Global Watch | The Massive Rise In Enforced Disappearances Deepens Balochistan’s Crisis

A pall of gloom has descended over Balochistan with a massive rise in ‘enforced disappearances’ in recent days. There is a stunned silence in the region that emanates not from peace, but fear. A silence that carries the weight of missing names, of mothers who stand outside district offices clutching faded photographs, of fathers who scan every passing face hoping for a glimpse of their sons. In the last week alone, around fifteen more people have vanished in separate incidents across multiple districts in this restless province. Fifteen lives erased from the map without explanation, without record, without justice. The number may sound small to those far away, but to the families it is an unbearable universe of pain. This is not new. Enforced

disappearances have long haunted Balochistan like a shadow that refuses to fade. It is a pattern that repeats itself with grim precision—someone is picked up in daylight or snatched at night, witnesses are warned into silence, and official statements claim ignorance. There are no arrests to challenge in court, no charges to defend, no bodies to bury. Only waiting. Endless waiting. Every disappearance leaves a crater in the fabric of a family. Mothers turn into campaigners, fathers into mourners, children into strangers in their own homes. In the narrow streets of Turbat, Gwadar, Panjgur, and Quetta, walls bear posters of the disappeared, printed in black and white, their eyes forever open, staring into a justice system that never looks back. Each poster is an accusation and a prayer at once. The people of Balochistan have learnt that memory itself can be an act of resistance. And yet the numbers keep growing. Data from the province paints a horrifying picture. In the first half of 2024 alone, 306 cases of enforced disappearances were documented. Of these, 104 individuals were released, four found dead, and at least 198 remained missing by mid-year. The majority of perpetrators were reported to be the paramilitary front of the state, the Frontier Corps, followed by the CTD and intelligence agencies. By the end of the year, the Human Rights Council of Balochistan (HRCB) found that 830 cases had been recorded for the full year 2024 — 829 of the disappeared were male and only one female. Out of them, 257 were released, 27 were later found dead, 793 were first-time victims, 30 had previously disappeared and been re-abducted, and seven people had disappeared three times. The profession or occupation of 565 victims remained unknown; among the identified cases were 132 students, 28 labourers, 23 drivers, 10 shopkeepers, and others including teachers, doctors, farmers, journalists, and activists. And the horrors have continued into 2025. In January, 107 enforced disappearances were documented across 14 districts; Kech alone accounted for 30 of the missing, followed by other districts like Awaran and Panjgur. Eight extrajudicial killings were also recorded that month. In March 2025, the HRCB documented 151 enforced disappearances and 80 killings; only 56 of the disappeared have resurfaced, one was transferred to jail, and 94 remained unaccounted for. The district of Kalat led with 38 disappearances, Quetta and Gwadar followed. In February 2025, 144 disappearances and 46 killings were reported; of the abducted, 41 were released, 102 remained missing, and one was killed. These monthly figures are not anomalies — they speak to a systemic campaign of fear and control. In the last week, fifteen more families have joined this community of grief. They come from different towns and villages — students, labourers, farmers, shopkeepers—but their stories echo the same pattern. A group of men in plain clothes, sometimes accompanied by uniformed officers, arrive in unmarked vehicles. They take the person away for “questioning.” That is the last anyone sees of them. When the families go to the police stations, they are told there is no record. When they go to the courts, they are told to bring proof. When they go to the media, they are told to be careful. What happens when an entire system becomes deaf to your pain? Yet, in the face of this silence, people keep speaking. Women have marched for days under the burning sun, holding pictures of their missing sons and brothers. Activists have documented the cases, keeping meticulous lists that grow longer each month. Students have written poems and essays, daring to speak of loss. Artists have painted the empty spaces left behind by the disappeared. Each act of remembrance is a defiance against invisibility. Balochistan’s story is one of contradictions. It is rich in minerals, culture and courage, yet its people live under a constant cloud of suspicion. They are told to love a country that seems to forget them, to trust institutions that refuse to protect them, to remain calm when their loved ones are stolen. For decades, they have been promised development, inclusion, and peace. But what is peace when your neighbour disappears and no one dares to ask why? The recent wave of disappearances has revived an old wound. In the bazaars of Kech and the coastal stretches of Gwadar, whispers travel faster than news: “Who will be next?” The fear is palpable, yet beneath it lies something more powerful: resolve. The families of the disappeared have refused to be silenced. Their sit-ins, hunger strikes, and protest marches have become a testament to endurance. These are not people seeking revenge. They are seeking truth. They are demanding that the disappeared be acknowledged, that justice be done, that the cycle of fear be broken. The moral question is simple: no state has the right to erase its own citizens. Enforced disappearance is not just a political act; it is an assault on humanity itself. It destroys the social contract between people and the institutions meant to protect them. It poisons the idea of belonging. It tells ordinary citizens that they are expendable. And when that message spreads, faith in the rule of law crumbles. Even those who remain untouched by personal loss feel the weight of the collective trauma. The writer is an author and columnist. His X handle is @ArunAnandLive. Views expressed are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect News18’s views.