The Baloch homeland, which straddles the borders of Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan, is a forgotten battleground in one of the world's hotspots. Karlos Zurutuza meets the insurgents fighting for this divided region.
The first part of our journey is a two-hour, night time drive in a pick-up truck with tinted windows. The driver and his escort cover their faces with turbans, while my fixer, Said, and I travel blindfolded. 'For security reasons,' we are told. But even blindfolded, we can tell the moment the vehicle leaves the main track and heads into the open desert.
The car shakes to the rhythm of the 'Paadha, Baloch', which blares out from the truck's speakers: 'Stand up, Baloch, we are at war!' sings Savzal Bugti, a man whose music is as popular in Balochistan as it is proscribed in Pakistan. The words are like a hymn for a people whose land was annexed against their wishes in 1948 — seven months after the creation of Pakistan.
At about 1 a.m. the truck comes to a halt and we are handed over, in the middle of nowhere, to another guerrilla. Our blindfolds are removed for the second part of the journey: a tough hike across the rugged granite landscape. This is no easy task at night. 'Watch your step,' our guide warns. 'The Red Crescent won't be coming out here to rescue you.'
We embark on a challenging, moonless trek, during which we are told we can't light a torch. Five hours later, the figure of a guerrilla in prayer, silhouetted on a ridge against the dawn sky, comes into view. We're finally here.
Two masked guerrillas emerge from the black granite landscape and greet us in Baloch. 'Salaam, heriat, teek-tak,' they say, before filling a canteen in the river and mixing the water with lemon and sugar. The guerrillas' camp is austere. There appears to be no building or hut, not even a single cave in which they could take refuge from the cold winter nights or an air strike. Were the men to break camp right now, the only evidence that they had ever been here would be the fire-charred stones where they are now slowly cooking lamb. 'Let's take a rest here. We can have breakfast and then you can get on with your job,' says our host, pointing at a rug laid out on a flat rock.But although I feel like I need a nap, curiosity disrupts my attempts at sleep. I hear children's voices — a nomad family. The shepherd, wearing a kulla (the Baloch red cap), walks slowly by with his two camels. The first camel carries the family's belongings: a black cloth tent and a handful of metal cooking utensils. The shepherd's wife is riding on the second camel with a baby in her arms. Their four other children are shouting to each other as they take their sheep to the banks of the river to drink. The mother and her daughters are wearing the colourful pashk, the Baloch traditional dress adorned with metal studs and tribal motifs.'Please don't take pictures of the nomads,' one of the guerrillas says. It is not merely a matter of security – taking photos of a Baloch woman is a longstanding taboo.
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