Identity is not a name on a paper, nor a document bearing a stamp—it is a lived experience, shaped by belonging, memory, and a sense of self. For the Urdu-speaking Bihari community in Bangladesh, identity has long been a contested ground—claimed by some, denied by others, and misunderstood by many.
Often labeled as Pakistani, Bihari, Muslim Bihari, or even Rajakar, these people were left stranded in the wake of Bangladesh’s independence in 1971. History tells us they were seen as allies of Pakistan during the Liberation War. But when the war ended, Pakistan turned its back on them. The newly formed Bangladesh, too, struggled to decide their place in the nation’s future. And so, thousands of families were left in limbo—stateless, voiceless, forgotten.
For 33 long years, they lived in designated camps, officially called Stranded Pakistani Repatriation Camps—each reduced to a number, each family confined to an 8-by-8-foot room. Those rooms, once occupied by five, now shelter twelve or more. Privacy is a luxury no one has. With no space to grow, families began building upward, adding floors on fragile structures, improvising homes in defiance of planning or safety—because there was simply no other choice.
In 2008, a glimmer of hope arrived. The Supreme Court of Bangladesh ruled that the Urdu-speaking community were, indeed, citizens of Bangladesh. It directed the Election Commission to include them in the national voter list and issue National Identity Cards. It seemed, finally, that their decades of limbo were ending.
But reality told a different story.
Although they were given voter IDs, many discovered their rights extended no further. They could cast a ballot—but couldn’t obtain passports, open bank accounts, or use their actual addresses in legal documents. If asked to prove their identity, many still resort to camp-issued papers—stamped with the name Stranded Pakistani, a label they’ve been trying to move beyond for generations.
The debate continues. Some argue that as citizens, they should pay taxes and utility bills like anyone else. But many camp residents refuse, saying they’re still treated as outsiders—why, then, should they bear the responsibilities of full citizens when they aren’t afforded the same rights?
Today, the community stands at a crossroads.
Roughly 70% of them say they want to stay in Bangladesh—not just physically, but fully, with all the rights and recognition of national identity. Around 10% still hold out hope to repatriate to Pakistan. The rest remain silent. Yet nearly all of them share a common thread: Urdu is their mother tongue, a language that binds them even when borders divide.
Some have moved out of the camps—those who could afford it—renting homes elsewhere, seeking anonymity, distance, dignity. Many no longer want to be associated with the camps at all. They say they have embraced Bangladeshi identity wholeheartedly, and ask only for the same in return: to be seen as fellow citizens, not as ghosts of a history they didn’t choose.
And yet the question lingers in the air like smoke:
Who decides when a person truly belongs?
And how much longer must they wait to be accepted not by papers, but by people?
