The tea stall is quieter than it used to be. No laughter. Just the scrape of spoons on glass. It's not just the economy, or the heat. It's something heavier — like a silence waiting to explode
You walk through Orangi Town, and something feels off.
Not the roads. Not the trash. That's normal.
It's the way people avoid eye contact.
The way no one mentions 1986. Or 2011. Or even 2022.
You begin to realize: Karachi is a city that has grown, but never grieved.
Blood on the Map
Every street in Karachi has a story. Some have ghosts.
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Qasba–Aligarh Massacre (1986) : Over 200 killed, mostly Muhajirs, in an ethnic revenge attack that most Pakistanis have never heard of.
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May 12, 2007 : 48 dead in one day. The Chief Justice couldn't leave the airport. Karachi was shut down — by design.
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Lyari Operations (2012–2013) : A Baloch neighborhood turned into a warzone. RPGs fired from rooftops. Kids ducking under sofas.
These weren't random outbreaks. They were engineered silences — planned, then buried.
No commissions. No documentaries. No memorial plaques.
It's as if the city decided to amputate parts of its memory just to keep breathing.
What Happens When a City Forgets?
Here's what I noticed:
When a city forgets, it doesn't heal.
It hardens .
Go to Korangi or Gulistan-e-Johar. Ask an 18-year-old about the MQM, or the ANP, or the Rangers' operations. Blank stares. Some memes. No memories.
Because Karachi's violence was never archived. It was deleted.
Or worse — uploaded as propaganda, then throttled by boredom.
Meanwhile, the victims — the families, the witnesses, the falsely accused — live in a kind of suspended grief. They can't mourn. They can't speak. They can't even get a news channel to return their call.
So the trauma stays local. Whispered. Piece. Infectious.
Haunted Neighborhoods That Smile for the Camera
A weird thing happened when I walked through Lines Area last month.
New buildings. Fancy signage. A juice bar that takes debit cards.
And yet, the moment I asked a resident about “those years” — the 90s, the crackdowns, the kidnappings — she froze.
“No one talks about that now,” she said quietly.
There's a wound beneath the concrete.
Paint over it. Build over it.
But it pulses.
Because you cannot force healing on people who were never allowed to admit they were broken.
The Injustice of Silence
Truth commissions in Rwanda. Apologies in South Africa.
But in Karachi?
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No national day for riot victims.
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No museum for urban conflict.
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No state acknowledgment of operations that went rogue.
The Baloch of Lyari, the Muhajirs of Orangi, the Pashtuns of Sohrab Goth — they all carry a version of Karachi's wound.
But each one thinks they're the only one bleeding .
And that's the deepest cruelty. Not the violence.
But the loneliness after it.
The City Still Breathes. But It Doesn't Sleep.
Karachi keeps going. Because it must.
People still open shops, pour chai, marry, pray, survive.
But behind the rhythm of this city is a heartbeat that's… off.
Like it skipped a few beats in the 90s.
And never quite caught up.
Maybe one day, Karachi will remember.
Out loud. Together.
But for now?
The neighborhoods remember alone.
And the city — the city pretends it's fine.
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