“Amma, why do they use ‘Rock, Paper, and Scissors’ together for the game? It’s a mismatch, and I’ve never actually seen paper crush a rock; it’s always the opposite!”  One random day, after yet another “Shagufta-coded” question, my mother sat me down and showed me her unfinished *doochi* that she was working on. She asked me, “Do you see the different styles of work I am putting on this *Balochi*?”

Confused by the question, I said, “Yes, all of them are different, but they sure look pretty.”  Amma answered me with something that stuck with me throughout my life and shaped how I perceive things. She said, “Exactly. Every line of stitch is different—different by style, color, and direction. Just like people or things that seem unrelated and distinct, there is always something that ties them together. And if we look closely, what ties this *Balochi* together is the same thread. This thread holds them together, creating something beautiful and complete, even though different types of stitches are put together.”

My obvious question was, “So, does everything have a thread?” to which she said, “Yes, but in the form of a purpose, a thing, or the land. It’s not about everything being the same but rather finding what ties them together. Differences actually bring balance, depth, and beauty, whether it’s your rock, paper, scissors, this *Balochi*, or life. It’s how we tie them together that makes everything work.”

From then on, I started to think about how I had always felt about the land around me — the mountains of Nushki like Siya Koh, the desert stretching far and wide, the water of Khaisar that sometimes seems distant. I used to see them as separate; my reasoning was that they don’t belong together. Just like the mountains of Hingol felt different from the mountains of Shaal (Quetta), but after finding the thread between them, I realized they are all part of Balochistan. The thread is the land, and it’s what connects them, no matter how different they are, or they may seem.

Taking this further, upon inspecting the thread a little more, it became clear that it’s not just the land — it’s the people too. We often see ourselves as divided—by castes, by tribes, by where we come from—because of a mentality that was instilled in us over time. It’s as if these separations were sewn into our thinking, and some of us still struggle to unpick these threads and break that pattern.

I always thought of each individual, including myself, as a different kind of person, separate and apart. But it was the perception that made us think of ourselves as separate, as if the differences were boundaries rather than parts of a larger shared pattern.

The land was always our thread, and our shared identity is what ties us together. Yet, even with this realization, I still don’t fully understand. I still see the patterns in our lives, not just in a small population but in everyone connected to the thread of Balochistan — how we each have unique sets of skills, knowledge, talents, and courage that could create something powerful and beautiful if brought together.

Yet, instead of weaving these strengths together into one fabric, we often separate them, using them in different ways within our own groups and divisions. We have the potential to create something whole and harmonious, but instead, we stay divided, and that’s what I’m still trying to make sense of. It’s as if we all are holding pieces of a beautiful pattern but haven’t yet figured out how to stitch them together.

What saddens me the most is that we often display these divided patterns to outsiders, and I still struggle to understand how we blame someone who belongs to the same thread just because their implementation is different.

Instead of embracing the different ways we contribute, we let these differences pull us further apart, missing the bigger picture of what we could create if only we understood how to bring our thread together.