A report published by Freedom Network in December 2025 on journalism in Balochistan is not merely a research document; it reads like a silent witness—one that speaks softly, yet whose presence is felt in every line. The report lays bare the climate of fear, pressure, and invisible red lines that define Balochistan’s media landscape, where journalists are forced to calculate the risks to their lives, families, and livelihoods before writing a single word.
The report makes it clear that self-censorship in Balochistan is not an editorial policy, but an unspoken survival skill—one that every reporter is compelled to learn under prevailing conditions. Like a mirror, it reflects the stories that are never written, the questions that are closed before files are even opened, and the ways in which silence itself becomes a form of news.
According to Freedom Network, the greatest tragedy of journalism in Balochistan is not direct censorship, but the self-imposed restraint journalists adopt to stay alive. Over the past two decades, at least 40 journalists have been killed in the province—30 of them victims of targeted killings, while others lost their lives in bomb blasts and armed attacks. Placing this in a national context, the report notes that attacks and threats against journalists across Pakistan increased by nearly 60 percent in a single year. Between November 2024 and September 2025 alone, 142 incidents involving journalists and media workers were reported nationwide.
A reporter affiliated with a private news channel in Quetta, who requested anonymity and is referred to here as Mukhtiar Ahmed, says that nearly a dozen armed groups operate in Balochistan. Alongside them, pressure from state institutions and influential tribal figures further complicates reporting. In such an environment, he explains, hundreds of stories are either never aired or published, or are released only after partial or complete self-censorship.
Mukhtiar recalls filing a report on enforced disappearances early in his career. Shortly afterward, a government spokesperson directly told him that his reporting was “wrong.” That moment, he says, left a deep sense of fear. Since then, there have been many instances when silence felt like the safer and more peaceful option.
“Balochistan is a conflict zone,” he says. “There are many stories here that we choose not to pursue because restraint feels like self-preservation. Decisions to remain silent are made every single day.”
He adds that the paradox is cruelly simple: if a story goes against a powerful actor, the journalist is labelled biased; if it favours them, the journalist is branded compromised.
Legal expert and Supreme Court advocate Qasim Mandokhail argues that self-censorship fundamentally contradicts Article 19 of Pakistan’s Constitution, which guarantees freedom of expression. He notes that multiple Supreme Court judgments have affirmed that restrictions on expression can only be imposed through law and with reasonable justification.
“If journalists are forced into self-censorship due to fear, it is not their failure—it is the failure of the state,” Mandokhail asserts.
He emphasizes that self-censorship in itself is not a crime, especially when it stems from threats to life, liberty, or property, or from systemic state failure. Under Articles 19, 9, and 4 of the Constitution, he explains, the state is obligated to protect freedom of expression, ensure the safety of journalists, uphold due process, and take action against those who exert unlawful pressure.
For Javed Khan—another pseudonym—who has worked as an editor in Quetta for over two decades, the safety of a reporter outweighs the importance of any story. He says that after the killing of Nawab Akbar Bugti, editing in a conflict zone like Balochistan ceased to be a routine editorial exercise and instead became a matter of survival.
“I have stopped many stories before publication,” he admits. “It’s not about counting them—it’s a state of mind. Sometimes the story is solid, the evidence is there, but the environment doesn’t allow it. In those moments, the decision isn’t against the news; it favours the human being behind it.”
According to Javed, editorial judgment and security considerations in Balochistan are separated by an extremely thin line. Editing here is not merely about refining language—it involves assessing whether a reporter will remain safe after publication, whether the organization can withstand the pressure, and whether the journalist’s family might be put at risk.
His advice to young reporters is simple, but painfully honest:
“Read the situation before you write the story. Not every truth needs to be told immediately, and not every silence is cowardice. Never value a story above your life, your family, or your future. The time will come—but only if you survive to see it.”
In Balochistan, self-censorship is not a choice made lightly. It is the invisible cost of reporting from a place where telling the truth can be fatal, and where staying alive often means leaving the most important stories untold.
