Tuesday 21 / July / 2026
I have been carrying this piece for a long time, much like an unopened letter kept in a drawer—known to exist, yet postponed again and again. What I am trying to write now, and what I wish to say to my readers, is something I wanted to articulate years ago.
I always wanted to write about Sajid Hussain Baloch, but I did not know where to begin. Perhaps because writing about someone who lived truthfully and died tragically requires more than memory; it requires moral courage.
“You need to carry your suitcase by yourself, and let’s take the train ticket to Uppsala. This is not the Gulf, where a driver waits for you or you simply switch on your car and drive,” Sajid said, smiling faintly as he received us at the airport.
It was a simple sentence, spoken casually, yet it carried the weight of a philosophy. There was no sarcasm in his voice, only acceptance—an unromantic realism. In that moment, I understood something essential about Sajid Hussain Baloch. He believed in effort, in dignity, and in facing reality without complaint. Life, for him, was not meant to be cushioned; it was meant to be confronted.
Dragging luggage from the metro station to the hotel was not easy. The cold air pressed against my lungs, and the weight in my hands felt heavier with every step. Sweden, unlike many comfortable expatriate destinations, demands effort from everyone equally. Here, no one carries your burden for you. I pushed myself forward, tired but attentive, sensing that even exhaustion had a lesson hidden inside it.
At the reception desk, I asked quietly, “I have my reservation. Could you check?”
“Yes, it’s there. Would you like to pay cash or by card?” the receptionist replied.
“Here is the card,” I said.
The transaction was smooth, efficient, and silent—much like the country itself. “I will see you tomorrow”, said Sajid before leaving. “Sure”, I replied.
Uppsala University stood not far from my hotel, reachable on foot. During my stay in Sweden, I walked there several times with Sajid. The streets were calm, almost contemplative.
Walking beside him, I often felt that a foreign country had not weakened him; it had refined him. His thoughts were sharper, his silences deeper. He spoke less, but when he did, his words arrived with precision.
One meeting during those visits remains etched in my memory. I had the opportunity to meet Professor Karina Jahani, a distinguished scholar of Iranian linguistics and one of the world’s foremost authorities on Balochi language, culture, and history.
Her academic work on minority languages and marginalized communities has long been a reference point for those who study Baloch identity and cultural survival.
The meeting was brief, yet it lingered. Within the historic walls of Uppsala University, scholarship felt less like abstraction and more like responsibility.
Professor Jahani spoke with academic clarity, but also with quiet empathy. For her, language was not merely grammar or syntax; it was memory, loss, and endurance.
Later, as I walked back through the university corridors, my thoughts returned to Sajid. Both he and Professor Jahani were engaged in the same struggle, though through different tools.
One preserved identity through language; the other defended it through journalism. For a fleeting moment, Uppsala became more than a university town. It became a meeting point of voices that refused to let silence erase history.
Sajid Hussain Baloch was not merely a journalist; he was an interruption. As he worked for several leading English-language dailies, including The News and The Daily Times, he wrote about enforced disappearances, and human rights violations —subjects many preferred to avoid.
His journalism was not decorative; it was confrontational, evidence-based, and morally unsettling.
Sweden became his refuge, but never his escape. Even in displacement, he continued to write, research, and mentor young journalists. He believed journalism was not about applause or popularity. It was about truth, even when truth narrowed your choices and endangered your life.
Once, after reading my drafts, he said to me, almost gently, “Anwar, you need to take a course in journalism writing.”
There was no insult in his words, only care. He found my writing sincere but scattered. “Your thoughts are honest,” he added, “but honesty without clarity loses the reader.”
That sentence stayed with me.
For Sajid, good journalism meant discipline. It meant answering simple questions clearly: What happened? Why does it matter? Who suffers? Where is the evidence? What follows next?
Emotion, he believed, must serve facts—not to replace them. And above all, the journalist must never place himself at the center of the story.
In March 2020, Sajid Hussain Baloch disappeared in Sweden. Weeks later, his body was found in a river near Uppsala. He was thirty-nine years old. His death sent shockwaves through journalistic and human rights circles worldwide. Even today, questions remain unanswered, and justice remains incomplete.
Yet absence does not erase presence.
Sajid left behind something stronger than fear: example. He taught that journalism is not comfort; it is responsibility. It is walking long distances when no one offers a ride.
It is carrying your own suitcase—of truth, of ethics, of consequence.
Today, when I revise my writing, I still hear his voice reminding me to slow down, to organize my thoughts, and to respect the reader. Sajid Hussain Baloch may no longer walk the streets of Uppsala, but his principles continue to walk beside those who believe journalism is not a profession of convenience, but a duty of conscience.
And perhaps that is how one truly survives—by refusing to disappear, even after death.
(The views expressed by the author are personal)
