Historical Identity and the Baloch National Struggle

By Mehr Daar

“They (outsiders) insist that our stories should be only about grief, pain and victimhood, so that we may appear worthy of human sympathy and receive some mercy—a mercy that lies at the discretion of hunters and masters, through their weapons, cameras and pens.”

This statement by novelist Viet Thanh Nguyen, delivered during a talk at Harvard University, was originally made in the context of Vietnam. Yet, upon hearing these words, the first image that came to mind was not Vietnam, but our own mothers, sisters, and daughters standing on roads from Makran to Quetta and from Quetta to Islamabad, at the mercy of outsiders’ weapons, cameras and narratives.

Perhaps, unintentionally, we have committed a grave injustice against future generations, especially the present one. In our haste, we have done too much without reflection. This sense of urgency has deprived us of the ability to pause and reflect, something the weaker side needs more than anyone else. As a result, superficiality is becoming increasingly visible in every aspect of our struggle.

One such aspect is our narrative, the way we present ourselves to the world. We continuously try to convince the world that we are victims. However, the reality is that the Baloch are not victims; they are rebels and a rebel is never a victim.

Our writers, social media activists and journalists remain preoccupied with highlighting injustices committed against us. They lament that no one asks about our condition. They even complain that state intellectuals and institutions neither speak nor write in our favour, nor make decisions that support us. In doing so, they often impose their personal emotions and states of mind upon the entire nation, which essentially becomes a form of self-pity.

There is a significant difference between a victim and a rebel. A victim accepts subjugation, settles for minimal resources, a few peanuts, so to speak, and submits in every matter. During the era of white colonial domination, oppressed people were denied opportunities and phrases such as “No Dogs or Blacks Allowed” became commonplace. As long as they silently endured oppression, history remembered them as helpless victims. But when they rose in resistance, history recognised them as resistance fighters.

Today, the circumstances may be different, but one fact remains clear: from the very beginning, even in weakness, the Baloch chose the path of resistance. Over time, this resistance has only grown stronger. We could have bowed our heads, demanded a share, sought jobs and embraced subjugation under the guise of national integration. Instead, we chose another path. Today, the Baloch are engaged in a struggle for their freedom and survival.

On the one hand, there is a forward-moving struggle; on the other, there is the promotion of a victimhood narrative. This contradiction appears illogical. The narrative of victimhood can never be the narrative of a rebel. A rebel consciously chooses a path that is not lined with flowers but filled with thorns and stained with blood. Such a conscious choice does not make one a victim.

This is a struggle and in any struggle, one cannot choose a path and then claim victimhood.

It is often argued that victimhood is a political tool. But the question remains: Why do we feel the need for it? Why do we seek refuge in every emerging narrative? Perhaps it is due to the absence of a comprehensive and clear political programme. As a result, even those groups whose role should be different sometimes resort to this narrative.

Certainly, a mother, sister or wife has every right to mourn a missing loved one; that is only natural. But when this sentiment comes to dominate collectively, it signals that although the struggle continues, we lack a complete and coherent strategy for adapting to changing circumstances.

In the movements of the 1970s, despite being relatively weak, leaders did not allow narratives of victimhood to take root, even when enforced disappearances occurred. In many of his interviews, Khair Bakhsh Marri did not dwell on narratives of victimhood or human rights discourse; instead, he spoke about building an independent Baloch society.

The effectiveness of such political tools was critiqued long ago by Mark Twain. In his reflections on illusions, he described how words such as love, law, justice, freedom, equality, mercy and protection of the weak are often packaged for export, appearing noble on the surface while concealing a different reality beneath. Outwardly, they present a beautiful image of civilisation; inwardly, they are exchanged for the blood, tears, land and freedom of those who “sit in darkness.”

Before making such a bargain, we must decide: will we remain in darkness, repeating the narrative of victimhood, or will we shape our resistance into a clear and dignified identity?

This choice will determine both our future narrative and our historical identity.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Baloch Warna News. The publication provides a platform for diverse perspectives.