Now Let Us Give Back the Dreams of the Martyrs—The Hope of the Future to Every Pakistani

”Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves.”
— The Holy Qur’an (13:11)»
Some poetry merely sheds tears.
Mine bleeds.
It still bleeds for my grandfather and my young sister, who were among the countless innocent souls slaughtered during the great migration of 1947, near that line of blood which history later called the Indo-Pak border. Time has softened many memories, but not those. They survived in whispered family stories, in silent prayers, and somewhere deep within my poetry, where POETEARS were born—those moments when words refuse to become ink and choose instead to become blood.
Perhaps that is why I have never been able to look at Pakistan as merely a geographical expression enclosed by borders and guarded by soldiers. Maps may define a country’s territory, but only its people define its soul. Mountains cannot dream. Rivers cannot hope. Ports cannot pray. Only human beings can.
Pakistan was not created merely to inherit land.
Pakistan was created so that its people could inherit hope.
Today, as I write these lines, my heart travels nearly a thousand kilometres southwards, to the province that has too often been discussed more than it has been understood. A land whose mountains stand like ancient guardians, whose coastline embraces the Arabian Sea, and whose future may well shape Pakistan’s own future.
Balochistan.
Not their Balochistan.
Not your Balochistan.
Our Balochistan.
To own Balochistan is not to claim ownership of its soil. It is to accept ownership of our responsibility towards every Baloch child, every mother, every fisherman, every student, every labourer, every teacher and every dream waiting patiently to bloom beneath the green and white flag.
A nation becomes complete not when every inch of its territory is secure, but when every citizen, in every province, believes that the nation carries a share of his hopes and his burdens.
That is why I believe the time has come to bring something back into our national vocabulary.
Hope.
Bring the hope back.
Bring back a new era of possibility.
Bring back breathing space for the common man—and especially for the Baloch.
Bring back the dreams that have waited far too long.
Bring back something we have gradually lost…
Hope for the future.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
”The believers, in their mutual love, mercy and compassion, are like one body; when one limb suffers, the whole body responds with wakefulness and fever.” (Sahih al-Bukhari and Sahih Muslim)»
Can there be a more profound definition of nationhood?
If one province aches, the others cannot celebrate.
If one child loses hope, every Pakistani loses something invisible.
The British poet John Donne expressed the same truth centuries ago:
”No man is an island, entire of itself.”»
Nations, too, are not islands.
Their destinies are woven together.
We were driving along Airport Road towards the heart of Gwadar when I noticed that “foxy”, [my faithful mustard-coloured Volkswagen], had quietly begun to lose speed.
It was unusual.
She had done this before.
Almost as though she sensed certain people before I did.
I gently pulled her to the roadside.
Then it reached me.
A fragrance.
Soft…
Ancient…
Strangely familiar.
No perfume carried that fragrance.
Only one man did.
“Bābā Tāl” [TheBell-man].
I smiled.
“föxy” had recognised him before I had.
There he stood beside the road, not far from the Royal Resort, wrapped in his weathered navy-blue robe. Tiny brass bells stitched across the fabric shimmered gently in the afternoon breeze. Beneath the robe peeped his faded blue jeans, worn through at the knees, their loose threads dancing with the wind as though time itself had refused to repair them.
He opened the passenger door without asking permission.
First appeared his spotless white jogger.
Then the rest of him settled quietly beside me.
For a brief moment the tiny brass bells filled the car with their familiar melody.
Then…
Silence.
He turned towards me.
That same glowing smile.
“Bacha…”
He paused.
“…coffee time.”
I smiled without replying.
I turned the steering wheel to the right.
Foxy almost seemed relieved.
Within moments we entered the Royal Resort, one of Gwadar’s peaceful corners where the fragrance of coffee mingles with the breeze from the Arabian Sea, and conversations often become more valuable than the coffee itself.
Some cafés serve coffee.
Some quietly serve perspective.
As the waiter placed two steaming mugs before us, BaBa Tal looked beyond the window towards the restless sea.
His fingers gently touched one of the tiny brass bells stitched upon his robe.
It rang only once.
Then he whispered…
“Bacha…Sometimes nations do not lose because they become weak.They lose because they forget how to hope.”
Outside, the waves continued kissing the shore.
Inside, a new conversation was about to begin.
The waiter quietly placed the coffee before us.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke.
Beyond the glass window, the Arabian Sea breathed with the timeless rhythm that only oceans know. Fishing boats floated gently upon the water while, farther away, Gwadar Port stood in dignified silence—as though history itself had chosen to wait.
BāBā Tāl lifted the mug with both hands.
He did not drink immediately.
He simply inhaled the fragrance.
Then, with that familiar smile which always seemed to know tomorrow without claiming to predict it, he looked towards me.
“Bacha…”
“Do you know why I asked you to stop here?”
I smiled.
“No.”
“It was not the coffee.”
“It was not even Gwadar.”
He paused.
“It was hope.”
His tiny brass bells remained silent.
Only the sea continued speaking.
“Bacha… nations are not destroyed merely because they become poor. Nations begin to fade when ordinary people stop believing that tomorrow belongs to them.”
He slowly stirred his coffee.
“Bring the hope back.”
His words were simple.
Yet they echoed across the room more powerfully than a political speech.
“Bring back a new era of possibility.”
Outside, a young fisherman walked along the shoreline carrying his net upon his shoulder.
BāBā Tāl pointed towards him.
“Look carefully.”
“That young man is not asking for sympathy.”
“He asks for breathing space.”
“He wishes to earn with dignity.”
“He wishes to educate his children.”
“He wishes to sleep without fear.”
“He wishes to believe that tomorrow will reward today’s labour.”
He looked straight into my eyes.
“And tell me, Bacha…”
“Is that wish different from the wish of a farmer in Punjab?”
“Or a student in Sindh?”
“Or a schoolteacher in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa?”
“Or a trader in Gilgit-Baltistan?”
I quietly shook my head.
“No.”
He smiled again.
“The common Pakistani dreams almost the same dream.”
“Only the addresses are different.”
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The aroma of coffee filled the silence.
Then BāBă Tāl gently touched one of the tiny brass bells stitched upon his robe.
Its soft chime seemed to awaken another thought.
“Bacha…”
“Every government builds roads.”
“Some build ports.”
“Some build airports.”
“But very few build hope.”
“And hope…”
He raised one finger gently.
“…is the strongest infrastructure a nation can ever construct.”
Those words settled deeply within me.
Perhaps deeper than he himself realised.
I looked once again towards the magnificent harbour.
Ships may anchor there from every corner of the world.
Trade may enrich its shores.
Investments may transform its skyline.
Yet if the people living around that harbour remain strangers to hope, even the greatest port cannot complete Pakistan’s journey.
Almost unconsciously I whispered,
“What should Pakistan do?”
Bābā Tāl looked towards the endless horizon.
“Do what families do.”
“When misunderstandings grow…”
“They gather.”
“When distances appear…”
“They sit together.”
“When hearts become heavy…”
“They listen before speaking.”
He took another sip of coffee.
Then, almost casually, as though suggesting an evening walk, he said,
“Bacha…”
“Why must every great national gathering always search for Islamabad, Lahore or Karachi?”
I remained silent.
“What if…”
He smiled.
“…this time Pakistan travelled towards Balochistan instead?”
His words lingered between us.
Not as a slogan.
As an invitation.
“Call every province.”
“Call every Speaker.”
“Call every Chief Minister.”
“Call the Chairman of the Senate.”
“Call every political party represented under the Constitution and the law.”
“Let them travel—not to lecture Balochistan…”
“…but to listen to her.”
The sea breeze gently touched the window.
His bells remained still.
“Let Gwadar become more than a port.”
“Let it become a meeting place of hearts.”
I felt something quietly changing inside me.
Not excitement.
Conviction do, Bābā Tāl leaned back.
“Bacha…”
“A declaration signed in Islamabad belongs to a conference.”
“But a declaration born in Gwadar…”
He paused.
“…may one day belong to history.”
For a long moment neither of us uttered another word.
Outside, the waves continued their eternal conversation with the shore.
Inside, somewhere between two untouched cups of coffee and the whisper of tiny brass bells, a name was born.
The Gwadar Declaration.
And with it came a dream.
Not merely to organise another conference.
But to begin bringing back something Pakistan has been yearning for…
Hope.
Hope for the future.
BaBa Tal slowly placed his empty coffee mug upon the table.
He did not speak for a while.
His eyes remained fixed upon the waters of Gwadar Bay, where the sea seemed to embrace the land without asking who belonged to whom.
Then he smiled.
“Bacha…”
“Never forget.”
“A port is not merely where ships arrive.”
“It is where destinies meet.”
His words drifted into the silence.
“What Pakistan needs today is not another conference.”
“It needs a covenant.”
I quietly repeated,
“A covenant?”
“Yes.”
“A covenant between provinces.”
“A covenant between generations.”
“A covenant between the State and its citizens.”
He gently rang one of the tiny brass bells.
Its delicate chime faded into the sea breeze.
“Call it…”
He paused.
“…the Gwadar Declaration.”
The name itself seemed to breathe.
Not because it sounded grand.
But because it sounded possible.
BaBa Tal continued,
“Every declaration needs a soul.”
“And every soul needs a purpose.”
“If this declaration cannot return hope to the ordinary Pakistani…”
“…it will become another document sleeping in another dusty archive.”
His words pierced deeper than criticism.
They carried responsibility.
Almost instinctively, I reached for my notebook.
“What should its first sentence be?”
He smiled.
“Not promises.”
“Purpose.”
I waited.
“Write…”
Bring the hope back.
Then another pause.
«Open a new era of possibility.»
His eyes moved from the harbour to the fishermen returning with their modest catch.
«Give breathing space to the common man—especially to the Baloch.»
Another bell softly answered the breeze.
«Return forgotten dreams to those who have waited the longest.»
Then, after a silence that felt almost sacred, he whispered,
«Bring back something we have gradually lost… hope for the future.»
I stopped writing.
There was nothing to improve.
The sea itself seemed to approve.
After a while BaBa Tal leaned forward.
“Bacha…”
“If Pakistan truly wishes to become one nation…”
“…let its young people first become friends.”
Those words immediately caught my attention.
He continued.
“Let every public university in Pakistan reserve opportunities for students from Balochistan.”
“And let the universities of Balochistan welcome young men and women from every other province.”
“They will study together.”
“They will celebrate Eid together.”
“They will argue.”
“They will laugh.”
“They will play cricket.”
“They will drink tea in each other’s hostels.”
“They will discover that prejudice disappears whenever friendship begins.”
I looked at him.
He was no longer speaking about education.
He was speaking about nation-building.
“A Pakistani nation is not created inside official files.”
“It is created inside classrooms.”
“Inside libraries.”
“Inside university hostels.”
“Inside friendships that survive long after graduation.”
Outside, the call of a seagull echoed across the bay.
BaBa Tal watched it disappear into the horizon.
“Bacha…”
“Do you know why Allah created different tribes and peoples?”
Before I could answer, he softly recited the meaning of the Divine words:
«’O mankind! We created you from a male and a female and made you into peoples and tribes so that you may know one another. Indeed, the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you.’
— The Holy Qur’an (49:13)»
He closed his eyes for a brief moment.
“Allah did not say…”
“’…so that you may fear one another.’”
“He said…”
“’…so that you may know one another.’”
How simple.
How profound.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), also reminded us:
«’The best of people are those who are most beneficial to others.’ (Reported in al-Mu’jam al-Awsat; widely cited for its meaning.)»
BaBa Tal smiled.
“A nation grows stronger whenever its citizens become useful to one another.”
The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent.
Gwadar’s skyline glowed softly beneath the western light.
I suddenly remembered another thought.
“The press…”
BaBa Tal nodded before I could complete my sentence.
“Yes.”
“The nation must witness its own conversation.”
He gently tapped the table with his finger.
“The Fourth Estate should not merely report history.”
“It should witness history.”
I told him about the initiative under which selected press clubs across Pakistan had been strengthened, and how their elected presidents could be invited as delegates and constitutional witnesses to the spirit of the Gwadar Declaration.
His smile widened.
“Excellent.”
“When journalists become witnesses…”
“…future generations inherit memory instead of rumour.”
Then he added quietly,
“And let the delegates themselves decide which among them shall sign on behalf of the press.”
There was no politics in his voice.
Only trust.
The bells upon his robe stirred gently once more.
The Arabian Sea continued whispering beyond the window.
Somewhere between the waves, the coffee, and an old bell-man’s wisdom, I realised that this gathering was never meant to be another event.
It was meant to become…
A turning point.
A turning point where Pakistan would not merely discuss Balochistan.
It would embrace her.
Not through speeches.
But through shared responsibility.
Not through applause.
But through hope.
Hope… brought back at last.
The sun had begun its quiet descent into the Arabian Sea.
The golden light spread gently across Gwadar Bay, as though the horizon itself had unfolded a prayer mat between the sea and the sky.
BaBa Tal slowly rose from his chair.
The tiny brass bells stitched upon his weathered navy-blue robe answered the breeze with a faint metallic whisper.
Then silence returned.
He looked at me with that familiar smile.
“Bacha…”
“Never measure a nation’s greatness by the height of its buildings.”
“Measure it by the height of its hopes.”
Those words travelled with me long after we had left the Royal Resort.
Foxy rolled gently along the coastal road while the evening breeze carried the fragrance of the sea through the open windows.
Without warning, another memory returned.
The year was 1968.
The city was Sukkur.
The venue was Mehran Markaz.
It was one of those unforgettable Mushaira evenings that remain alive long after applause has faded.
When the programme ended, I walked towards one of the towering voices of Urdu poetry—Ahmad Faraz—and requested his autograph.
With characteristic grace, he wrote:
«وہ مطمئن کہ سب کی زباں کاٹ دی گئی
ایسی خامشیوں سے مگر ڈر لگے مجھے»
“They are satisfied that every tongue has been silenced; yet it is such silences that fill me with fear.”
A little later, I approached Shafeeque Bano, requesting the same favour.
She smiled and wrote:
«ہماری راہیں جدا جدا ہیں وہ جذبہ متحد کہاں ہے
قدم ملا کر چلو تو شاید چمن میں پھر سے بہار آئے»
“Our paths may differ, but where is the spirit that unites us? If we walk together, perhaps spring will once again return to the garden.”
Nearly six decades have passed.
Yet those two autographs have never left me.
Faraz warned us against the danger of imposed silence.
Shafeeque Bano reminded us that unity does not demand uniformity.
Together, they still speak to Pakistan.
Perhaps more loudly today than they did in 1968.
The Scottish novelist and poet Sir Walter Scott once observed:
«”Oh, what a tangled web we weave…”»
History repeatedly demonstrates that nations find lasting strength not by multiplying their divisions, but by strengthening the bonds that hold them together.
That is why I respectfully place this humble proposal before the nation.
Let Pakistan convene an All Pakistan Conference of Unity.
Not in Islamabad.
Not in Lahore.
Not in Karachi.
This time…
Let Pakistan travel to Gwadar.
Let the conference belong to every province.
Let the Speakers of the provincial assemblies, the Chairman of the Senate, the Chief Ministers, and the leadership of registered political parties gather there in the spirit of constitutional dialogue and national reconciliation. Let the broadest lawful political participation possible be pursued so that every Pakistani feels that this conversation belongs to the nation rather than to any one institution or political camp.]
Let representatives of the country’s selected press clubs witness the proceedings—not merely as reporters, but as custodians of transparency and memory.
Let the delegates themselves choose those who shall sign the Gwadar Declaration on behalf of the media.
Let students from Balochistan study in universities across Pakistan, and let students from every province spend years learning, living, and dreaming in Balochistan.
For prejudice seldom survives friendship.
And friendship is often born in classrooms rather than conference halls.
Above all…
Let the Gwadar Declaration become more than another official document.
Let it become a national covenant.
A promise that no Pakistani shall ever feel forgotten because of geography.
A promise that no child shall believe that opportunity belongs only to another province.
A promise that hope shall tr(avel as freely from Gwadar to Gilgit as from Karachi to Quetta, from Lahore to Turbat, and from Peshawar to Khuzdar.
As Foxy carried me back towards the city, I glanced once more through the rear-view mirror.
BaBa Tal was no longer there.
Or perhaps…
He had never really left.
Some people disappear from sight.
Their wisdom does not.
The faint echo of tiny brass bells still lingered in my ears.
Almost like one final whisper.
“Bacha…Bring the hope back.”
And I realised…
Sometimes the greatest service one can render to a nation is not to remind it of its fears.
But to remind it of its dreams.

◇◇◇POETEARS◇◇◇
[coined by T. Hejazi-where tears become poetry and poetry becomes tears]
History saw Rome fall, and Baghdad burn—that was no fate;
When nations drift apart, others begin to eye the gate.
Stand hand in hand, seven stars of one federation;
Bring back hope—save the Motherland before it is too late.

Also Read: Pakistan’s Moment: The Soldier-Diplomat and the Shifting Sands of 2026

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