Writing on the wall

The word ‘history’ is primarily associated with past connotations. However, in marked contrast, history is a constantly evolving phenomenon and stays as relevant in the present-day world as it was in former times.

Therefore, history cannot be outright dismissed as a settled set of affairs of a distant past because it continues to move forward in specific directions, either through anthropogenic undertakings or due to factors beyond human control.

For the Urdu-speaking populations of Pakistan, who are commonly yet unluckily referred to as mohajirs and are mostly based in urban Sindh in cities like Karachi, Hyderabad, and Sukkur, the moment has come for them to refer back to the history records to ensure their safe future in a crisis-ridden country losing its grip on its economic crisis and fragile political structure, along with its eroding communion and social cohesion, thus heading towards a doomsday scenario.

With a particular reference to the rapid ruralisation of Karachi after the passage of the 18th Amendment in 2010, the Urdu-speaking citizenry is left with many questions unanswered, mostly about their own future in the city, once known as the centre of the progressive, educated Urdu-speaking mohajirs.

More’s the pity, the vicissitudes of time have, once again, pitted them against harsh realities similar to those of pre-partition India in general and erstwhile East Pakistan in particular. Back in pre-partition India, for instance, the country’s Muslim minority had a plethora of issues inflicting misery on their never-ending plight in a Hindu-dominated land.

Population undercount, lack of higher education opportunities together with diminishing jobs and bleak career-growth prospects in the public sector, negligible presence in the civil services, especially in the police, a profound sense of disenfranchisement, the abandonment of Urdu as lingua franca, and an overall intimidating socio-cultural milieu are to name a few.

And when we look back to the disturbing circumstances prevailing in the eastern wing of the united Pakistan, the term ‘Bihari’ was used mainly by native Bengali populations to distinguish non-natives who had migrated to the then East Pakistan after the creation of Pakistan in 1947. For the native Bengalis, the Biharis of East Pakistan not only comprised the Urdu-speaking migrants from India but also included any person of non-Bengali descent coming from any part of West Pakistan, including Punjab.

In the sunset years of East Pakistan in particular, Biharis were looked at with disdain by the native Bengali people for a mélange of inescapable reasons now glaring in the face of the Urdu-speaking people living in Sindh. Whichever of these alarming reasons comes first, the leading cause of concern is the Sindh government’s consistent refusal to give Urdu its due prominent status as the country’s official language, as most public sector advertisements and public service messages and essential information, even on billboards, are now released in both rural and urban parts of the province in languages other than Urdu.

Take, for example, the 2024-25 budget speech delivered in English by the Sindh Finance Minister, who also happens to be the Sindh Chief Minister, or the fleet of ambulances of the Sindh Emergency Service plying on Shahrah-e-Faisal, Karachi.

While the Rehabilitation Department of the Sindh Government merits appreciation for this much-needed initiative, the message it intentionally delivers by not writing the ambulance service information in Urdu on the vehicles’ front, middle, and rear sides is akin to writing on the wall for those speaking the national language.

Accompanied by an increasing sense of alienation, the stigma of not being ‘the son of the soil’ is hurtling along like a whirlwind for the Urdu-speaking lot, with an increasingly encroached political space in a region that is ruled by a tribal mindset and is intrinsically divided between maqami and ghair maqami.

The prevailing nationalistic sentiments suggest that the blood-ridden history of the subcontinent is still a story in the making; therefore, ‘history’ could be the most relevant keyword for the Urdu-speaking mohajirs to help them set the future course of action. Thanks to structurally entrenched discriminatory policies in Sindh espoused by Pakistan People’s Party, the leading political party walking on a fine line between ‘khappay’ and ‘naakhappy’, this is, indeed, a watershed moment for the people of Karachi because the entire provincial machinery is furtively working to reduce an otherwise dominant part of the urban population into a half-dozen constituencies on the basis of their linguistic and ancestral backdrop.

Considering the eerie resemblance with the events prior to 1971, the need of the hour is to read the writing on the wall before embarking on another suicidal course, as was erroneously done in the mid-80s with the launch of the Mohajir Qaumi Movement (MQM).

Similar to the 1971 saga, the Urdu-speaking community has no choice but to only stand up with the federation at all events, but this cannot be done by openly defying regional stakeholders or by supporting those elements already threatening the political unity of the federation.

In place of putting their eggs this time in the PTI or PPP basket, the offspring of mohajirs must first come out of their political romanticism, find sincere and visionary leadership within their own ranks, and avoid falling prey to a political culture that runs the risk of confrontation and clashes with the military establishment.

For a community walking on a tightrope, any misplaced priorities could even reduce their citizenship status from mohajreen to mehsureen, falling into the fate of Biharis of present-day Bangladesh. Caveat emptor!

Copyright Business Recorder, 2024