Join our Whatsapp channel
LONG before the city stirs, a sanitation worker descends into the underbelly of civilisation.
He owns no mask, no boots, no uniform; he only possesses second-hand shoes whose soles have long forgotten resistance, and a ragged scrap of cloth tied across his mouth. The cloth, damp with filth, clings to his face, offering no defence against the stench of sewage and rot. There is no protective gear — there never was. Only a body made disposable by the city it serves.
Each morning, without fail, the sanitation worker lowers himself into gutters, dry latrines and septic tanks armed only with a metal rod. When toxic gases overwhelm him, there is no ambulance; there are only fellow workers who haul his unconscious body out like a sack of waste. He wakes, bruised and breathless, to do it all again.
Official job notices for sanitary workers — hundreds documented in recent years — often specify, in clinical language, ‘Only non-Muslims eligible’.
Our Constitution, in Article 25, proclaims that “all citizens are equal before the law”. Yet this promise lies buried in sludge. Sanitation workers receive no pension, no health coverage, no formal contract. When one of them dies, and many do die, it is recorded as an ‘accident’. His family is left only with grief. There is no compensation, and his name vanishes into silence.
Someone labours beneath our feet to keep the streets clean.
The roots of this injustice can be traced back to colonial codifications of caste and enduring social norms that conflate certain bodies with impurity. Over the decades, the labour of manual scavenging and sewer-cleaning has been imposed upon marginalised religious communities: Hindu, Christian and lower-caste alike. The result is a rigid social hierarchy that Pakistan has yet to dismantle.
In contrast, India’s Prohibition of Employment as Manual Scavengers and their Rehabilitation Act, 2013, prohibits employing manual scavengers and cleaning sewers or septic tanks without protective equipment. It mandates rehabilitation and alternative employment, and obliges local authorities to identify and eliminate insanitary latrines. Yet even there, enforcement has been uneven.
Sanitary workers form the backbone of urban sanitation, removing blockages that, if left unattended, would flood the streets, spread disease and paralyse city life. Yet, society treats them as disposable.
In March 2024, four men entered a manhole in Sargodha without protective gear. They never emerged. Their deaths compelled the Punjab government to adopt standard operating procedures (SOPs), mandating certified masks, gloves, boots, gas detectors, regular health check-ups and mechanical alternatives to manual cleaning. Discriminatory job advertisements have since been removed in several jurisdictions, though some still appear. Some municipalities have begun regularising temporary sanitation workers, providing pensions, health coverage and grievance mechanisms.
Under Article 184(3), the National Commission of Human Rights filed a constitutional petition in the Supreme Court, seeking a declaration that manual sanitation and scavenging are illegal and unconstitutional. It asks the court to require provinces and municipalities to provide certified protective gear and health check-ups, phase out manual sewer-clearing in favour of mechanisation, abolish faith-based restrictions on sanitation work and establish an independent monitoring body. The petition has been admitted and awaits a hearing date.
Despite these ad--vances, gaps re--ma--in. Punjab’s SOPs are not yet being en---forced unifor-mly. Other provinces have still to adopt binding safety protoco--ls. Funding for me--chanisation is limi--
ted; municipal cap-acities vary widely. Social stigma persists; many citizens remain unaware that someone labours beneath their feet to keep their streets clean.
To close these gaps, we must ensure nationwide SOP enforcement. Federal oversight and regular audits are essential. The government of Pakistan must also allocate a budget for mechanised equipment; manual scavenging must end in law and practice.
It should integrate sanitation workers into social protection schemes; pensions, insurance and compensation must be guaranteed. It is also time to launch a dignity campaign.
The media, schools and local governments should highlight sanitation work as an essential public service, restoring respect to those who perform it.
Ending this injustice will require the commitment of the courts, governments and communities alike. The health of our cities — as well as the measure of our justice — depends on it.
The writer is chairperson of the National Commission for Human Rights.
Published in Dawn, August 16th, 2025