The City I Loved, The City That Left Me

History:

I came across this video by Shehzad Ghias Shaikh (here), and while I understand where he’s coming from, I felt like a lot was left unsaid — especially from the point of view of someone who identifies as a Mohajir and has lived through some of the realities he touched on.

This isn’t meant to start an argument or change anyone’s opinion. I’ve honestly stopped debating identity politics a long time ago. But something about this video stayed with me. So I wrote this not to fight, but to share. To give another side of the story. One that maybe isn’t as loud, but still deserves to be heard.

I live in Dallas now, far away from Karachi, but like many others, I still carry the city with me. I hope this gives you a window into what that experience feels like — the love, the frustration, and the in-between space where a lot of us find ourselves.

1. Belonging Is Complicated

As I get older, I’ve come to accept something that took me a long time to realize. Belonging is a complicated feeling. People keep trying to tie identity to land, to roots, to borders. But if you zoom out far enough, you start to see how fragile that idea really is. We are all just moving through borrowed places. The land was never ours to begin with. It belongs to God. We just happen to live on it for a while.

So no, Karachi doesn’t belong to any one group, and neither does Sindh, or any other part of the world. Cities like Karachi were built by people who came from all over, people who stayed, struggled, and tried to make something that felt like home. That mix is what gave Karachi its spirit. Erasing part of that story erases the city itself.

2. Let’s Talk About “Ghair Maqami”

Shehzad, I get it. Karachi is in Sindh. That is a fact, and no one’s denying it. But when you constantly frame that fact in a way that excludes or undermines others, especially Mohajirs, it feels less like pride and more like dismissal. You may not even realize it, but the tone comes off as if you're saying, “This isn’t your city.”

The term “ghair maqami” isn’t new to me. I’ve heard it all my life. And honestly, you hear it in every multi-ethnic city, not just Karachi. It’s a problem everywhere, and instead of using it as a weapon, we should be acknowledging that it's a shared pain. It cuts across identities.

I feel like at some point, you used that label for me too — maybe not directly, but by implication — for simply being a Mohajir. That’s if you even acknowledge the term. And here’s the thing: I’ve stopped arguing about it. I don’t correct people anymore. I don’t try to defend or explain myself. But that doesn’t mean it stopped hurting, or that it stopped being real.

I’m not writing this to change your point of view. I’m writing because I think you, with your voice and influence, should at least understand how this looks from the other side. This is what I see, standing here in Dallas, far from the city I still love.

3. Growing Up With Openness

I didn’t grow up with these divides. Our home was mixed, open, and connected to people from all backgrounds. We had relatives who married into Sindhi families. Some settled in places like Khairpur generations ago and began identifying as Sindhi. And we admired that. We saw it as a kind of graceful blending, not something threatening or foreign.

Even in the 90s, I didn’t feel like I was being judged for who I was. Maybe I was too young to notice. I went to a Shia school, and even that didn’t shield me from discrimination entirely. But back then, it felt like there was still room to breathe. People didn’t love each other all the time, but they weren’t constantly looking for reasons to hate either.

Now, it feels like people will find any excuse. If it’s not language, it’s religion. If it’s not culture, it’s background. And that’s what breaks you slowly, over time.

4. The Weight of the Mohajir Identity

What hurts the most is how easy it is to erase the Mohajir story. Some people still question the name itself, like it doesn’t deserve to exist. But it wasn’t chosen out of arrogance. It came from a need to belong, to have something to hold onto when everything else felt temporary or borrowed.

Sure, maybe not every family came from nobility like the old stories claim. But have you ever thought about why those stories were told? They weren’t about showing off. They were about survival. They gave parents a way to give their kids some dignity while raising them in poverty and uncertainty. Some families got homes when they migrated, many didn’t. But they built lives, they built neighborhoods, and most importantly, they built a sense of identity.

Even if that name, Mohajir, only meant “migrant,” it was still something. And it deserved more respect than it got.

5. Why I Left, But Never Let Go

I left Karachi almost half a life ago. And I think that was the story for a lot of people like me. We didn’t leave because we didn’t care. We left because we got tired. Tired of explaining ourselves. Tired of feeling like we were always being tolerated, never truly accepted.

Now I watch it all from far away. Maybe it’s hypocritical, loving a city so deeply when I’m not living there anymore. Maybe it’s foolish, still trying to defend it while sipping chai in Dallas. But I do. I love Karachi. I always will.

And I just hope that one day, instead of drawing new lines and pointing fingers, we can all take a step back and realize what made that city great was the mix, the chaos, the movement, and the people who came from everywhere to call it home.