'... See, the state needs any reason to justify their oppression. And they will take anything...'

Name: Somaiyah Hafeez

Age: 22 years old

Place of residence: Karachi

Occupation: Student and Journalist

I met Somaiyah at a writing workshop at LUMS. I was excited, because this was the first time I was meeting someone whose name I had read as a byline in a newspaper. Somaiyah wore a beautiful sky blue pashk with mustard embroidery when we met in Karachi, a month later.

“I wish I had had a different name,” she said. “Being a Baloch I would have wanted a Balochi name, because it has to do it with one’s identity.” I asked Somaiyah if she was named for safety reasons, but she told me that this was not the case. Her grandmother had named her after the first female martyr of Islam.

Somaiyah talked about how a narrative is being built by the state to perpetuate violence against Baloch women, directly. Previously, this violence was in the form of abduction of their fathers and brothers as a result of which they were forced to fend for their families. After the suicide bombing attack on April 26th, at the Karachi University, it is now the Baloch women who are being abducted and manhandled while protesting for the missing persons peacefully.

‘Has this event impacted you personally?’ I asked.

‘Not really’ she paused, let out an unmindful laugh and continued, ‘I don’t know why. See, the state needs any reason to justify their oppression. And they will take anything that they can’. I understood why it hadn’t affected her. Or that it had stopped affecting her. You can’t be dismayed at every other instance of discrimination, it is not ‘news’ anymore. When talking about the feminist movement, Somaiyah commented that while there is definitely a movement, ‘I don’t exactly align myself with it, because I think that it is not inclusive of the Baloch women’ she said after a deliberate pause. She did wanted to make one thing extremely clear; she was not faced with problems that the other Baloch women were facing. So her reservations with the feminist movement were not personal. ‘But I am aware, I can see it’.

Despite the dense nature of the topic at times, Somaiyah sat through the interview with her hands crossed across the table in a calm composure. She would often look out the glass wall besides her to think before she answered and spoke slowly. I was also amazed at her habit of understanding the questions properly and asking for further elaborations if needed; and partly amazed at my inability to direct cohesive, simple questions.

Somaiyah grew up in Kuddan, Balochistan and then moved to Karachi with her siblings at the age of seven. When I asked her if she can recall her village and her childhood, I was met with an exuberant answer; ‘I remember a lot about my childhood actually!’ She grew up with her maternal grandparents, Abba and Ballu, whom she was the closest to. Her Ballu would sleep with her on a chaarpayi and tell her stories. She can’t recall most of them, but tells me that the stories wouldn’t make a lot of sense anyways. Coming to Karachi had to be a momentous decision, after all it was a big city, people talked about the ‘technology’ it harbored. It was very less of that, and just uncomfortable for her. She recalls an incident that encapsulates what Karachi was to her.

‘When I entered the lift for the first time after moving to Karachi, I didn’t know that I had to press a button. Now that I think of it, it seems stupid. After sometime the lights of the lift went out. I kept banging on the door’. Karachi is similar, it doesn’t give you a navigation manual and you only learn about its unforgiving nature when you are left out in the dark. Trial and error.

Her move was followed by an unsettling time period that she recalled in great detail. Not knowing Urdu or English made it difficult for her to adjust alongside the bullying by her classmates that she had to face. Growing up, she struggled with her mental health and subsequently also started harming herself, which she points out, began when there was a problem with her stress response. ‘I self-harmed for a good three years. The impacts of this are going to live for the rest of my life. The scars are not going to go anywhere. Even today I don’t wear shirts because this is a conversation I am not ready to have all the goddamn time’ she says in a slightly raised pitch and adjusts the sleeve of her pashk unconsciously.

Somaiyah couldn’t recall what prompted her to stop but did mention that there came a time when there was no clear skin left on her arm. She knew then that this had to stop. Support also came in the form of a friend who was going through a similar time. They are not in touch anymore but Somaiyah tells me that she is proud of her.

Living in Karachi sometimes translate into assimilating in a sub-culture that is specific to this metropolitan. This may also wash away traces of one’s roots. But for Somaiyah, the journey of reclaiming her identity was not just a part of upholding her geographical attachment but also an act of resistance against the powerful. She had always owned her traditional dress, the pashk, which she was wearing even today in contrast to many of her Baloch friends who refrained from doing so because of the alienation they faced. Despite being culturally aware as a teenager, her understanding of the history and the present day Balochistan was limited. She would often hear women in her village talk about how someone’s son ‘went missing’ or was ‘abducted’ but couldn’t connect these dots to form a bigger picture. Since this was not a conversation that was held in her home, it was her due research that made her aware of the enforced disappearances and tyranny of the state. She now contributes to the cause of missing persons by writing about them, making sure that the voices of their families are heard because advocacy is the need of the day.

Along with writing, Somaiyah is trying to learn Balochi, or refine it. The intrusions of English words in Balochi does not settle well with her. Learning Balochi would also help her understand the songs that pierce right through her heart but aren’t comprehensible in her mind. Intrigued by the mention of songs, I asked her ‘Can you recommend me a Balochi song?’

‘Just one?’ she smiled in protest, and I smiled at my unreasonable request.

I clarified that I am willing to note down as many as she would recommend to which she said, ‘I am a huge fan of Noor Khan Bizenjo!’