Love Drenched in Blood

This is not just a story — it’s a scream silenced by centuries of culture.

It’s the tale of Iqra and Waheed, two young souls from the rugged lands of Balochistan, where mountains may crumble but traditions stand unshaken. Where a whisper of love can ignite storms, and a woman’s choice can cost her life.

Iqra was 20. A university student from Saryab Road, Quetta. She was known for her intellect, quiet nature, and deep, thoughtful eyes. She loved poetry — especially Faiz and Parveen Shakir — and dreamed of becoming a writer one day.

Waheed, 26, was a soft-spoken young man working at a private telecom company. He wasn’t rich, but he was respectful. He believed in equality, in choices, and in a simple life filled with dignity. His dream? To build a home filled with love — not just bricks.

Their first meeting was unremarkable: a workshop on digital marketing. But it only took a few conversations for their connection to take root. They spoke about ideas, dreams, social change — and eventually, about each other.

Within weeks, they fell in love.

But in Balochistan, love isn’t just personal — it’s political. It's tribal. It’s "honor."

When Waheed sent a marriage proposal to Iqra’s family, it was as though a crime had been committed.

Her brothers erupted in rage.

"You brought shame to our family!" they shouted.

Iqra’s father, eyes filled with cold disappointment, uttered,

“A girl doesn’t choose. She is chosen.”

Iqra begged them to understand. “He respects me. He’ll keep me safe. Isn’t that what matters?”

But logic doesn’t win against ego wrapped in tradition.

Fearing for their lives, Iqra and Waheed chose to act — fast.

They had a quiet court marriage. No guests. No music. No rituals. Just signatures, trembling hands, and two hearts trying to write their own fate.

They moved into a small rented apartment in the outskirts of Quetta. It was modest — two chairs, a broken fan, and a tiny stove — but it was theirs. They called it Azadi Ka Ghar — the House of Freedom.

For a few weeks, they were happy.

They read poetry at night. Drank chai by the window. Laughed like children in love.

For the first time in their lives, they felt free.

But freedom has enemies. And in their case — it was family.

One evening, a loud knock shattered the silence.

Waheed opened the door.

Standing there were Iqra’s two cousins and her eldest brother. Their faces held no expression. Their hands held guns.

"Come home, Iqra,” one said.

“We’ll settle everything,” said the other.

Iqra knew. Waheed knew.

They begged, cried, clung to each other.

But mercy was never part of the plan.

Five shots were fired.

Two into Waheed.

Two into Iqra.

One into the wall — as if to silence even the room.

The next day, a video surfaced.

Iqra and Waheed, lying side by side.

Blood on the floor.

A picture frame shattered beside them — their wedding photo.

The footage went viral.

It was shared, debated, politicized.

The hashtags began:

#JusticeForIqra

#EndHonorKillings

#LoveIsNotASin

Chief Minister Sarfraz Bugti took notice.

He ordered the arrest of all involved.

Within 24 hours, three men were in custody. The State issued a rare but strong statement:

“Honor has no place in murder. This will not go unpunished.”

But what now?

Iqra and Waheed are gone.

Their love, their laughter, their books — all silenced.

What remains is a question:

If a woman can’t choose who to love, is she truly free?

If a man can’t protect the woman he loves from her own family, are we really civilized?

This is not just Iqra and Waheed’s story.

It is the story of thousands across South Asia — who love with courage but die in silence.

Let this story not be forgotten.

Let every heartbeat that believes in freedom remember Iqra and Waheed.

Let their blood be the ink that rewrites the meaning of “honor.