True Warriors...

Found this heaven on my way to Zhob from Loralai

I should have written this long time ago, but as soon as I returned from Balochistan, I was caught in the cage and chains from which everyone tries to escape from. Nevertheless, it is a constant struggle to break the shackles of urban life, to get freed is not as easy as we think because our enemy is within us; the enemy which we feed with our own hands – the materialistic self ego.

To defeat this sonofagun, one has to get rid of the fuel and the vehicle it rides on to command and control every aspect of our life and body. It needs to be starved and maybe that is the reason why we are told to fast. To completely let it go, food intake control is always not enough, we need to switch off the world outside us to realize the world inside us; the world where no one exists i.e. where you find Him and find yourself in seclusion.

During my recent trip to Balochistan, I found such places of seclusion; especially, on the way to Zhob from Loralai through the deserted roads constructed most probably by the British from Mekhter Junction. I desired to stop, sit, think and desired to self realize and find Him to find peace. Though, I believe one has to travel in order to redefine oneself, but I realized it is not about my peace of mind anymore; I believe it’s not about give and take anymore, its just about giving and that is how one can reach salvation.

On my way to Zhob through the deserted plains and mountainous havens, I did not panic once. Well, I did not have another choice and I do well when I do not have much option. It took 6 hours of ‘off roading’ to cover 218 kilometers where life ceased to exist most of the time. But, at times, from nowhere a young shepherd with his flock of sheep used to come, stare at me and shock me for a while and my usual question to my driver Rasheed Lala used to be: “Ye Kahan se aya, Lala?” (From where did he come?)…

Rasheed Lala in his usual chuckling tone, “Pata nai yaar” (Don’t know friend...)

For most of the time, there was no road, after travelling for 3 hours down the tranquil atmosphere, we reached at Murgha Kibzai – surely a ghost town. From Murgha Kibzai, one road turns towards Zhob and the other one towards Musakhail District. We had tea over there and I interviewed the chap, Sakhi Jaan (generous life, yeah I know the translation doesn’t make much sense), who runs a ‘hotel’ (restaurants are usually called hotels in Pakistan). He has been running it for decades and showed me the delicacies he cooks day in day out. Took his photographs and showed him the pictures on my digital camera, surely the technology astonished him and I could see him moving around with his chest lifted a tinge. He was telling his customers that the story of his hotel would be published in Islamabad. I told him, the world will know about it, not just Islamabad.

Throughout the route, I decided to sustain myself to laugh until I see life everywhere once again i.e. until I see Zhob. Lala did not show a sign of irritation when I constantly reminded him of his long lost love, losing the track and that we have certainly lost our way and are in Afghanistan. After going through which many will term as ‘an ordeal’, I reached Zhob, that too in the Cantonment Area, relief!  Zhob was known as Fort Sandeman long back, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto changed its name to Zhob. I stayed at “The Castle” built by Lord Sandeman once again - as it was my second trip - but it did not excite me much this time round. I guess I am used to living like a king whenever I visit Zhob.

My next stop was Sui, which is in Dera Bugti, where I have heard people are against Punjabis, I was born in an Arab country which did not give me nationality, so I am from the Punjab province due to descent, that means I am in trouble. This was a problem and was the biggest one without doubt - I had no idea how to deal with it. The flight from Zhob to Karachi via Quetta was no doubt the worst flight I ever took – I had never witnessed so much turbulence during a flight. A medical team was called to check the condition of the Captain, when the flight stopped at Quetta; that is how bad it was. The flight to Sui was the worst, the Beech 1900 plane is an 18 seater plane, size of a drawing room above the average size, and when it flew through the air pockets in Dera Bugti, the plane used to lose altitude of more than 20 – 30 feet in one go. I asked for forgiveness throughout the flight and begged to be given another chance in life.

As soon as I reached Sui, I was welcomed by a young guy we have recently employed at Taaleem Foundation. We have thrown a Lahori dude to work in Sui and he is certainly not there just for money, the passion to succeed through the hardest channel is surely his desire, in fact I believe he has decided that it is his need to make the two ends meet in this fashion. I call people like him professionals and that’s how one should make a career i.e. by living like a dare devil. Our Sui School is run by an enthralling couple which decided to serve in Dera Bugti as soon as they graduated and got married. The adventure for them is still continuing and from the look of it they are enjoying the experience like anything. Providing education, that too English medium in a co education atmosphere in Balochistan is surely an adventure in every aspect; in which they thoroughly rejoice.

Anyways, I saw security guards, army personnel and FC guards in less than 2 kilometer of travel from the airport to the school. Due to the gas field, Sui is a highly protected area. For those who have forgotten or do not know, Sui is in Dera Bugti District where we get our CNG and cooking gas from and the operation was launched on Nawab Akbar Bugti and his followers by the sense less and the most useless President of Pakistan – General Pervez Musharraf - in its vicinity. 

I thought I would camouflage myself and the beard did help a great deal. But, I wanted to run back to the Airport as soon as I got to know that the last name of my driver in Sui was Bugti. For a second, I did panic, because here I was standing at the core where all the insurgency, hatred and separatist movements began and shook all parts of Balochistan and I was being told that a Bugti was going to take me around! But, I do well when I do not have much option and decided to live this one out.

To my surprise, the young boy was really humble and he did not have any feelings against me or my race, some still say he was hiding it. But, I could see it that this was not the case. Yes, Nawab was his leader, a leader he respected so much that he could have given his life; maybe I think. But, I was a guest and guarding me and providing me hospitality was a matter of honor too.

Coming back to Sui, you can fry an egg on the roof top of your car in Sui, that’s how hot it is in Sui; I usually preferred to stay indoors. Qadeer Saab, a senior and experienced teacher at our school and a funny character, did a good job at convincing me to go to Dera Bugti and I would have gone if I had more time. I have to go to Dera Bugti town the next time I come which is just 40 kms from Sui town; for now I convinced him to show me Sui – the Sui which was at the other side of the secured fencing area. We left without guards and he showed all the meaningful places over there. The Bugti fellow was with us too who drove us to the Military College Sui and other historical places such as the Bugti palace which is now under the control of security forces. The Army has recently opened a college and after 6 years the first batch of “Hub-ul-Watan” 30 captains would pass out, which the local populace has appreciated a lot, to my surprise.

We took some cold drinks to get some respite from the killing summer heat in the middle of the bazaar and nothing happened to me and to the other two Punjabis with me. After not being shot at the bazaar, I concluded the gist of the Balochistan situation: people over there do not hate us as we are told by the news we see scrolling day and night on our television sets, actions have to be taken to see that basic amenities are provided and the court has to provide justice they have been waiting to hear for more than a couple of years. I headed off to Karachi from there in the same aircraft, the journey was no better than the previous one, but as I said I do well when I do not have much options.

“I do well when I do not have much option”, I have said that more than a couple of times during this blog. You must be wondering why? Well, I learnt that due to Masood Baluch a.k.a. Munna Bhai. He was one of the first sophisticated Baluchs I met in my life, a (he is going to love this one) young and an energetic fellow who has done MBA and when he starts talking or working, even the whites wonder “Aey kitho aya hai?” (From where did he come?), you rarely find such species in Baluch people or in any race for that matter. But, he has got a problem; this guy gets confused whenever he has to choose a restaurant for dinner. For hours, at times, we used to roam around on the roads of Sharjah in wee hours to decide whether we should eat fast food, arabi, desi, pizza, meat, vegetables, lentils, spicy, Chinese, Italian, Indian, Ghora, Ghadda, Insaan … and the attitude did not change a bit till I was there. Now, he is married and I guess his better half has been successful somehow to tame the fellow. There were so many options and Munna Bhai over there; that I realized I can never do well when options are available because I used to be as confused as he used to be due to the availability of so many options!

I was meeting with him after sometime and it is always a pleasure to meet this Baluch family which I consider mine. Met her sister - who I consider as my phuppo (aunt) - and stayed at their place for two nights. After a long trip in Balochistan covering more than 2000 kilometers on the road it was good to be at home with people who are more close to me than my family at times. Shared my experiences of the war, the wild and the wilderness and heard some old stories from their side.

The one which I will end this blog with is going to shape my life, if it has not already, and of many others. This is from the experience they shared in Karachi round about 1 AM, the perfect time for such talks:


(Get your bowl of popcorn and drinks...)

My Phuppo went to Iraq to become a doctor. Everything was going merry go lucky in Baghdad. Unfortunately, the First Gulf War started round about the same time. I have always known her as an iron lady, but never knew her courage was much more beyond what I had perceived. She decided not to leave Iraq because she did not want to lose a year of education, such dedication is not easily digestible, please bear I can understand your how tough this is to believe. But, this is true.

She decided to stay and she informed her family that her decision is final. She decided to grab the bull by the horns and tame it into a pussy cat, her family lost contact with her for full 6 months which was an ordeal for all parties. She survived bomb attacks, missile attacks and “you-name-it” and she survived it boi! She used to ‘dry’ the food – tomatoes, bread and other vegetables – with her cousins on roof tops and survived on it for months. At times, the bread used to get so hard that it was hard to bite and digest. She came up with a solution, she cooked a stew which was as good as boiled water and all the survivors used to dip the bread in it, make it soft and gulp it down. Well, I can never praise her for that effort. 


When they were out of supplies, they just used to have one glass of milk as their only meal for the day. At times, they had to shift into bunkers during heavy fighting; one such bunker got hit and could not survive the hit. More than 5000 people burned to death not due to the after effects of a missile attack, but due to the hot water system in the bunker which got jolted due to the hit. The dead were not taken out, the smell was too unpleasant.

The sacrifice she made to achieve her dream is what we need from future leaders of Pakistan and what we need to do ourselves. I might be wrong, but I guess her dream was not just to become a doctor, as she has Baluch blood running in her body, she is a fighter by descent and did not want to escape when the tough becomes toughest straightaway, I don’t even know that has she realized this or not up till now, but chances are that she has not because being strong physically and mentally is a natural instinct of a Baluch. She could not disown the land which was not even hers, this was the country which promised to educate her when the rest refused or did not bother.

When she arrived back to her family, at the airport, there was a crowd to welcome the hero back. She told an airport official, pointing at the waiting lounge, from left to right, from one point to the end. “You see over there, that is my family which has come from all parts to welcome and receive me”, the official at the airport was spell bound, I was spell bound; I had tears of joy in my eyes, though I could not let it out because the Baluchs would have harassed me for the rest of my life, as I was living the moment there and then. Phuppo, I feel I was there at the airport, I felt I was there to receive you…

Such people I look up to. Such true warriors I meet everyday in my life. Such people He has decided that I have to take lessons from and I can only testify that we think that we plan and carry out what we do, but in reality He plans and we do what He commands; no doubt He is The Best Planner and we are nothing...