I still remember the first time I truly understood what it meant to be Saraiki.
It wasn’t in school – we were never taught anything about our language or culture there. It wasn’t even in the books we read, because none of them ever mentioned our poets or our history. It was in the desert of Cholistan, under a burning sun, where a barefoot old man sang a verse of Khawaja Ghulam Farid. His voice cracked with age, but the words were full of power.
“Mein Roz-e-Awal ton Saraiki aan Te Aakhri Dam Tak Saraiki Rehsaan.”
“I have been Saraiki from the beginning of time, and I will remain so till my last breath.”
That’s when I realized: being Saraiki is not just about the language. It’s a feeling; a way of life; a long journey of pain, love, loss and hope.
Saraikistan is not a dream we suddenly started dreaming – it’s the soil beneath our feet, the language of our mothers, the rhythm of our songs, and the silence of our suffering. Our people live in the heart of Pakistan, in cities like Multan, Bahawalpur, Dera Ghazi Khan, Layyah, Taunsa Sharif, Muzaffargarh, Rajanpur, and Rahim Yar Khan. You may have heard these names, but you may not have heard our stories.
For decades, we’ve lived with pride in our hearts and dust on our clothes. We are farmers, teachers, truck drivers, weavers, and poets. We feed the nation with our wheat, mangoes, and cotton – but when we ask for hospitals, jobs, or universities, we’re told to wait. We’ve been waiting since 1947.
I was born in a small town near Dera Ghazi Khan. I still remember how my father would ride a bicycle for miles just to take me to school. There was only one high school nearby – and even that had broken windows, no library, and teachers who barely showed up.
When I grew up, I thought maybe things would change. I moved to Muzaffargarh for college. It was better – but not by much. The buildings were old, the electricity would go out for hours, and most students like me couldn’t afford private tuitions. We spoke Saraiki among ourselves, but our books and teachers all ignored it. I felt like I had to hide my identity to succeed.
Why? Why does a student from Lahore get better schools, better transport, better hospitals – but a Saraiki student has to fight for every basic right?
The saddest part is, we’re often blamed for our own problems.
Politicians and media say, “Southern Punjab is underdeveloped.” As if it’s our fault.
They forget to mention that for decades, the funds meant for our roads and hospitals were spent somewhere else. The bureaucrats in Lahore sat in air-conditioned offices while villages in Rajanpur flooded and our people had to sleep on rooftops.
Saraiki is not just a way of speaking. It’s how we cry, how we laugh, how we love.
But try turning on the TV. How often do you hear our language there? Look at school textbooks – how many of them mention our poets or our history? How many national leaders even know how to say a single sentence in Saraiki? And yet, they expect our loyalty.
We’ve given everything to this country. Our young men stand on borders, our farmers fill the granaries, our laborers build cities. All we want is to be seen. To be heard. To be respected.
Some people say, “Saraiki Wasaab is just politics.” But to us, it’s personal.
When we say we want Saraiki Wasaab, we’re not asking for luxury. We’re asking for dignity. We want a province where decisions are made by us, for us; where development isn’t just a promise during election time; where our language is taught in schools, our culture is celebrated, and our people have equal opportunities.
We don’t want to divide Pakistan – we want to complete it. Every few years, during election time, politicians remember us. They come with their fancy cars, give speeches in our towns, wear our turbans, eat our food – and then disappear.
They promise a new province. They pass symbolic resolutions in assemblies. They form “committees.” But when it’s time to act, they go silent.
No party – no matter what they claim – has truly stood with us. They use our pain to gain votes, and then leave us to suffer. We’ve been fooled too many times; but not anymore.
Despite everything, we’ve never let go of our culture. We are the people of Sufi saints -Shah Rukn-e-Alam, Hazrat Khawaja Shah Suliman Taunsvi, Hazrat Sakhi Sarwar, Khawaja Ghulam Farid. We believe in peace, in love, in poetry.
Even when we had no platform, our singers sang our pain. From Attaullah Khan Esakhelvi to Pathanay Khan, they kept our spirit alive. When the world forgot us, our music remembered us. When the state ignored us, our poetry consoled us.
Today’s Saraiki youth are not silent anymore. We’ve learned how to speak out, how to organize, how to write our own future.
We are on social media, in universities, in the streets – raising our voice. We write articles, create art, make documentaries. We are not asking for charity. We are demanding our right.
We love Pakistan-but we also love ourselves. And we will no longer let that love be one-sided.
Imagine a day in Saraiki Wasaab – an actual province on the map.
You wake up in Multan, and the radio plays a Saraiki song. Children go to schools where Saraiki is taught alongside Urdu and English. Hospitals in Bahawalpur have proper medicine and staff. Farmers in Layyah get support from a local government that understands their needs. Universities in DG Khan offer scholarships and programs in agriculture, science, and technology.
Imagine a place where no child feels ashamed of their accent, no poet feels ignored, and no citizen feels forgotten. That is the dream of Saraiki Wasaab.
Those in power fear Saraiki Wasaab because they fear losing control. But control is not the same as unity. Real unity comes from inclusion – not suppression. The longer the state ignores the Saraiki people, the more cracks it creates. Not just in politics, but in hearts. But if the state listens, respects, and empowers the Saraiki people, then Saraiki Wasaab will not be a threat – it will be a gift; a gift of diversity, strength, and love.
I write this not as a politician or an academic, but as a son of this land. I’ve walked barefoot on the hot soil of Taunsa Sharif. I’ve prayed at the shrine of Khawaja Shah Suliman Taunsvi (R.A). I’ve listened to my grandmother tell stories in Saraiki under the moonlight. This is my identity. And I will not let it be erased.
Saraiki Wasaab is not about land – it’s about people. It’s about my father, who worked all his life but never saw a proper hospital. It’s about my sister, who dreamed of university but had no college in her town. It’s about our children, who deserve better.
We will keep marching. We will keep singing. We will keep telling the world: We are Saraiki. We are proud. And we are not going anywhere.
You may not be Saraiki. You may live in Karachi, or Lahore, or Peshawar. But try to imagine what it feels like – to love your country, but feel like it doesn’t love you back. To speak your mother tongue, but be told it’s not important. To live in a place that gives everything, but receives nothing.
Now ask yourself: is that fair? Saraiki Wasaab is not a threat to Pakistan – it is a reminder of what Pakistan promised to be; a federation of equal nations; a home for all.
Let’s not be afraid of that dream. Let’s make it real.
