BLA and the digital weaponisation of women

Terrorism in Pakistan is not a new story, but the way it has returned in recent years feels like a cruel repetition of history. It is tearing through Balochistan's social fabric, dragging Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa back by decades, and pushing an already weak economy closer to the edge. Every bomb that goes off does not just kill people; it silently kills classrooms, hospital wards and job opportunities, because more and more of the state's money and attention are pulled into the security vortex.

There was a brief period, roughly between 2017 and 2020, when many Pakistanis believed the worst of the terrorism era was over. Major networks had been pushed back and urban centres felt safer. Then Afghanistan changed. The Taliban's return in 2021 not only redrew the map of Kabul's politics, it remade the militant geography of the entire region. Groups that had been on the run or in hiding found new space, new sanctuaries and new routes for weapons. The TTP re?energised its campaign, and the BLA stepped out of the shadows with a more ambitious agenda and a sharper media strategy. Once again, Balochistan and Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa became the main theatres of violence. In Balochistan, the targets were clear: Chinese nationals, CPEC projects, Punjabi workers and security forces – a mix designed to hit Pakistan's partnerships, its economy and its sense of internal cohesion all at once. In Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa, police, teachers, clerics and local elders found themselves back on hit lists, as if the sacrifices of the past two decades had evaporated.

To be honest, much of what we are seeing today is the result of treating religious militancy as assets rather than threat - both during the Afghan jihad and later in the American "War on Terror". Over time, the groups built their own funding networks, training camps and political stories. When Pakistan's policy shifted, they did what many proxies do: they turned into independent actors, and some of them turned their guns on Pakistan itself.

Against this backdrop, the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) occupies a special place. It presents itself as a champion of Baloch rights and independence, drawing on anger over poverty, disappearances and disputes around control of resources. Those grievances cannot be entirely dismissed, but the path the BLA has chosen says more about breaking Pakistan than about bringing reform. When a group focuses on blowing up infrastructure, killing civilians, hijacking trains and kidnapping ordinary citizens, it is clearly not working to rebuild the future within any framework of law or dialogue.

At the same time, there is strong evidence that India has used the BLA and related groups as proxies against Pakistan – through funding, training, safe spaces and media amplification. So, the BLA stands on two legs: largely exaggerated local grievances, and foreign support that makes its campaign deadlier and more visible.

One of the most disturbing changes in recent years is the BLA's use of women.

For decades, women in Baloch society stayed outside the line of conflict. Now, educated women – law students, teachers, nurses – are appearing as suicide bombers or handlers. The group presents them as symbols of resistance and women's empowerment. But testimonies and investigations suggest a much darker reality: from the few cases that have come into the public record, recruitment often seems to start not with ideology, but with a message on TikTok or Instagram. A young woman, already feeling isolated or angry, finds attention and validation in what looks like ordinary online conversation. Over weeks and months, that chat can become more personal. Some accounts and reports describe how private material is shared, sometimes freely at first and sometimes under subtle pressure, until the balance of power quietly shifts.

Researchers and journalists writing on Baloch militancy have linked this to a form of "sextortion" or blackmail, where the threat of exposing a woman's photos or messages becomes a tool to push her further down the path the handler wants. In a conservative culture, where honour is tightly bound to a family's reputation, even the hint of such exposure can be enough to make a young woman feel she has no real way back.

Yet when some Indian and Western outlets retell these stories, they tend to keep only the "bravery" and the imagery of sacrifice, while leaving out the uncomfortable details about grooming and coercion.

This should serve as a warning not only to Pakistan's security institutions but also to parents, educators and civil society. The battle is no longer being fought solely in the mountains of Balochistan or on remote highways, it is increasingly being waged on mobile phones and social media platforms.

If Pakistan is to counter this threat effectively, it must move beyond a purely kinetic response and develop the capacity to challenge extremist narratives in the digital space while exposing the methods used by militant groups to recruit and radicalise young people. Failing to do so risks allowing a new generation to become cannon fodder in a proxy conflict that serves neither the interests of the Baloch people nor Pakistan's, but only of those who seek to weaken the state through a sustained campaign of violence and instability.