I was born in Gilgit-Baltistan, under skies so wide and blue they make your chest ache. The Karakoram mountains stand like old friends around my village, their peaks dusted with snow, their secrets buried deep. Gold runs through Ghizer and Hunza’s veins, rubies wink in Nagar’s hills, and whispers of diamonds dance in the air. This land, my home, is a treasure chest—$15 billion in minerals, they say. But when I walk through Skardu’s dusty streets or sit by the Shigar River, all I see is a place rich in dreams, poor in everything else.
How does a land so full of wealth leave its people so empty? I’ve lived this question my whole life, and it burns.
The Weight of What’s Beneath
Growing up, I heard stories about Hunza’s gold—50 tons, enough to pave roads with hope. In Nagar, my uncle used to point to the mountains and say, “There’s rubies up there, shining like stars.” We’d laugh, imagining ourselves rich. But the truth? Most of us can’t afford meat for dinner. Over 80% of my people live below the poverty line. In my village, kids drop out of school to herd goats because there’s no work for their parents.
I’ve watched friends pack their bags for Karachi or the Gulf, their eyes heavy with leaving. My brother went to Lahore last year, chasing a job. He calls sometimes, his voice tired. “There’s nothing back home,” he says. But there is something—gold, gems, uranium even. So why are we the ones left with nothing?
A Promise Made, A Promise Broken
My grandfather used to tell me about 1947. When Pakistan was born, our people didn’t hesitate. They fought off the Dogra rulers, raised the green flag, and chose this country with their hearts. It was our gift to Pakistan, sealed with courage. I still get chills thinking about it.
But nearly 80 years later, we’re still waiting for Pakistan to choose us back. Gilgit-Baltistan isn’t a province. We can’t vote for the leaders who decide our fate. We’re stuck in a gray zone, not quite part of the nation, not quite anything. It feels like we gave our home, but they forgot the people living in it.
The Land Bleeds, and So Do We
The local used to go fishing in the Shigar River and the river was so clear you could see trout flashing like silver coins. Now it’s murky, contaminated by mining waste. The fish are gone, and so is the laughter. In Baltoro, where glaciers shine, the air’s full of dust. The doctor says it’s the mines—two out of three patients come in gasping for air.
They’ve taken $15 billion in minerals since 2005, or so I’ve heard. Where’s it gone? Not to our schools, where kids share one pencil. Not to our hospital, where the X-ray machine’s been broken for years. We get 8% of our development budget. Eight percent. My blood boils just writing that.
My father always said, “You can’t keep cutting a tree and expect it to grow.” That’s what they’re doing to our land—cutting, taking, leaving scars.
We’re Not Silent Anymore
But we’re not just sitting here, grieving. My generation’s different. We’ve got schoolbooks, smartphones, and a fire in our bellies. We’re done waiting for someone to save us. We want 80% of mining jobs for our people—jobs we’re qualified for, not handouts. We want 30% of the profits to fix our schools, our clinics, our lives. We want clean rivers, not promises.
Last April, Islamabad held a big conference about us. I watched it on a grainy livestream, hoping for change. But it was the same old talk—fancy words, no action. My friend Zahra, who’s been organizing protests, rolled her eyes. “They don’t get it,” she said. “We want half the seats at the table—women, youth, us.” She’s right. We’re not begging. We’re demanding.
More Than a Road on a Map
Pakistan calls Gilgit-Baltistan a “strategic corridor” because of CPEC. I get it—roads matter. But we’re not just a highway. We’re people. We’re Deosai’s meadows, where wildflowers bloom like a painting. We’re Ghizer’s rivers, where I learned to skip stones. We’re Hunza’s forts, where my grandmother told me stories of kings.
Tourism could change everything. People would come for our mountains, our history, our food. But the roads are barely roads, the airport’s a joke, and half our villages don’t have clean water. Build those, and we’d show the world what Gilgit-Baltistan can be.
What Kind of Country Are We?
Dr. Abida Hussain said something this year that keeps me up at night: “Pakistan’s progress is incomplete without Gilgit-Baltistan.” She’s not wrong. This isn’t just about my home—it’s about what Pakistan wants to be. A country that takes and takes, leaving its people behind? Or one that shares its blessings, from our mountains to the sea?
We’ve never doubted our love for Pakistan. It’s in our blood, our history, the way we still fly the flag high. But love isn’t enough if it’s not returned. We need roads, schools, hospitals. We need rights, not pity. We need to be seen.
I don’t know everything, but I know this: ignoring us won’t just break Gilgit-Baltistan—it’ll crack something in Pakistan’s soul. We’re not too late to fix this. Let’s share the gold, not the pain. Let’s build a country where my little sister can dream as big as the mountains around her.
What do you say, Pakistan? Can we write a new story for my home—one where the wealth in our hills finally reaches our hearts?
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