Sufi Sindh: From Colonial Construct to Nationalist Identity

 

We often hear a single, resonant phrase used to describe the province of Sindh: the "Land of Sufis." It is a title that evokes images of spinning dervishes, the scent of rose petals at shrines, and the egalitarian echoes of the Shah jo Risalo. Politicians, scholars, artists, and journalists frequently claim that the province remained peaceful for decades solely due to the overwhelming influence of Sufi teachings. It is a comforting thought, isn’t it? A cliché repeated by Sindhis and non-Sindhis alike. But today, I invite you to look closer. We must ask ourselves:

Why is Sindh uniquely labelled this way? Was it always so? Or is this identity a carefully crafted mosaic, assembled over two centuries by British officers, Hindu intellectuals, and Sindhi nationalists?

To understand the Sindh of today, we must look beyond the incense and the shrines. We must confront a history where spiritual poetry meets colonial surveillance, and where the "peaceful Sufi" was often a category used to disarm a rebellious people.

 

The Intelligence Mission: Mapping the Soul of Sindh

Our story begins not with a saint, but with a spy. In 1810, a young Lieutenant named Henry Pottinger traversed this land in disguise. His mission was intelligence: the East India Company feared a French-Persian invasion and needed to map the "uncharted territory". Pottinger’s observations on soil, tribes, and religion laid the ethnographic template for what would become British Sindh.

But the true "architect" of the Sufi paradigm was Richard Burton. Serving in the Bombay Army's Sindh Survey, Burton’s mandate was intelligence gathering. In 1851, just years after the British conquest, Burton declared that "there is nothing more remarkable in Sindh than the number of holy men which it has produced, and the extent to which that modification of Pantheism, called tasawwuf throughout the world of Islam, is spread among the body of the people."

But why did Burton focus so singularly on Sufism?

For the British, Sufism was the "master key". By framing Sindhi society through a "Sufi paradigm," they could categorize a complex population into a single, manageable spiritual box. By characterizing the Sindhi religious temperament as "pantheistic" and "quiet," Burton helped establish a binary: the Jihadi threat of the frontier versus the "Sufi" safety of the Indus delta. This allowed the administration to view Sindh as a low-risk province where the heavy military footprint required in the Punjab or Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (then NWFP) was unnecessary.

Moreover, they didn't just observe Sindh; they "textualized" it. In 1866, a missionary named Ernest Trumpp compiled the first printed Shah jo Risalo. By turning an oral, performative tradition into a fixed, government-subsidized textbook, the British created a canonical object that they could study, teach—and control.

But, you may ask, why Shah Abdul Latif?

Think for a moment about the vast galaxy of Sindhi poets. There was Sachal Sarmast, whose social criticism was far more radical, or Rohal Faqir and Sami. So why did the British select Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai as the "national" poet?

The reasons were pragmatic, not just aesthetic. First, Latif’s poetry was already popular in the region, making it an ideal tool for language learning. Second, Latif’s work used familiar folk tales like Marui and Sassui, which provided ready-made cultural contexts. But perhaps most importantly, Latif’s mystical allegories could be interpreted as "quietist." Unlike more revolutionary poets, his focus on spiritual longing rather than worldly injustice made him "safer" for colonial appropriation.

Thus, the British created a feedback loop: they learned Sindhi through Latif, decided Sufism was the essence of Sindh, and then patronized scholarship that reinforced this exact view. This culminated in H.T. Sorley’s 1940 masterpiece, which balanced Islamic authenticity with universal mysticism, creating the definitive template for how we view Latif today.

 

The Amil Intermediaries: Hindu Custodians of a Muslim Tradition

However, let us be clear: this was not just a British project. It was a co-production. Enter the Amils—the educated Hindu caste of administrators and scribes. Though they were a minority, they dominated the bureaucracy and trade.

Why would Hindu Amils spend their lives promoting Islamic Sufism?

The answer lies in survival and legitimacy. Comprising only 25% of the population, the Amils and Hindu merchants dominated commerce and administration but lacked ideological footing in a Muslim-majority province. Sufism, with its emphasis on pluralism and the transcendence of sectarian boundaries, provided them with that legitimacy. Many were influenced by the Theosophical Society, allowing them to interpret Sufism as a synthesis of Hindu advaita vedanta (non-dualism) and the Islamic wahdat ul-wujud (unity of existence).

By positioning themselves as the custodians of Sufi culture, intellectuals like Jethmal Parsram secured their status as essential cultural intermediaries. Parsram’s 1924 book, Sind and Its Sufis, literally proclaimed that Sindh "possesses in its bosom a garden of mysticism." For the Amils, Sufism was a paradigm upon which a modern, multi-religious, and liberal society could be founded—a vision that served their interests while fostering genuine interfaith understanding.

 

The Colonial Taxonomy: Martial Races and the Spiritual Exception

Now, let us look at the darker side of this branding. The British had a theory of "Martial Races," a hierarchical system that decided who was "brave" and who was "cowardly."

Where did Sindh fit in this map? While Punjabis were coded as "martial warriors" and Bengalis as "effeminate," Sindhis were constructed as "mystical" and "peaceful." This served a dual purpose: it justified excluding Sindhis from military recruitment while acknowledging their utility in commerce and administration. If Sindhis were "naturally" mystical and peaceful, then any armed resistance could be dismissed as a "criminal aberration."

Here is a twist!

While colonial scholars were writing about "peaceful" Sindh, the Hur movement was waging a century-long guerrilla war against the British Crown. From 1843 to 1943, the Hurs—the disciples of the Pir of Pagaro—derailed trains, attacked police stations, and established a parallel government.

How did the British reconcile this violence with their image of "Sufi Sindh"?

They simply split Sufism in two. The "Good Sufi" was the dead poet, Shah Latif, whose verses they subsidized. The "Bad Sufi" was the living Pir. They classified Hurs as a "Criminal Tribe" under the 1871 Act. They imposed martial law, implemented a "scorched earth" policy, and put thousands of families into concentration camps. In 1943, they executed the Pir of Pagaro, Sibghatullah Shah II.

The lesson is stark: the "peaceful" label was a tool of pacification. When Sindhis fought back, they weren't seen as "martial"—they were seen as "criminals". The same British officials who published loving editions of Shah Latif’s poetry were simultaneously hanging living Sufi leaders who dared to resist. The British distinguished sharply between "loyal" Sufis who could be patronised and "rebellious" Sufis who had to be crushed.

 

Post-1947: Sufism as Resistance

When Pakistan was created in 1947, the Sindhi identity faced a new crisis. The "Two-Nation Theory" posited that Muslims and Hindus were separate nations, but this was hard to reconcile with Sindh’s syncretic, shared history. Then came the One Unit Scheme in 1955, which sought to erase provincial identities entirely.

It was in this crucible of repression that G.M. Sayed, the architect of modern Sindhi nationalism, made a strategic shift. Realising that direct political resistance was being met with jail and house arrest, he turned to the cultural front. He founded the Bazm-i-Sufiya-i-Sindh (Society of the Sufis of Sindh) in 1966.

Sayed’s genius was the "ethnicisation of Sufism". He took a religious tradition and transformed it into an ethnic marker. To be "authentically Sindhi" meant embracing a universal, non-sectarian Sufism, while the "fundamentalist" Islam promoted by the Pakistani state was coded as "foreign" and "non-Sindhi".

Sayed, along with the Marxist intellectual Ibrahim Joyo and the poet Shaikh Ayaz—the "trio" of Sindhi nationalism—radicalised the Shah jo Risalo. They didn't just see spiritual metaphors in Latif’s heroines; they saw national allegories.

• Marui, who refuses the king’s riches to return to her humble village, became the symbol of Sindhi resistance to the central state.
• Sassui, persevering through the desert, became the Sindhi people’s undying commitment to their land.

Joyo, influenced by Marx, argued that Latif was a champion of the ordinary people against feudal oppression. Under their influence, the Urs of Shah Latif at Bhit Shah was transformed from a religious festival into a "parliament of Sindhi nationalism," where political consciousness was forged through poetry and song.

 

A Critical Nuance: The Caste Critique

However, if we are to be truly critical, we must ask: Whose "Sufi Sindh" are we celebrating?

Recent scholars argue that this romanticized narrative has its own exclusions. Both the Amil intellectuals and the nationalist leaders like G.M. Sayed belonged to the privileged castes. Their celebration of Sufi "equality" often ignores the rigid caste hierarchies and hereditary power structures that exist within the shrines themselves. By focusing on the "mystical essence," they sometimes obscure the lived reality of marginalized Sindhis who remain trapped in systems of feudal and spiritual servitude.

Furthermore, the rise of sectarian violence, such as the 2017 bombing of the Lal Shahbaz Qalandar shrine, shows the limits of the Sufi paradigm. While intellectuals invoke Sufi values of tolerance, they cannot by themselves resolve conflicts rooted in complex modern dynamics.

Today, Sufism in Sindh exists in many forms:

1. Traditionalist Sufism of the hereditary pirs.
2. Progressive Sufism of activists seeking social justice.
3. Folk Sufism of the ordinary people seeking healing and hope.
4. Digital Sufism, where Qawwalis go viral on YouTube, connecting a global Sindhi diaspora.

 

Conclusion: Beyond the Myth

So, what have we learned?

"Sufi Sindh" is neither a pure myth nor a simple truth.

It began as a colonial intelligence project to categorize us. It was elaborated by the Amils to find a place for themselves in a Muslim land. It was radicalized by nationalists to fight for provincial autonomy. And today, it is used by the state to promote a "soft image" of Pakistan to the world.

To truly understand Sindh, we must have the epistemic humility to recognize that our identity is not a fixed, ancient monument, but a living, breathing, and often contested process. The "Land of Sufis" is a powerful narrative—one that has promoted tolerance and pluralism, but also one that has sometimes been used to mask exploitation and pacify resistance.

Our task is to honour what is valuable in this tradition—the universal love and the resistance to tyranny—while challenging what is oppressive. Only by looking at this "complex genealogy" can we move toward a version of Sindhi identity that is not just a romanticized echo of the past, but a sustainable vision for a just future.

Think of "Sufi Sindh" like an ancient river that has had many different engineers try to redirect its flow. The British colonialists built dams to keep the water "peaceful" and manageable for their own use. The Amils built bridges to ensure they had a place on both banks. The nationalists dug new channels to use the water’s power to drive the wheels of their own political freedom. The water—the spiritual essence—is real, but the path it takes through the landscape of history has been shaped by the hands of many different architects.