On July 28, protesters from across Balochistan descended on the coastal city of Gwadar for the Baloch national gathering - Raji Muchi.
The event had been long announced, and caravans of buses and small vehicles from various parts of the province and other parts of the country headed to the coastal city, which is considered the lynchpin of the multibillion-dollar China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC). The government, however, distrusted the plans of the grand national jirga organisers, the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) and were less than keen to see the event go through, given the protest's agenda.
The situation turned deadly after clashes erupted between the protesters attempting to get to Gwadar and the protest site on the Marine Drive and security forces determined to turn them away. The violence claimed at least three lives and left more than 50 injured. All main roads were blocked, while security forces resorted to firing tear gas and charging at protesters with batons. Scores of people across Balochistan were arrested while a blanket ban was imposed on all modern modes of communication. After protesters turned their day-long protest into a two-week-long sit-in, the water supply to Gwadar was cut off to force them to give up.
Even as these momentous and dramatic events unfolded, an unexpected story unfolded, and I, a reporter of news events, became part of the news.
For a long time, I believed that holding a press card was a badge of honour for any journalist, a symbol of credibility and a protective shield, especially in Balochistan's challenging environment. This card, representing my affiliation with a professional journalistic organisation, wasn't just a piece of identification; it was a badge of integrity, a tool to amplify the voices of the oppressed. But what happened in Gwadar forced me to contend with a new reality: how could this badge serve its purpose if its very possession becomes a liability, subject to confiscation by the authorities?
On the day of the protest, I equipped myself with my press card and mobile phone and left my home. The streets were eerily quiet. A heavy contingent of security forces patrolled the streets while the markets were shut—some voluntarily to support the protest, others on account of it being a gazetted holiday, and some others pulling down their shutters under an unannounced curfew.
I made my way to the Javed Complex area, where I witnessed a scene of chaos. Police were rounding up people heading towards Syed Hashumi Chowk on Marine Drive, the site of the Baloch Raji Muchi.
Gwadar SSP and his squad were herding suspects into the back of police vans as if they were livestock. Following my journalistic instinct, I took out my mobile phone to document the scene. This, however, prompted a policeman to walk over and snatch my device and hand it over to the SSP.
I naively assumed the SSP would recognise me as a journalist and a member of the Gwadar Press Club, especially since he had visited the club just days before. I addressed the SSP, speaking first in native Balochi. I identified myself as a journalist and politely requested that he return my phone. But the SSP and his men responded with abuse and rough treatment. Switching to Brahvi, I tried again, explaining that I was a journalist. The SSP sneered and replied in Urdu, "Is this a joke?" before another officer walked up and confiscated my press card.
I was shell-shocked at what had just happened. Not only had the officers, who were supposed to protect me and other citizens, confiscated my phone - a lifeline for journalists - but they had also stripped me of my press card. Watching them treat other people around me inhumanely, I realised the futility of my situation and I ran to save myself.
The loss of my press card, though, weighed heavily on my mind, perhaps even more than my phone - a contraption that could easily be replaced. The card, however, was far more complex. A symbol of journalistic pride had been reduced to just another victim of the state's oppressive tactics. The abuse, the hostility, the blatant disregard for my rights—it was all too much. The card, which once represented a journalistic institution, was now worth nothing more than a piece of plastic in a policeman's pocket.
Later that night, I, along with four senior journalists, visited the SSP's office in a bid to retrieve my card and phone. In a hollow gesture, the SSP returned them, but not before I was forced to delete the photos I had taken. My senior colleagues brushed off the incident, attributing it to my inexperience.
As I walked away, I felt a deep sense of shame. Despite spending 18 years to get an education, including a master's and then an MPhil in journalism, I was left questioning my role as a journalist. My year and a half of membership with the press club had amounted to nothing more than two cups of tea daily, a free tour, and the promise of a welfare fund at the year's end.
I reflected on all the journalism lectures I had patiently sat through, the classes on ethics, and nearly eight years spent in the fieldwork without a press card where I was just as much a journalist, working to realise the dream of running an international Balochi digital media outlet. But after what happened on July 28, the card had become nothing more than a means to access free tea but had cost me my journalistic dignity.
Thus, having the press card in my hands again provided me with no comfort whatsoever. I ultimately turned in my press card, along with a resignation letter.
I no longer harbour any illusions about being special in Balochistan—a region shrouded in an information blackout, where journalism is not just discouraged, it's outright forbidden.