The Land of Disappearances and Mass Graves 

In Balochistan, loss is not always marked by funerals. Some families never get to bury their loved ones, never receive a body, never know what happened. Their pain remains in the unanswered calls, the uneaten meals, the empty spaces in gatherings, and the doors that are never closed, left open in hope that the missing will return.

One such moment of horror unfolded on January 2014 when a shepherd in Tootak, a remote area in the Khuzdar district of Balochistan, made a shocking discovery. He had set out to graze his livestock but instead came across something far more haunting. A mass grave filled with decomposed bodies lay before him. At least 169 bodies were later uncovered, many of them mutilated beyond recognition. The Pakistani authorities rushed to cover it up, dismissing the number of bodies and blocking independent investigations. No DNA tests were conducted to identify the victims, leaving their families in endless agony, unable to confirm the fate of their loved ones. But for those who had spent years searching, this was confirmation of what they had feared. The men who vanished from their homes, universities, and marketplaces had not simply disappeared. They had been taken, tortured, and buried in secret.

Tootak was not an isolated case. In Dasht, another remote area in Mastung district of Balochistan, an “anonymous graveyard” has been established where unknown bodies, victims of extrajudicial killings, are quietly buried without names, erased from official records as if they never existed. Many of these individuals had been taken by Pakistani forces or their allied militias, locally known as “death squads”. Some are later declared militants after being killed, though they had never picked up a weapon in their lives. Others were dumped in the wilderness, their families never given the dignity of knowing where they were laid to rest.

For decades, enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings have haunted Balochistan. The pattern is always the same. Baloch people are abducted by state forces, their families search desperately, and the authorities deny any involvement. If the missing are ever found, it is often in mass graves or as bodies dumped by the roadside, bearing signs of torture. Thousands remain unaccounted for. Their families wait endlessly, holding onto small hopes while living with the heavy burden of uncertainty.

This is the world Seema and her family were thrown into when her brother Shabir was forcibly taken in 2016. Their home, once filled with laughter, now feels empty and sad, the door left open in hope. They are not alone in their grief. Across Balochistan, countless families share the same pain, the same unanswered questions, and the same desperate wish to see their loved ones again.

A Happy Life Before Everything Changed

The front door of Seema’s family home is always kept open. In many households, an open door might simply mean neighbors are welcome or that a cool breeze passes through. But in this home, it holds a much deeper meaning: it represents a mother’s endless hope that her missing son, Shabir, will one day return.

Shabir, lovingly nicknamed “Lakku,” was forcibly abducted on October 4, 2016. Since that day, his family has been trapped in a long and agonizing wait. His parents, Abdul Samad and Pari, his sister Seema, and his wife Zareena have spent years searching for answers.

Before 2016, Seema and her family lived an ordinary life in their modest home in Awaran, a rural district in southwestern Balochistan known for its harsh terrain, heavy Pakistani military presence, frequent clashes between Baloch militant groups and Pakistani forces, and widespread displacement. Holidays like Eid—a major Muslim celebration, brought laughter and simple gatherings, fostering a strong sense of unity among the siblings. Shabir, born in 1995, was the family’s second child and the youngest son. He dreamed of pursuing higher education in Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city, and was known among relatives for his calm nature and keen sense of responsibility.

Seema recalls that the Pakistani army once raided their home and confiscated Shabir’s documents, causing delays in his university admission. Yet, Shabir remained determined, and was deeply involved in peaceful student activism, serving as the central information secretary of Baloch Students Organization Azad (BSO Azad), a student organization advocating for the rights of the Baloch people.

That activism came with real dangers. When Shabir’s close friend, the then Chairman of BSO Azad, Zahid Baloch was abducted, something in him changed. The worry never left his face, and even during Eid and other celebrations, there was an emptiness in his smile. Happiness seemed distant, as if sorrow followed him everywhere.

“He was always thinking about Zahid Baloch,” Seema explains. “He did not celebrate Eid like before. I remember we tried to make him smile, but nothing worked.” She adds, “I feel today what he felt during Zahid’s abduction because I feel the same now with Shabir’s disappearance.”

Nobody expected that Shabir himself would soon be the next to vanish. One day, when their mother tried to stop him before he left for his political activities, he simply answered, “What will they do? Forcibly disappear me or kill me.” The weight of those words still lingers in Seema’s mind. At that time, she never imagined that something so terrible would actually happen.

The Day of Abduction

Everything changed for the family on October 4, 2016. Shabeer and his wife, Zareena, were guests in a home in Gwarkop, located in the Kech district of Balochistan, when the Pakistan military conducted an early morning raid. Armed forces stormed the house and, in front of his wife, forcefully abducted Shabeer. Zareena stood there in disbelief, her hands trembling as her mind struggled to grasp the horror of what had just happened.

Back home in Awaran, Seema’s phone rang. A relative’s voice, heavy with fear, delivered the news that shattered her world—Shabir had been abducted. She couldn’t believe it; her hands went cold, and her mind refused to accept the reality. From that moment on, nothing was the same. It was the beginning of an unbearable wait that still continues.

In the months that followed, local figures, including a notorious “death squad” member named Mula Barkat, warned Shabir’s father not to let Seema protest, suggesting that if she remained silent, Shabir might be returned.

“I remained silent in the hope they would leave my Lakku,” Seema explains. “They told my father, ‘If Seema remains silent, your son will come back.’ But nothing changed. Eventually, I had no choice but to speak out.”

Zareena’s Silence and Daily Existence

Nowhere is the impact of Shabir’s abduction felt more deeply than by his wife, Zareena. Before 2016, she was his constant companion, they traveled together, shared household duties, joked with friends, and laughed easily. After the abduction, everything changed.

“That Zareena who rode on the back of his motorbike and who was full of life—that Zareena is gone,” Seema says sadly. “Now, she barely goes anywhere except her mother’s home. She sits silently, unnoticed by those around her, as if she’s become a living corpse. Physically, she’s present, but emotionally her mind remains stuck in the moment they took him away.”

Seema recalls that before his disappearance, Shabir asked the family to treat his friends as they would treat him. Whenever he was away, he urged them to offer food and water, saying, “Consider my friends as they are Shabir.” Today, when his friends visit, the family sees Shabir in their eyes, in the way they speak, and in their shared memories. Yet, their presence only deepens the pain, reminding everyone that Shabir will never walk back through that open door.

Zareena’s life feels frozen. Her husband remains missing, and until she learns his fate, it is as if her own life cannot move forward.

Memories of Pain and Loss

One of Seema’s most vivid recollections is the day Shabir learned of the death of his close friend, Raza Jahangir, fondly called “Shay Mureed”—on August 14, 2013. It was a stormy, cloudy day, and a raging stream blocked the path behind their home.

“He went out for a phone signal and came back silent, sitting in the corner,” Seema recalls. “I kept asking, ‘What’s wrong, Lakku?’ He took a deep breath and finally said, ‘They killed my brother. They killed Raza. My sunshine of life dimmed.’”

It was the first time Seema had ever seen Shabir cry. Even the turbulent river could not stop him from crossing to say a final farewell to his friend. “Now, experiencing his absence, I know how deep that pain is,” Seema told me.

Rumors That Bring More Suffering

In the years after Shabir’s abduction, conflicting rumors and pieces of “information” began to circulate, often doing more harm than good. One of the earliest was in 2019 when an unknown person claimed Shabir was no longer alive. Zareena heard this rumor while protesting in Quetta, the capital of Balochistan, and it shattered her. Seema eventually traced the source of the story to someone linked to Pakistani intelligence agencies.

“They told Zareena, ‘Shabir isn’t alive, so why are you even here protesting?’” Seema says. “Zareena was broken by those words. I asked who said this, and we found he was working under orders to discourage us and spread lies.”

Three years later, in July 2022, a newly released detainee told Seema he had seen Shabir and had been with him in torture cell in Quetta. Then in 2023, another individual released from a torture cell confirmed those claims, saying he had been with Shabir but could not reveal the location due to fear.

Seema’s fragile hope was shattered once again when a man appeared in an interview on Gidan TV, a local channel, confidently claiming that Shabir had died under torture. The words hit her like a fresh wound, reopening the pain she had tried so hard to contain.

“These statements are baseless, and I believe they are scripted by the state to torture us,” Seema says. “People who suffer real torture don’t usually speak so confidently. Such rumors can break a family. We live every day in uncertainty, and each rumor tears us apart.”

The Gidan TV segment, in particular, infuriated Seema. “Anyone who’s faced torture is usually scared to speak,” she says. “They’re traumatized. So how could he appear on TV so calmly and claim he watched Shabir die? It seems like a script.”

A Mother Waiting With an Open Door

No one bears uncertainty more heavily than Seema’s mother, Pari. From the day Shabir disappeared, she has refused to close the front door. Whenever the phone rings, especially if it’s an unknown number, she rushes to answer, hoping that someone will say, “We found Shabir.”

“Once, someone saw my mother crying and asked, ‘How are you still alive in this condition?’ My mother just cried and said, ‘I’m alive because I still hope Shabir will return. The door is open for him.’”

On the rare days when her pain eases enough for her to speak, she asks Seema, “Have you heard anything about Shabir?” That question echoes throughout their home, a constant reminder of the uncertainty they live with.

“She used to be so lively,” Seema reflects. “She laughed like Lakku and joked with everyone. But ever since that day in 2016, her laughter has disappeared. I see her smile sometimes, but it’s not real. Inside, she’s broken.”

For Pari, the open door is an unwavering invitation for Shabir’s return. For Seema, it is a daily reminder of everything they have lost.

“My mother’s tears dried a long time ago,” Seema says. “But she still has hope. Whenever we come back from anywhere, she immediately asks, ‘Did you find anything about Lakku?’ She’s living on hope alone.”

Seema remembers her father, Abdul Samad, as someone who once made the family feel safe. Now, he looks much older than his age, worn down by the endless uncertainty.

“They haven’t taken just one person,” Seema says. “They took our whole family’s life. We don’t smile like before, and we haven’t known happiness for years.”

Seema’s Journey to Fight for Justice

In the immediate aftermath of Shabir’s abduction, Seema felt unable to face the world outside her community. Before 2016, she had rarely traveled alone or engaged in public activism. But when the authorities refused to help, she found the courage to leave Awaran for Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city to set up a protest camp. She also travelled to Turbat to file an FIR (First Information Report, a formal police complaint) about Shabir’s abduction. She later traveled to Quetta, and even Islamabad, meeting hundreds of Baloch mothers, sisters, and wives who shared similar pain.

“Many people taunted me,” Seema recalls. “They said, ‘You’re a woman. How can you travel on your own? Isn’t this wrong in our society?’ But I didn’t care. I was only thinking about my Lakku.”

In Karachi, she joined protest camps where families held photos of their missing loved ones and demanded answers. Each story she heard, whether from a grieving mother or a determined sister, deepened her resolve. Their shared pain became a collective struggle for accountability.

Others Facing the Same Pain

While protesting and meeting other families of missing persons, Seema began to see how the disappearance of one individual fractures entire communities. Many women she met were experiencing the same torment of rumors, misinformation, and broken promises. It wasn’t just her fight, it was a collective demand for justice.

“Every time I see a new poster of a young Baloch who’s been forcibly taken, it’s like reliving 2016 all over again. I remember how Lakku was snatched from us without mercy,” Seema says.

These repeated tragedies can feel overwhelming, but Seema finds strength in knowing she is not alone.

Holding on to Hope Every Day

Eight years have passed since Shabir’s disappearance, and every day begins with the same desperate question: Could today be the day they finally learn something about Shabir? Seema carries his photograph everywhere, a symbol of love, loss, resistance, and hope.

“He was the backbone of our family,” Seema says, her voice trembling. “We all revolved around him, even my mother who used to scold him but worried about him endlessly. Now, we revolve around an empty space. We’re not sure how to live, so we just keep going.”

Even as rumors swirl and false leads come and go, Seema remains convinced that Shabir might still be alive. She clings to the accounts of those who claim to have seen him, refusing to accept a final, unproven death.

“This is the colonizer,” Seema says, repeating her brother’s words. “They pick up anyone for having a Baloch identity. Lakku used to tell me, ‘One day they might abduct or kill me, but don’t lose yourself in grief.’ I wish it was only a joke, but it turned out to be our reality.”

The Door That Stays Open for Shabir

The family’s home is more than a shelter, it is a repository of memories, waiting, and sadness. Zareena stays inside, Pari waits by the open door, and Abdul Samad bears the weight of a shattered past. Seema fights for justice while shouldering the pain of endless rumors, each one lifting hope only to crush it again. Though Shabir’s abduction destroyed their world, they refuse to give up. They continue to wait, holding on to the hope of seeing him again and reclaiming the life they once knew.

“Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been stuck in a nightmare since 2016,” Seema admits. “When I see other young Baloch men disappear, it’s like I’m watching my brother’s story happen all over again.”

Through all the pain, rumors, and heartbreak, one thing remains certain: Shabir’s family will never stop hoping. The door stays open for him, the phone is always answered at the first ring, and his posters still hang, a reminder to a young activist who remains both missing and deeply missed.

“We won’t stop searching,” vows Seema. “I will hold Lakku’s picture until he walks back through that door or until I find him, no matter how many years it takes.”

Until that day comes, they live caught between hope and despair, determined never to close the door until Shabir walks through it once more.