In Pakistan’s rich and colorful landscape of cultures, languages, and histories, one question echoes louder than ever: Can we create a system where everyone feels seen, respected, and fairly represented – without tearing apart the threads that hold the country together?
The idea of creating new provinces based on ethnic identity isn’t new. It resurfaces every few years, often carried by the voices of those who feel overlooked. And the question it raises is as emotional as it is political: Will acknowledging our ethnic differences make us stronger as a nation – or break us apart?
To understand why this idea holds such weight, one must look beyond the surface. In South Punjab, for instance, the Seraiki-speaking population has long spoken of feeling like strangers in their own province – ignored by policies made hundreds of kilometers away in Lahore. In Hazara, nestled in the north of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, there’s a quiet but persistent belief that the region’s unique identity is being drowned out. And in urban Sindh, the Urdu-speaking Muhajir community often expresses deep frustration over what they see as political and cultural exclusion.
These aren’t just political slogans or regional demands. They are human cries for dignity, autonomy, and recognition.
For many, the creation of new provinces based on ethnic lines offers hope – hope for a government that understands their language, honors their heritage, and listens to their concerns. They believe a Seraiki province could finally bring development to the long-ignored southern belt. That a Hazara province could give voice to a community that feels culturally distinct. That a restructured Sindh might bring balance where they feel there’s bias.
At first glance, these arguments feel logical – even just. Smaller provinces could mean more manageable governance, faster development, and policies that actually reflect the people they affect. When people feel closer to their leaders – culturally and geographically – they’re more likely to participate in democracy, to invest in their community, and to trust the system.
But like most ideas rooted in identity, this one carries risks.
We’ve walked this path before. The story of East Pakistan is not just a historical event – it’s a national heartbreak. Language and cultural neglect played a heavy hand in that split. When people feel that their identity is being erased, they don’t just protest – they pull away. And when one group pulls away, it weakens the whole.
This is where the danger lies. When politics begins to center around ethnicity, it can easily slip into exclusion. Who belongs and who doesn’t? Who gets what share of resources? Whose culture is prioritized? These are questions that rarely end peacefully if handled with arrogance or haste.
Drawing new borders isn’t like adjusting a spreadsheet. It affects people’s lives, memories, and sense of home. Cities like Karachi, Quetta, and even parts of Punjab are ethnically diverse. Drawing a line there won’t solve disputes – it may ignite them. And in places where identity is already politicized, new provinces could become new battlegrounds rather than beacons of inclusion.
The rest of the world offers us examples – some encouraging, some alarming.
India reorganized its states along linguistic lines in the 1950s. In many ways, it worked. People gained representation and retained cultural pride. But even there, regionalism still sometimes overshadows national unity. Ethiopia, on the other hand, tried an extreme form of ethnic federalism – granting ethnic regions the constitutional right to secede. That experiment collapsed into civil war. The lesson? Ethnic divisions, if not managed with wisdom and strong institutions, can become deep, dangerous fractures.
So, where does Pakistan stand?
We cannot pretend that ethnic grievances don’t exist. Ignoring them doesn’t build unity – it breeds resentment. But at the same time, we cannot romanticize the idea of ethnic-based provinces as a magic solution. The answer lies in balance.
We must begin by asking a harder, more honest question: Why do people feel the need to demand their own province just to receive fairness?
The real tragedy is that basic governance has failed so many. In a well-functioning system, local governments should be strong enough to serve people without the need for a complete provincial reshuffle. If education, health, roads, and representation were delivered fairly across regions, we might not even be having this conversation. The demand for new provinces is, at its heart, a demand for dignity and justice. If we meet those needs at the grassroots level, perhaps the cry for separation will turn into a call for reform.
And yet, if provinces must be created, let them be based on more than just ethnicity. Let geography, economic potential, population distribution, and administrative feasibility all be part of the equation. Let us ensure that in giving people a stronger sense of self, we don’t unintentionally weaken their sense of belonging to the nation.
But this isn’t just the government’s job. It belongs to all of us. As citizens, we must begin to see each other not as rivals in a game of identity politics, but as fellow travelers in the same journey. We must celebrate our differences without weaponizing them. Our media must tell stories that unite. Our education system must teach inclusion. Our politicians must move beyond vote-bank ethnicism and start speaking to the soul of the nation.
Ethnic diversity is not Pakistan’s weakness – it is its brilliance. From the rugged mountains of Gilgit to the green fields of Punjab, from the deserts of Sindh to the coastline of Balochistan, this land is a mosaic of cultures and colors. But like any mosaic, it only shines when all the pieces stay together.
If a Seraiki farmer wants a province so his children can learn in their mother tongue, if a Hazara shopkeeper wants his roads repaired by a government that understands his region, if a young Muhajir girl wants to see someone who speaks her language sitting in parliament – that isn’t rebellion. That’s a plea for respect.
The path forward isn’t to silence these voices, nor is it to give in to every demand without reflection. The path forward is dialogue – open, honest, and inclusive. It is reform – not just in maps, but in minds.
National integration doesn’t mean making everyone the same. It means building a country where everyone, regardless of ethnicity or language, feels at home. It means ensuring that no one needs to choose between their culture and their country – because both are cherished equally.
And maybe then, we will no longer ask whether ethnic-based division threatens national unity. We will ask something far better: how can our differences make us stronger together.
