Alhamdulillah, in every corner of Punjab’s cities, Baloch, Pashtun, Sindhi, Kashmiri, and Gilgiti brothers live among us—safe, thriving, equal. This is no accident; it’s a testament. Democracy, justice, and an inclusive Pakistan are the balm we need—not division, not endless fractures along ethnic lines. Every province here is a mosaic of tongues and tribes; slicing ourselves apart solves nothing.
The birth of Pakistan wasn’t a quiet affair—it was the greatest, bloodiest migration humanity has ever witnessed. Punjab bore the brunt: bodies piled high, millions uprooted, homes torched, and dignity stripped bare. Women, children, elders—left to wander homeless, their ancestral graves abandoned forever. Those who crossed over shed their pasts, their cultures, their very identities, all for love of this land. And yet, who sings their dirge? Who has mourned this apocalypse that swallowed us whole?
Punjab, the golden cradle of five rivers, once fed the subcontinent’s belly. Even after centuries of invasions, its spirit stood tall—economically vibrant, educationally rich. Beyond Karachi’s port, no city in today’s Pakistan outshone Punjab’s urban pulse. This prosperity wasn’t a gift; it was forged over centuries. Yet now, it’s wielded as a curse, a crime to be apologized for.
