Gwadar’s hot new contraband: books

Gwadar: student bookstall faces police raid, sparking protests demanding justice in a region where books are a threat

Just after sunrise on the 22nd January, a bunch of skinny boys with dog-eared paperbacks thought they’d bring a little learning to Gwadar’s shiny new coastal road. They set up a rickety table—no fancy banner, not even a squeaky bullhorn. On it, they placed a neat stack of books: some Balochi poetry, a couple of revolutionary favorites, and the odd biography of Nelson Mandela. A far cry from rocket launchers and contraband, you’d think. And you’d be wrong.

They barely had time to say “Welcome, have a read,” before the Gwadar police swooped in, ready to raid. Picture them methodically stuffing these “seditious volumes” into police vans, like suspects from a crime scene. Then they whisked off the students in handcuffs. Because apparently, if you want trouble in Balochistan, you can also show up with a book in hand.

Normally, one is accustomed to the sight of people on the streets of Balochistan chanting slogans for justice. And on the eve of Jan 22, people raised the same slogans demanding justice, but this time for books. A video on social media depicted female and male students from Gwadar University holding posters that read “Release Our Books”, “Books Want Justice” and “Don’t Put Books in Prisons.” An appropriate reaction to the Gwadar police’s raid of a book stall organised by the BSAC, the previous day.

History is chock-full of similar horror stories, from apartheid South Africa banning works deemed “communist” to Joseph Goebbels orchestrating Nazi Germany’s infamous book burnings. Evidently, whether it’s old manuscripts or new paperbacks, anything that threatens the official storyline is prime fodder for a bonfire.

Back in January 2014, the Frontier Corps in Turbat were told that teaching English in Balochistan was risky business. Promptly, they shut down an education center for hosting “anti-Pakistan” literature by Karl Marx and Bertrand Russell. Next came raids on a book fair at Atta Shad Degree College, because historical texts were “subversive.” By April, two shopkeepers in Gwadar were arrested in the name of “national action”, for selling Tariekh-i-Balochistan by Lala Hatu Ram and Baloch by Dr. Shah Mohammad Marri—works that might cause excessive learning.

Fast-forward to the present, and the security forces are once again busy confiscating a couple of innocuous paperbacks from a student-run stall in prosperous Gwadar. When it comes to controlling the narrative, there’s always room for one more chapter.

Now, if you believe the billboards dotting the gated waterfront, Gwadar is the next Dubai. A futuristic hub of success—retail parks, five-star hotels, and highways that glisten in the noon sun. Just don’t ask too many questions about basic human rights. You won’t see that on a billboard anytime soon.

Sure, you can hear the construction roar a mile away, each one a proud thump of “progress.” But if you squint, you’ll notice something missing in that picture: schools that stay open, roads that connect the villages beyond the CPEC strip, hospitals that aren’t running out of bandages on a Friday night. And certainly, for the love of all that’s holy, no public reading stalls with those dreaded banned books.

See, the Balochistan Kitab Karwan is a traveling show of sorts—full of determined student organizers who lug around boxes of books, hoping to fill the vacuum where government funding “ran out” a decade or two ago. They’ve learned to place those boxes quietly, speak politely, and keep an eye peeled for flashing lights that mean their next “anti-state activity” might land them in the back of a squad car.

Anyone else might think: “Wow, books in a place with so few schools—sign me up!” But official logic says it’s safer to read headlines about the wonders of Gwadar’s future than the history of its people. Quicker to padlock a battered table full of poetry than answer awkward questions like, “Where’s the hospital you promised?” or “Any news on that school you were going to build?”

Later, just as the midday heat reached its usual furnace levels, news spread that First Information Reports—those fun little documents that say “You’re in trouble”—had been filed against the boys who had the gall to believe education might be a good idea. Nobody got around to explaining how handing out used books is more harmful than, say, ignoring a region’s infrastructure. But that’s the way it goes here.

By sundown, the folding table was gone, the four boys with bunch of books nowhere in sight, and the books presumably locked away for “inspection.” The horizon was left with the hum of construction and the glitzy silhouette of more billboards touting a future of wealth. You just won’t see any mention of it coming with a reading list—or, for that matter, any books at all.

One may wonder why Books under arrest? Why a book stall be raided? And why would students setting up a bookstall be jailed?

Is knowledge so burdensome that it leads to imprisonment?

I still remember seeing their pictures on social media—the smiles of those four students sitting in the police van, smiling as though defying the weight of their circumstances. Then there was another picture of them, handcuffed but still smiling. What lay behind those smiles? Was it a sense of victory? Or were they smiling simply because they had been jailed for selling knowledge.

In regions like Balochistan, where educational institutions exist more on paper than in practice, the lack of media, creative spaces, and productive platforms reflects the deep neglect of a marginalized province. In these corners of the country, spreading education and setting up bookstalls isn’t just an act of learning—it’s an act of defiance. Every book placed on a stall becomes a whisper of consciousness, and where consciousness grows, it inevitably sends shivers through the ruling elite, who fear it might disturb their carefully maintained status quo.

This isn’t just Balochistan’s story—it’s the story of every suppressed community where awareness is seen as a threat. The simplest way to halt such a revolution of thought is to target its source. And what better way than to criminalize books? After all, a well-read mind is a dangerous thing for those who thrive on silence and ignorance.

That’s why in Balochistan, the closure of schools, the confiscation of books, and the crackdown on bookstalls are not random acts—they are calculated moves. The authorities understand all too well that an educated, conscious population in a strategic and resource-rich hub like Gwadar could start asking inconvenient questions. Questions like, “Where is our share in this progress?” or, “Why are our basic rights being trampled on?”.

The fear isn’t just about books—it’s about what books can do. They can connect the marginalized to the world, to history, to each other. And once that connection is made, the people may no longer settle for the crumbs they’re given—they’ll demand the whole loaf.