It was supposed to be a routine overnight bus to Quetta—until it wasn’t. We were returning from visiting family in Pakistan’s tribal area, an arid, picturesque landscape, a resource-rich, sparsely populated area. I was travelling with my nephew and niece, both young adults, both bright, kind, and full of potential. I won’t name them here. It’s been seven years, but safety is still not something we can take for granted.
We had just crossed another checkpoint before the desert opened up around us. That’s when the bus— the luxury coach with just one last-minute-last-row-sardine-can seat—pulled over again, this time more abruptly. The bus conductor collected everyone’s identity documents, and we waited for ages for his return.
There was no explanation. No accusation. No singling out.
The guy I’d been sitting next to looked a little nervous. Perhaps, he was regretting carrying a pistol in the lining of his jacket?
Before crossing the Suleiman Range, I was not surprised, or particularly alarmed, to feel the fellow’s fishy handgun occasionally prod my ribcage. The pain his lolling head inflicted on the bony point of my shoulder, was harder to ignore. To try to take my mind off it, I wondered how a comparative study between this nation and American levels and types of gun ownership might be designed, and what could be learned from it?
Who has more, who polishes them more obsessively, and who’s more committed to arming themselves against ghosts, governments, or just dinner—maybe the conclusion would be which group had the most dramatic relationship with firearms.
But of course, we were unarmed, and unafraid, for now.
It is not uncommon for men who are out and about in this area to be armed. Although from childhood, I’ve never been a fan of guns, especially as toys. My Dad, a crack shot and Safety Officer, tried to integrate the concepts of environmental awareness, meditative silence, and becoming a responsible adult, with hunting food, especially rabbits, which he considered an environmentally threatening feral species. All of which my quiet, teen-aged, too late for the sixties mind was down with. Well, all except the killing thing.
So, I was not a flower child, but still a peacenik, who recognised with curiosity several well-armed Rangers accompanying the conductor. Not sure if any of the other passengers noticed those Rangers at first, but they were definitely becoming restless. They shifted, and muttered inaudibly.
Eventually, it was I, who was asked to step off the bus.
“Not under arrest,” they said. “Just a verification check.”
My niece, composed but alert, pulled out her phone and tried to call a cousin—a lawyer. My nephew tapped out a message to someone from university. I tried a few numbers of my own—INGO acquaintances, a former colleague, anyone who might have a contact in the capital with a title, a desk, or influence. But the reception was patchy.
The messages didn’t go through. The calls dropped. The signal bars flickered like a cruel joke.
My nephew accompanied me then and there, concerned for my well-being.
My niece followed us later, when our bags were pulled out. The bus moved on.
Miles from nowhere, we stood in the dust, three rabbits suddenly cut loose from routine travel. The sound of the departing engine was deep and metallic. The taillights blinked once, twice, and then vanished into the blackness.
***
Somewhere out in the arid night, the now less-full bus, angrily motored on towards the capital. Its three newly-emptied seats offering some respite for the weary passengers, whose long overnight travel—no thanks to me—had already been delayed by several hours.
Meanwhile, the well-armed soldier guarding us in the back of this open-topped transport, was almost philosophical in his kindly offered reassurance.
“Allah Hu Akhbar. Don’t worry, Hamza, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ll be OK.”
In my memory, it was “Allah Hu Akbar,” a phrase that made little sense in context—too final, too loaded. Was that not what he said? Did he say, “Don’t worry, Hamza, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ll be OK, In Shaa Allah.”
I remember it was a kindness, the kind of everyday religious comfort offered by someone trying to do their job without cruelty.
At the time, I wasn’t afraid.
That’s what strikes me most when I look back now: I wasn’t afraid. Not even a little. I believed him. My parents had taught me to look for the best in people. My experience in leading an International NGO in this same nation, and the International Delegate Training that I’d undertaken years ago with another development sector agency (Australian Red Cross), offered a framework for hope.
I believed, in logic and due process—documents, IDs and stamps—that verification could and would occur once the sun rose. Honesty was protection enough. That misunderstanding couldn’t become violence.
I had no idea how fast the ground beneath us could shift. How quickly the security rug could be pulled out, leaving nothing but freefall.
Seven years later, I am still not allowed to visit. Still not allowed to speak freely with my family. Still walking the quiet line between memory and caution. But I do not write this with resentment.
I write this with grief, yes. With longing. With a kind of slow, deliberate forgiveness. Because that is the only way I know how to carry this pain without letting it rot the better parts of me.
***
My niece, whose English was outstanding, took in those kind words by the guard with a wry grin— too tired to believe them, too polite to contradict. Her older brother didn’t react at all; his English was more rudimentary, and it wasn’t clear how much of the exchange he understood. He just stared blankly out into the dark, at our invisible horizon. His body rigid. Maybe he failed to register these hopeful words? Or maybe, he understood more than the rest of us—maybe his stillness was dread that the desert’s darkness threatened to swallow us whole.
I wish I had reached out to him then—said something, anything—to break the quiet gloom gathering between us.
In the years leading up to this strange bus ride, he and I had enjoyed many happy hours travelling together. Our language differences had never been a problem. Smiles, respect, and family bonds were enough of a common currency. We had visited family members, shared meals, and enjoyed the serene beauty of his homeland together.
But there was nothing serene now on the faces of my two hapless travelling companions. Their faces were drawn. Their bodies still. Each seemed absorbed in their own unknowing fear.
To my confused ears—still cushioned, perhaps, by a comfortable confidence—a lifetime of assumptions—our guard’s words were sounding a lot like that reassuring Australian expression, “She’ll be right, mate.” I didn’t realize how trusting I was—a kind of nonchalance that walks through foreign borders with a valid passport and a naïve grin—I didn’t know I had packed it with me, like a warm shawl or a first aid kit.
But their fear was justified.
***
My niece had quietly told us of the verbal harassment and abuse she’d been subjected to while she waited alone on the bus for her brother and I to be returned. They barked orders at her, forced her off the bus, then she was made to walk with all our luggage to the checkpoint. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t even looked upset when she told us. But her hands trembled slightly.
I kept thinking about how she had walked before in joy—and how different each step must have felt that night.
She was a strong young woman. I’d seen it during the long-distance hikes we had undertaken with extended family. She had never complained, had never slowed down. She had completed every hike without fear or protest. She knew the joy of challenging one’s boundaries, of discovering new adventures and experiencing her culture’s simple, honest, famed hospitality.
But now, she wasn’t smiling.
Her lips were pressed into a tight, unreadable line. Her shoulders had drawn in slightly, no longer squared with pride but with restraint. There was nothing soft in her expression—just a quiet, unyielding refusal to be undone.
***
As for me, I had no reason—then—to distrust our guard. His smile was warm. His posture was relaxed. His gun stayed low.
Why wouldn’t I believe him? My own experience gave me no cause not to take this humble foot-soldier, at his word. That his colleagues failed to understand the concept of dual citizenship, was irrelevant. My documents were completely legal and above board. That his mates back at the checkpoint couldn’t find the official stamp in my passport, showing that I had entered this country on a commercial flight through its largest airport. All this was—in my mind—no cause for immediate concern. Neither was the weirdness that my local identity document was not offering a green light on their scanner. These were glitches, not threats.
These were just bureaucratic errors.
Verifiable.
Fixable.
We just needed daylight.
A signal. A desk and a phone line.
A return to accessible technology.
***
Rather than buying into desperation and panic, I sought refuge in my inner strength. I had no idea that I was facing Detention Without Trial—DWT. Not just a feature of Pakistan’s security apparatus, but a concept enshrined in the legal codes of my own country too: Australia’s ASIO Amendment Bill. Even America, the so-called Land of the Free, had it under the infamous Patriot Act. In all three, DWT permitted the State to strip a person of freedom, due process and human rights. Although I had no idea at the time, in this context, the statutes permitted Detention Without Trial for up to three months!
By contrast, there was an innocent comfort to be found in: my faith, the guard’s smile, his gentle words, and the old adage “An honest man has nothing to fear.” Or does he?
I clung to those words.
I didn’t know then what they would cost us, or how they were linked to a flag masquerading as the war on terror.
