July 23, 2025
By Rana Malhi
ISLAMABAD
Beneath the towering facade of the Islamabad Press Club, a makeshift protest camp has quietly transformed into a space of shared anguish, resilience, and haunting memory. For the eighth day, families from Balochistan—some clutching faded photographs, others carrying only the weight of their silence—have gathered in the capital to demand the return of their missing loved ones.
Each face at the camp carries its own story. But together, they form a devastating portrait of a province ravaged by enforced disappearances—a tragedy that has spanned generations and devastated entire families.
The youngest among the protesters is 10-year-old Masooma. Seated on the roadside, she holds a photo of her father, Jehanzaib Baloch, who was forcibly taken away from his home in Quetta several years ago. “This is not my first protest,” she says with unsettling composure. “I’ve been doing this for years across cities in Balochistan, Karachi, and Islamabad. Masooma says she is in Islamabad to press for recovery of his missing father and release of Mahrang Baloch and other BYC leaders. “Our demand is not a big one that the government cannot meet,” she says, adding that the protesters are braving heat and rains since coming here to protest. The government has encircled their protest venue with buses all around in a bid to force them to quit their demonstration.
Masooma’s childhood, like many others here, has been interrupted—traded in for press conferences, rallies, and vigils. Her innocence now rests beside grief, as she grows up not in a home, but in the shadow of her father’s absence.
Nearby, 11-year-old Seerat sits beside her mother. Her father Mehar Gul Marri, a grade-18 government officer, vanished without explanation in 2015. “We approached the courts but the State failed to recover my father,” she adds. “I’ve raised my voice in protests in Quetta, Gwadar and Islamabad but to no avail,” Seerat says. This is her second time in Islamabad. “The government has stopped us from erecting tents to shield from the sweltering heat and rains,” she points out. Her voice trembles only for a moment before she steels herself again—an old soul forged in a young body.
There is also 13-year-old Rida, who has become a familiar face at protests across the country. Her brother, Nasrullah Baloch, a promising footballer, was taken from a Quetta playground in 2016.
“No child should grow up not knowing where their sibling is,” she says. “My appeal to the government is to ensure the recovery of all our loved ones and immediate release of BYC leaders from jail.”
But perhaps the most powerful figure at the camp is 80-year-old Bibi Ghori, a mother who refuses to let age, pain, or distance silence her. She has come from Karachi, where she has spent over a decade searching for her son, who was forcibly taken from his home in 2012. She has protested across cities like Karachi, Kohlu, Gwadar, Dalbadin and Islamabad for the recovery of his son Gul Muhammad Marri. Bibi Ghori first came to Islamabad with protesters led by Baloch Yakjehti Committee coordinator Mahrang Baloch. Most of the BYC leadership is in jail facing prosecution in terrorism cases which the protesters claim are based on trumped up charges.
“There is nobody to fend for the children of my missing son,” she tells Voicepk. “We are not here for a play but we have come here out of grief.”
“I will not leave until my son returns and we will stay here despite the heat, rains and threats of police action.”
Bibi Ghori’s weathered hands tremble as she grips her son’s photograph, the ink on which has begun to fade. Her presence at the camp is more than symbolic—it is a stark reminder of the years of silence and state inaction that have compounded the suffering of thousands like her.
The encampment outside the Press Club has no formal tents, only plastic mats, bottles of water, and hand-drawn placards. The weather swings between stifling heat and sudden rainstorms. Yet no one here seems willing to leave.
The families say they’ve exhausted every peaceful and legal channel available. They’ve filed FIRs, approached commissions, written letters to elected officials—but nothing has come of it. “All we’ve received is silence,” says one protester.
For many in Balochistan, the phenomenon of enforced disappearances has become an everyday horror. Sons, fathers, brothers vanish without a trace, often allegedly picked up by security agencies, and families are left with nothing but rumors and dread.
Successive governments have promised action, from parliamentary committees to missing persons commissions. But families say these mechanisms offer little more than lip service. “They call us for meetings, give us dates, make announcements—but our loved ones never ome back,” says a woman whose brother has been missing since 2010.
At the Islamabad protest, grief is not abstract. It has names, faces, and timelines. It is the pain of birthdays missed, of weddings without grooms, of Eids without sons. It is a 10-year-old girl asking questions no child should have to ask. It is an 80-year-old woman outliving her own hope. And still, they sit.
Under the unforgiving sky of Islamabad, generations of Baloch families have come together in mourning—but also in resistance. Their demand is simple: return our loved ones. Their resolve, even in silence, roars louder than any slogan.
As the protest stretches on, those gathered know the stakes are not just political—they are personal. And for as long as they are ignored, they say they will remain here.