For a long time, I believed that holding a press card was an honor for any journalist, a symbol of credibility, and a protective shield in Balochistan’s challenging environment. This card, representing a journalistic organization, wasn’t just a piece of identification; it was a badge of integrity, a tool to amplify the voices of the oppressed. But how can it serve this purpose when its very possession becomes a liability, subject to confiscation by the authorities?

On that day, I carried my press card in my pocket, along with my mobile phone, and left my home. The streets were eerily quiet, patrolled by forces, with markets shut down under an unannounced curfew. As I reached the Javed Complex area, I witnessed a scene of chaos—police were rounding up people headed toward Syed Hashmi Chowk on Marine Drive, the site of the announced gathering. The SSP Gwadar and his squad were herding people into police vans as if they were livestock. I took out my mobile phone to document the scene, but a policeman snatched it and handed it over to the SSP.

I naively assumed the SSP would recognize me as a member of the Gwadar Press Club, especially since he had visited the club just days before. Speaking first in Balochi, I politely requested the return of my phone, identifying myself as a journalist. But the SSP and his men responded with abusive language and rough treatment, arresting people like animals. Switching to Brahui, I tried again, pleading that I was a journalist. The SSP sneered and replied in Urdu, “Is this a joke?” before another officer confiscated my press card.

As I stood there, stripped of my press card and phone, watching people being treated inhumanely, I realized the futility of my situation. I ran to save myself, knowing the DSP was using his power to vent the anger on ordinary citizens.

The loss of my press card weighed heavily on my mind. The card, once a symbol of journalistic pride, was now just another victim of the oppressive tactics. The abuse, the hostility, the blatant disregard for my rights—it was all too much. My press card, which once represented a journalistic institution, was now nothing more than a piece of plastic in a policeman’s pocket.

Later that night, I, along with four senior journalists, visited the SSP’s office to retrieve my card and phone. In a hollow gesture, the SSP returned them after I was forced to delete the photos I had taken. My senior colleagues brushed off the incident, attributing it to my inexperience.

As I walked away, I felt a deep sense of shame. Despite my 18 years of education, my master’s and MPhil in journalism, I was left questioning my role as a journalist. My one-and-a-half-year membership with the press club had amounted to nothing more than two cups of tea daily, a free tour, and the promise of a welfare fund at the year’s end.

I reflected on all the journalism lectures, ethics, and my nearly eight years of experience without a press card, where I was still a journalist, working to realize the dream of an international Balochi digital media outlet. But this card, which had become nothing more than a means to access free tea, had cost me my journalistic dignity.

In the end, I returned my press card, along with a resignation letter that symbolized my rejection of those trivial perks. I no longer harbor any illusions about being special in Balochistan—a region shrouded in an information blackout, where journalism is not just discouraged, it’s outright forbidden.

Sixteen days later, the unannounced curfew was lifted, and communication systems, including the internet and mobile services, were restored in Gwadar. But the scars of that day remain, a stark reminder of the challenges faced by journalists in Balochistan.

-Javed Baloch hails from Gwadar and is a student of journalism, he posts on X as @JavedGwadari