Balochistan: beyond the politics of deprivation

Mention Balochistan in any political conversation, and the word "deprivation" almost always follows. For decades, this idea that the province is systematically neglected by Islamabad has shaped how Pakistan imagines the region. It is a powerful narrative: a land rich in natural resources, yet its people remain poor and restless, with their grievances echoing across generations. This story has become so familiar that it is rarely questioned.

Yet the story is only part of the truth.

Balochistan's challenges are real. Roads stretch across barren lands with little traffic; schools exist but struggle with teachers and attendance; hospitals function, yet often without basic facilities. Insecurity is palpable, limiting both investment and local confidence. But these problems, serious as they are, tell only half the story. The other half is structural.

Balochistan is home to 14.89 million people, only 6.2% of Pakistan's population, yet it covers 43.6% of the country's landmass. Since the 18th Amendment, the province has enjoyed unprecedented autonomy. It frames its own budget and receives federal transfers exceeding Rs1 trillion, with over 90% coming from Islamabad. In other words, per capita federal support is among the highest in the country.

So why does the sense of abandonment persist? Perhaps because deprivation has become more than a condition; it has become a language, a political tool that conveys both grievance and identity. In local politics, this narrative unites communities and strengthens negotiation with the Centre. It simplifies complex administrative failures into a single, externalised explanation: Islamabad failed us.

The danger of this story is that it can obscure internal accountability. Provincial governments have, for decades, overseen health, education and local development. If a school lacks teachers or a hospital lacks medicines, the responsibility does not lie entirely in Islamabad; it runs through Quetta as well. Development is not simply about federal transfers or grand projects; it is about delivery, governance and the capacity of institutions to meet local needs.

The perception of exploitation is also amplified by narratives around natural resources. Gas has long symbolised Baloch grievances, while minerals often appear in speeches more than in commercial reality. Large infrastructure projects, particularly under the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, represent an unprecedented push in the province's history. Gwadar Port, highways and energy projects are reshaping the physical landscape. Yet roads and ports alone cannot create opportunity. Without skills, education and credible local governance, even the largest projects cannot convert into visible prosperity for ordinary citizens.

It is within this context that militancy emerges — not as an isolated phenomenon, but as a symptom of layered frustrations. Groups such as the Baloch Liberation Army have carried out attacks targeting security forces and infrastructure, creating fear that affects the daily lives of ordinary Baloch more than anyone else. These movements gain strength amid governance gaps, political exclusion and the inability of institutions to provide credible representation. In such a vacuum, external actors and opportunistic forces can find fertile ground to intervene, amplifying unrest and prolonging cycles of violence. Violence, therefore, is both a consequence and a complicating factor; it reflects genuine grievances while highlighting the cost of persistent governance failures.

Balochistan is not the only province wrestling with inequality. Rural Sindh struggles with health and education deficits despite decades of provincial autonomy. Southern Punjab voices concerns about uneven development within its districts. Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa has borne the costs of militancy and displacement for years. Across Pakistan, inflation erodes incomes and the middle class shrinks. IMF reports point to how a small elite controls policymaking, treating national resources as personal fiefdoms. In this sense, deprivation is not unique to Balochistan; it is a reflection of Pakistan's broader governance challenge.

Yet in Balochistan, the narrative carries a particular weight because it intersects with identity and geography. A province that spans nearly half the country's landmass but houses a small population naturally feels distant, both physically and politically. Perceptions of neglect, amplified over decades, have become deeply internalised. They shape expectations, attitudes and the way people interpret both local and federal initiatives.

The danger of a single story is that it limits imagination. When every problem is explained as federal injustice, internal reform loses urgency. Accountability becomes secondary, and grievance, for elites and ordinary citizens alike, becomes a form of political capital. This is why, despite increased autonomy and record federal transfers, the rhetoric of deprivation continues.

Balochistan does not need new slogans; it needs a new conversation — one that acknowledges history without being imprisoned by it. That conversation must recognise both external missteps and internal weaknesses. It must ask not only who deprived us, but how we govern ourselves, how we manage resources, how we deliver basic services, and how ordinary citizens can participate meaningfully in shaping their province.

Militancy, governance and deprivation are all intertwined. Violence cannot be understood without recognising the role of historical grievances and structural neglect. Equally, deprivation cannot be addressed without confronting institutional failures that allow unrest to fester. Pakistan's challenge is to move beyond episodic attention and political posturing to sustained engagement that combines security, development and accountable governance.

Balochistan deserves honesty more than sympathy. Its future cannot be secured by repeating an inherited narrative alone. It will depend on institutions which function, leaders who are accountable, and citizens who demand more than rhetoric. Deprivation may be part of the province's story, but it should not be the only chapter we are willing to read. Its next chapter depends on action, not slogans.