Love Silenced

Was Their Decision Right or Wrong

From a human and emotional perspective, Ilyas and Zainab only followed what their hearts told them—they loved each other and dreamed of a life where they could be free, happy, and respected. In many parts of the world, falling in love is not a crime. In fact, it's seen as something beautiful and natural. So from a moral and personal freedom standpoint, their decision was not wrong.

However, they lived in a place where culture, tribal traditions, and honor codes are deeply rooted and powerful. In such societies, personal choices—especially in love—are often seen as a threat to family or community honor. This doesn’t mean the traditions are always right, but it explains why people react so strongly.

So, was their love wrong? No.

Was running away risky? Yes.

But their biggest mistake was not love—it was perhaps underestimating the danger of going against the strict rules of their community without support or safety.

In the rugged mountains of Balochistan, where tradition speaks louder than dreams, there lived a boy named Ilyas. He was nineteen, tall and soft-spoken, known for tending goats and singing old folk songs on his flute. In the same village, hidden behind high mud walls, lived a girl named Zainab—only seventeen, with curious eyes and a quiet smile.

They had first seen each other at the village spring, where women came to fetch water and boys passed by with their herds. One glance had turned into many, and soon, their hearts had connected through silence, through stolen smiles, and the invisible thread of longing.

At night, Zainab would climb to her rooftop, pretending to talk to the stars. Ilyas would sit across the narrow path, on a stone bench beneath a fig tree, softly playing his flute. His melody reached her like a whisper, full of love and sorrow.

They knew the risk. In their tribe, love before marriage was forbidden. Marriages were arranged, decided by elders, with no room for the heart's desires. But love had already bloomed between them like a wild flower in the desert.

One day, Ilyas left a letter under a rock near the spring. “Let us run away,” he wrote. “To Quetta. Or Karachi. Anywhere where they won’t find us.” Zainab’s hands trembled as she read it. She had never left the village, but the idea of freedom, of walking beside him without fear, was powerful. She left a rose on the same rock the next morning. It was her answer.

That night, under a moonlit sky, they met at the edge of the village. Ilyas had borrowed his cousin’s motorcycle. They laughed as they rode into the night, wind in their hair, hearts racing with both fear and joy.

But freedom is a dangerous dream.

By morning, the news had spread. The village elders called it a stain on their honor. “This is shame!” shouted one uncle. “They must be punished,” said another. A group of men took their weapons and followed the path to the nearest town.

In a small hotel in Khuzdar, Ilyas and Zainab were having breakfast, speaking softly about a new life—jobs, city streets, maybe a small room of their own. They didn't know that shadows were already following them.

Before noon, the men stormed the hotel. There was no trial. No questions. Just anger, fire, and cries of "honor."

Later that day, two lifeless bodies lay wrapped in white sheets outside the village mosque. The same people who once smiled at Ilyas, who praised Zainab’s manners, now looked down in silence.

A few whispered, “They were just children.”

Others said, “They deserved it.”

But in the corner, an old man wept. He had once loved a girl too—and lost her to the same traditions.

Weeks passed. The village returned to its normal rhythm. Goats still grazed, women still fetched water, and weddings were still arranged by age-old customs.

But at night, under the fig tree, someone still hears a flute playing. And on the rooftop, beneath the stars, some swear they see the outline of a girl, smiling at the moon.

Their love may have been silenced, but their story lived on—in the hearts of those who still dared to dream.