On 30 August, the world marked the International Day of the Victims of Enforced Disappearances, a date intended to rescue the missing from oblivion and remind states that no human being should simply vanish into the machinery of power. In Balochistan, however, remembrance carries the cruelty of the present tense. On July 24, 2026, Jiand Baloch, a student leader and chairman of the Baloch Students Organization, disappeared after being taken away under circumstances that, according to Amnesty International, amounted to an enforced disappearance. For eleven days, his family did not know where he was. He returned home on 3 August. It was not the first time. Amnesty says Jiand had previously been forcibly disappeared for nine months in 2018 and again for about a month in 2024, linking the repeated targeting to his peaceful activism. As the international community prepares to commemorate the disappeared, one man in Balochistan has already had to return from disappearance three times. Therein lies the cruel paradox of 30 August: elsewhere, it is a day for remembering an atrocity; in Balochistan, families continue to experience it in the present tense, writes Dimitra Staikou.
Jiand Baloch is one name in a much larger ledger of absence. According to the Human Rights Council of Balochistan, 105 cases of enforced disappearance were documented in July 2026 alone, alongside 59 killings; 47 of those reported missing later returned, while the fate of others remained unresolved. The figures come from a Baloch human-rights organisation and must be attributed as such, but the phenomenon itself has long drawn scrutiny from United Nations experts and international rights groups. Behind every number lies the peculiar violence of enforced disappearance: no grave at which to mourn, no prison to visit, often no official account to challenge — only a photograph carried from protest to protest and a question repeated until it becomes part of a family’s daily life: Where are they? The United Nations has described enforced disappearance not merely as a violation against the person who vanishes, but as a practice capable of spreading terror throughout society. That definition exposes the bitter contradiction at the heart of Balochistan: while the language of counterterrorism grants the state extraordinary powers in the name of protecting society from fear, families of the disappeared describe living inside another kind of terror — the terror of not knowing whether the person they love is imprisoned, tortured, alive or dead.
The tragedy of Balochistan is not that the world does not know. It is that it has known for years. Pakistan itself established a Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances in 2010, while UN mechanisms have repeatedly raised concerns over disappearances, impunity and the treatment of those who demand answers. In April 2026, the UN Committee against Torture went further, expressing concern over reports that human rights defenders, journalists, political opponents, civil society activists and protesters — as well as members of their families — had faced reprisals ranging from intimidation and arbitrary detention to enforced disappearance and extrajudicial execution. UN experts have also examined allegations arising from counterterrorism operations in Balochistan, including arbitrary arrests, enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings, as well as alleged reprisals against peaceful protesters seeking information about the missing. The contradiction is difficult to escape: a state cannot treat disappearance as serious enough to warrant its own commission of inquiry while allowing families to spend years asking the most elementary question a state should be able to answer — where are they?
For those families, enforced disappearance creates a form of punishment with no defined sentence and no identifiable end. A prisoner has a place of detention; a person confirmed dead can be mourned. The disappeared inhabit the space between the two, leaving their relatives trapped there with them. The United Nations recognises this explicitly: the victims of enforced disappearance are not only those who vanish, but also those who suffer as a direct consequence, while families can face economic hardship, intimidation and reprisals simply for searching for the truth. A mother does not know whether to wait or mourn. A wife may not know whether she is a wife or a widow. A child can grow up without knowing whether a father is imprisoned, hidden somewhere beyond the reach of the law, or dead. Enforced disappearance does not take one person hostage; it holds an entire family hostage to uncertainty. And when information itself is withheld, absence becomes more than the consequence of repression — it becomes an instrument of power.
But enforced disappearance requires something else to endure: silence. And in Balochistan, some of the most persistent challenges to that silence have come from those who refuse to let the missing become merely numbers. Mahrang Baloch, one of the most prominent voices of the Baloch protest movement, knows that absence intimately: her father, Abdul Ghaffar Langove, was forcibly disappeared and later found dead. On 22 March 2025, she was herself arrested following protests in Quetta, alongside other activists demanding accountability over disappearances and alleged extrajudicial killings; UN experts later called for the release of Baloch human-rights defenders and warned against the criminalisation of peaceful protest. But the pressure does not end with the families and activists who demand answers. It reaches those whose profession is to record their testimony. On August 18, 2026, journalist Danish Irshad learned through social media that he had been placed on the Fourth Schedule, an anti-terrorism watchlist in Pakistan-administered Azad Jammu and Kashmir, under an order issued on July 29. No criminal conviction preceded the listing, and the publicly available order did not identify a specific terrorist act attributed to him. Irshad had spent nearly a decade reporting on Kashmir and had recently interviewed families who said their children had been killed by Pakistani forces. Three days later, he asked the question that connects the fate of the witness to that of those whose stories he records: “How did a journalist’s speaking and writing become an act of terrorism?” Enforced disappearance removes a person from public view; intimidating those who search for them, speak for them or document state violence threatens to remove the story as well.
Pakistan has every right to fight terrorism — and, after years of bombings, militant attacks and thousands of lives lost, a duty to protect its citizens from it. As recently as August 2, 2026, a suspected suicide bombing in Swat killed civilians and police officers alike, another reminder that the threat confronting the country is neither rhetorical nor imagined. But precisely because terrorism is real, the word cannot be allowed to mean everything. An armed militant is not a peaceful activist; an activist is not a journalist; and a reporter who interviews the families of victims does not become a terrorist by recording what they have to say. This is where the language of counterterrorism collides with the reality of enforced disappearance. The United Nations warns that enforced disappearance has itself frequently been used as a strategy to “spread terror within society,” while identifying as a particular concern the use of counterterrorism activities by states as an excuse for breaching their human-rights obligations. The contradiction is difficult to escape. When a journalist such as Danish Irshad can be placed on an anti-terrorism watchlist without a publicly identified terrorist act attributed to him, while families elsewhere in Pakistan describe years spent searching for relatives who vanished without answers, the language of security begins to turn against itself. Counterterrorism is supposed to protect society from fear. But when its boundaries become elastic enough to encompass the journalist asking questions, the activist demanding answers and the family searching for the missing, we must ask a far more uncomfortable question: what happens when the instruments invoked to protect a society from terror begin themselves to produce fear?
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