Quetta is sinking into a profound and unsettling silence. More than fear, it is a quiet that sharpens the city’s tension, growing heavier with each passing day. Security concerns loom large, transforming the urban landscape into one of palpable anxiety.

Heightened security measures—multiplied checkpoints, road blockades, intermittent internet shutdowns, school closures due to alerts, movement restrictions in sensitive zones, and the fortified appearance of government buildings—have combined with the sorrowful return of Afghan refugees to create an atmosphere of deep unease.

This is not the Quetta of the past. No matter the challenges Balochistan faced, the city always retained its vibrant pulse. People would voice complaints, express anger, debate their circumstances, and then return to daily life. That rhythm has been lost over the past year. Public outrage has faded; protests against tightening constraints have ceased. Now, residents move through life in silence—a silence that has become the city’s greatest tragedy.

While the government may interpret this quiet as stability, the numbers reveal a more complex reality. Quetta saw only 10 low-intensity terrorist attacks by nationalist insurgents this month, resulting in six injuries. However, over the last three months, 52 such attacks were reported across the province, claiming 49 lives. Alarmingly, these groups have expanded their operational reach, including into Sindh, as demonstrated by a recent ambush on police in Hyderabad by the Baloch Republican Guards.

Insurgents have also intensified abductions of alleged informants, staged scattered road blockades in remote areas, and temporarily seized major highways—tactics that may pressure the state more than direct attacks. Law enforcement agencies have made gains in containing the threat through tactical operations, but a coherent non-kinetic strategy to address underlying issues remains absent.

This gap is critical. Heavy reliance on kinetic measures deepens the trust deficit between security forces and citizens, weakening intelligence flows. People stay silent, avoiding alignment with either state or non-state actors, and withhold their loyalties. In a hybrid state, public disappointment becomes difficult to measure—and even harder to address through effective governance.

Though terrorist attacks have declined, enforced disappearances of young people continue, compounding collective trauma. With leaders of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee imprisoned, few voices dare to protest. Silence has become the norm, yet authorities remain hyper-vigilant, especially in November—a month laden with symbolic significance for nationalist movements.

In anticipation of unrest, the Balochistan government banned intra-provincial passenger transport, restricted cellular networks, and closed educational institutions. These measures, initially planned for mid-month, extended through November, raising concerns they could become routine in the absence of local or civil society resistance.

Ordinary citizens feel unheard. Nationalist political parties have been marginalized by both the state and insurgents, while religious parties struggle to position themselves amid hard-line state policies. As the middle ground vanishes, the contest increasingly pits insurgents directly against the state.

Despite the chaos, many residents still believe the province’s problems can be resolved peacefully through dialogue and engagement. They point to the political economy as a key issue, noting how destabilizing actors thrive along conflict fault lines stretching from the Afghan and Iranian borders to the Hub district. People know who these spoilers are—what they cannot understand is why the state fails to confront them, or worse, continues to rely on them.

Perhaps someone holds the answers, but in this season of silence, no one dares to speak aloud. Those who remain quiet simply watch and hope that someone will interpret their unspoken pain and offer a remedy for the anguish embedded deep in their souls.