I was born in the valleys of Kashmir, raised on the soil of Punjab, yet I’ve never tethered my soul to either label. For me, the rhythm of my heart beats to a singular tune—Muslim, Pakistani, above all else. Regional whispers? I’ve kept them at arm’s length, choosing instead the anthem of a united Pakistan.
But today, amidst a storm of venomous accusations and calculated disdain, a truth dawns on me: Punjab’s voice must rise—not for pride, but for the survival of this nation’s fragile unity. The land of five rivers can no longer sit silent, deaf, or blind. A sinister plot brews, one that pins every shadow of evil on Punjab’s broad shoulders. Its prosperity, its very existence, seems to choke the throats of those who envy it.
The time has come. Punjab must lay its case bare before its brothers and sisters across this federation. Their pain demands a hearing, their solutions a crafting, and their history a telling—unvarnished and bold.
Let’s not forget: when Pakistan was carved into being, it was Punjab and Bengal whose blood and treasure split apart. The heaviest toll—lives lost, dreams shattered—fell upon Punjabi hearts. From the ashes of UP and CP, millions fled, leaving behind graves and memories, only to be welcomed by Punjab’s open arms. We didn’t just shelter them; we wove them into our fabric, shared our bread, and built anew together.
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.
Had Pakistan not risen, the elites of every province—political, judicial, military, feudal—would’ve bowed to a Hindu majority or languished in chains. Punjab paid the steepest price for freedom, yet it’s branded the villain in every tale of woe.
This is merely the opening chapter of Punjab’s story—a saga that will stretch long and deep. We’ll own our missteps, yes, but we’ll also call out the hands that point fingers unjustly. This isn’t about accusation or malice; it’s about clarity, about untangling the knots of misunderstanding, and forging a path forward together.
Let me be clear: these words rise above party banners and petty cliques. They echo the thoughts of kindred spirits—those who may not agree with me, yet feel the same ache for truth. This isn’t a manifesto; it’s a plea. For decades, Punjab has borne a charge sheet of blame, pinned on its sheer numbers. Where’s the scrutiny of that narrative? Where’s the reckoning?
In time, we’ll peel back the layers: martial laws and their wreckage, the democratic fight, the agony of Dhaka’s fall, water woes and the stalled Kalabagh Dam, GDP shares, army recruitment, feudal shadows, and the post-18th Amendment tangle of resources. Sectarianism, linguistic rifts, extremism, corruption—the roots of our monarchy-clad establishment and the democracy of our parties—all must be traced back to day one.
Time brews its lessons slowly. Calamity doesn’t strike in a single blow.
Today’s poison won’t spare the Punjabi elite alone. If this spiral persists, the dock of history will hold generals, judges, bureaucrats, and chieftains from every corner of Pakistan—not just Punjab. The few who dared reform, who learned from the past, were crucified alongside their kin.
Enough with the medals of treachery handed out every decade. Patriots are branded traitors, and traitors crowned heroes, in an endless cycle of vengeance. If this venom festers, Pakistan will stumble forward only to stagger back. We can’t afford another fall.
Crush the terrorists, yes—relentlessly. But hear the weary, angry voices of those who cling to the Constitution. Legitimate or not, their cries demand dialogue, not just force. Brute power without politics is a hollow shell.
For God’s sake, don’t lighten the enemy’s load. The state must be a mother, not a stepfather. Stop the fractures. Open the doors.
