(Remembering Rasool Bux Palijo on his 7th Death Anniversary)
Rasool Bux Palijo (1930-2018) was a rare leader—one who lived not for power or recognition, but for the people and their future. He was a symbol of continuous struggle, a voice for the voiceless, and a man who tirelessly trained a generation in the art of peaceful resistance. With a warm smile, sharp memory, and an ever-curious mind, he would greet comrades by asking how life was going, which book they were reading, or what new places they had explored. Yet, when it came to organizational matters, he was strict and disciplined, always focused on principles.
His lifestyle was simple, and his eating habits reflected humility. Every meeting he held would begin with poetry, and often he would recite verses himself, ending the gathering with revolutionary songs. His conversations ranged from world politics to the daily lives of common people. He possessed a rare combination of knowledge, humor, and compassion. He never missed a chance to appreciate even the smallest effort of a comrade—or even of a rival—if it was sincere and good.
I first encountered his writings through the story collection Pasi Gaṛha Gul, and we formally met in 2004 during a session of the Sindhiyani Tehreek in Karachi. That meeting marked the start of a long journey together—filled with protests, rallies, and long marches. He had a deep love for the neglected and marginalized, especially the women of Kolhi, Menghwar, and Bheel communities, whom he believed to be the true inheritors of Sindh’s soil. He wanted them to rise above deprivation and play leadership roles. He disliked the word “minority,” but when injustice occurred, he was among the first to resist. From protesting the kidnapping of Sita Kolhi in 1988 to standing against forced conversions and hate crimes, he always took a clear and courageous stand.
When fanatics disrespected the grave of Bhoro Bheel, Palijo Sahib responded with anger and solidarity, declaring that there was no difference between Rasool Bux Palijo and Bhoro Bheel. He protested the killings of Hindu brothers in Shikarpur and demanded justice for democracy activist Sudham Chand Chawla. During times of religious tension, his party protected temples in Sindh. In meetings, he encouraged us to learn about various religions including Hinduism, Buddhism, and Sikhism. This led to a series of seminars on historic figures like Bhagat Kabir, Meerabai, and Rooplo Kolhi, as well as cultural events like Holi and Diwali.
He empowered women not just with words but through action. He brought housewives out of their homes and transformed them into leaders and revolutionaries who marched, protested, and even went to jail for justice. I sometimes joked that we should file a case against him for dragging us into the chaos of politics, but deep down we knew he had given us purpose. He believed that both men and women must equally struggle for a just future. I remember one meeting where he asked us to recite poetry from Shah Latif. When we repeated old verses, he gently scolded us and encouraged us to find new ones that spoke to today’s struggles. He would then recite beautiful, less-heard couplets that filled our hearts with strength and clarity.
He was admired not only in Pakistan but across South Asia. In a conference in Kathmandu in 2008, a member of the Maoist Party approached me after I spoke about Palijo Sahib. He told me that during Comrade Prachanda’s time, Palijo was welcomed as a state guest. Madhav Kumar, a senior Communist leader, deeply respected his understanding of world revolutionary history. In Dhaka, senior members of the Awami League also remembered him with admiration. Afghan intellectuals and even President Dr. Najib held him in high regard.
He broke outdated traditions, starting from his own home. He educated his mother and sisters, and when he was jailed, they too faced hardship alongside him. Unlike many leaders whose families remained in comfort, his family marched and struggled with him. The Awami Tehreek became a true political family—where parents, youth, and children all participated in different wings of the movement. His vision of equality erased barriers of religion, caste, and gender. He created a culture where Meghwars and Bheels were not only included but given responsibilities, even cooking food for all, which everyone shared. These actions carried deep symbolic and revolutionary meaning.
His influence helped reduce harmful practices like Karo Kari, forced marriages, and child marriages in many areas. He encouraged women to study law, and as a result, many became lawyers and gained the right to marry by choice. He stood firm against falsehood and never hesitated to call out hypocrisy—even if it came from supposed allies. Many misunderstood him, but in time, his ideas proved to be right. He stood tall while others faded—some to mysticism, others to NGOs, some to foreign lands, and many to silence. But he never lost hope, never wavered in his commitment.
He came from a remote, traditional area with no privilege, yet built himself through knowledge, books, and struggle. He didn’t chase comfort—books were his true joy. With unmatched understanding of revolution, literature, and human rights, he became a figure respected far beyond Sindh. He transformed poetry into a tool for revolution, working with artists and musicians to spread the powerful verses of Sheikh Ayaz, Ustad Bukhari, and others to the masses. He helped Zarina Baloch move from folk singing to revolutionary songs that stirred public consciousness.
Just two months before his passing, on April 14, 2018, he came to our home to celebrate my daughter Roshni Raja’s birthday. He spoke about unity, saying the divide between Hindu and Muslim was recent and should be rejected. This was our last meeting. Even in his final days, he remained active and spirited. A week before he passed, I saw him in the hospital, still reading and writing. When I asked him to rest, he smiled and said, “Lenin and Mao are in front of me—they won’t let me sleep.” He raised his arm and chanted, “Long live Lenin, long live Marx, long live the red flag.”
His final words to us were filled with determination: that his body might be weak, but his resolve remained strong, and that soon, he would return to the field of action. He didn’t return—but his legacy marches on. This tribute, and the book Rasool Bux Palijo: A Symbol of Unceasing Struggle, is a humble offering in memory of a man who gave everything for the people—his life, his family, his time, and his wisdom. His struggle continues in every heart he awakened.
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