Another young life stolen, another future erased—Allah Daad Wahid’s memory haunts Karachi University’s silent halls.
The University of Karachi is a world in itself. Walking through the shade of trees and exploring the long roads across multiple seasons, you meet a lot of people you wouldn’t otherwise encounter. Sometimes, you don’t even meet them—you just keep hearing about them.
And sometimes, you don’t hear about them at all until they become a story themselves.
Allah Daad Wahid is one such story, with no conclusion. A life fulfilled, yet half-lived—cut short and taken away brutally, leaving everyone who knew him devastated.
Daad was gunned down by unknown assailants on February 6, 2025. The police confirmed the murder, stating that he was shot dead after evening prayers at Ghamshad Hotel while having tea with a friend. Condemning the murder, his friends and families gathered at Kitab Ghar to pay their tributes to this young person with dreams in his eyes, and a smile on his face.
However, this is not the first murder of a young member of an underrepresented community, and it will certainly not be the last.
A young death breaks you like nothing else, especially when you have known the person on such a deep level that it feels like your back is breaking under the weight of their absence. Someone like Daad—who stayed away from politics, away from the chaos that heavy terms like socialism and activism bring, and worked solely for the betterment of his region through education.
Moiz, with a smile on his face and pain in his eyes, remembers the good times:
“Daad and I were classmates, and whenever we had a break of one or two hours after a lecture, he’d drag me to the library. I would ask him to hang out at the canteens with others, but he’d always reply, ‘It’s the same conversation. You should focus on learning.’ And just like that, I, someone who was never very keen on studying, was dragged into the library,.”
Daad graduated from the History Department at the University of Karachi in 2019. He later enrolled in an MPhil program in anthropology at Quaid-e-Azam University, Islamabad, expanding his academic horizons. Soon after, he moved back to his birthplace, Balochistan, driven by a strong desire to use his education to improve the lives of children who lacked access to the resources he had.
He was very keen on publishing books, especially on the causes he was passionate about. Since in Pakistan, the nation is not very big on regional literature, that too in our regional languages, he wanted to expand more on Balochi literature.
Waqas Aalam Angaria, a friend, fondly recalled:
“Honestly, whoever you meet at the university who knew him would tell you that he was solely interested in gaining knowledge. He wasn’t someone who flaunted his intelligence; rather, he was always eager to learn more and invest it where needed.”
He continued with a profound smile, though a hint of sadness lingering in his eyes.
“He would often tease me for being so vocal, mocking my activism by saying, ‘Marxism, communism, and all these heavy terms you throw around might just be words for you, but for us, it’s a matter of life and death.’”
Daad was not an activist; he was a man who believed in educating himself through any knowledge he could absorb. From the stories I heard about him from his friends, he seemed to be doing far more for his community and the world than it appeared. He was part of a community working to educate Baloch children in Faqeer Colony, one of the areas in Karachi with the lowest literacy rates.
Akhtar, a close friend, remembered how Daad had been trying to learn how to ride a bike.
“Even two days before he died, he was asking me to teach him. We used to go to university together, and he’d always say, ‘I should learn this, too.’ It feels unreal that he never got the chance.”
Saad, another friend, recalled their bond with quiet sorrow.
“We were inseparable. Our humor matched in a way that few people understood. It was like an unspoken language. Now, there’s just silence.”
Silence has long hung over Balochistan, a place where voices are stifled before they can be heard, where young men vanish before they can fully live. Daad was one of them—he was killed outright. But in the end, what is the difference? A young life stolen, a future erased. A story half-lived.
Balochistan province, bordering Iran and Afghanistan, has seen a rise in violence over the past year, marked by deadly terror attacks and suicide bombings targeting Pakistani security forces, civilians and foreign nationals alike.
This uptick in violence coincides with escalating tensions between Pakistan and the Taliban rulers of Afghanistan, with a noticeable increase in attacks across the country.
In Balochistan, terrorism is driven by both ethnic and religious factors. Analysts believe the Taliban’s takeover has empowered regional armed groups, including Baloch terror groups, who have acquired US military equipment left behind after the 2021 withdrawal. This influx of weapons has greatly enhanced the capabilities of these groups.
The tragedy of Balochistan is not just in the numbers. It is in the absence—the absence of laughter that once filled university corridors, the absence of footsteps retracing old paths, the absence of those who should have been here but are now just memories.
As Baloch poet Atta Shad wrote:
“The flowers have withered in my land,
But the fragrance still lingers in the wind.
Even if my voice is silenced,
The mountains will echo my song.”
These lines resonate deeply, reflecting the enduring spirit of those who continue to fight for their rights, ensuring that even in silence, their presence is felt.
This is just one story—one that I have grasped. But there are so many more stories that deserved to be told, that deserved to live. Yet, not only were their lives cut short, but their deaths did not seem to matter as much as others.
As Saad, Daad’s friend, said:
“Whoever killed him, killed themselves, making him live forever.”
The more lives they take, the stronger the resistance grows. The journey is painful, but it is worthwhile.
