Can demographic anxiety and economic cost justify the abandonment of human beings for more than five decades? This question lies at the heart of the catastrophe of the Pakistani Biharis stranded in Bangladesh. It remains politically inconvenient, morally troubling, and legally indefensible.
It resurfaced during a podcast released on 9 January 2026, in which I was honoured to be interviewed by Ali Warsi of Naya Daur TV. I am grateful to Raza Ahmad Rumi, the founder of the platform, for engaging with an issue many prefer to forget. I have been writing about this matter for nearly fifteen years. It is not only academic or political for me but profoundly personal: I am one of many survivors of an unacknowledged genocide.
As I said in my conversation with Warsi, this is not a tragedy petrified in 1971; it manifests daily in overcrowded ghettos, in denied opportunities, and in lives lived without legal existence. Such stories rarely go viral. They lack spectacle, propaganda, and power. Yet they demand attention. One share may not change a destiny, but silence certainly changes nothing.
One of the most disturbing aspects of this disaster is that the stranded Pakistani Biharis are not even recognised as refugees under international law. They are, instead, a population trapped in prolonged statelessness, denied full citizenship by Bangladesh for decades, and coldly abandoned by Pakistan, the country many of them identified with, remained loyal to, and believed would be their homeland.
Statelessness is not a technical oversight; it is a systematic denial of rights: access to education, healthcare, financial opportunities, mobility, political participation, and legal protection. When statelessness lasts for generations, it becomes a form of inherited punishment.
While Pakistan and Bangladesh continue to shift responsibility, legal scholars increasingly point to the concept of constructive responsibility, where historical actions, inducements, and reliance create enduring obligations. This is not merely a bilateral dispute; it is a failure of justice. International human rights law is unambiguous on one point: everyone has the right to a nationality, and no one should be arbitrarily deprived of it. Prolonged statelessness violates both the letter and the spirit of international norms.
Lamentably, Pakistan’s human rights activism, including prominent organisations such as HRCP, has largely adopted a policy of silence on this issue. During the lifetimes of champions such as I A Rehman and Asma Jahangir, there was at least some passing reference, however insufficient, to the plight of the stranded Biharis. I remain deeply grateful to these figures, whom I also acknowledge as mentors. Now, however, there is a noticeable lull.
A question that repeatedly arises, often to shut down discussion, is whether Pakistan could “absorb” the remaining approximately 324,000 stranded Biharis if repatriation were ever resumed
At times, I cannot help but wonder whether part of the silence reflects perceptions of my own voice and persona: whether, had I been someone more “palatable” or aligned with prevailing preferences, the response might have been different. Yet the responsibility for this injustice is not mine alone; it rests squarely with the institutions, policies, and public inattention that allow decades of statelessness to continue.
At times, in moments of extreme anguish, I find myself reluctantly wanting to ask the gatekeepers of human rights, diplomacy, public service, activism, and journalism in Pakistan whether certain names, identities, or symbolic capital command attention in ways that prolonged suffering does not. If visibility rather than vulnerability determines urgency, then the silence surrounding this issue is not accidental—it is structural.
Since 16 December 1971, Pakistan has passed through numerous governments, multiple civilian administrations, and prolonged periods of military rule, from Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto to Shehbaz Sharif, sworn in as the 24th prime minister in March 2024. Barring some earlier administrations in the 1970s and 1980s that facilitated incomplete and partial repatriation of Pakistanis from Bangladesh, generations of these missing citizens have faced apathy and intolerance.
Political landscapes and priorities have habitually vacillated, yet no government has yielded a consistent, sustained policy to ensure rights, repatriation, or inclusion for the stranded Biharis. This enduring silence across decades of governance is itself a political choice.
However, the biggest hurt and an academic query that remains with me is this: can a state abandon its own people, and if it does disown its people to avoid inconvenience, can it do so without weakening the very idea of citizenship itself? Citizenship, as I understand it, is a covenant across time. To now claim that “too much time has passed” is to punish victims for surviving. The deeper question is not whether Pakistan can repatriate the stranded Biharis, but whether it can morally justify not doing so.
Yes, the United Nations and international human rights bodies can and should play a role. Agencies such as the UNHCR, the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, and relevant UN Special Rapporteurs have mandates addressing statelessness and protracted displacement. Their involvement can help with technical and financial assistance for phased repatriation or full regularisation, mediation between states, international pressure for durable solutions, and documentation and legal identity.
What has been missing is not legal framework or institutional capacity, but political will.
A question that repeatedly arises, often to shut down discussion, is whether Pakistan could “absorb” the remaining approximately 324,000 stranded Biharis if repatriation were ever resumed. Let us be clear: this fear does not withstand scrutiny.
Some wounds are ignored and some voices unheard, yet the act of speaking, of insisting on dignity, justice, and recognition, remains a small, persistent courage, an act of moral witness against indifference
In a country of over 240 million people, the return of 324,000 individuals, especially if phased, would amount to a demographic increase of roughly 0.13 per cent. It would not alter ethnic balances, linguistic compositions, or national cohesion. Pakistan has historically absorbed far larger displaced populations, from the mass migrations of 1947 to decades of Afghan refugees. Demography here is not a genuine concern; it is a convenient excuse.
It is also important to acknowledge an uncomfortable reality: a significant portion of the approximately 324,000 stranded Biharis may not wish to return to Pakistan but are instead looking to Bangladesh for non-discriminatory treatment, full civic inclusion, and dignity. Yet even so, formally announcing repatriation as an available right for all would demonstrate the intellectual integrity, moral strength, and historical honesty of the Pakistani state. Recognition does not compel movement; it restores agency.
Those who cite “capacity” concerns should consider the facts. According to a written reply by Pakistan’s Interior Ministry to the Senate on 2 January 2024, the country had hosted an estimated 1.7 million undocumented or illegal foreign nationals, of whom over 541,000 had already been repatriated at that point, leaving roughly 1.15 million still residing in Pakistan without legal status at the time. Since then, under the Illegal Foreigners Repatriation Program initiated in late 2023, repatriations have accelerated significantly, with over one million undocumented individuals returned by mid-2025.
The “stranded Biharis” are not illegal immigrants: they, or their parents, were Pakistani citizens or lawful residents who identified with and were aligned to the Pakistani state, and were left behind due to a historical rupture, not unlawful entry. Against this backdrop, the hypothetical recognition and possible return of approximately 324,000 stranded Biharis, many of whom may never exercise the option of repatriation, poses no demographic or administrative shock.
What it does pose, however, is a profound moral and political test: whether a state that demonstrably manages the removal of far larger undocumented populations can continue to deny responsibility toward a much smaller population that is historically linked, politically implicated, and morally owed.
Markets do not account for dignity. GDP does not measure statelessness. A state is not a corporation whose responsibility ends at the balance sheet. Yes, repatriation would involve costs: housing, documentation, social services, and integration. Economists can and should estimate these, but economics alone cannot be the final arbiter of justice.
Evidence consistently shows that displaced populations, once regularised, become economic contributors. Many Biharis are urban, multilingual, and skilled in informal trade and services. Over time, they expand consumption, create micro-enterprises, and integrate into labour markets. More importantly, there is a moral economy at stake. When a state abandons a population on the grounds of “cost,” it sends a chilling message to all citizens: your rights are restricted, and your dignity is redundant.
Repatriation could occur in manageable phases over four to six years, allowing orderly settlement, housing, and integration programmes to scale effectively. If Pakistan can manage over a million undocumented residents, then continued denial of responsibility toward a far smaller population historically linked, politically implicated, and morally owed cannot be justified as incapacity. It is a matter of choice, and history is rarely forgiving to states that choose denial over justice.
Perhaps I have no final thoughts. Writing any piece on this issue drains me emotionally, and I find myself sinking deeper into despondency. I wish I could write convincingly enough that even a single piece would command the attention of all powers in all relevant departments, yet I keep trying.
As of now, the callousness I have met can be aptly captured through Ghalib’s verse:
“Lo wo bhi kehtay hain kay ye be nanag o nam hy, ye janta agar to lutata na ghar ko mein.”
Some wounds are ignored and some voices unheard, yet the act of speaking, of insisting on dignity, justice, and recognition, remains a small, persistent courage, an act of moral witness against indifference.
Pakistan, I still love you. Pakistan, hamesha zindabad.