It has been years since I left my hometown in Balochistan to pursue higher education. Coming from a certain background, I carried the accent of my community: its sound shaped by dust, distance and dialogue. I once believed that my ideas and efforts mattered more than how I sounded.
But over time, I have realised that in Pakistan, accent often speaks louder than competence. In classrooms, most students from rural regions hesitate to speak. A single mis- pronunciation can trigger laughter or quiet correction.
The result is not improved fluency, but growing silence that travels with them beyond the classroom. In Pakistan’s schools and offices, the struggle is not about grammar, but about accent. Rural voices, shaped by Sindhi, Punjabi, Pashto, Balochi or Saraiki people, are quietly judged the moment they speak.
One different vowel, one uneven rhythm, and the verdict is: ‘uneducated’, ‘unrefined’. A 2025 study found that speakers with local or non-urban accents are rated as less intelligent and employable than those with city or foreign ones. Research from Karachi’s leading business school confirms that employers often favour urban accents.
The problem here is not competence; it is prejudice disguised as polish. I have often been told to work on my accent, but I choose not to. My accent is my identity, shaped by the land and people I come from. It does not limit me; it defines me, making my voice distinct, diverse and rooted in authenticity.
When Pakistan mocks rural tones and praises borrowed ones, it kills confidence and celebrates imitation. The real divide in this country is not between English and Urdu, but between those allowed to speak freely and those forced to measure every word. Until we learn to respect every voice, we will keep mistaking silence for something it is not.
ALMAS KURD
KARACHI
