body was recovered in Pidrak, district Kech, alongside the body of another BSO Azad activist, Kambar Chakar.

According to his wife, he had never met and known Ilyas, but after his martyrdom, everything changed, perhaps. “After Ilyas was killed and every time he heard of another ‘killed and dumped’ case, he would fall silent. He stopped talking to us the way he used to and would argue over the smallest things.”

When Ilyas was killed, Miandad also stopped going to sea. He had been a fisherman, working on a big laanch, often staying away for fifteen days, sometimes even a month. But after that day, he refused to set foot on the water—for six months—until he, too, was killed.

“Every morning, he would wake up and say, ‘Sakina, look at Ilyas. He is so handsome. But you know, those cruel men—they killed him.'”

“I remained silent,” she said. “I noticed his mental state deteriorating. If I replied—whether in agreement or disagreement—it would lead to an argument.”

His elder sister, shared that although he had only received an education up to class two, he was fluent in understanding Balochi literature. He worshipped Mubarak Qazi’s poetry and would often visit him. He owned many books and even wrote Balochi poetry himself.

After his death, his wife feared that the forces might raid their house—a common occurrence. Homes with books were always considered to be at greater risk. To protect them, she gathered all his books into a sack and buried them in the ground.

The picture of Ilyas was also taken down. Yet, the hut still bears the faded imprint of where the picture once hung. 

Miandad had three children—two daughters, Afreen and Kainat, and a son, Hammal, who had no memory of his father. He had just turned thirteen. His mother pinned all her hopes on him, as he was the only male in the house—the bearer of the expectations society places on sons.

“I was still breathing after Miandad,” she would say.

But on an evening in 2023, tragedy struck again—Hammal met with an accident and didn’t survive. His death was the final blow to Sakina.

She left their small home and moved in with her parents, taking her two daughters—now 18 and 19 years old—with her.

“I have abandoned that old house. It haunts me. After my husband, I found refuge in my son, and now he, too, is gone. I can’t live there anymore. It reminds me of the life I have lost forever.’

“Who knows your pain, dear Miandad?”

Was Miandad sane enough to go insane—driven to the edge by the oppression surrounding him—yet still sane enough to recognize who was responsible for it.

He had never met Ilyas Nizar, only heard his name—one among many. Too many. Each story of a young man taken, tortured, or killed fueled his anger, his frustration and deepened his emotions. It was a time when the young were seen only as corpses—and in the end, he, too, met the same fate.

Miandad’s mental state deteriorated with each passing day, haunted by the relentless cycle of killings he witnessed. He attended the funerals of the disappeared and dumped in Pasni. Each body lowered into the ground carved deeper wounds into him.

His world had once been simple and normal—the sea and the poetry of Mubarak Qazi. A man from Kulanch, a remote land, until his father, Passund, migrated to Pasni, located at district Gwadar, where they eventually settled.

He had never traveled beyond Pasni, yet the news of deaths poured in like an unrelenting tide. He could not escape it. He could not bear it. One after another, young men were reduced to lifeless bodies.

Today, no one lives in his house. His small, mud-built home stands abandoned, stripped of the poetry books that once filled its corners. Ilyas’s picture is gone—only a faint print remains on the wall.

And Miandad? Forgotten, perhaps. 

If anyone remembers him at all, it is only as an insane man—a name lost to time, buried under indifference. Had Qazi not written about him, even his name might have faded into oblivion.

Qazi was right when he said, “Who knows your pain, dear Miandad?”