- By: Hamza Shafqaat, Commissioner Quetta
The night began not with warning, but with warmth. I was attending a modest iftar at Staff College—a farewell dinner for an outgoing Abdalian. The air was light with pleasantries and my favourite fruit chaat. The weariness of a day of fasting was beginning to lift when my phone rang, slicing through the evening like a blade.
“Commissioner sahab, kidhar hain aap?” came the voice of the DG PDMA—sharp, urgent, uncharacteristically clipped.
“Iftar. Staff College,” I replied, puzzled.
What followed jarred me. “Train hijack ho gayi hai. Jaffar Express. Situation serious hai.”
A chill ran down my spine. I blinked, hoping he was exaggerating. “Yeh koi Spielberg ki film thori hai. Train kaisay hijack ho sakti hai?”
But disbelief had no time to settle. Another call came, this time from the Ops Control Room. “Sir, please reach immediately. We need you here.”
I looked at the untouched fruit chaat—vivid, colourful, defiantly unaware of the storm gathering just beyond the gate. I rose and walked into a night that history would remember.
Inside the Control Room, a grim orchestra of coordination was already underway. Representatives from every agency—ISI, CTD, FC, Railways, Police—were present. Faces taut, voices hushed, eyes fixed on screens showing a motionless train stranded near Machh. The air was thick with tension, each second stretching unbearably.
A senior officer pulled me aside.
“How many bulletproof vehicles can we mobilize? Aur agar kaam kharab ho gaya toh, kitne coffins chahiyein honge?”
I stared at him, stunned. Coffins? The word hit like a hammer. That train wasn’t just steel and wheels—it was carrying 400 souls, each with a family, a story, a prayer.
Then they arrived—seven silent men, Zarrar. They didn’t need to be introduced. Their presence spoke louder than their ranks. Steel-eyed and calm, not burdened by bravado, but marked by that eerie quietude known only to those who’ve walked repeatedly in the shadow of death. One had his arm in a cast.
“Do din pehle DI Khan mein goli lagi,” he said casually, brushing off the attention.
When asked why he wasn’t resting, he replied, “Sir, goliyon se zyada dard to training mein hota hai.”
It felt as if Shakespeare’s immortal line echoed from his bearing: “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” These were not men—they were walking, breathing resolve itself.
But the enemy was not ordinary either.
Fitna-ul-Hindustan—an extremist faction born of delusion, fed on chaos. Their aim wasn’t just to kill—it was to terrorize, to shake the moral bedrock of a nation. They weren’t just pulling triggers; they were curating fear. Their bullets weren’t aimed at bodies alone—they were aimed at identity, at the very idea of who we are.
I saw one clip—a man, pleading, “Main Lahore se hoon, please mat maaro…” and then, silence.
But what they didn’t know was that Zarrar was already writing their end.
As the operation unfolded, the stakes were apocalyptic. Suicide vests. Dead man switches. One wrong bullet and we would be left with nothing but ashes and names.
And then—six simultaneous shots. Six terrorists neutralized in one breath. One heartbeat later, and the story would have been rewritten in blood.
But war doesn’t end at the battlefield.
In Quetta, the district administration had already become the invisible spine of the entire response. Even though Machh lay more than 150 kilometres away, our city bore the weight of the crisis like it was unfolding in its own heart. As news broke, the Deputy Commissioner’s Office declared a high-alert emergency. Hospitals—Civil, BMC—Rescue 1122, Fire Brigade, Railway Police, Edhi—each agency surged forward like arteries carrying the lifeblood of response. A Control Room was established in the DC Office, manned round-the-clock. Hotlines rang constantly—families weeping. Names shouted over phone lines. Desperate pleas for news.
And yet, amid the chaos, order emerged.
Security was tightened across hospitals, stations, and public spaces. We were fighting not just an enemy with guns, but one with ideology—and ideology hunts the vulnerable.
At Quetta Railway Station, as word of deaths emerged, families arrived—some barefoot, some broken, some refusing to believe what the headlines told them. We converted parts of the station into a shelter. Food, water, emergency kits, soft beds—and harder truths.
One woman clutched my sleeve, whispering, “Beta, lag raha tha hum zinda nahi niklenge.”
She wasn’t a statistic. None of them were. Each was a survivor of an invisible war.
And then came one of the most wrenching moments of my life.
I was directed to receive the first wave of survivors arriving by rail. I went to the station with the DG PDMA. The platform felt more like a battlefield hospital than a transit point. Dusty faces. Bloodied clothes. Eyes wide with unspeakable trauma.
And amid the wreckage of human emotion, a mother came to me, clutched my shirt, and began to cry—no, wail.
She screamed the name of her son, Shahzeb, who hadn’t returned with the others.
“Mera beta kahan hai?” she cried, her voice cracking under the unbearable weight of terror.
It wasn’t just grief—it was a primal cry, one that tore through all bureaucratic barriers. I stood helpless—but only for a second. I promised her—no stone would be left unturned. We relayed her plea to all LEAs. FC intensified its search.
That entire night we waited, our hearts refusing rest.
And then—a call: Shahzeb had been found alive, saved by the SSG commandos in a final, daring push.
That reunion—so raw, so full of life—etched itself into my memory forever.
We welcomed Shahzeb back like a returning soldier: pale, hungry, dazed. We offered him food, wrapped a blanket around him, and gave him water—but mostly we gave him silence.
A space to breathe. To return to life.
Then we took him to his mother ourselves.
She saw him, and the scream that followed wasn’t grief, but a joy so fierce that it cracked the silence open.
Around her, even officers forgot their ranks and wept as men.
Even the DG PDMA wiped his eyes.
In that moment, the state, the family, the human spirit—all collided in a kind of spiritual triumph.
“God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another,” Shakespeare once said.
But that night, all masks fell away, leaving only grateful tears and trembling hands.
The train that lived was more than metal and wheels—it was the soul of a people tested by fire and carried home by the quiet courage of men who refused to surrender.
The local administration, often dismissed in ordinary times, proved that governance is not about files—it is about faces. It is about showing up when death walks the tracks.
That night, I saw two sides of humanity—those who kill in the name of God, and those who protect life in His name. And between them, a narrow track of choices.
In that battle, Zarrar gave us victory. FC gave it shape. And the people of Quetta gave it heart.
So, if anyone believes they can hijack our peace—if they dare believe fear is theirs to spread—let them know:
tum shuru zaroor kar sakte ho… lekin khatam hum karte hain.
That night, we didn’t just rescue lives;
We reclaimed the right to live unafraid.