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In the shadowed corridors of the Pakistani state, where power is wielded not by the parliament but by barracks and clandestine agencies, the soul of Balochistan bleeds. The month of January 2025 alone saw 107 enforced disappearances across the province, according to a chilling report by Paank, the human rights wing of the Baloch National Movement. These are not just numbers—they are human lives swallowed by a brutal machine that operates beyond accountability, with the military establishment acting as judge, jury, and often, executioner. Dr. Abdul Malik Baloch, President of the National Party and former Chief Minister of Balochistan, has emerged as one of the few political voices courageous enough to confront the state’s ongoing repression. In a recent public address, he condemned the federal government and military’s intrusion into Balochistan’s affairs—especially through the controversial Mines and Minerals Act, which he decried as a constitutional betrayal.
Resource Colonialism in a Federal Guise
The plunder of Balochistan’s natural wealth—Saindak, Reko Diq, Gwadar—is conducted not with development in mind, but domination. The people of Balochistan are treated not as stakeholders, but as subjects of a 21st-century colonial project. Contracts with companies like Pakistan Petroleum Limited and Saindak Metals are renewed without the consultation of legitimate public representatives, further entrenching the military’s grip over the region’s resources. John Locke, the Enlightenment philosopher who laid the foundation for liberal constitutionalism, argued that a government loses legitimacy the moment it no longer operates with the consent of the governed. The Pakistani state’s actions in Balochistan represent a grotesque inversion of this principle. Where the social contract demands mutual obligation, the state offers extraction and suppression. In Locke’s words, such a regime ceases to be civil and becomes a “state of war.”
Disappearances: The Anatomy of a State Crime
The figures from the Paank report are harrowing: enforced disappearances have become the norm rather than the exception. These are not rogue acts but systematic state policy—an organized terror campaign carried out by military and intelligence agencies to quash dissent and eradicate political opposition. The mutilated bodies of Muhammad Ismail (20) and Muhammad Abbas (17), found after being abducted from their Kalat home, represent the fate of thousands. Their youth, their innocence, their right to live—all discarded in the name of national security. Hekmatullah Baloch, another victim, was shot during a peaceful protest and succumbed to his injuries in a Karachi hospital. His crime? Demanding accountability. Michel Foucault, in his seminal work Discipline and Punish, observed that modern states have replaced the public spectacle of punishment with hidden forms of control—surveillance, incarceration, and disappearance. Pakistan, in Balochistan, has regressed to a grotesque hybrid, mixing the medieval cruelty of mutilation with the modern state’s bureaucratic efficiency. The Fourth Schedule and Maintenance of Public Order (3MPO) are not laws—they are instruments of tyranny.
The Illusion of Democracy and the Reality of Martial Law
While Islamabad claims to be a constitutional democracy, Balochistan is ruled like an occupied territory. Dr. Abdul Malik denounced the frequent use of colonial-era laws to detain political activists, many of them women. He rightly equated this crackdown to civil martial law—a regime where uniforms dictate politics and silence becomes the only guarantee of safety. The philosopher Hannah Arendt warned that the collapse of the line between the legal and the illegal is the precursor to totalitarianism. In Balochistan, this line has not only been blurred; it has been erased. The people no longer know when they cross a boundary, because the boundary moves with the will of the soldier. This system does not merely suppress dissent—it criminalizes existence itself. Border trade, once a lifeline for over three million people, has been strangled by new regulations and taxes. What remains is not law and order but extortion by officials, where survival is a privilege granted to the obedient and denied to the defiant.
The Politics of Extraction and Exclusion
The resource curse is not a theory in Balochistan—it is lived reality. The province is rich in gas, gold, copper, and port infrastructure, yet its people suffer from abject poverty, rampant illiteracy, and systemic unemployment. This paradox is no accident; it is by design. Antonio Gramsci’s idea of passive revolution is illuminating here. Gramsci noted how dominant classes use state apparatuses to integrate resistance into the system without altering its exploitative foundations. In Balochistan, token development projects and cosmetic representation serve as cover for a deeper colonization. What the state offers is not empowerment but pacification. Even the façade of electoral politics is undermined. Dr. Malik lamented that extensions to mineral contracts were being signed without legitimate public oversight, deepening the alienation of the Baloch people. This political exclusion is a deliberate strategy to delegitimize regional autonomy and enforce submission to centralized authority.
Dispossession Disguised as Security
The Talaar check post, which Dr. Malik demanded be dismantled, is not merely a security installation—it is a symbol of domination. It represents the architecture of occupation: a structure that surveils, intimidates, and fragments the community it purports to protect. Similar outposts dot the Baloch landscape like scars, each a reminder that the state sees its own citizens as insurgents in need of subjugation. Frantz Fanon, in The Wretched of the Earth, described colonial regimes that deploy violence not just to suppress rebellion but to imprint inferiority onto the colonized psyche. The Pakistan Army’s presence in Balochistan functions the same way. It tells the Baloch they do not own their land, their bodies, or their future.
Dr. Malik’s demands are not radical—they are constitutional. He asks for the release of political workers, simplification of trade rules, and the withdrawal of draconian laws. Yet in the eyes of the establishment, such calls are tantamount to sedition. This reaction reveals the state’s true nature: one that cannot accommodate dissent because its foundations are built on domination, not dialogue. It views Baloch identity not as a part of the national mosaic, but as a threat to its imposed uniformity. The German philosopher Jürgen Habermas emphasized the importance of “communicative rationality”—the idea that democratic societies should resolve conflicts through open, inclusive dialogue. The Pakistani state, instead, speaks in the language of bullets, barbed wire, and black sites. It confuses coercion with cohesion and believes silence equals stability.
A Dark Mirror for the World
The world must not avert its eyes. What is happening in Balochistan is not an internal affair—it is a human rights catastrophe that demands international scrutiny. The United Nations, the European Union, and rights organizations must pressure Pakistan to end its military campaign of terror. Balochistan is the mirror in which we see the true face of the Pakistani establishment: brutal, extractive, and unapologetically authoritarian. Until the military returns to the barracks, until the disappeared are returned to their families, and until the people of Balochistan control their own destiny, there will be no peace. To paraphrase the philosopher Rousseau: A people once forced to be silent will eventually speak with fire. Balochistan is the mirror in which we see the true face of the Pakistani establishment: brutal, extractive, and unapologetically authoritarian. Until the military returns to the barracks, until the disappeared are returned to their families, and until the people of Balochistan control their own destiny, there will be no peace. Pakistan has, willy-nilly, disappeared the people of Balochistan—fathers, mothers, brothers, daughters—without remorse or accountability. This machinery of oppression has shattered countless lives and torn apart the social fabric of a proud and historic people. The silence of the disappeared echoes louder than any protest; it reverberates through every Baloch household and haunts every mother who waits at her doorstep. These disappearances, and the suffering they bring, are not merely crimes—they are the slow incineration of hope. If this trajectory of state violence and contempt continues, it will not just destabilize Balochistan but engulf any prospect of peace. A state that thrives on the pain of its peripheries cannot claim unity; it can only demand obedience, and such obedience always comes at the cost of human dignity. It is no longer a question of politics—it is a question of survival. And the world must choose: to remain complicit in silence or to stand with a people struggling to be seen, to be heard, and above all—to be free.
On 18 April 2025, a 47-year-old car workshop owner was brutally killed with sticks and bricks as a mob of hundreds stormed his place of worship, while numerous others had to be rescued by police in the city of Karachi, Pakistan. This horrific incident, which should provoke national outrage and deep sorrow, failed to elicit a strong response from civil society or a decisive intervention from the state. The reason lies in the fact that both the victim and the worship site belonged to the Ahmadi Muslim minority— a community that routinely faces violent persecution, systemic political and bureaucratic discrimination, and institutionalised oppression within Pakistan.
Each year, reports by governmental bodies, international human rights organisations, and community advocates document the persistent assaults on Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan by Islamist factions or radicalised mobs, with no meaningful intervention by the state. In some instances, the state appears overtly complicit in such actions—for example, in March of this year, a 120-year-old Ahmadi place of worship was demolished by police following pressure and complaints from Islamist groups claiming the structure resembled a mosque. To offer a glimpse into the societal persecution faced by this community: Ahmadi Muslim graves are frequently defiled and vandalised, while individuals endure constant harassment, targeted assassinations, mob violence, unofficial commercial boycotts, employment discrimination, and abuse on digital platforms. This is compounded by the alarming frequency of blasphemy accusations levelled against Ahmadi Muslims, for reasons such as possessing the Quran, inscribing Prophet Muhammad’s name on a wedding invitation, or engaging in prayer using language or gestures considered distinctly Islamic.
While opposition to the Ahmadiyya community has existed since its inception in the late 19th century by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad of Qadian in Punjab, the most critical blow to Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan was delivered through the 1974 constitutional amendment, which officially declared them non-Muslims. Despite sharing the majority of beliefs and practices with mainstream Muslims, Ahmadis diverge in their recognition of Mirza Ahmad as the Mahdi or Messiah, a belief that conflicts with the Islamic doctrine of Khatam-e-Nubuwwat (the finality of Prophet Muhammad). Subsequently, in 1984, General Zia-ul-Haq issued an ordinance prohibiting Ahmadi Muslims from performing Islamic rites or displaying religious symbols associated with Islam, such as erecting domes or minarets on their places of worship. In 1985, he also introduced segregated voter lists based on religious identity, effectively requiring Ahmadi Muslims to renounce their beliefs in order to vote. This marked the onset of a formalised system of legal disenfranchisement and persecution, which continues today. Although the practice of separate electoral rolls was ended in 2002, Ahmadi Muslims were excluded from this reform. The requirement to repudiate their faith has since permeated various aspects of governance, barring them from essential state services such as obtaining a passport. Notably, in October 2022, Punjab’s provincial government mandated the inclusion of a declaration affirming the finality of Prophet Muhammad within the marriage registration form.
The emergence of the far-right Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP), the group whose supporters were involved in the recent attack and killing of an Ahmadi Muslim man in Karachi, has significantly deepened the climate of fear and marginalisation experienced by the community.
The TLP rose to national attention in 2017 when it staged a three-week blockade of a major highway in Islamabad to protest a minor amendment to the electoral oath, which the group perceived as a dilution of the state’s stance against Ahmadi Muslims. The government ultimately conceded to their demand by reinstating the original wording, resulting in the resignation of Law Minister Zahid Hamid. Such is the influence of far-right sentiment that, in 2018, the Imran Khan-led PTI government succumbed to pressure from extremist groups and requested that Princeton professor Atif Mian resign from his role as Economic Adviser solely on account of his Ahmadi Muslim identity.
While the systemic exclusion of Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan was initiated and continues to be upheld by the state, the deep-seated societal animosity it has fostered has now grown beyond the state’s control. Decades of intentional state policy targeting the community for political gain have inflicted lasting damage on the nation, fostering a society deeply afflicted by radicalism, self-destructive impulses, and toxic intolerance. According to data compiled by the Ahmadiyya community, at least 264 Ahmadi Muslims were killed in targeted attacks, mob violence, and bombings between 1984 and 2018. It is important to note that even Pakistan’s first and only Nobel Laureate, Abdus Salam, was not spared from the effects of this pervasive hostility—his gravestone was defaced to erase the word ‘Muslim’ due to his Ahmadi Muslim identity.
The Pakistan Army, once a formidable force that determined the nation’s destiny with authority, is now deteriorating under the burden of corruption, incompetence, and internal conflict. General Asim Munir, who currently leads the institution, has steered it towards a state of disgrace, turning what was once Pakistan’s most powerful entity into a divided, despised, and faltering power structure. The divisions are deepening, the foundations are weakening, and Munir’s leadership appears to be on the brink of collapse.
In an unprecedented display of defiance, junior officers have turned against their own commander, presenting a letter that reads more like an ultimatum than a request. Colonels, majors, captains, and soldiers have come together in their outrage, demanding that Munir resign immediately or face repercussions that could destabilize the military. Their language is harsh and resolute. “This is your 1971, General,” the letter states, referencing the humiliating defeat that led to the creation of Bangladesh. The officers accuse Munir of tarnishing the army’s legacy, using its power against the very citizens it was meant to protect, and employing the military as a blunt tool to suppress political adversaries and undermine democracy.
What was once the ultimate arbiter of Pakistan’s future has now become an institution mired in disgrace. Munir has transformed GHQ into a personal fiefdom, where military power is used not against external threats but against journalists, students, activists, and political opponents. The ousting of Imran Khan and the blatant manipulation of the February 8, 2024, elections have only reinforced what the world had already anticipated: the Pakistan Army is no longer a defender of national security; it has become an instrument of repression, a junta posing as a military, and a remnant of dictatorship desperately clinging to power.
Public anger has reached a critical level. The military, once held in high esteem, is now the subject of overt resistance. Soldiers, once respected, are now pelted with stones by children in the streets. Military convoys, once feared, are now greeted with mockery and abuse. Munir’s leadership has tarnished the army’s credibility, transforming it from the nation’s protector into its most reviled oppressor. The bitterness is profound, and the resentment simmers like an unhealed wound.
As the country descends further into economic turmoil, Munir and his generals continue to prosper. The army’s unchecked dominance over business empires, land acquisitions, and financial institutions has enabled them to accumulate vast wealth while the average Pakistani faces starvation. Palatial homes rise behind fortified barriers while entire families beg for food on the streets. The letter from the rebellious officers is filled with disdain, accusing Munir of being little more than a petty tyrant who has extended his tenure to 2027 not out of obligation but driven by insatiable greed. “The economy is a decaying corpse, and yet you parade in GHQ like a pathetic dictator while we starve,” the letter asserts. The anger now extends beyond the streets—it is rising within the ranks, signaling the onset of a revolt unlike anything the military has ever experienced.
Munir’s failures extend beyond politics and economics. His incompetence has rendered the army ineffective on the battlefield, where insurgents now openly mock its weakness. The hijacking of the Jaffar Express by the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) was a moment of profound humiliation—a flagrant demonstration of how Pakistan’s adversaries no longer fear its military. Armed militants took control of an entire train, held hostages, and departed unscathed. The army’s response? Empty rhetoric and futile threats. The officers’ letter is laden with disdain: “The BLA’s taunts resonate more strongly than your hollow ISPR press releases, and the soldiers who once stood tall now hang their heads in shame.”
This is not merely a crisis of leadership; it is a moment of existential reckoning. The officers who have spoken out are not issuing idle threats—they are signaling the presence of a force ready to act. Should Munir refuse to resign, the army itself may soon turn against him. A coup from within is no longer an unimaginable scenario. The chain of command is weakening, discipline is deteriorating, and the storm is on the horizon. Whispers are circulating in the barracks, unrest is brewing among the ranks, and a spirit of defiance is spreading among those who once unquestioningly obeyed orders.
Pakistan stands on the brink of turmoil. The army’s long-unquestioned dominance, once tolerated by the populace, is now encountering resistance from within its own ranks. Munir’s grip on power is loosening, his credibility is in ruins, and his prospects are grim. Will he heed the warnings and step down, or will his obstinate arrogance drag both the army and Pakistan into a profound internal crisis?
The world is closely watching. Both Pakistan’s allies and adversaries are observing the gradual disintegration of a military once regarded as untouchable. The United States, China, and Saudi Arabia—countries that once viewed Pakistan’s army as a vital stabilizing force—are now cautious of its instability. A divided and rebellious military spells disaster for the region, where existing instability has already provided fertile ground for extremism and disorder. Should the army persist along its current trajectory, Pakistan risks becoming a failed state, a theater for proxy wars, and a nation devoid of sovereignty, its future shaped by foreign powers.
One fact is undeniable: the era of the Pakistan Army’s unquestioned dominance is coming to an end. The wave of rebellion is growing, and Munir’s name is destined to be recorded not in triumph, but among Pakistan’s greatest failures. The only path forward for Pakistan is to restore power to its rightful source—the people. For far too long, the army has usurped the nation’s future, subverting democracy and ruling through force and intimidation. The time has come to break this military stranglehold. Pakistan must rise, reclaim its sovereignty, and bring an end to the army’s tyranny once and for all.
Dr. Mahrang Baloch, the charismatic and fearless leader of the peaceful Baloch civil resistance, has been detained by Pakistani authorities alongside 16 other activists for protesting against the ongoing enforced disappearances in the province. As a key organiser of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee, an organisation that has played a significant role in galvanising grassroots mobilisations demanding state accountability, Baloch faces charges including directing terrorist activities, sedition, and rioting. Despite triggering widespread domestic and international condemnation, the Pakistani authorities remain largely unperturbed in their authoritarian suppression of peaceful Baloch demonstrations. In light of the recent escalation in insurgent attacks within the province, the latest wave of arrests and violent repression of protests can be seen as a deliberate attempt to divert attention from the state’s own failures and shortcomings.
Although the Pakistani state has escalated its efforts to silence Baloch this time, she has been under scrutiny for some time. A surgeon by profession, she has played a pivotal role in fostering the peaceful Baloch movement within a highly perilous environment. At just 32 years old, she has witnessed firsthand the severe abuses that the Pakistani state inflicts upon the Baloch people. In 2009, at the age of 16, her father, Abdul Ghaffar Lango, a labourer and political activist with the Balochistan National Party (BNP), was forcibly disappeared. Two years later, his mutilated body was discovered, showing signs of torture and gunshot wounds. In 2017, Baloch’s brother was also forcibly disappeared. Although he was released three months later following Baloch’s vocal opposition to the authorities, her anger and activism endured, and she has since become the voice of many others who continue to suffer similar fates.
Mahrang Baloch gained widespread recognition during the Baloch Yakjehti Committee’s (BYC) ‘March against Baloch Genocide’ from Turbat to Quetta (the provincial capital) and ultimately to Islamabad, held between December 2023 and January 2024. The catalyst for this long march was the November 2023 killing of 24-year-old tailor Balach Mola Baksh by the Counter Terrorism Department, which falsely characterised the incident as an encounter. His family, claiming he was in state custody at the time of his death, protested at Fida Ahmed Chowk in Turbat with his body for a week, but their efforts yielded no results.
The BYC had originally emerged from the Bramsh Yakjehti Committee, formed in solidarity with and to seek justice for Bramsh, the 4-year-old daughter of Malik Naz, who was allegedly killed by state-backed death squads in May 2020. In response to the ongoing state abuses, including enforced disappearances, fabricated encounters, extrajudicial killings, and torture, the leadership of the Bramsh Yakjehti Committee chose to broaden its scope to address the broader plight of the Baloch people, renaming the organisation as the Baloch Yakjehti Committee. The movement is spearheaded by the mothers, sisters, daughters, and half-widows of those who have fallen victim to these brutal state actions, without any accountability. The BYC has since organised a number of significant demonstrations, mobilising people on an unprecedented scale in the history of the province, including the ‘Baloch Raaji Muchi’ in Gwadar in July 2024 and the ‘Baloch Genocide Remembrance Day’ in Dalbandin in January 2025.
In response to the rise of peaceful civil resistance by the Baloch people, the Pakistani establishment, rather than addressing the long-standing grievances of the populace, has resorted to its usual tactics of obstructing, discrediting, and silencing the movement. The protests have continued despite state-enforced internet and network blackouts, arbitrary detentions, the use of water cannons, tear gas, and even live ammunition. Additionally, the state has launched an extensive disinformation campaign against the movement. The mainstream media, traditionally aligned with state narratives, has been complicit in linking the activists to insurgents, alleging that they are supported or manipulated by foreign entities. Dr Mahrang Baloch herself has been targeted by malicious digital propaganda, with false claims that her father and brother were associated with insurgents. Furthermore, an image of her with a Norwegian journalist who interviewed her was circulated, suggesting foreign involvement in the movement. A fabricated audio recording was also spread, falsely claiming that Baloch was attempting to secure foreign funds for the Gwadar protest. A recurring element of the disinformation campaign involves misrepresenting the missing persons, whom the movement advocates for, as separatist militants. In one instance, a photograph of Baloch at a protest was altered to distort an image of a missing person on a poster behind her, replacing the image of Rafique Oman with that of Rafiq Bizenjo, a suicide bomber allegedly claimed by the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA).
The province of Balochistan has endured immense deprivation and suffering due to the ongoing conflict between the Pakistani state and the long-standing armed insurgency. In addition to the systemic discrimination and exploitation imposed by the federal government, the Baloch people have faced relentless human rights violations by the state under the guise of counter-insurgency measures. The recent train hijacking and Noshki attack on security personnel by the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) highlight the complete failure of Pakistan’s policies to address the insurgency and safeguard the Baloch population. Rather than confronting the fundamental issues surrounding its approach, the establishment has reverted to its familiar and convenient tactic of suppressing peaceful dissent to avoid addressing difficult questions.
Dr Mahrang Baloch is currently being held in Quetta District Jail without any legal proceedings, denied access to her lawyer and family. Her cousin, Asma Baloch, has reported that the authorities are even preventing her family from delivering food and other necessary items to her. International human rights organisations, including Amnesty International and Front Line Defenders, have raised concerns about this situation and called for her immediate release. It is evident that the state’s attempt to silence a prominent figure of the peaceful Baloch resistance has backfired, drawing greater attention to the plight of the Baloch people. It is crucial that the establishment reassesses its approach and puts an end to the egregious practices that have fuelled the insurgency and caused immense suffering to the Baloch population.
In December 1970, Pakistan held its first democratic National Assembly elections, in which the Awami League, a political party rooted in East Pakistan, secured a resounding victory. However, rather than accepting the will of the people, the political and military elite of West Pakistan—fuelled by an ingrained prejudice against the Bengali population, whom they viewed as socially and culturally ‘inferior’—chose to suppress their aspirations through brute military force. Their response culminated in Operation Searchlight on 25 March 1971, an unspeakable campaign of terror designed to crush Awami League activists and their supporters. Yet, what began as a targeted crackdown soon escalated into an indiscriminate genocide against the Bengali population, whose only ‘crime’ was their demand to be treated as equal citizens rather than colonial subjects.
The horrors unleashed by the Pakistan Army swept through the streets of Dacca (now Dhaka) and into the remotest villages, leaving in their wake devastation beyond measure. Among the most harrowing atrocities was the systematic sexual violence perpetrated against Bengali women, a tragedy that has been shamefully overlooked in historical discourse. These biranganas—‘war heroines’—bear the deepest scars of Bangladesh’s struggle for independence, their suffering a cruel testament to the price of liberation. Even after 54 years, the wounds of 1971 remain unhealed, exacerbated by Pakistan’s obstinate refusal to acknowledge its army’s genocidal crimes, let alone offer an apology. This shameful denial stands as an enduring stain on history, a stark reminder of justice long denied.
The horrors of war are not confined to the battlefield; they seep insidiously into the very fabric of society, leaving scars far beyond the domain of military conflict. Among the most egregious manifestations of this brutality is sexual violence, a weapon wielded with calculated cruelty to devastate both individuals and communities. In the cataclysmic events of the 1971 Liberation War, the Pakistani military orchestrated a campaign of systematic rape and torture, deploying it as an instrument of both physical subjugation and psychological annihilation. Women’s bodies, long perceived as the repositories of familial and societal honour, became the battleground upon which this barbarity was unleashed.
As Operation Searchlight unfurled its dark shadow over Dhaka, innumerable Bengali women were forcibly taken from their homes and university campuses, their destinies cruelly altered as they were transported to military barracks and confined to what can only be described as ‘rape camps.’ Subjected to relentless violation, many perished at the hands of their tormentors, their suffering rendered invisible in the tide of genocide. A sinister agenda underpinned this depravity—the calculated objective of impregnating Bengali women to dilute ethnic identity, an insidious attempt at demographic engineering. The so-called ‘war babies,’ estimated at around 20,000, were intended as a grotesque means of tethering East Pakistan’s future to the bloodlines of the West. This brutal strategy, steeped in both violence and a grotesque perversion of power, epitomized the depths to which oppression can descend in its ruthless pursuit of domination.
The horrors of the Liberation War of Bangladesh were not confined to the battlefield alone; they seeped into the very fabric of human dignity, as the Pakistan Army weaponised rape to inflict psychological trauma upon the Bengali populace. In a calculated effort to break the spirit of resistance and force submission, women were subjected to unspeakable brutality, often in the presence of their own families. With the complicity of collaborators—the notorious razakars—who abducted and delivered women, particularly from the Hindu community, the army orchestrated sexual violence on an unimaginable scale. The aftermath was as macabre as the crime itself: bodies of slain victims hung from trees, discarded in mass graves, or strewn beneath bridges—chilling symbols of the cost of nationalist aspiration. In this grotesque theatre of terror, rape was not just an instrument of war; it was a calculated strategy to annihilate the will of a people.
The systemic and brutal use of sexual violence as a weapon of war during Bangladesh’s Liberation War remains one of the darkest stains on human conscience. The atrocities committed against an estimated 200,000-400,00 women were not incidental but deliberate—a vile strategy of war designed to terrorise and subjugate a people. However, to reduce Bengali women’s role in 1971 merely to that of victims would be an egregious oversight. Women were not just passive sufferers but active participants in the resistance, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Mukti Bahini. They smuggled arms and intelligence, tended to the wounded, and even bore arms themselves—undaunted warriors in their own right. Their contributions were no less significant than their male counterparts, their sacrifices no less valiant.
It was Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman who sought to dignify these women by calling them ‘Birangana’—a title meant to honour their courage. Yet, in the post-war years, the term became tragically synonymous with shame, society reducing these war heroines to mere victims of rape, as if their suffering was theirs alone to bear. Instead of receiving the gratitude of a free nation, they were met with ostracism, rejection, and silence. Many families refused to accept them back, further condemning them to a life of isolation. The establishment of the War Crimes Tribunal in 2010 was a long-overdue step toward justice, yet the scars of betrayal remain. Pakistan has yet to acknowledge its army’s heinous crimes, and Bangladesh’s collective memory has yet to fully embrace these women as the warriors they were. On the 54th anniversary of Operation Searchlight, let us not only remember Pakistan’s war on women but also recognise the Birangana for their undying fortitude in forging a free Bangladesh.