Kamal Ghorui
On 3rd January, I visited one of Delhi’s many Pakistani-Hindu refugee camps. What I encountered there was not just poverty or hardship, but something far more disturbing: a community that has escaped religious persecution only to find itself trapped in bureaucratic limbo – stateless, invisible, and forgotten.
Religious minorities in Pakistan, particularly Hindus, face systematic persecution. Kidnappings, rape, forced religious conversions, and targeted killings are not isolated incidents but grim realities of daily life. For young Hindu girls, the threat is existential. Many are abducted, forcibly married to older Muslim men, or trafficked as sex slaves. There is little legal recourse and no meaningful protection from the state. For these families, the future offers no safety, no dignity, and no hope.
It is this hostile and helpless environment that forces tens of thousands of Hindus and other minorities to flee Pakistan and attempt the perilous journey into India. Crossing the border is life-threatening, yet so unbearable is life left behind that many see death as preferable to staying. That alone tells us everything we need to know about the severity of their persecution.
The camp I visited is located in Adarsh Nagar, Delhi. Established in 2013, it began with around 50 families and has since grown to approximately 350 families, nearly 1,500 people — all originally from Pakistan’s Sindh province. Most crossed into India through Punjab, often at great personal risk.
Despite everything they have endured, these refugees remain deeply resilient and unapologetically Hindu. Vikram, one of the refugees narrated how Christian missionaries had previously approached the camp, offering material comforts such as electricity in exchange for conversion. The refugees refused. “We will live without lights,” they told them, “but we will not convert. We fled persecution to avoid forced conversion. Why would we now convert?” Their dignity was humbling.
Yet dignity alone does not grant legal status. Most families arrived after 2014, the cut-off point for India’s Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA). As Pakistani nationals, they have not been granted citizenship, visas, or even Aadhaar cards. In practical terms, this renders them stateless.
The consequences are severe. Families live in slum-like conditions with only the most basic facilities. Without Aadhaar cards, they cannot access cooking gas and are forced to rely on wood fires.
Firewood used for cooking
The camp has just one small school, a single room, run by Vikram, who himself is a refugee and was a teacher back in Pakistan. Even this fragile lifeline is under threat: many children have recently been removed from formal schooling because, without Aadhaar cards, they cannot sit exams or secure admissions. All they want is to educate the children so that they can grow up and stand on their own two feet, so that they can have a future.
Single room school
The refugees have built several small mandirs themselves, acts of faith and defiance in equal measure. But faith does not protect them from the monsoon. Each year, the camp floods due to the absence of a drainage system, forcing families onto nearby roads until the water recedes.
Hindu temple built by the refugees
And yet, despite everything, they told me they are grateful. Grateful that they can live without fear of religious persecution. Grateful that their daughters can sleep without the constant terror of abduction. It is a grim calculation, but peace without rights is still preferable to persecution with none.
What makes this situation particularly painful is the inconsistency of India’s response. Rohingya Muslims from Myanmar, who face persecution of their own, most have been granted asylum and Aadhaar cards. Meanwhile, Hindus fleeing documented religious persecution in Pakistan remain in limbo. This is not a question of compassion versus cruelty; it is a question of consistency, fairness, and moral clarity.
Since the Pahalgam terror attack, border security has tightened, and the flow of refugees has effectively stopped. But thousands of Hindus remain in Sindh, desperate to leave, watching their last possible refuge close its doors.
India prides itself on being a civilisational home for the persecuted Hindus and other persecuted minorities. If that claim is to mean anything, these refugees cannot be left stateless, voiceless, and invisible. They escaped one form of oppression. They should not be condemned to another through neglect.
History will judge how a nation treats those who arrive at its doorstep with nothing but faith, fear, and hope. At present, that judgment will not be kind.
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