The Price of Love in Balochistan: A Woman's Last Words Before Death

The air in the hills of Balochistan is dry, heavy — a silent witness to stories that never make it past the village border. In one such village, where tradition is stronger than law and silence is safer than truth, a young woman named Bano once made a choice that would seal her fate. She chose love. And for that, she was hunted.

Bano Satakzai had lived a life of quiet obedience. Raised in a conservative family, her days revolved around household chores, unspoken rules, and the kind of silence expected from women. But then she met Ehsan, a young man from another town, and something changed.

Their love wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t born of rebellion. It was deliberate — nurtured in hushed conversations, stolen glances, and a deep respect for one another. They knew their families wouldn’t accept it. So, they made a bold and irreversible decision.

They married — legally, and with witnesses — far from the village that had once caged them.

For a while, they lived in peace. They built a quiet life together, away from the eyes that once watched them. But peace, for people like them, rarely lasts. Over a year passed. Then one day, Bano received a message. Her family wanted to reconcile. They missed her. They forgave her. They were ready to welcome her and Ehsan home.

The words were soft. The tone was warm. The trap was perfect. Despite Ehsan’s hesitation, Bano believed them. Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps it was love for her mother, for the home she still dreamed of. She convinced Ehsan to go back — just for a visit.

They were welcomed at first. Smiles. Tea. Tears. And then, the door shut behind them. A jirga had already met. A decision had already been made. Their crime: marrying for love, without permission. Their punishment: death. They were no longer guests. They were prisoners.

The next morning, they were taken into the hills. It was early. The village slept, or pretended to. A group of men escorted them to a dry riverbed. Some of those men were family. Bano walked in silence, her white scarf trailing behind her. Ehsan stayed close, quiet, resigned. There were no guards — just executioners in plain clothes, armed with tribal pride and loaded rifles. At the site, Bano turned to one of the men — her cousin.

“Let me walk seven steps,” she said, calmly. “Then do what you’ve come to do.”

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded.

Step one: The home she had built with Ehsan, far from judgment.

Step two: Her mother’s voice on the phone, soft and false.

Step three: The last sunset she watched with him, sitting on their rooftop.

Step four: The gold ring he gave her — not expensive, but worn with love.

Step five: Their first Eid together, as husband and wife.

Step six: A heartbeat of hope.

Step seven: The end.

She stopped walking. A pause, A shot, her body fell. Ehsan, standing only feet away, followed soon after. They were buried quietly. No funeral. No mourning. Just silence. The video surfaced days later — a grainy recording of their final moments. Bano’s calm voice. Her final request. The sound of the gun. The world saw. The world reacted.

Protests followed. Politicians made statements. Arrests were announced.

But none of it could undo what was done.

In that village, life returned to normal. The same fields. The same walls. The same silence.

But sometimes, when the wind moves through those hills, it carries more than dust. It carries the sound of footsteps — slow, certain, unafraid.

And if you listen closely, you might hear a girl say:

“Let me walk seven steps. Nothing more than that.”