What is a man to do if he fails to find a home in the land he migrated to with all the hope of finding one?
Muhammad, 62, who closed his eyes for the last time on May 6, 2025, still held on to the hope of ‘belonging’ somewhere. Born and raised in the heart of Dhaka, East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), he was not even 10 when he migrated to Pakistan with his elder brother post-1971. Later, his entire family joined him in the refugee camps, where his mother and six siblings spent seven precious years of their life, struggling to survive.
As a child, Muhammad accepted his fate, believing this was the course his life would take and that he would have to live it as long as he remained alive. But that was not the end for him.
After seven brutal years of labour and violence — all kinds of violence he would later recount to his children — he did make it out of the camps. Not only did he escape but, within five years, he also earned a diploma in sketching from the Karachi School of Arts and landed a job at one of the city’s leading advertising agencies of the time.
However, there was a spanner in the works: the struggle for identity, or the computerised national identity card (CNIC), as it is known.
Her father spent a lifetime trying to prove he belonged to Pakistan. Even after his death, the state refuses to acknowledge him. Now, his daughter tells the story he couldn’t finish…
This is the story of my late father, who took his last breath while struggling to regain the right to be a Pakistani citizen. Until the very day he died, everything was done using his expired NIC. He couldn’t renew it after 2013, because the National Database Registration Authority (Nadra) kept asking for documents to prove that his parents had resided in West Pakistan before the secession of Bangladesh in 1971.
ECHOES OF STATELESSNESS
In Karachi, there is an area called Machhaira [Fishermen’s] Colony, also known as Machhar Colony. It is one of the largest and also one of the most neglected slums in the city.
Bordered by a railway track and Mauripur Road to the north and the Arabian Sea to the south, it has an approximate population of 850,000, according to the Pakistani Bengalis Action Committee, a community mobilisation group. The committee estimates that around 75 percent of the colony’s residents are of Bengali origin.
Of these, more than half are either ‘stateless’ or caught in a lengthy, uncertain struggle to secure citizenship, says lawyer Tahera Hasan, who also runs the Imkaan Welfare Organisation that works with marginalised and stateless communities.
The Pakistan Citizenship Act of 1951 outlines various ways a person can become a citizen. One is by birth: anyone born in Pakistan after the law came into effect is entitled to citizenship. Another way is through descent, which applies to those born to at least one Pakistani parent.
This law also grants citizenship to individuals who migrated to Pakistan before January 1, 1952, with the intention of settling permanently, provided they obtained a domicile certificate. Additionally, the government can grant citizenship through naturalisation to people who meet certain conditions.
After the separation of East and West Pakistan in 1971, the law was updated to address the situation of those affected by the split. Initially, it allowed people to claim citizenship if they could prove they had been living in Pakistan from 1971. Later, this requirement became stricter, demanding proof of residence between 1971 and 1978. These shifting policies have made it difficult for many to complete the documentation process and gain recognition as citizens.
A PERSONAL ORDEAL
I belong to one of the few Bengali families in the city, perhaps even the country, who were privileged enough not to pass on the trauma of statelessness to the next generation. As my mother is a citizen of this country, my siblings and I received birthright citizenship.
This birthright citizenship was also applied in the case of my late father and his siblings, who were initially issued identity cards in the late eighties on the basis of my grandmother’s West Pakistan citizenship. But what should have been a routine renewal in 2013 — having been considered Pakistan citizens for a quarter of a century — turned into a nightmare for the family.
It was also an election year, with the CNIC a prerequisite for voter registration. Nadra had been given the role to digitise and reconcile several databases to create a clean electoral register. In one fell swoop, Nadra rendered nearly 37.1 million voters as ‘unverified’, deciding only to include those in the 2013 voter roll who had registered with Nadra after 2008.
When my father went for his CNIC renewal, he was asked — once again — for proof of Pakistani residence before 1978, as per rules, or proof of his mother’s Pakistani citizenship. He no longer had his mother’s document, misplaced over the years, while there was no documented record of the family’s time at refugee camps before 1978.
This sudden change of requirement upended way too many lives, including that of my father and his siblings. This was despite how privileged he was compared to the majority of people of Bengali origin in Pakistan. The organisation that he had been employed with for many years decided to stick with him regardless of his expired CNIC.
Losing access to his bank account and phone SIM were relatively minor irritants in the larger scheme of things. What really hurt him was that he was unable to apply for visas or renew his passport, putting an end to his travel plans.
It’s painfully heartbreaking to reveal that my father longed to perform Umrah for as long as he lived but, by the time he became capable of organising the trip, he was no longer allowed to go. It was because, according to the state, he didn’t truly belong here.
STATELESS EVEN IN DEATH
The fact that my father was not going to feel at home in this country has been made clearer after his death. It has been three months since he passed and we are still unable to obtain his death certificate.
My father spent his entire life trying to make a home in this country while silently battling post-traumatic stress disorder, a burden he had carried since his days at art school, and one that was eventually passed down to his children. Despite his talent, capability and immense potential, he was repeatedly denied the opportunities he deserved.
But what’s even sadder, through the lens of my own experience, is the realisation that my father was still more fortunate than many others. Although he was deprived of his rights, he wasn’t starving for basic necessities. Throughout my life, from childhood to now, I have heard countless stories of people young and old — ambitious, driven, and deserving of education and careers — who are held back simply because they are not recognised as citizens of this country.
I don’t know what to write as an ending to this story. I had thought of penning down this experience since the first day I stepped into journalism. Finally, after losing my father, I have gathered the courage to write it down… because this story deserves to be told, as a reminder that belonging isn’t just about land or paperwork; it’s about dignity, memory and the silent battles people fight to be seen.
My father may not have been given the papers to prove he belonged, but his life, his work, his art and his love for this place made him more rooted than many who never had to prove a thing. The same goes for all the Bengalis residing in Karachi, trying to make a home in this country.
The writer works for Dawn News English. X: @dalchawalorrone
Published in Dawn, EOS, August 10th, 2025
