Technology is only inclusive when people are

In Pakistan, the daily experiences of individuals with visual impairments are shaped more by limitations than by accommodations. My educational journey has been feasible only through sustained collective efforts: my mother, who read aloud when software was inadequate; and teachers who manually adapted materials. I am currently completing a doctorate at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar, not because obstacles vanished, but because individuals intervened where technology fell short. While technology facilitated certain forms of access, it did so within constraints defined by language, design, and the intended user demographic.

During my upbringing, I was frequently assured that the appropriate device would confer independence. A screen reader or software was purported to render the world accessible. Although the promise was compelling, the reality proved more complex. Access was not merely a matter of possessing technology; it involved language, affordability, cultural context, and whose perspectives were integrated into design.

In my household, language embodied intimacy and belonging. Urdu was the medium of care, frustration, humour and emotional expression. However, nearly all assistive technologies operated predominantly in English. While I could listen to textbooks or websites in a foreign language, I could not independently read novels in my native language or write freely without human assistance. Urdu was a prerequisite for advancement into higher education, yet the necessary tools for accessing it were nonexistent. Progress was impeded not by ability or effort, but by design decisions made far removed from the educational environment.

Years later, my work with visually impaired communities across Pakistan, conducted through the Accessibility, Language and Tech for the People (ALT) project, highlighted the persistence of these experiences. ALT was a community-oriented, research-in-action initiative led by Whose Knowledge? – a global campaign to prioritise the knowledge of marginalised communities online, in collaboration with researchers and accessibility rights activists from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Notably, the persistence of barriers and their familiar nature were striking. Many participants reported a profound disconnect from technology, particularly those lacking fluency in English. Possession of a smartphone does not inherently equate to autonomy or participation.

Pakistan is characterised by remarkable linguistic diversity, with languages such as Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi, Balochi, Saraiki and numerous others spoken daily. Concurrently, over 25 million individuals in the country live with disabilities, for whom technology is crucial for education, employment and financial autonomy. When digital tools fail to accommodate the languages prevalent in daily life, exclusion becomes a norm rather than an exception. Accessibility audits conducted through the project illustrate how this exclusion manifests in everyday experiences. Several participants reported that typing even a single sentence in Urdu is frustrating and demoralising, especially when contrasted with the seamless experience available in English.

Language barriers are exacerbated by app design. Many popular platforms operate under the assumption that visual navigation is universal. Shopping applications frequently lack image descriptions, labelled buttons or consistent navigation. Checkout processes often provide no feedback, leaving users uncertain about the completion of an action. Ride-hailing applications struggle with live location tracking, which, for blind users, is not merely a convenience but a safety concern. Food delivery applications may facilitate browsing but falter at the final step of placing an order.

These issues are not merely technical oversights; they reveal whose experiences are prioritised and whose are marginalised. Accessibility is often treated as an ancillary consideration, addressed only after the core product has been designed. The expertise of disabled individuals is consulted belatedly, filtered through constraints, and seldom allowed to influence foundational design decisions. Throughout our research, participants expressed a strong desire to move away from entrenched linguistic hierarchies that prioritise English and marginalise local languages. They aspire to read news in Pashto, write messages in Punjabi, navigate interfaces in Sindhi, and compose poetry in Urdu without encountering resistance. These are not niche requirements; they are everyday acts of citizenship, creativity and belonging.

This is where human-centred design must be understood as a political commitment rather than a marketing term. Designing with communities necessitates recognising disabled individuals as knowledge holders. It requires understanding that accessibility encompasses linguistic, cultural and technical dimensions. It involves acknowledging that solutions developed elsewhere may not seamlessly translate into South Asian contexts. Large technology companies have been slow to respond. Promises of future updates circulate regularly, yet meaningful progress remains unrealised. Community-led initiatives emerge with vigour and expertise, only to stall due to a lack of funding or institutional support. Meanwhile, disabled users continue to rely on workarounds and unpaid labour to access services that others take for granted.

The issue is no longer whether accessible technology is feasible; it is whose comfort is being optimised and whose labour is marginalised. When disabled individuals are excluded from design processes, exclusion becomes embedded within digital systems. Accessibility must extend beyond narrow technical definitions to encompass language, dignity and participation. When all individuals become part of the design process, technology ceases to be something created for people and becomes something created with them, marking the distinction between exclusion and access.