Qamar Bashir
As a television news producer (1986-1991), I’ve covered my share of human tragedy, bureaucratic inertia, and moments of quiet hope. But few stories have stayed with me as
powerfully as a journey through the deserts of Balochistan—where a tragic accident
illuminated not just systemic neglect, but also the remarkable contrast between two
deserts: one forsaken and fossilized in time, and the other transformed into a symbol of
possibility through vision, science, and human resolve.
Our assignment began with a grim dispatch: a head-on collision between two passenger
buses near Dalbandin, a remote town in southwestern Pakistan, roughly 400 kilometers
from Quetta. Departing from the provincial capital at dusk, we drove through fading light
and battered roads, arriving in Naushkey by midnight. At dawn, we resumed our journey.
But as the sun rose, the road disappeared altogether—claimed by the vast, unmarked
expanse of the Dasht-e-Margo, literally the “Desert of Death.” There was no map to
follow, only hardened mud plains, windswept dunes, and the intuition of our local
cameraman, who led us like a nomadic guide across the skeletal terrain.
By midday, we reached Dalbandin, where we were received in a modest roadside rest
house by the local Assistant Commissioner. What awaited us was chilling. The two
buses, barreling at speeds exceeding 100 kilometers per hour along an unmarked track,
had collided head-on and burst into flames. There were no survivors—just twisted steel,
scorched earth, and the acrid scent of human tragedy. It was a disaster shaped not only by
fate but by decades of neglect. In a desert of over 347,000 square kilometers—larger than
Germany—there were no roads, no signs, no protections. Just emptiness and
vulnerability.
The Dasht-e-Margo is a desert etched into history. In 325 BCE, Alexander the Great lost
thousands of his soldiers to thirst and exhaustion while attempting to cross this merciless
landscape. More than two millennia later, its terrain remains untouched, unreclaimed, and
largely uninhabited—where nomadic tribes still live as they did centuries ago, and
modern development has yet to arrive. It is a land suspended between ancient endurance
and modern abandonment.
Yet, halfway across Asia, I had once witnessed a desert of similar character—unforgiving
and untamed—undergo a profound transformation. The Taklamakan Desert in China’s
Xinjiang region, slightly smaller in size at 337,000 square kilometers, was once
considered one of the most dangerous deserts in the world. Its very name means, “Go in,
and you won’t come out.” Silk Road traders feared its shifting sands and sudden storms.
For centuries, it remained a death zone for caravans and a barrier to settlement.
But in the past few decades, the Taklamakan has defied its ancient reputation. Since the
1980s, the Chinese government has undertaken one of the most ambitious ecological
projects in human history: the creation of a “Green Wall” to contain the desert’s
expansion and regenerate its periphery. Over 100 million drought-resistant
trees—poplars, tamarisks, and desert willows—have been planted, stretching over 3,000
kilometers around the desert’s edge. Drip irrigation systems, soil stabilization techniques,
and satellite-guided planting have reclaimed thousands of hectares of land. What satellite
images once showed as a yellow void now reveals a ring of green steadily encroaching on
the sands.
And beyond the ecological triumph lies a deeply human story: that of how Xinjiang’s
local populations—Uyghurs, Kazakhs, and others—were turned from desert survivors
into stakeholders of transformation. Former herders and subsistence farmers were trained
as tree planters, irrigation workers, and forest guardians. More than 300,000 jobs have
been created in Xinjiang’s forestry and agricultural sectors since 2010. Eco-compensation
programs paid villagers to plant trees instead of overgrazing livestock, and fruit
orchards—producing pomegranates, walnuts, and dates—have flourished where once
there was only dust. This economic revitalization has drastically improved livelihoods
and reduced the appeal of insurgent ideologies, replacing alienation with agency.
It is no coincidence that the Taklamakan's transformation coincided with broader
development in Xinjiang. Once plagued by separatist unrest and violence, Xinjiang has
seen its GDP per capita rise from $3,000 in 2010 to over $8,000 in 2023. Poverty rates
have fallen from over 30 percent to near zero. High-speed rail now links its cities to the
rest of China. New industries—textiles, solar energy, food processing—have taken root,
and tourism has emerged around the newly greened belts of desert. Terrorist incidents
have dropped by over 90 percent in the last decade, not solely due to security measures,
but because people were offered a stake in stability.
A key to this success lies in water. Like Balochistan, Xinjiang is bone-dry and vulnerable
to drought. But China’s investment in water management has been transformative: the
construction of reservoirs and canals, the deployment of solar-powered pumps, and the
implementation of efficient drip irrigation. These systems were built not only by state
planners but by local laborers, whose participation ensured sustainability. Ownership of
forest zones was assigned to communities, linking environmental restoration with
livelihood security.
The comparison between these two deserts—Balochistan’s Dasht-e-Margo and China’s
Taklamakan—reveals the stark divergence between potential and action. It is not
geography but governance that determines whether a desert remains a death zone or
becomes a cradle of renewal. In Balochistan, where underground aquifers are vanishing
and over 62 percent of the land is water-stressed, similar rehabilitation could be
attempted. The ancient karez system, once used to irrigate Baloch settlements, could be
revived and augmented with solar desalination technologies. And afforestation programs,
modeled after Pakistan’s successful Billion Tree Tsunami in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, could
stabilize soil and restore ecological balance.
What the Taklamakan has shown is that with vision, investment, and inclusion, even the
harshest terrain can bloom. What is needed in Balochistan is not merely funding, but a
shift in philosophy: from command to collaboration, from marginalization to
empowerment.
The story of these two deserts is not just about climate or culture. It is a story about
choices. One desert was seen as doomed, but was transformed by patience, science, and
people. The other, still majestic and mysterious, waits under the sun for a similar
awakening. Pakistan has the land, the talent, and the tools. What it needs is the will—the
kind that sees deserts not as dead zones, but as frontiers of possibility.
If the sands of Taklamakan can host orchards, if once-forgotten plains can hum with new
life, then surely the Dasht-e-Margo too can echo with the sounds of roads being paved,
trees being planted, water flowing once more. The desert will always whisper to us. The
question is—will we finally listen?
