Hazaran Rahim Dad is a feature writer who holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Karachi All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer
PUBLISHED
July 20, 2025
BALOCHISTAN:
I find stories in everything and everywhere, because I believe stories are living things. Growing up in Balochistan, I’ve always felt that the land itself is alive. The mountains, the waterfalls, the canals, and the endless ocean — they breathe and whisper. The people who dwell here — how they live, how they struggle, how they endure — carry stories inside them like blood in their veins.
A fisherman battles the mighty winds of the sea, returning with just enough fish to keep his modest kitchen running. A shepherd walks under the scorching July sun, guiding his flock while singing a mournful serenade. A woman bends over a field, working alongside her husband, her voice rising in a sorrowful elegy.
A Zamyad driver risks his life on treacherous mountain roads, dreaming of returning with enough to sustain his family. And then there are the pregnant women in remote areas, losing their lives on roadless paths, never making it to the city in time.
There are weary mothers waiting for sons who might never come back. Everyday life here is made of stories — sometimes lost, but never faded, never forgotten. They always remind me that stories are alive.
And that’s how, on a balmy evening in Kech, as the heat began to settle and the horizon glowed, I found myself before a sunset. The palm trees swayed gently as the sky burst into shades of orange. With a cup of chai in my hand, I watched Kuhaani Niyaama, a travel documentary by Kamalan Bebagar, who is a Balochistan-based filmmaker and cinematographer.
This 32-minute documentary is rooted in a specific geography. It’s set in Niwaano, a small village in Zaamuran, district Kech — nestled between mountains, date trees, mud homes, and herds of sheep and goats whose bleating fills the air.
There’s something gentle about how Kamalan frames his story: he doesn’t rush, doesn’t oversaturate. He rests his lens on stillness. As a storyteller, I may not be well-versed in the language of cinematography, but what I do know is story — and Kamalan has crafted a powerful one.
With just a single village, a single character, and a single interview, he captures the vastness of a world. The protagonist is Nako (Uncle) Amin, a man whose eyes speak as much as his words. His presence anchors the film like an old tree that has withstood storms, shed a thousand leaves, yet still stands — quiet, weathered, and rooted in memory. His presence anchors the film like a tree that’s seen too many seasons pass.
Amin, in his steady, knowing voice, takes us on a journey through the village’s past and present. He speaks of herds, of date trees, and their culture, he talks of the migration of Baloch labourers to the Gulf in the 1980s, and himself spending seven years as a police recruit in Bahrain to still choosing this land, his land., As he says, “Foreign lands can only be pleasant to those who have never been there.”
He recalls his nomadic life, where people roamed different places in search of necessities for survival. He notes that the migration of labourers to the Gulf has significantly reduced nomadic lifestyles, leading to a permanent settlement in Niwaano for those who once roamed freely. The decline of nomadic life, which was once the primary source of the economic system in ancient Baloch culture, has transformed over the decades. While Gulf migration has decreased, increased border trade has improved the society’s economic position. When asked what his land offers, he replies, “There is nothing, but still, it is more pleasant.”
Then comes Kamalan’s pivotal question — one that carries far more weight than its words suggest: “Do you like it here, or can you simply not afford to leave?”
The camera lingers on Amin’s face. He smiles wide, then chuckles, and finally answers:
“We like it here.”
There’s a whole cosmos tucked within that smile. And in the small gesture he makes — adjusting his nose with his fingers — a quiet, unguarded tenderness. I paused the film. Then rewound. Watched it again. That moment, that chuckle — it is knowing. It sets the tone of the entire documentary. It tells us there is more beneath the surface. That this man’s life — his gray beard, his weathered eyes — carries a story still unfolding.
Kamalan uses his frames wisely. His visuals don’t distract; they enrich. His storytelling allows space for reflection, for silence. He captures Niwaano’s vastness: with a quiet rhythm, intercutting Amin’s reflections with sweeping shots of the village. Palm trees stand tall against the jagged mountains. A little girl cradles a newborn.
Water canals snake through the dry land. Abandoned mud houses bear witness to those who have left. But then the tone shifts. Kamalan shows us the graves of Niwaano—unmarked, nameless, some with only a single stone to remember them. The camera lingers as Amin’s voice breaks the silence: “Our Baloch have also killed themselves in Muscat. The Baloch graveyard there is in good condition, but it is the land of others.”
Through Amin’s recollections, we glimpse the transformation of the land. The decline of the Gulf migration. The slow rise of border trade from herding goats. The paradoxes of economic survival.
Amin does not just tell his own story; he speaks to the broader anxieties of a neglected people. He critiques politicians who claim to bring development to the region, scoffing at their empty promises. “There is no road; this is their development,” he says wryly. Lamenting over the erosion of societal values in his village, Amin points to the drug trade as both a cause and a consequence. “The sellers are destroying the younger generation,” he says, “but in the end, they are destroying themselves too.”
“We are short of representatives,” he sighs. The lack of infrastructure is a death sentence for many, and children grow up in schools that barely function. “It has only been three years since our primary school was upgraded to middle school,” Amin says, “but even now, there are so many vacant teaching posts.”
Amin recalls watching a local parliamentarian boast about bringing development to Buleda. “I could say nothing but shame,” he says, shaking his head. “They claim progress, yet our children are still left without teachers, our roads are still dust and stone, and our sick still die on the way to hospitals that remain out of reach.”
In many ways, Kamalan Bebagar has done more than just document a village. He has honoured it. And through the eyes of Nako Amin, we see an entire philosophy — one that values dignity over convenience, rootedness over luxury.
Through Kuhaani Niyaama, Kamalan Bebagar does not merely document a village; he listens to its heartbeat. He captures the pulse of a people, their undying attachment to the soil that raised them, and the quiet resilience that hums through their everyday lives. In the eyes of Amin, we see the unspoken weight of history — years folded into a single glance. And in his knowing chuckle, we hear a story that is still unfolding, still walking barefoot through mountain trails, still echoing through the dates and dust of Niwaano.
But in the end, Kuhaani Niyaama isn’t only about Niwaano. It speaks to every small village cradled by mountains, where time moves slowly, and stories are carried in calloused hands and whispered lullabies. It’s about every mother who waits, and every shepherd who sings. It is about the stories we almost lose in the noise of modernity, but somehow — miraculously — find again: in a chuckle, in a silence, in a single frame.
The documentary can be viewed here:
