Where Is That One SHO?

"The situation in Balochistan can be fixed by just one SHO."

When these words were spoken by Pakistan's Interior Minister, the intention may have been to suggest that Balochistan's crisis was not a major challenge and could be resolved through a few administrative measures. Time, however, has shown that deep-rooted problems cannot be solved with statements alone. They require sound policies, honest assessment, and recognition of realities on the ground.

Over the past few days alone, more than fifty precious lives have reportedly been lost across Quetta, Ziarat, Lasbela, Khuzdar, and several other districts of Balochistan. Dozens have been injured. Highways have been blocked by protests, hospitals are filled with the wounded, businesses have come to a standstill, and almost every day another funeral takes place.

In such circumstances, one question inevitably comes to mind: Where is that one SHO whose authority was supposed to resolve all of Balochistan's problems?

The truth is that Balochistan's crisis has never been the responsibility of a single police officer, one institution, or one department. It is the outcome of years of flawed policies, persistent denial of ground realities, widening mistrust between the state and its citizens, and advisers who have continued to assure those in power that everything is under control.

For months, I have written from different perspectives that Balochistan is burning. I repeatedly urged policymakers to acknowledge realities on the ground, listen to the voices of ordinary people, and avoid relying solely on official reports and briefings. Unfortunately, those concerns were not taken seriously.

Today, the situation has reached a point where neither civilians nor those entrusted with protecting them feel secure. Ironically, even SHOs themselves are now among those losing their lives.

Equally troubling is the contradiction in official messaging. One minister releases a video from the field claiming that everything is normal and asking, "Who says the situation is bad? Look, I am standing here in Dasht." Yet, in the same provincial assembly, an elected representative admits that lawmakers cannot safely travel to their own homes.

This is not merely a contradiction in political statements. It reflects the widening gap between official narratives and the realities experienced by ordinary citizens.

If conditions in Balochistan are truly normal, why are protests taking place across the province? Whose funerals are being held every day? Where are the injured in hospitals coming from? Why are markets deserted? Why are people afraid to travel after sunset?

The reality is that things are far from normal.

One of the greatest weaknesses of any government is not its political opponents but those around it who constantly insist that everything is fine.

This reminds me of an old story.

Every month, a king would ask his barber, "How are things in my kingdom?" The barber would honestly reply, "Your Majesty, the people are suffering. Prices are rising, there are shortages of water and electricity, businesses are struggling, and public dissatisfaction is growing."

The ministers disliked hearing such uncomfortable truths. Eventually, they rewarded the barber with official privileges, luxury, and status.

A few weeks later, when the king asked the same question again, the barber's answer had completely changed.

"Your Majesty, the people are happy. Prosperity is everywhere. Development continues, and everything is excellent."

The king was pleased.

The kingdom, however, had not improved. In fact, conditions had worsened.

The only thing that had changed was the barber.

That, unfortunately, is the problem facing Balochistan today. Those surrounding the corridors of power often present leaders with the picture they wish to see rather than the one that actually exists.

There is peace in official files, but fear on the streets.

There is development in reports, but silence in the markets.

There are success stories in government briefings, while mourning fills countless homes.

Governments must understand that peace is not established through press conferences, carefully produced videos, or optimistic statements. Peace exists when every citizen genuinely feels safe; when a trader can conduct business without fear, when a student can pursue education without anxiety, when travelers can reach their destinations safely, and when mothers do not spend every night fearing whether their children will return home.

At the same time, it would be unfair to place the entire burden of responsibility on the government alone.

We, as a society, also bear responsibility.

For too long, many of us remained silent as long as violence affected someone else's district or community. We assumed that if another city was burning today, ours would remain safe tomorrow.

But fire recognizes neither ethnicity nor language, neither tribe nor district.

It consumes everything.

Today, the pain of a Pashtun is no different from the pain of a Baloch. The grief of a Baloch family is no different from that of a Pashtun family. Over the past two decades, the Hazara community and settlers have also paid a heavy price.

Every home shares the same anxiety.

Every mother's tears look the same.

Every funeral is a collective loss for Balochistan.

That is why the need of the hour is unity. Pashtuns, Baloch, Hazaras, settlers, political parties, tribal elders, religious leaders, traders, lawyers, journalists, and young people must stand together. This crisis can no longer be viewed as the problem of one ethnic group or one political faction.

States may function through authority, but they are strengthened by justice, public trust, transparency, and honesty.

Those in power should step outside the comfort of official protocol. They should visit hospitals, markets, villages, highways, and conflict-affected areas without prior notice. They will not need official briefings because the wounded, the funerals, the deserted markets, and the fear on people's faces will tell the story themselves.

History teaches us that kingdoms are often destroyed less by their enemies than by those who surround rulers with comforting falsehoods.

If only pleasant voices continue to echo through the halls of power, if inconvenient realities continue to be ignored, and if flawed policies remain unchanged, ministers will come and go, governments will change, but funerals will continue, protests will persist, and Balochistan will continue to burn.

There is still time.

The government must move beyond statements and focus on meaningful action. It must reassess its policies, listen to its people, rebuild public trust, and recognize Balochistan not merely as a province on the map but as an integral part of Pakistan.

Because when one province burns, it is not only its land that is consumed—the future of the entire country begins to disappear into the smoke.