A Name Among Thousands, A Family Among the Broken

On April 13, 2015, Zaheer Baloch, a resident of Panjgur district, was forcibly disappeared by Pakistani security forces from Hub Chowki, Balochistan. As of April 13, 2025, ten years have passed. No charge sheet, no trial, not even a confirmation if he is alive. He simply vanished into the vast, unlawful network of secret detention centres run by Pakistan’s intelligence agencies. His case is one among thousands, but for his family—his wife and daughters—it is everything. Their lives were broken into a before and after. Before Zaheer’s abduction, and after the state decided his life, and theirs, could be erased without justice or accountability.

Enforced disappearances are not new to Balochistan. For decades, they have been the state’s primary tool of repression. Just in the last two decades, thousands of Baloch have been forcibly disappeared by Pakistani forces. According to a report by Paank (BNM), 181 people were reported forcibly disappeared in March 2025; 87 were released after facing inhumane torture, and 12 were extrajudicially killed.

The practice has become institutionalised, aided by silence from the judiciary, the media blackout of Baloch voices, and international indifference. Families are left in an eternal limbo: unable to mourn, unable to move on, unable to hope—but forced to continue surviving.

A Daughter’s Fight For Her Father

Zaheer’s elder daughter, Adeeba Zaheer, now 21, is an International Relations student at the University of Makuran in Panjgur. Unlike many of her peers who are focused on exams or chasing career dreams, Adeeba’s university life has been shaped more by protests, marches, and sit-ins than by lectures. She has learned through resistance. What she studies every day is how to survive.

In an interview filled with pain, she recounts the moment her father was abducted. “I was just 10 years old. I remember the chaos, the screams, my mother trying to hold everything together while crying herself. That was the day our world ended. That was the day I became an adult.”

Despite being only a child, Adeeba joined the long line of Baloch women who’ve had to turn grief into resistance. “Our home used to be filled with his warmth,” she says. “He was a generous man. Always smiling. Always kind. When he left, it was like the walls of our house collapsed. Everything fell apart.”

Peace is a luxury denied in Balochistan, where military boots crush hope and silence follows the sound of gunfire. The state, instead of protecting families, often becomes the very reason for their destruction.

A Decade of Pain and Protest

“Ten years may sound easy to say,” Adeeba says, “but the pain we’ve lived through cannot be put into words. I’ve never stopped raising my voice—not once. I have stood in every protest, carried every banner, and shouted every slogan so the world might hear me. I will never let my father’s name be forgotten.”

For the Baloch, resistance is not a choice—it’s a necessity. Families of the disappeared are criminalised, harassed, and often accused of sedition for simply asking questions. In March 2025, Adeeba Zaheer was named in a police FIR in Panjgur for protesting the disappearance of another student, Aqil Jalil. She was punished for something as simple as standing in solidarity.

“We marched from Panjgur to Quetta, and then to Islamabad. We were beaten, insulted, and ignored. But we still marched,” she says. “They called us traitors. They told us to go back home. But we don’t have homes anymore—our homes were broken when our fathers were abducted.”

And yet, demanding justice in Pakistan often becomes a crime in itself. For asking for the release of Aqil Jalil, Adeeba was branded a criminal. They made it clear that even grief is treated like a crime. 

“Ever since I became aware of things, I’ve been in protests,” Adeeba says. “The way we were treated during the Baloch Long March against Baloch Genocide—the whole world saw it. We were mocked, dragged, and ignored.”

Her first memory of resistance began when she was just a child. “I was a little girl when we went to register my father’s name at Voice for Missing Persons camp in front of the Quetta Press Club. I couldn’t hold back my tears. That day, I learned how to speak up—not because I was brave, but because I had no other choice.”

A Daughter’s Strength,  A Women’s Courage

In Baloch society, women often bear the double burden of enforced cultural restrictions and state oppression. Yet, despite societal pressures, Adeeba has walked every step of her journey with fierce courage.

“I come from a society where it is considered shameful for a daughter or woman to step out in the streets. But this pain—it’s too great to keep inside. I had to let it out. I had to shout for my father, and for the others too.”

Her fight is not just about her father Zaheer Baloch. It’s about every missing person. Every home where laughter has died. Every mother who no longer knows whether to call herself a wife or a widow.

“I’ve seen mothers who’ve waited 15 years without knowing if their sons are alive. Wives who don’t know whether they’re married or widowed. I am not alone. Balochistan is burning, and we are all in the flames.”

The Child Who Never Met Her Father

Adeeba is joined in this struggle by her younger sister, Zoya Zaheer, who was only 40 days old when her father Zaheer Baloch was abducted. Zoya has never seen her father’s face, never heard his voice, never felt his arms around her. Yet she has marched in every protest, carried his photo in every rally, and held the microphone with trembling hands in countless protests.

“I’m over 10 now, but you took my father when I was just 40 days old. I want to see him. I want to hug him. I want to hear him speak. Why did you take him from me when I was just 40 days old?” she asked in a heartbreaking speech during a recent protest in Panjgur on March 2025.

Her words went viral among Baloch activists on social media, yet were completely ignored by Pakistan’s mainstream media, like most Baloch pleas for justice. In another protest, her voice shook as she said, “I don’t want anything—just give me my father back. I have lived ten years without him. I don’t know what a father’s love feels like. Please, return him.”

In another protest, during a speech, Zoya said, “My father was sick at the time of his abduction. If he has committed any crime, take him to your courts. And if he is guilty, I, Zoya, will say—lock him up again.” Her voice broke as she added, “On Eid, other children are with their fathers. I come to protests to speak about mine—who was taken from me.

These are not the words a child should have to say. But in Balochistan, children like Zoya are forced to grow up too soon, carrying the trauma of absence on their small shoulders. What kind of state forces children into resistance? What kind of future is built on broken homes and stolen fathers?

Zoya, the child born into grief, has now become a symbol of Baloch pain. Her image—tiny hands holding her father’s portrait—is a haunting indictment of the state. She should have grown up with bedtime stories, school lunches, and carefree laughter. Instead, she lives a life shaped by abduction, injustice, and endless protest camps.

“While other children dream, Zoya faces reality,” Adeeba says. “Her dreams are of courtrooms, camps, and marches. She is not just my sister—she is a story. A story of pain, of resistance, and of undying hope.”

Zoya’s presence in these protests symbolizes what generations of Baloch children have lost. A father’s affection, a peaceful childhood, and the right to innocence.

The Unseen Strength of Baloch Mothers, Wives, and Sisters

The burden of resistance in Balochistan has largely fallen on women. They are the ones who set up protest camps, give press statements, endure harassment, and keep the memory of the disappeared alive. Adeeba’s mother, too, has suffered in silence for over a decade.

“She cries every day,” Adeeba says. “We don’t celebrate anything. We don’t have Eid. There’s nothing to celebrate without him.”

These women defy the dual oppression of an enforced patriarchal society and a militarised state. In doing so, they have transformed grief into a radical form of protest. They are not just demanding their loved ones back—they are reclaiming agency in a region where life, liberty, and identity are under siege.

Enforced Disappearances: A Systemic War on Baloch Identity

Zaheer Baloch is not just a name. He represents a collective erasure. The Pakistani state’s policy of enforced disappearances targets intellectuals, students, activists, teachers, and even poets—anyone seen as a threat to its narrative of control over Balochistan.

Disappearances are not isolated cases but part of a systematic strategy to suppress dissent. Torture, incommunicado detention, and extrajudicial killings are widespread in Balochistan. According to Human Rights Groups, thousands remain unaccounted for. Mass graves have been discovered, but no one has been held accountable.

These acts violate not only Pakistan’s constitution but also international treaties, including the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) and the UN Convention Against Torture. Yet, the international community remains disturbingly silent.

The World Cannot Look Away

Despite threats and surveillance, Adeeba continues to raise her voice. “If my father has committed a crime, present him in court. Show us the evidence. That’s what your constitution says, doesn’t it? Or are we not humans under this system?”

The story of Zaheer Baloch and his daughters is not unique. But it is urgent. Every passing day increases the chance that more families will be broken, more children forced into activism, more lives destroyed without accountability.

“We are not just fighting for our father,” Adeeba says. “We are fighting for the soul of Balochistan. We are fighting so that no other child grows up asking, ‘Where is my father?’”

As Pakistan continues its campaign of enforced disappearances, the burden falls not just on activists and victims’ families but on all of us—to speak, to report, to act. Because silence is complicity. And the time to act is now.