"We came to Pakistan with two things: books and dignity. Both are gone now."
That's what an elderly Urdu-speaking man told me in a cramped Nazimabad apartment, sunlight slanting through the dust.
His voice cracked on the word “dignity.” But not with weakness. With disbelief.
The strange thing is, he wasn't talking about 1947.
He was talking about 1992.
And 2013.
And now.
Partition Promises, Broken Slowly
When the Urdu-speaking elite migrated from India to Pakistan, they imagined they were moving home .
The land of Iqbal. The dream of Jinnah.
But soon enough, the dream broke into pieces:
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Jobs disappeared.
Civil service roles were nationalized. Preference shifted to Sindhis and Punjabis. -
Language became a battlefield.
The 1972 Sindh Language Bill made Sindhi compulsory in schools — and Muhajirs saw it as erasure. -
Political power evaporated.
The MQM emerged not as a political choice — but a scream.
And so the Muhajir went from “founding citizen” to “suspect.”
From the dreamer of Pakistan, to the burden of Karachi.
Here's what I noticed:
No other community is asked to prove its loyalty to Pakistan as often as the people who left everything behind for it.
Neither Indian Nor Pakistani Enough
A weird thing happens when you interview second-generation Muhajirs.
They speak flawless Urdu.
Quote Faiz and Ghalib.
They know who their great-grandfather was — down to the street he lived on in Aligarh.
But ask them where they belong — and the room goes quiet.
Too Indian for Sindh.
Too "UP" for Punjab.
Too urban for interior.
Too political for the establishment.
Too religious for the seculars.
Too secular for the religion.
They are citizens of a country they helped build —
but whose soil still feels rented.
MQM: From Voice to Vengeance
Let's be honest.
The MQM wasn't born out of extremism. It was born out of silence.
When your language is mocked,
When your name is profiled,
When your neighborhoods have no sewage but everyone calls you “privileged,”
You organize.
But the movement that began with demands for representation soon slid into violence, extortion, and ghettoized politics.
By 1992, the military swept in.
In 2013, they swept again.
Each time, Muhajirs were told: your politics is a threat.
Never mind that Karachi kept funding the country.
Never mind that millions stayed apolitical.
The label stuck. “Terrorists in suits.”
“India sympathizers.”
“Untrustworthy migrants.”
So… What If They Had Stayed in India?
Maybe they'd be professors in Hyderabad.
Maybe poets in Delhi.
Maybe just middle-class shopkeepers who didn't live with a gun under their bed.
Or maybe they'd be trapped in Gujarat, in a ghetto called “Mini Pakistan,” blamed for every riot, arrested without cause, forgotten by the state.
There's no neat answer.
But what's certain is this:
They would have still been asked to prove their loyalty.
Just in a different language.
What They Deserved — But Never Got
The tragedy of the Muhajir isn't just marginalization.
It's betrayal.
They were the only group in Pakistan that had no native land within Pakistan.
No rural stronghold. No tribal belt. No feudal base.
Just city, sweat, and syntax.
But they made the cities run.
And in return?
No museum honors their migration.
No school teaches their sacrifice.
No party — not PPP, not PTI, not even MQM anymore — truly speaks for them.
They are Pakistan's invisible founders.
And Maybe That's the Saddest Kind
You know what one Muhajir youth told me recently?
"We weren't born in India.
We weren't accepted in Pakistan.
So we made our own republic — inside our heads."
A republic of memory, language, coffee-stained books, and whispered jokes.
Of trauma inherited but never explained.
Maybe they should have stayed in India.
But then again, where would that India be?
And where, truly, is this Pakistan?
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