For the women writers of popular resistance in Balochistan, the political is inseparable from the personal, and the poetic is as ancient as the soil. My own introduction to this rugged terrain came through the sensory artifacts of my father’s travels. I was a child of barely seven or eight when he would return from the windswept reaches of the frontier, bringing with him the sweet stickiness of Iranian Gaz, chewing gums in gleaming green wraps, and sturdy crockery. He once brought a red hairdryer for my mother—a relic that remains in working condition today, much like the enduring spirit of the land it was smuggled into from Iran.
With these gifts came stories that coloured my childhood: tales of the Mirs and the Bugtis; of humble men on the road to Khuzdar who, in the biting winter, would ask only for a match to light their fires, refusing money with a dignity that defined their deprivation. Among these stories was that of Nawab Akbar Khan Bugti, the formidable nationalist leader who hosted my father for dinners and shikar (hunting), a man whose hospitality was as legendary as the Bhamboor hills where he eventually fell. This ethos of the "word kept" and the "guest honoured" was further humanised in my youth through my friend Farhat Jamali, the daughter of Sardar Jamali, whose elegant white turban stood as a symbol of a heritage both refined and resilient.
Years later, destiny anchored me to Quetta. In the shadow of the Chiltan mountains, I experienced a culture of respect so profound it felt archaic and deeply moving. It was a place where a woman’s presence commanded a quiet, averted gaze at the bank, where traffic squadrons would halt the world to let a woman pass, and where the bond of friendship was so absolute that a Baloch friend might offer his own newborn to a childless couple. These memories are a mosaic of the vast yards of white cloth in a man’s shalwar, the intricate, vibrant geometry of Balochi embroidery, and the taste of Santrosa—that sweet cross of plum and apricot—nourished by the ancient Kareez irrigation system.
Beneath the fragrant orchards and the multi-hued, mineral-rich mountains, there is a storied ache. The women of Balochistan, who traditionally held the power to stop tribal wars by stepping between combatants, are now the architects of a new kind of defiance. Today, they are the ones documenting the "Missing Persons," turning their grief into Aazmaank (short stories) and their oratory into anthems. From the foundational prose of Gohar Malik to the modern, scholarly preservation of Zahida Raeesi, this compendium explores how female writers use their "mother tongue" as both a shield and a flare.
The transition of Balochi literature from oral epics to modern tools of political consciousness was led by a courageous lineage of academic pioneers. Just as a Kareez requires a "Mother Well" (Ma-Chah) to begin its journey, these writers draw from ancestral wells to water the contemporary "Dream Odyssey."
Bibi Taj Bano serves as a cornerstone of instructional and spiritual literature. Her works, such as Pant Luqman and Aalam-e-Barzakh, provided the moral and linguistic scaffolding for generations of Balochi speakers.
Dr Zeenat Sana, a contemporary scholar, transformed the landscape with her 2007 critical analysis, Balochi Adab mein Tanqidi Jaiza. She remains a champion for language preservation, famously stating:
بلوچی زبان مئے وتی شهدیں زبان اِنت، مئے پجار ءُ مئے راجی نشان اِنت
“The Balochi language is our own sweet tongue; it is our identity and our national symbol."
Zakiya Sardar Khan published the foundational Sarmast Balochistan in 1960. This text did more than record history; it helped define the geographical and emotional borders of the Baloch spirit, asserting a cultural sovereignty that predated modern borders.
Gohar Malik revolutionised the Balochi short story by focusing on the "marginalised among the marginalised." She used Balochi Rozmarra (everyday idioms) to highlight the internal droughts of the soul. Her iconic collection, Baloch ha Mana Telank dat (Baloch Pushed Me), acts as a cleaning of the silt from the cultural anatomy. Malik writes:
حق و راستی ءِ راہا، مردم ءَ باز دکھ و درد گندگ کپیٹھ۔ بلے بلوچ ءِ نباس ہمیش اِنت کہ آ کدی جھکگی نہ اِنت۔
"On the path of truth and right, people must see much pain and suffering. But the essence (Nabaas) of the Baloch is this: they must never bow down."
Andaleeb Ganjbaksh and Andaleeb Gichki humanise the political struggle through fiction. Gichki’s She Wore Scarlet uses the pomegranate blossoms of Quetta as symbols of the blood spilled on the soil. In her narratives, "Missing Persons" are transformed from cold statistics into the unbearable sight of empty chairs at a family dinner.
In the Makran region, where the date palms meet the Arabian Sea, the literature takes on a salt-etched, maritime resilience. The resistance here is often centred on the "Dispossessed Coastline."
In modern Makran (specifically the Turbat and Kech regions), literature has become a tool for documenting the "Missing Persons" and the economic marginalisation of the coast. Makrani women’s literature is distinct for its maritime metaphors, its focus on the "dispossessed coastline," and its transition from oral tradition to modern political testimony.
“To write in Makran is to fish in a storm; you may lose your net, but you must bring back the truth,” says an anonymous voice
Zubaida Barkat, a poignant voice from the Makran belt, writes of the sea not as a source of livelihood, but as a witness to trauma. In her short story Hadd-e-Sagar (The Sea’s Limit), she describes the coastal women waiting for fishermen who never return—some lost to the waves, others to the "shrouded trucks" of the security apparatus:
"The sea does not just take our men; it takes our stories. Every wave that hits the shore of Gwadar is a page of a book we are not allowed to print."
Banadi Baloch, another Makrani powerhouse, uses her poetry to address the economic strangulation of the border regions. A contemporary poet who takes her pen name from the historical warrior, Banadi Baloch writes about the "Zamyad" (the blue pickup trucks used for cross-border fuel trade). In her verses, these trucks are both the lifeblood and the "iron coffins" of Makrani youth.
"My brother went to the border to bring back the light of a kerosene lamp, but he returned as a shadow in a blue shroud."
Writing in the mother tongue (Balochi) is framed as a recurring motif and a revolutionary act against cultural erasure. As traditional forms evolved, the Azat Nazam (Free Verse) became the vehicle for direct testimony, breaking the shackles of rhyme to speak of modern tragedies.
Zahida Raees Raji (Zahida Raeesi), an academic and poet, utilises the Azat Nazam to speak to the grief of the mothers standing in the streets. Her work carries the heavy scent of Zahirok (Melancholy/Longing). In her poem O’ Mani Mat (O My Mother), she writes:
پہ وتی ماتِہ دریاءِ چمان من گنداں، کہ تئی دردا مرتگوں، بلے زندگوں
"I see through the sea-like eyes of my mother; for I have died in your pain, yet I remain alive."
Zarina Baloch, often called "The Mother of the Nation," used her voice as her primary instrument. Her lyrics were the Sout (Oral Song) that fueled the nationalist movement. Her poetry was not meant for quiet libraries but for the roar of the crowd:
بیا او بلوچ، بیا او بلوچ، وتی دیہہ ءِ سپا، بیا او بلوچ
"Come, O Baloch; come, O Baloch, for the sake of your homeland, come O Baloch."
The Ridaank became the platform for the "educational awakening" of women. Banul Dashtiari, daughter of the legendary Malang Shah Hashmi, was a pioneer in discussing the female psyche in her series Bali Kapot (The Flying Pigeon). She argued that the preservation of Labaank (Literature) is the only safeguard for national identity:
لبانک و زبان ءَ بێ تـہاری ءَ ہچ قوم وتی پہچان ءَ داشتہ نہ کنت۔ مارا وتی لفظاں ءَ زندگ دارگی اِنت۔ "Without literature and language, no nation can maintain its identity. We must keep our words alive."
Shahida Shahwani, writing in Brahui, focuses on the preservation of identity through education, critiquing the lack of basic amenities in the Brahui heartlands. Her essays often draw parallels between the starving pen and the starving child.
Tapestry of Tongues
Balochistan is a tapestry of tongues, each contributing a unique thread to the resistance.
Brahui is the voice of the mountains Brahui. An ancient Dravidian language, it focuses on Bolat (honour). Zeba Mazari utilises the lullaby form to pass down history to infants, ensuring the struggle is heard before it is understood:
ای کنا ماتر، ننا ہیت تے بن، دا ڈغار ننا اِنت، داہیت ہچبر مپوش۔
"O my mother, listen to our words; this land is ours, let this truth never be hidden."
Hazaragi is memory against displacement In Quetta’s enclaves of Hazara Town and Mari Abad. In fact, Hazaragi literature reflects a city of continued struggle. Marzia "Fery" Hazara represents the ambition of girls who translate domestic silence into public testimony:
ما دخترِ کوہستانیم، سنگ موره موره مِیشوه، مِنی جِگرِ ما نَه۔
"We are the daughters of the mountains; stones may turn to dust, but our hearts shall not."
Journalism in this region is the dangerous fact-finding arm of resistance. Shahina Shaheen, a journalist and artist from Kech, edited the magazine Dazguhaar (Female Friend), the first of its kind. Her life and subsequent murder were a testament to her belief:
مئے دستانی پُلّانی رنگ پُروش اِنت، بلے مئے قلم ءِ رنگ زندگ اِنت
"The colours of the flowers in our hands may fade, but the colour of our pen remains alive."
The Light of the Pen
Today, the line between activism and literature has blurred. The oratory of Dr Mahrang Baloch is "Spoken Literature"—the modern Bramsh (Spark) that ignites collective consciousness. Her speeches are transcribed as digital artifacts, bridging the gap between ancient folk tales (Geddi Kisso) and modern testimony.
The resistance of these women is a struggle to keep the Kareez—the underground flow of ancestral wisdom—from being choked by the dust of conflict. Whether through the prose of Tahira Ehsas Jattak in Shatal or the academic rigor of Zahida Raeesi, these women prove that in the face of a "culture of silence," the most subversive act is to remember—and to write.
As the Brahui saying goes:
قلم نا روشنائی ہما تہاروکی ءِ دژمن اِنت کہ ننے ہلوک کنت
"The light of the pen is the enemy of that very darkness which seeks to swallow us."
For these writers, resistance is found in the Silent Preservation, in the act of teaching a child their mother tongue, the act of embroidering a political symbol into a dress, or the act of writing a poem that will never see a commercial bookstore but will be whispered from woman to woman across the yards of Turbat.
"To write in Makran is to fish in a storm; you may lose your net, but you must bring back the truth."
(an anonymous Makrani)
Author’s note: Special thanks to Mr Niaz Nadeem for connecting me to the resources
Citations
- Sana, Z (2007). Balochi Adab mein Tanqidi Jaiza. Quetta: Balochi Academy.
- Malik, G (1985). Baloch ha Mana Telank dat. Karachi: Azad Publishers.
- Khan, Z S (1960). Sarmast Balochistan. Quetta.
- Raeesi, Z (2015). The Echo of Zahirok: Modern Balochi Free Verse. Academic Journal of Balochistan Studies.
- Dashtiari, B (1998). Bali Kapot: Essays on the Baloch Female Psyche. Lyari Publication.