English
Arabic
Chinese (Simplified)
Russian
Spanish
Urdu
The Pakistani establishment is quick to invoke patriotism and conspiracy theories when incidents like this occur, often blaming foreign hands. Yet the hands that continue to strangle dissent at home are never questioned. Every time a family in Quetta mourns a missing son, every time a protest in Turbat is met with bullets, and every time a journalist disappears for reporting the truth, a little more faith is lost in the state. When democratic routes are blocked, insurgency finds space.
The brutal attack on the Jaffar Express on April 8, 2025, near Mach in Balochistan, has not only exposed Pakistan’s consistent security failures but also laid bare a far more uncomfortable truth—the violent consequences of state repression and unresolved grievances. With at least 17 innocent lives lost and dozens more injured in a coordinated IED blast, this incident is not just a tragedy of intelligence failure but also a chilling reflection of the growing unrest born out of long-standing human rights abuses across Pakistan, especially in regions like Balochistan. As a Kashmir-based journalist, I write this not from a place of detached commentary, but from lived experience. I know what it means to live under a shadow of surveillance, where young men disappear without explanation and justice is a mirage. The stories of missing persons, arbitrary detentions, media blackouts, and institutional silencing in Kashmir are uncannily echoed in Balochistan, albeit with even less visibility and fewer voices to raise alarm. The Jaffar Express attack, as horrifying as it is, cannot be seen in isolation from the lived pain of these communities.
Balochistan has long been Pakistan’s bleeding wound—rich in resources but impoverished in rights. For decades, the people of this province have been subjected to a ruthless cycle of militarization, enforced disappearances, extra-judicial killings, and collective punishment under the guise of “national security.” The Pakistani state has continuously chosen to see Baloch demands for autonomy, dignity, and rights as threats rather than calls for justice. The result? An entire generation of Baloch youth radicalized, disillusioned, and pushed to the margins. The attack on Jaffar Express, reportedly claimed by Baloch separatist elements, is being portrayed by Islamabad as an “attack on Pakistan’s unity.” Yet, such blanket statements deliberately ignore the root causes. One cannot ignore that this violence stems from decades of systematic oppression. This does not justify the attack, nor does it take away the grief of the victims. But if we are to be honest—and if we are to prevent such attacks from happening again—we must confront the uncomfortable truth: violence begets violence, and suppression without justice breeds rebellion.
The Pakistani establishment is quick to invoke patriotism and conspiracy theories when incidents like this occur, often blaming foreign hands. Yet the hands that continue to strangle dissent at home are never questioned. Every time a family in Quetta mourns a missing son, every time a protest in Turbat is met with bullets, and every time a journalist disappears for reporting the truth, a little more faith is lost in the state. When democratic routes are blocked, insurgency finds space.
As someone from Kashmir, the parallels are chilling. Just like in Balochistan, there is a pattern—mass arrests during protests, crackdowns on student activists, disappearances of those who speak against injustice, and a complete weaponization of fear. The media, for the most part, has become complicit, echoing state narratives and demonizing entire communities instead of questioning power. In this environment, truth dies first, and what replaces it is propaganda.
It is within this context that the Jaffar Express attack must be examined. Not merely as a security lapse—though it certainly is one—but as a political and moral failure. The same train has been attacked multiple times before, yet no lasting security plan was implemented. Intelligence was either missing or ignored. The track was not properly cleared or monitored despite being in a volatile region. This points to not just neglect, but a lack of empathy for the people who depend on public infrastructure, particularly in Pakistan’s peripheries. What makes this even more tragic is that the victims were everyday people—students returning home for Eid, laborers traveling to visit families, women and children on a journey that ended in horror. Their deaths are not just the result of an IED; they are the culmination of years of ignored warnings, unresolved grievances, and a state too arrogant to listen and too weak to act where it matters.
In the hours following the attack, the state machinery rolled into action, as expected—condemnation tweets, emergency meetings, televised outrage. But these responses ring hollow without accountability. Not a single minister has stepped down. No inquiry committee has teeth. The Prime Minister’s words sound painfully recycled. How many more times will “strict action” be promised while trains run through death zones without escorts or security? How many more bodies must be counted before a political consensus is reached on addressing the root causes of unrest?It is also telling that human rights organizations, both domestic and international, continue to be harassed or sidelined when they try to shed light on the situation in Balochistan. Journalists who report from the ground face threats or worse. The courts are silent, or shackled. In such a vacuum, it is not just law and order that collapses—it is the very idea of justice.
If the Pakistani state genuinely seeks to end such attacks, it must go beyond military solutions. It must begin with acknowledging the human rights crisis in its own backyard. It must end enforced disappearances, allow the press to function freely, and create space for political dialogue. For Balochistan, for Sindh, for Gilgit-Baltistan, and yes, even for Kashmir—if Pakistan wants to be seen as a just state, it must act like one.
The Jaffar Express will roll again, its compartments painted anew, perhaps with a fresh slogan of unity. But unity does not come from censorship. It does not come from crackdowns. And it certainly does not come from funerals. It comes from truth, from justice, and from the willingness to see every citizen—regardless of ethnicity, language, or ideology—as worthy of dignity.
As the smoke clears over Mach, we must ask: will this be just another headline, or a turning point? Will the state listen for once, not just to the sound of explosions, but to the silenced voices that came long before them?
Author:
Syed Jahanzeeb is a Kashmir-based journalist and political commentator, known for his incisive writings on state repression, human rights, and regional geopolitics. He has reported from conflict zones across South Asia and is a vocal advocate for press freedom and justice in marginalized areas. His work is widely respected for its integrity and commitment to amplifying unheard voices. He can be reached on syedjahanzeeb2@gmail.com
