Political Analysis and Global Affairs: MQM

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Raise Imrohvi's Marsiyas Were Never Just About Karbala

“Ye jo khoon hai, sirf qatl ka matam nahi karta — ye insaaf mangta hai.”

Raise Imrohvi didn't write marsiyas to mourn history. He wrote them to indict the present.

In his verse, Karbala was never 1400 years ago. It was in Karachi. In Hyderabad. In every mohajir heart that had been called a traitor in their own country.

His genius wasn't just literary. It was strategic. He transformed a religious form into political firepower.

Karbala as Karachi: The Emotional Bridge

Marsiyas are elegies, yes. But in the hands of Raise Imrohvi, they became political instruction manuals .

Hussain wasn't just a martyr; he was a metaphor for every oppressed migrant.
Yazid wasn't just a tyrant; he was the bureaucracy, the feudal state, the police checkpoint.
Karbala wasn't the desert of Iraq; it was Qasba Colony, Aligarh, Liaquatabad.

This was coded resistance .

And because Marsiyas were protected as "religious speech," they flew under the censor's radar.

Case Study: "Karachi Ka Karbala"

One of his lesser-known poems, often recited at private majalis in Nazimabad, drew direct parallels between the siege of Hussain and the siege of Karachi's neighborhoods in the 1990s.

"Na paani mila, na izzat mili — aur hum se kaha gaya, chup raho..."

Translation: "No water, no dignity — and we were told to stay silent."

These weren't metaphors anymore. They were grievances masked as devotion .

Why This Still Matters

Today, Raise Imrohvi is rarely mentioned in MQM histories. His books are out of print. His name comes up only in Shia literary circles. But his ideas? They shaped a generation.

His language of righteous resistance was adopted wholesale by MQM speeches.
His aesthetic of mourning became part of MQM's visual politics (martyr posters, funeral chants).
His moral clarity — that Zulm must be named and confronted — still echoes in Karachi's protest culture.

He never ran for office. He never threw a stone. But he wrote the script that many others followed.

Closing Thought

We keep saying MQM became violent because it was angry.

But where did that anger learn to speak? Who taught it grief? Who gave it a mirror?

Maybe the first cry wasn't a slogan. Maybe it was a marsiya.

And maybe, just maybe, Raise Imrohvi was its quiet auth

Karachi's Shia Spine: The Forgotten Thinkers Behind the Movement

In the smoke-filled tea houses of Nazimabad and Federal B Area, before the guns and the graffiti, Karachi's revolution was written in verses. Not manifestos. Marsiyas. Not megaphones.

It's easy now to remember MQM as a militant street force — as the party of extortion, of Altaf Hussain's remote-control speeches, of the endless cycle of protest and crackdown.
But few remember the quiet before the noise.
The grief before the grief.

Because long before it became a political machine, the idea of MQM had a Shia soul .

And that part of the story has been almost completely erased.

Marsiya as Manifesto

It starts with the poems.
Raise Imrohvi , one of the greatest Urdu marsiya writers of the 20th century, didn't just mourn Karbala — he mourned Partition.
His lament was layered: for Hussain, for lost India, for a Pakistan that didn't keep its promises.

His contemporary, Master Ali Haider , a revered teacher and Shia organizer, helped shape a moral vocabulary of resistance — not with arms, but with arguments.

And Akhtar Rizvi , the thinker and pamphleteer, translated this grief into political awareness. Not sectarian Shia identity — but an Urdu-speaking, urban, Muhajir consciousness , steeped in a Shia understanding of sacrifice, betrayal, and martyrdom.

These men weren't radicals. They were readers.
They believed in the dignity of migration and the pain of exclusion.
They saw the Muhajir as Pakistan's orphan — dignified, displaced, and ultimately disposable.

A Theology of Resistance

You ever notice how MQM's slogans echo Shia political theology?

“Zulm sehna bhi gunaah hai” (To endure oppression is itself a sin)
“Mazloom ka saath do” (Stand with the oppressed)
“Shaheedon ka khoon rang layega” (The blood of martyrs will not go in vain)

This is not just political rhetoric .
This is Karbala rhetoric — lifted, often directly, from Shia majalis and Marsiyas.

The idea of standing against the state , even in the face of death, is not new.
But MQM channeled it in a way that was deeply Muhajir and deeply Shia in spirit — even when its members were secular.

Martyrdom walls. Funeral processions. Iconography of blood and betrayal.
This was a Shia aesthetic , adopted wholesale by a movement that never officially called itself religious.

Neither Sunni Nor Secular — Just Erased

Ironically, MQM's early intellectuals weren't militant, and they weren't promoting sectarianism.
They were trying to build a space for Muhajirs — Urdu-speaking migrants who, in the 70s and 80s, found themselves mocked, marginalized, and misrepresented in both provincial and federal politics.

But the sectarian turn in Pakistani politics eventually buried their legacy.

When MQM was demonized, their ideas were thrown out with the violence.
When Karachi's conflict was simplified into “ethnic turf wars,” the layered intellectual roots were lost.
When the state cracked down, it erased not just the gunmen, but the thinkers too.

Raise Imrohvi died mostly forgotten.
Master Ali Haider disappeared from mainstream narratives.
Akhtar Rizvi's papers lie unpublished, unread.

No documentaries. No archives. No commemorations.
Their names were not convenient.

What They Wanted — And What They Got

They wanted dignity for migrants.
Not dominance — just dignity.

They wanted space for Urdu in a city that had become violently multilingual.
They wanted class justice, not just ethnic quotas.
They wanted a Karachi where the children of Aligarh and Agra could walk freely — not with ID cards in one pocket and fear in the other.

Instead, the movement they helped shape was taken over by militancy, crushed by state power, and left in ruins by its own contradictions.

The Shia moral grammar of MQM — based on resistance, not revenge — got drowned in the bloodshed that followed.

But the Spirit Remains

Go to old bookstores in Federal B Area.
You'll still find Raise Imrohvi's verses.
Talk to an elder at Imambargah Wali ul-Asr — they'll tell you about Master Ali Haider.
Dig deep enough, and you'll see the ghost of a political philosophy that never got its due.

Karachi's Shia spine is still there — cracked, but not broken.

And maybe, one day, the city will remember the revolution that began with elegies, not egos.

The City That Refused to Heal: Karachi's Haunted Neighborhoods

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.

Qasba–Aligarh Massacre (1986) : Over 200 killed, mostly Muhajirs, in an ethnic revenge attack that most Pakistanis have never heard of.
May 12, 2007 : 48 dead in one day. The Chief Justice couldn't leave the airport. Karachi was shut down — by design.
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?

No national day for riot victims.
No museum for urban conflict.
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.

What If They Had Stayed in India? The Muhajir Identity Crisis

"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:

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?

The City That Feeds the Nation — And Gets Left to Rot

Karachi makes the money.

But Lahore gets the praise.

Islamabad makes the rules.

And the people of Lyari, Korangi, and Baldia bear the consequences.

You ever seen a factory worker sleep on a bus at 6 a.m.? That’s Karachi.

You ever waited 10 days for clean water while your city exports billions? That’s Karachi too.

This isn’t just an economic imbalance. It’s a moral one.

And it’s been festering for decades.

Karachi: The Breadwinner with Empty Pockets

Let’s start with the facts:

Karachi contributes up to 54% of Pakistan’s total exports and nearly 40% of national GDP.

📌 Source: State Bank of Pakistan - Economic Data

Over 70% of the country’s tax revenue comes from Karachi, according to former FBR officials.

📌 Source: Business Recorder

It hosts Pakistan’s largest ports — Karachi Port and Port Qasim — handling more than 90% of foreign trade.

📌 Source: Port Qasim Authority | Karachi Port Trust

And yet:

Karachi ranks 5th most unlivable city in the world.

📌 Source: Economist Intelligence Unit, 2023 Global Liveability Index

Garbage collection is so dysfunctional that a Chinese company was hired — and even they gave up in 2022.

📌 Source: Dawn News on Chinese firm quitting

Karachi suffers chronic water shortages — despite having the highest per capita tax contribution in Pakistan.

📌 Source: Urban Resource Centre Karachi

This isn’t neglect. This is structural abandonment.

💣 The Ethnic and Political Curse

Karachi is not just a megacity — it’s a battlefield of competing interests.

MQM vs PPP

Pashtuns vs Muhajirs

State vs local government

Rangers vs Police

Mayor vs Chief Minister

And in the middle of this chessboard? 20 million people just trying to survive.

Karachi never got true local government autonomy, despite being promised it by Article 140-A of Pakistan’s Constitution.

📌 Source: Constitution of Pakistan

Instead, Sindh’s provincial government runs the show — while Karachi bleeds and burns.

Everyone Eats. But No One Stays to Clean Up.

You know what hurts the most? The silence.

When Karachi floods, media blames the rain — not the system.

When Karachi riots, they call it “ethnic tensions” — not failed urban planning.

When Karachi dies, Pakistan shrugs.

But when the profits roll in? Suddenly everyone’s a stakeholder.

Ask any trader from Punjab, any transporter from Balochistan, any investor from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa: Karachi is where the money is.

Yet when MQM was crushed, or Lyari was carpet-searched, or Baldia Town factory workers were burnt alive —

Nobody marched for Karachi.

📌 Baldia factory fire report - 260 killed

So Who Owns Karachi?

Karachi palta hai.

Sab ko.

Without complaint.

But who owns its soul?

The federal government? The Sindh Assembly? The military? Or the gang with the most guns in Korangi?

Everyone wants a piece of the city —

But no one wants to clean the blood off the sidewalk.

What Could Justice Look Like?

Here’s what Karachi needs — not charity, just what it's owed:

A directly elected, empowered mayor

Transparent, merit-based policing

Full implementation of Article 140-A

Urban services disconnected from party patronage

Media narratives that reflect its contribution, not just its chaos

Maybe That’s The Problem

Karachi palta hai sab ko —

Lekin is ke liye koi nahi bachta.

And maybe that’s what makes it Pakistan’s most honest city.

The lies wear off fast here.

What stays is smoke, hunger, and one bitter truth:

Karachi doesn’t need your pity. It needs your accountability

Guns, Guts, and Garbage: Why Karachi Became the Graveyard of Urban Planning

The smell hits before the street does. Garbage, sweat, diesel, and something else — burnt rubber or maybe rage. Above it all, a politician’s banner hangs limp in the heat: “Together for Progress.”

The man under it carries a pistol in his waistband. He’s not a cop. He’s not hiding either.

You think this is a story about ethnic violence. But really, it’s about how a city rotted from the inside out — and how blood was spilled to control trash.

The Politics of Broken Pipes

Karachi didn’t collapse overnight. It unraveled, block by block, as services that were supposed to belong to the state — water, sanitation, electricity, land — were taken over by ethnic political mafias.

Water tanker mafias became a law unto themselves.

Garbage disposal was outsourced to Chinese firms, then botched by local contractors.

Land grabs were sanitized with legal jargon, ethnic loyalty, or a bullet.

You ever wonder why garbage piles up in one neighborhood but not the next? Why some areas have flowing water while others fight over tankers? It’s not incompetence.

It’s power.

In the 1980s and 90s, as Karachi swelled with rural migrants — Pashtuns from KP, Sindhis from the interior, Baloch from Makran — the city’s biggest ethnic group, the Urdu-speaking Muhajirs, felt cornered. So the MQM rose. First as a student movement, then as a street army.

Every rival group responded in kind.

The ANP armed its Pashtun base.

The PPP dug in with Lyari’s Baloch.

The state? Mostly looked away — until it didn’t.

Turf Wars Over Trash

Here’s what I noticed: the violence wasn’t random. It followed roads and routes — especially those that moved people, or money.

The Lyari Expressway displaced thousands, but no one talked about how it redrew ethnic boundaries.

The Green Line BRT runs through what used to be MQM strongholds. Some call it development. Others call it demographic disruption.

The Katchi Abadis that dot Karachi aren’t just informal housing. They’re flashpoints — where municipal neglect meets political exploitation.

Control over garbage isn’t just about sanitation. It’s about legitimacy. You clean an area, and people see you as their savior. You let it rot, and you remind them who’s boss. The PPP’s influence in Sindhi neighborhoods? Built partly on that soft, decaying power.

And then there’s land.

Land, Blood, and Memory Loss

Korangi. Baldia. Orangi. These aren't just place names. They’re warning labels. Some of Karachi’s deadliest riots started over who could live where — and who couldn’t.

In 2011, 339 people were killed in targeted ethnic violence. That was the official count. Unofficial? Much higher.

A weird thing happened when I walked through Qasba Colony last year. People whispered about the old days, the turf wars, the disappearances. But no one — no one — wanted to talk about who started what.

It’s like the city signed a collective pact of amnesia.

But garbage doesn’t forget.

It piles up where memory is most inconvenient.

Then Again, Maybe This Is What a City Looks Like After It’s Been Abandoned

Urban planners still draw diagrams for Karachi — metro systems, sewage upgrades, slum regularization.

But they forget one thing: this is a city where ethnicity decides your address, and your address decides your fate.

You can’t plan a future on land soaked in fear.

Not until someone claims the blood, the bones, the garbage — and does something other than profit from it.

But hey, what do I know?

What is the history of MQM Pakistan and its leaders?

MQM Pakistan, previously known as Muhajir Qaumi Movement, is a secular political party in Pakistan that was founded by Altaf Hussain in 1984

. The party claims to represent the Muhajir community in Pakistan, which is a community of Urdu-speaking Muslims who migrated from India to Pakistan after the partition of India in 1947. MQM Pakistan has undergone several splits and mergers over the years, with different factions claiming to represent the Muhajir community. In January 2023, Farooq Sattar and Mustafa Kamal joined the MQM-P in a much-hyped merger

. Anis Ahmad Kaimkhani, who was the co-founder and president of Pak Sarzameen Party, also merged his party into MQM-P

. MQM-Pakistan is mostly active in Karachi where the majority of Muhajirs currently reside

.Farooq Sattar is the leader of MQM-Pakistan

. He was born in Karachi and educated at the Jinnah Sindh Medical University, Karachi. Sattar began his political career in 1987 as a member of MQM

. He has been the senior deputy convener of the MQM and its parliamentary leader in the National Assembly

. In 2008, he was a candidate for Prime Minister of Pakistan

.Syed Mustafa Kamal is a Pakistani politician and former Mayor of City of Karachi

. He was elected as an MPA in Sindh Assembly in 2002 general election and served as Minister of Information Technology

. In his famous press conference, Mustafa Kamal opened up about his lifelong personal experiences as a prominent member of MQM and what made him leave the country even when he was serving as a senator at the time

.Anis Ahmad Kaimkhani is a Pakistani politician who was the co-founder and president of Pak Sarzameen Party until its merger into MQM-Pakistan

. He was born on 5 October in Hyderabad, Pakistan where he also received his early education

. His father was Hidayat Ali Khan who died in December 2012

. Anis Kaimkhani worked with MQM in the past

.It is worth noting that the MQM-Pakistan has been accused of criminal activities and has lost support in recent years

. The party has also undergone several splits and mergers over the years, with different factions claiming to represent the Muhajir community

. It is unclear whether the Muhajir community as a whole supports the MQM-Pakistan, as the community is not a monolithic group and has diverse political views

Citations:

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muttahida_Qaumi_Movement_%E2%80%93_London

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syed_Mustafa_Kamal

[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anis_Kaimkhani

[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farooq_Sattar

[5] https://www.arabnews.pk/node/2231986/pakistan

[6] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muttahida_Qaumi_Movement_%E2%80%93_Pakistan

[7] https://www.meridian.org/alm/syed-mustafa-kamal/

[8] https://dunyanews.tv/en/Pakistan/698674-Reunion-will-make-MQM-P-stronger-politically:-Anees-Qaimkhani

[9] https://na.gov.pk/en/profile.php?uid=914

[10] https://www.dawn.com/news/1729491

[11] https://www.dawn.com/news/1027569/timeline-a-history-ofmqm

[12] https://www.instagram.com/kamalpsp/?hl=en

[13] https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Anis_Kaimkhani

[14] https://www.loc.gov/item/lcwaN0023440/

[15] https://www.thenews.com.pk/tns/detail/1030572-will-unifying-mqm-work

[16] https://www.britannica.com/topic/Muttahida-Qaumi-Movement

[17] https://facebook.com/KamalPSP/

[18] https://arynews.tv/anees-kaimkhani/

[19] https://twitter.com/dfsmqm?lang=en

[20] https://tribune.com.pk/story/2393507/reunifying-mqm

[21] https://www.loc.gov/item/lcwaN0006079/

[22] https://twitter.com/kamalpsp?lang=en

[23] https://peoplepill.com/people/anis-kaimkhani

[24] https://pakvoter.org/politicians_profiles/dr-farooq-sattar/

[25] https://tribune.com.pk/story/2397443/mqms-moment-of-truth

[26] http://www.nihcr.edu.pk/Latest_English_Journal/Jul-Decem%202015%20No.2/4.%20Muttahida%20Qaumi%20Movement,%20Annam%20Azeem.pdf

[27] https://www.geo.tv/latest/464619-mustafa-kamal-farooq-sattar-join-mqm-p

[28] https://www.geo.tv/latest/422740-psp-leader-anis-kaimkhanis-car-shot-at-during-na-240-by-polls

[29] https://pakvoter.org/dr-farooq-sattar/

[30] https://www.globalvillagespace.com/mqm-psp-merger-will-it-last-and-what-does-it-mean-for-karachi/

[31] https://ciaotest.cc.columbia.edu/journals/aln/aln947/f_0024176_19717.pdf

[32] https://youtube.com/watch?v=tqQhQgLbSy0

[33] https://tribune.com.pk/anis-kaimkhani

[34] https://youtube.com/watch?v=YutJ8hEEuAU

[35] https://www.jstor.org/stable/2645723

Political Analysis and Global Affairs