“So, let this hollow state — built on lies — hear us clearly: Baloch women are not part of this struggle by coincidence. We are here with purpose, with full awareness. We are not just victims. We are the resistance.” — Gulzadi Baloch wrote in a letter from inside her cell in Huda Jail.

by Dur Bibi

Groundxero | May 19, 2025

A few years ago, I read a book that shook me to my core — Requiem for a Woman’s Soul by the Argentinian writer Omar Rivabella. It is a haunting and deeply moving account of María, a woman who appeared quiet and gentle on the surface but carried the fire of resistance in her heart. During Argentina’s military dictatorship, María became part of a secret network of women who supported the families of the disappeared — those kidnapped, tortured, and murdered by the regime.

These women passed hidden messages, gathered testimonies, and quietly fought against terror. When María was eventually arrested, she was taken to a secret detention center and brutally tortured. The book does not soften the horrors: women were electrocuted, raped, beaten, and degraded — all for daring to care, to speak, to resist. As I read, I found myself wondering: how can anyone carry out such brutality, especially against women, whose only crime was to stand up for what is right?

Years later, in December 2023, those same questions came rushing back to me — not from a book, but from the streets of Islamabad. Baloch women, wrapped in shawls and courage, stood under baton charges and water cannons in freezing winter, holding up pictures of their missing loved ones, their voices breaking as they cried: “We are here for justice. We just want them back.”

Among them was Dr. Mahrang Baloch — a doctor by profession, a dissident by fate. She was at the forefront, standing firm and fearless, directly challenging Pakistan’s most powerful institutions: the military, the parliament, the courts. Her voice, joined by those of countless others, echoed the pain and determination of a people long silenced.

But not all voices made the headlines. One day on X (formerly Twitter), senior journalist Hamid Mir posted a video of a young woman speaking softly from a bus window:

“We do not need Balochistan’s resources — just bring back our loved ones.”

Her name was Gulzadi. She wasn’t a well-known activist then, just a quiet, innocent girl whose words carried the weight of grief.

That moment was a turning point — not just for us watching, but for her. Gulzadi, like many Baloch women, was politicized not in seminar rooms, but through personal loss, community pain, and relentless state violence. Her transformation was not symbolic — it was strategic, deliberate, and conscious. She didn’t just join the movement; she became one of its clearest voices.

As the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) documented enforced disappearances and continued peaceful resistance, the state’s repression deepened. After the Jaffar Express incident in March 2025, the crackdown intensified. Dr. Mahrang, Sibghatullah, Beebgr, Beebow, and others were arrested under 3MPO. But Gulzadi — now a recognizable faces of the movement — was abducted by CTD and police, without a warrant or legal process. Her location remained unknown for hours. Then the BYC’s official X account posted: “Gulzadi is in Huda Jail. Tortured. Four hours.”

Gulzadi Balochb brutally tortured before being brought to Hudda Jail, Quetta

And then, Gulzadi spoke—from inside her cell, through a letter published by The Balochistan Post on April 16. Her letter is not just a personal account of state brutality; it is a political declaration — a refusal to surrender. A fragment of resistance written in blood and defiance.

Here is her letter, in full:

“Baloch women are not part of this struggle by accident — they are its conscious, unwavering force.”

Gulzadi Baloch’s Letter from Jail

My Baloch Nation,

I hope you are all safe and well. I know that today, like every day, many of you are out on the streets, raising your voices for justice — at crossroads, on roads, wherever you can. Our brave Baloch mothers still stand tall as symbols of resistance against cruelty. I know you’re still chanting the same slogans that I once shouted in the face of oppression.

The day I was forcibly disappeared for the second time, masked state agents stormed into my home like wild dogs, screaming, threatening, searching every corner. When I stepped in front of them, they looked like they were burning with rage. If they could have, they would’ve torn me apart. Their trembling hands on their guns told me everything — that despite being armed, they were terrified of our peaceful resistance.

They dragged me out and threw me into a vehicle. Someone hit me three times on my back with a gun butt before slamming the door shut with curses. After some time, the vehicle stopped. Two men tied my hands and dragged me into a room. Inside, I was met with a chorus of hate — insults and accusations hurled at me from every direction. My hands were tied above me, feet spread apart. If I moved even slightly, I was punched in the stomach or kicked down to the floor. I was forced to keep my head down — if I raised it even a little, someone would strike me across the face.

After what felt like hours, someone told me to sit. I did, and another officer began making up lies, demanding I confess. When I refused, one man grabbed my head and slammed it down so hard it hit my feet. Another struck my back twice with full force. This whole scene repeated again.

In that unknown torture cell, I was constantly threatened — “We’ll disappear your whole family,” they said. “Your brother will be next.”

I’m sharing all this not to shock you, but to show the everyday reality of state violence that we Baloch have lived with for years — enforced disappearances, mutilated bodies, tortured and dying people dumped in the wilderness. These horrors have become the norm in Balochistan.

But now, the state’s greatest fear isn’t just resistance from men. It’s the Baloch women — mothers, sisters, daughters — who stand with nothing but photos of their disappeared loved ones. These women are unarmed, but unshakable. And now, the state is using every tool it has to silence them too. Even our sanctity — our chadar and chardiwari — is no longer safe from state brutality.

So, let this hollow state — built on lies — hear us clearly: Baloch women are not part of this struggle by coincidence. We are here with purpose, with full awareness. We are not just victims. We are the resistance.

Threats won’t stop us. Abductions won’t scare us. If violence could silence people, Mahrang wouldn’t have risen after 2006. If enforced disappearances fixed problems, Sammi — Doda’s daughter — wouldn’t be raising her voice against injustice. If torture could kill our beliefs, then Rashid Hussain’s mother, Bass Khatoon, and Zakir Majeed’s mother, Raj Bibi, wouldn’t be who they are today — icons of strength. If guns could control minds, I — Gulzadi — wouldn’t still be resisting you, even after four hours of torture, even with my hands and feet tied.

There are thousands of such stories — of people who’ve stood up with courage, carrying their pain and their truth, refusing to be silenced by fear or violence.

My message to my people is this:

We must face this fascist state with strength and resilience. They want to break us mentally. But we will not give up. We will not back down. We speak for the disappeared. We are the voice of justice. And this voice will always rise, no matter how hard they try to crush it.

— Gulzadi Baloch

April 14, 2025

Huda Jail, Quetta

Rewriting Power: The Feminine Face of Resistance

Gulzadi’s letter does more than testify to pain — it rewrites the very grammar of power. In a society where the state and its allies have long framed women as passive, peripheral figures in the political landscape, Baloch women are forging a new vocabulary of resistance. They are not symbols of honor to be protected, nor victims to be pitied — they are strategists, organizers, and leaders in their own right. The regime’s targeting of women, not just as individuals but through the collective punishment of families — like the abduction of Dr. Sabiha Baloch’s father — reveals a deep fear: not just of dissent, but of a worldview where resistance wears a woman’s face. This fear is global — it failed to suppress the mothers of the disappeared in Buenos Aires, it failed to silence the Palestinian matriarchs who mourn and mobilize in the same breath — and it is failing in Balochistan, where grief is not a chain, but a banner.

They Are All Marias

They Are All Gulzadis.

They Are Not Victims. They Are Resistance.

References:

• Omar Rivabella, Requiem for a Woman’s Soul
• The Balochistan Post, April 16, 2025 – Gulzadi Baloch’s letter
• BYC Official X (Twitter) Account
• Hamid Mir’s video post, X
• Dawn, March 2025: Coverage of Jaffar Express aftermath
• BBC Urdu: March-April 2025, arrests under 3MPO and state responses
• ISPR Press Conference, April 2025

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DUR BIBI is a Baloch political activist with a background in Defence and Strategic Studies, committed to advocating Baloch rights and highlighting the ongoing struggle of her people.

Also Read:  The Women of Balochistan: Resistance, Repression, and the State’s War of Narratives