For centuries, the land that is now Pakistan stood at the crossroads of empires and trade. From the caravans of the Silk Road to the Mughal courts and colonial railways, it absorbed influences and peoples who moved, settled, and became part of its fabric. This history of migration and exchange is what gave the region its diversity, with languages, traditions, and identities layered across provinces and communities. Yet in today’s Pakistan, where identity is sharply policed through documents and registries, the question of who belongs remains unresolved.
At the centre of this dilemma lies the issue of birthright citizenship. While Article 5 of the Constitution defines allegiance to the state, the detailed framework is provided by the Pakistan Citizenship Act of 1951 and the Citizenship Rules of 1952. Section 4 of the 1951 Act states that every person born in Pakistan after the commencement of the Act shall be a citizen of Pakistan by birth. On paper, this establishes the principle of jus soli citizenship by birth on the territory. In practice, however, implementation has been inconsistent, especially for children of foreign nationals, refugees, and stateless populations, creating a legal grey zone.
The consequences of this selective application are stark. The Afghan diaspora in Pakistan, numbering 3.7 million according to UNHCR estimates in 2023, remains the most visible example. Many Afghan families fled conflict in the 1980s and have since lived in Pakistan for over four decades. Their children and grandchildren were born in Peshawar, Quetta, or Karachi, speak Urdu or Pashto in local dialects, and attend Pakistani schools. Yet for the majority, national identity cards issued by NADRA remain inaccessible. Without these documents, they cannot enrol in higher education, access formal employment, or exercise basic civil rights.
The Afghan case is often cited in policy debates, but it is not the only one. Bengalis who migrated during earlier decades, Iranians who settled in border regions, and Rohingya families in Karachi face similar barriers. Despite being born on Pakistani soil, these communities are excluded from the rights and responsibilities of citizenship. The refusal to extend nationality has effectively produced pockets of statelessness, where individuals are denied recognition by both their country of origin and their country of birth.
This situation sits uneasily with Pakistan’s own history. The state was born in 1947 through one of the largest mass migrations in the twentieth century. Millions of people who crossed from India were welcomed as citizens of the new homeland. Their right to belong was affirmed not through lengthy bureaucratic procedures but through the recognition of shared identity and need. The contrast between that founding ethos and today’s restrictive practices could not be sharper.
Leaving entire communities stateless only perpetuates cycles of poverty and exclusion, it punishes children for circumstances they did not choose and closes off the possibility of integration for those who know no other home.
The legal tension has often been shaped by shifting policies rather than clear, long-term commitments. Periodically, the idea of extending citizenship to refugee children has surfaced in official discussions, but these proposals have rarely moved beyond statements. Critics usually raise demographic and security concerns, while advocates emphasise the humanitarian imperative of recognising those who have no ties elsewhere. The absence of a consistent approach has left entire communities in a state of uncertainty, with policies oscillating between inclusion and repatriation.
For the individuals concerned, the human costs are immense. Universities require Computerised National Identity Cards (CNICs) that many cannot obtain. Employers hesitate to formally hire those without legal status, pushing young people into informal economies where exploitation is common. Families cannot legally purchase property, open bank accounts, or even travel freely. For children born in Pakistan to refugee parents, this reality means growing up as outsiders in the only country they have ever known.
Pakistan’s legal framework does provide avenues for inclusion. Alongside Section 4 on citizenship by birth, the Citizenship Act 1951 includes provisions for naturalisation and registration. Yet these are rarely applied in practice to long-settled refugee communities. Instead, administrative barriers and bureaucratic delays prevent access. This selective enforcement effectively hollows out the law, leaving rights on paper but not in reality.
The challenge, of course, is not only legal. Citizenship intersects with questions of national security, demographics, and foreign policy. Pakistan hosts one of the largest refugee populations in the world, and policymakers fear that formalising birthright citizenship could encourage permanent settlement at a time when voluntary repatriation is still on the agenda. Yet this caution must be balanced against the costs of exclusion. A population denied recognition is not one that simply disappears; it becomes more vulnerable, more marginalised, and more likely to exist outside the protection of the law.
Reform requires a more honest reckoning with Pakistan’s demographic reality. The country is not homogeneous, nor has it ever been. Punjabis, Sindhis, Pashtuns, Baloch, Saraikis, Kashmiris, and countless others form its fabric, enriched further by traders, refugees, and migrants who have settled over centuries. To deny the legitimacy of children born on this soil is to deny that pluralism itself. Extending birthright citizenship is therefore not an act of charity but a recognition of fact.
Safeguards can and should exist. Documentation requirements, transparent procedures, and phased pathways to citizenship can address concerns about security and administration. But leaving entire communities stateless only perpetuates cycles of poverty and exclusion, it punishes children for circumstances they did not choose and closes off the possibility of integration for those who know no other home.
The question before Pakistan is therefore one of principle as much as policy. Can a country founded on the promise of belonging continue to deny that promise to those born within its borders? Or will it embrace a vision of citizenship that reflects both its diverse past and its shared future? Until these questions are answered, the struggle for birthright citizenship will remain one of the most pressing human challenges within Pakistan, one that speaks not only to the law but to the values that define the nation itself.