Marriage is at the heart of personal, family and community life in Pakistan, but for undocumented Pakistani Bengalis it is increasingly constrained by digital identity requirements and long-standing legal and societal exclusions. Drawing on new research, this article traces how citizenship uncertainty shapes intimate decisions and accelerates generational inequalities.
Key words: Statelessness, Pakistan, marriage, Bengalis, citizenship.
In Pakistan, a country with a population of over 250 million, marriage remains a deeply important cultural tradition and is often at the centre of personal, family and community life. It is viewed as both a personal milestone and a collective expectation. Families see marital unions as central to maintaining lineage, strengthening kinship networks, and ensuring continuity through children.
Yet this foundational institution becomes fraught when individuals lack the documentation required to formalise marriage, register children, or access the basic services that enable stable family life. This is particularly evident among Pakistani Bengalis in Karachi, a community of an estimated three million people, now in its fourth generation in Pakistan, who face issues around obtaining and maintaining citizenship. Many live in the 132 settlements across Karachi, including Musa Colony, Orangi Town and Machar Colony, and are involved in fishery and garment work.
Here we draw on excerpts from 85 oral history interviews with men, women and young ethnic Bengalis, living in Karachi. These interviews are part of a broader research study led by University College London examining the lived experience of statelessness among Pakistani Bengalis, complemented by insights from marriage rights workshops delivered by Imkaan Welfare Organisation, the leading NGO in Pakistan working with stateless and marginalised communities.
The division of British India and Pakistan
A brief look at the past helps explain how we have arrived at this point. Before the 1971 liberation war that resulted in the creation of Bangladesh (formerly East Pakistan), Bengali speakers in East Pakistan were able to travel, live and work freely across the country. After 1971, movement continued for different reasons: some fled the immediate repercussions of war, others went to West Pakistan to join relatives or seek work, and more general migration by ethnic Bengalis into Pakistan continued.
The events of 1971 are often described as the ‘second Partition of the subcontinent’ (the first being the division of British India into the states of India and Pakistan) yet they are remembered in highly divergent ways across South Asia. Governments and political parties have played a significant role in shaping public memory through school curricula and media narratives. In Pakistan, these events are frequently presented primarily as a conflict with India, rather than also the division of Pakistan, which obscures the reality that Bangladesh and all those living there, regardless of language or religion, had been Pakistani citizens. This selective retelling has contributed to framing anyone with links to East Pakistan as an outsider. Many Pakistani Bengalis in Karachi, including those born in the city, continue to feel the effects of this narrative.
The emergence of identity documentation
Identity documentation in the young country of Pakistan first emerged in 1973 in the form of paper identity cards. This development was driven largely by the government’s need to record and better understand the composition of the population, particularly in response to an influx of ethnic Bengalis arriving after the Liberation of Bangladesh (referred to in Pakistan as the ‘Fall of Dacca’).
Subsequent administrative reforms further reshaped the criteria for recognition and belonging within the state. In 2000, Pakistan replaced these manual paper-based identity cards with biometric Computerised National Identity Cards and established The National Database and Registry Authority (NADRA) for citizens, alongside the National Alien Registration Authority (NARA) for foreigners. Proof of residence before certain cut off dates, especially from the late 1970s onwards, became key to securing recognition. Due to discrimination, resulting from the continued treatment of ethnic Bengalis as outsiders post 1971, many Pakistani Bengalis were mistakenly issued NARA cards by local officials when they should have received citizenship documents. When NARA was merged with NADRA in 2015, its alien records were absorbed into the national database. Since then, a single alien label, whether accurate or not, can spread through an entire family record and block renewals.
These interlinked historical conditions and administrative changes continue to shape how ethic Bengalis are viewed within wider society in Pakistan, as well as how they manage their personal lives.
Marriageability, documentation and the shifting terms of belonging
The shift to digital and genealogical documentation systems, including NADRA’s Family Registration Certificate, has fundamentally reshaped how Pakistani Bengalis approach marriage. Marriage is no longer simply a personal or familial decision, it has become a bureaucratic calculation influenced by the risks of entering a union with someone whose identity documents have expired, are blocked or missing. Interviewees consistently described how documentation status now determines marriageability.
Hamida Bibi* (not her real name), a former local councillor based in the large informal coastal settlement of Machar Colony, has spent years resolving local disputes and knows the community well. She explains: ‘People who don’t have ID cards don’t get married. If the groom doesn’t have it, they won’t get married. If the girl doesn’t have it, she won’t get married—he will be left behind.’ Her words capture the problem: marriage arrangements based on kinship, community ties or practical need can be thwarted by a lack of documentation.
Parents increasingly fear that a spouse without documents will jeopardise not only the stability of the marriage but also the future of their children. Mariam* a home-based garment worker from the community described this bluntly: ‘If parents don’t have it then the daughter won’t […] and then we will not be able to admit them into schools.’ The reality is clear, a blocked or unverified identity record often cascades through the digital family tree, preventing children from obtaining a Child Registration Certificate (known as a B-Form) and thereby limiting their right to education, healthcare and mobility. Sohail*, a rickshaw driver living in Zia Colony said, when talking about rishtas (marriage proposals) for his teenage children: ‘Make sure to check for IDs before, because if they have children and don’t have IDs, their children’s lives will be ruined.’
This recalibration of marriage norms also interacts with broader patterns of discrimination. Families from other ethnic groups may hesitate or refuse proposals based on lingering stereotypes about all ethnic Bengalis having issues around documentation. In addition, marriage within the community is increasingly restricted by the demands of the state’s identity infrastructure. The result is a narrowing of marriage options and the creation of hierarchies between families with secure documentation and those without it.
Pakistan’s transition to biometric and genealogical identity systems has heightened the precarity of those whose historical documentation was inconsistent, lost or never recognised. For Pakistani Bengalis, many of whom were wrongly issued alien identity cards decades ago, or whose parents’ documents were never digitised, these errors are now encoded into NADRA’s systems. A flagged entry in a father’s file can freeze the entire family’s records, making it impossible to obtain or renew identification. The consequences for marriage and family life are profound.
Interviewees described multiple visits to NADRA offices, facing shifting explanations and repeated demands for new forms of evidence. Some recounted how something as simple as a Bengali accent or a home address could trigger additional scrutiny. This everyday discrimination aligns with findings in the wider literature and research on statelessness.
Restricted access to education
For young people, documentation barriers often truncate educational pathways. In theory, Article 25-A of Pakistan’s Constitution guarantees free and compulsory education for children aged 5 to 16. In practice, however, when a certificate required for admission into educational registration cannot be issued because a parent’s digital record is blocked, some children can’t be admitted into school. Schools and examination boards often also require a National Identity Card for admission or exam registration, effectively limiting access to education despite the constitutional provision. Sohaila*, a young woman from Moosa Colony, deeply ambitious and keen to study, highlighted the gendered nature of this burden: ‘My father wanted me to be an engineer and I wanted to be a doctor, but for an CNIC (National Identity Card) we would have had to do a lot of running around, and I don’t have an older brother who can do this running around for me.’ Her situation shows how gender, class and citizenship status combine to restrict young women’s futures.
Child marriage and financial discrimination within marriage
Often women from the community are married at a young age for cultural reasons and this can be exacerbated by a lack of other opportunities tied to documentation. Sohaila married young and expects the same will happen to her daughter because she will not have any other option: ‘My NIC (National Identity Card) is not there, and the same thing will happen to my daughter. She will study until class 9 and won’t be able to give exams. Then she will have to be married off.’
Even when marriages take place, the absence of formal registration leaves women in legally precarious situations. Divorce, maintenance, custody and inheritance disputes become nearly impossible to resolve without recognised documentation. One young woman based in Machar Colony, who was a home-based garments worker, described being unable to collect court-ordered maintenance for one of her children: ‘The child is almost three years old, and I haven’t been able to take out a single rupee. How can I without an ID card?’ These experiences demonstrate how, digital identity systems that promise clarity can embed structural inequalities into intimate life.
Within this landscape Imkaan Welfare Organisation plays a crucial role. For years, Imkaan has worked closely with Pakistani Bengalis in Karachi and other marginalised groups to support their efforts to be granted the required documentation and to educate communities about their legal rights. Their marriage rights workshops in particular create vital spaces for discussion, learning and mutual support. Women who attend begin to see marriage not only as a cultural obligation but also as a legal and bureaucratic process with direct implications for their rights.
Intergenerational anxiety and the narrowing of futures
Suspended identity (adhoori shahnakht) is a term we use to capture the state of limbo that individuals may experience over the course of their lives. In essence, ‘adhoori shahnakht’ captures the instability and ambiguity surrounding Pakistani Bengalis’ sense of belonging. Across generations, Pakistani Bengalis expressed a shared anxiety that their children would inherit their suspended identity. This fear, voiced repeatedly in interviews, shapes how families think about marriage, education and mobility.
Some young women such as 18-year-old Saira* from Musa Colony spoke about potentially breaking patterns through meeting a supportive partner: ‘For the first time in my life, I found a boy who will help in pursuing further studies. I told my mum, no matter what, I have to study now.’ Yet even with such support these aspirations are continually constrained by documentation requirements and the slow, often inconsistent recognition mechanisms available. For many families, the historical imposition of alien identity cards continues to shape present day decisions. Despite having deep roots in Pakistan, the stigma associated with these classifications remains, reinforced through digital systems that reproduce old labels in new forms. Marriage, once a mechanism for creating stability, becomes a site where uncertainty intensifies. Families must assess not only compatibility or character, but also the bureaucratic risks embedded in a partner’s documentation history. In this context, the potential for children to be denied their rights to education, healthcare, travel and legal protection becomes a central concern.
Conclusion
The marriage practices of Pakistani Bengalis highlight how citizenship regimes permeate the most intimate aspects of life. Statelessness is not a technical status on paper, it is a lived experience that shapes education, healthcare access, employment opportunities, marital prospects and the rights of future generations. As Pakistan continues to rely on digital identity systems, the genealogical rigidity of these structures risks deepening existing inequalities. Historical misclassifications, such as the wrongful issuance of alien identity cards, continue to affect families decades later, reproduced through the systems of the National Database and Registry Authority.
For undocumented Pakistani Bengalis, marriage has become entangled with bureaucratic uncertainty in ways that reshape intimate choices and family futures. Their testimonies make clear that identity documentation is not a neutral administrative tool, it is a system that shapes life trajectories, constrains freedoms and determines who can participate fully in society. Organisations such as Imkaan play an important role in equipping families with knowledge, strategies and rights awareness.
However, meaningful change requires systemic reform: flexible verification pathways, recognition of long-term citizenship and the guarantee that marriages and births can be registered without discrimination. Until these reforms are implemented, Pakistani Bengalis will continue to navigate marriage decisions not solely on personal or cultural grounds, but as negotiations with a system that has yet to fully acknowledge their place within the nation.
*Pseudonyms have been used throughout.
Image: A bride signing marriage documents. Credit: Photo by MUHAMMAD SHAH ZEB on Unsplash.
