Short salt-and-pepper hair on his balding head, a leathery face that makes him look well beyond his 40-something years, what is most noticeable about Yusuf Iqbal Masih are his protruding ears and steely gaze. This completely unschooled father of four, popularly known as ‘Mithoo’, has been clearing clogged sewers in the port city of Karachi, home to over 20 million residents, for 28 years. ‘I did not have a moustache or a beard when I started working. I must have been about 13,’ he said.
According to the 2017 census, Christians account for 1.59 percent of the population of Pakistan; in Karachi, they account for 2.1 percent of the city’s population. About 80 percent of sweepers in Karachi employed by different civic and land-owning agencies belong to the Christian faith.
As the eldest of seven siblings, with a good-for-nothing father who loitered around with friends and never bothered to work, Mithoo was left to help his mother, who worked as a domestic helper in several homes, to put a meal on the table every day for a family of nine (which included his five sisters and a younger brother).
‘When you’re hungry, you don’t have the luxury of being choosy about the kind of work you do. Hunger forces you to do the filthiest of tasks,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘I started off as a kaccha [not formally employed by a government department] sweeper getting Rs5,000 per month,’ says Mithoo. ‘Just a week into my work, my ustaad asked me to jump into a sewer and I did not even know how to swim.’ And thus began a career clearing ‘thousands of choked sewers, from as shallow as five feet to some that were 30 feet deep’, in various parts of Karachi, including Shirin Jinnah Colony, Bath Island, Neelum Colony and Gizri.
About 80 percent of sweepers in Karachi employed by different civic and land-owning agencies belong to the Christian faith
‘When the lines are clogged, we use a long bamboo shaft to prod, hook and pull out the waste. But when that fails, we climb down into the gutters and clean them out with our hands,’ he says.
He still remembers the first time he opened a manhole lid and was shocked to see thousands of cockroaches crawling inside. Today, he thinks nothing of going down a rat- and cockroach-infested sewer. ‘It’s just a job,’ he says.
‘He is a legend among his co-workers because he can hold his breath for a good two minutes, which many cannot do,’ says 45-year-old Amjad Sadiq, his colleague who works in Clifton’s Block 1 area. He warns Mithoo that he is losing his touch because he has developed the bad habit of chewing gutka [a tobacco preparation of crushed betel nut, slaked lime and sweet or savoury flavourings].
‘Gutka actually helps keep your mouth closed when you’re under water,’ Mithoo cuts in. Taking a green-and-white sachet from his pocket, he confesses to being addicted to it. ‘I spend about Rs300 on it every day,’ he says.
Six years ago, in 2017, he finally found a permanent job at the Karachi Water and Sewerage Board (KWSB), responsible for the production, transmission and distribution of potable water to the citizens of Karachi, with Rs28,000 every month as his salary. ‘Just getting paid regularly is a big relief in this time of inflation,’ he says gratefully.
Mithoo works a bamboo to unclog a drain in a flooded street as his co-workers work another manhole up the road.
‘Government service is still considered a source of security for many,’ says a senior KWSB official, requesting anonymity. Permanent employees are entitled to sick leave and retirement benefits, and there is provision in the law for a family member to take their place when a worker retires or in case the worker dies before attaining retirement age. ‘Their job comes with health risks and there is provision for free—but very basic—healthcare in some designated government facilities for them,’ he added.
Naeem Sadiq, a Karachi-based rights activist who has long been fighting for the rights of sanitation workers though his organisation, Justice for the Voiceless, says it is important to pay attention to the army of private sewer cleaners spread across town.
‘These are unregulated workers who are cruelly exploited and underpaid. If something unforeseen happens, it is very easy to shrug off all responsibility. After all, these people are not on anyone’s radar,’ says Sadiq. However, he says there is little political will to resolve this.
Sea of sameness
Mithoo’s life is one huge sea of sameness, which he finds comforting. His regular refuge is a small room next to a public toilet facility, outside a mosque near Bilawal Chowrangi, in Clifton, where co-workers come to bide their time and play ludo. ‘We sit all day in the room till we are called for duty, which can be as many as five days a week or sometimes none.’
"We may be given fancy angrezi [English] names like “health worker” and “sanitation worker”, giving us a false sense of dignity, but at the end of the day, we are just bhangis"
‘If the problem is complex, it can take us half a day, otherwise an hour and a half, to unclog a sewer,’ he says. But he and his co-workers do not always sit idle. They get called for odd jobs in nearby homes, offices and restaurants for which they get paid. ‘Last week, we were asked by someone from an apartment block in Clifton to open a choked gutter as the effluent had flooded the road. This was after working hours but the four of us decided to get to work quickly as we were being paid Rs5,000. We prayed these people had not complained to the water board as it would mean being sent to do the same job, which would then be considered part of our duty and mean no extra cash,’ explains Mithoo.
Although not allowed to moonlight during office hours, the agency often looks the other way ‘if they freelance and earn a little extra,’ says the KWSB official. ‘They get work regularly from restaurants to unclog the drains near their property, which does not come under the purview of the KWSB,’ he says, adding that most of the choking happens because all the oil and grease from the restaurant collects there and is not properly disposed of. Since these people are extremely skilled at their jobs, these gigs become relatively well-paid because ordinary labourers are not only unwilling but also unable to do them.
Mithoo is among the 2,000-plus sewer cleaners who are given the title ‘health worker’. ‘We may be given fancy angrezi [English] names like “health worker” and “sanitation worker”, giving us a false sense of dignity, but at the end of the day, we are just bhangis [drug addicts] to people,’ he says resignedly, using the pejorative term.
The civic agency has, in the past, been criticised for advertising and even hiring non-Muslims for this job. ‘A few years ago, we started hiring Muslims to remove the sense of discrimination and to be politically correct, but they would refuse to go down the sewers; they occupied the position but did no work,’ says the KWSB official, adding that they were eventually assigned other tasks.
In Punjab, the discriminatory policy of employing ‘only non-Muslims belonging to minorities’ for janitorial work was struck down in 2016.
But of late, many Afghans have joined the informal workforce in Karachi. They may not dive into the sewers but when they are cleaning drains, they are, in effect, handling the same sewage.
Mithoo is not too worried about this upcoming competition since Afghans cannot find permanent employment in a government organisation without a computerised identity card.
Till 1996, street cleaning, solid waste disposal, and water and sanitation came under the Karachi Municipal Corporation (KMC) after which the water and sewerage part of the municipality was handed over to the autonomous KWSB.
Mithoo’s home, as drab as his life
Winding through narrow alleys in the neighbourhood of Hijrat Colony, past tattered curtains and a few goats tied outside the owners’ homes, you come across Mithoo’s home, with his silver-and-black bicycle standing in attendance. Climbing down the steps is a small landing with a kitchen to the right. Neha, 9, his youngest child, is sweeping the floor.
Mithoo stands with his trusty cycle in a narrow alleyway in Hijrat Colony where he lives with his family in a two-room quarter.
The two-room quarter has little light and ventilation. A threadbare carpet covers the floor of the first room, which is Mithoo and his wife Sumaira’s bedroom. Their daughter, Neha, sleeps with them on the carpet. It also doubles as a living room when guests visit or serves as a dining room in the evening.
The second room on the side is occupied by his three sons. The rent for this quarter is Rs10,000 a month. For the last three months, he has been paying nearly Rs10,000 a month for electricity that he claims they barely use. ‘We just have two fans and three bulbs, those too energy savers, and even these are used sparingly, and only at night,’ says Mithoo, worry lines etched deep on his forehead.
More than half his salary goes towards repaying a loan he took for his son Kashif’s medical treatment after the latter met with an accident that left his leg seriously injured four years ago.
‘We pay Rs10,000 every month to the bank we took the loan from and Rs8,000 to a Pathan we borrowed from,’ says Sumaira.
None of Mithoo's children wants to clean gutters. None of them have been to school either since it is not a requirement to sweep the streets
Apart from his monthly salary, Mithoo gets a bonus (a month’s salary at Christmas) and Rs9,500 at Easter to be deducted every month at the rate of Rs1,600. The monthly allowance to buy a uniform, soap and hair oil has long been discontinued, even before he joined the civic agency. ‘Even during the rains, when the government declares an emergency, we work non-stop and are not given any overtime. All we get is free meals during those days,’ he says. They get Rs1500 a month to buy the bamboo with which they clear drains, but have to make do or borrow one from a co-worker if it breaks.
In these times of spiralling food and petrol prices, Mithoo is lucky to have all his three sons, aged 22, 20 and 18 (from a previous marriage) fully employed. With one working as sweeper in a school and the other two in two different apartment blocks in Clifton, together the three earn Rs40,000 every month, with each pooling in Rs10,000 to the home kitty.
None of them wants to clean gutters. None of them have been to school. ‘What’s the point if our lot has to sweep roads anyway?’ Mithoo asks.
For the last month, Mithoo has brought his half-paralysed friend, Pervaiz, to live with him. ‘I call him “Paijee”. He has been my most trusted friend for the last 28 years and his landlord had kicked him out after he was unable to pay his monthly rent, not being able to work any longer.
Mithoo poses with his half-paralysed friend, Pervaiz who now lives with Mithoo and his family.
He needs me now as he has nowhere to go. His wife has died and his children cannot support him. The water board gave his younger son employment in his place, but the son is on drugs—ice (crystal methamphetamine). Given his irregular attendance, the board was forced to sack him,’ says Mithoo. ‘Pervaiz does not need much looking after; he can manage his toiletry needs himself, which is a big relief. Other than that, he eats whatever we eat and is not a bother at all,’ adds Sumaira.
Fights at home
Life at home is no bed of roses. Poverty is the cause of many of Mithoo’s altercations with his wife, he explains. ‘She cannot keep quiet and I lose my patience with her,’ he adds sheepishly.
‘I work so hard so that they can all sleep on a full stomach,’ he says defensively. He says he gives all his earnings to his wife but keeps a little for one ‘pastime’. ‘I like to drink some days, just once a week or more if a friend offers me a free drink,’ he confesses diffidently.
Mithoo stands with his wife Sumaira in their small quarter that they call home.
While admitting that he is a good husband who works hard and takes care of the needs of his family, Sumaira says there are days when he comes home drunk. ‘That is when the monster in him surfaces. He has such a foul mouth and he hits me as well. He ruined our Eid (Easter) completely,’ she rues, adding, ‘I had almost packed up my things and walked out the door with my daughter when his sister beseeched me not to leave.’
According to Naeem Sadiq, every sanitation worker should be paid a salary that is at least 50 percent higher than the national legal minimum wage. He has filed a petition in the Sindh High Court for implementation of the minimum wage law for all sanitation workers, even those employed on a contractual basis. ‘But,’ he emphasises, ‘no human should be forced to enter a sewer bubbling with raw human excreta, disease and poisonous fumes.’ He has been demanding the complete eradication of manual scavenging of sewer gutters for a decade now.
‘Machines should replace human beings to clear raw sewage,’ he says. He blames every Pakistani for contributing to perpetuating this crime. ‘We are the problem. Gutter cleaning happens right in front of us every day and we let our fellow human beings go inside. Why don’t we stand up for them? Why do we keep silent?’
Crumbling ladder, sewer gas
Manually scavenging through the dark slush of 1,750 million litres of sewage that the city’s 20 million residents produce daily is dangerous. According to Mithoo, underwater, with eyes and mouth closed, ‘it is just one’s brain and bare hands’ that are at work, unclogging crumbling pipes of faeces, plastic bags and hazardous hospital refuse, but he remains oblivious to the risk of disease and injury from handling faecal and municipal sludge as well as poisonous gases without protection. ‘Look at me, I am fine; I have no health problems,’ he insists.
‘You have to be really alert and deft and get the job done quickly because you know you will need to come up for air soon,’ he says, adding, ‘I’ve had to unblock big boulders and pieces of wood that have caused gutters to choke.’ Once extricated, he also must bring up this waste.
Mithoo prepares to take the plunge in another clogged sewer together with a KWSB truck and other sanitation staff.
But it is a risky job, working in a sewer, wearing nothing but a chaddi [knickers} or a shalwar and a rope belt around his waist, his lifeline to the world above, going down into the foul-smelling water, which may contain needles and shards of glass. ‘We tug on the rope if we want to come up, but if we have taken longer than usual and have not pulled at the ladder, the men above haul us up regardless, assuming something has gone wrong,’ he said.
The iron ladder fixed to the side of the manhole is often corroded and, while descending, ‘if you miss a step, you can get seriously hurt, sometimes by a protruding broken rung.’ Many have lost their lives due to asphyxiation owing to the noxious gases that lurk inside, says Mithoo.
‘Quite a few of our workers have died in the past,’ the KWSB official admits, but says, of late, they have also become aware of the dangers and leave the manhole lid open for a while before going down. ‘We are trying to replace the concrete pipes or line them with PVC ones, but it is costly and will take time,’ he says.
Realising that the work was inhuman, around 25 years ago the KWSB introduced diving suits, harnesses, gas masks and oxygen cylinders for this job. ‘We also provided them training, but they [the sewer cleaners] found the gear cumbersome and refused to wear it,’ says the KWSB official.
Sadiq, an occupational health and safety expert, refuses to buy this excuse. ‘If this kind of justification was given anywhere else in the world, these officers would be put behind bars,’ he says.
The agency also realises it is becoming increasingly difficult to convince the next generation to do this kind of work. ‘We do not have a trained second tier of sewer cleaners because what we are asking the younger lot to do is unacceptable to them.’
As a result, the agency has been forced to mechanise some steps in the sewer-cleaning process. Suctional jetting machines that remove the water from the sewers so that cleaners can go down the manhole, which can be as deep as 30 feet, and not work underwater, has been a big step. ‘Although the water board has some 100 such mobile tanker-like contraptions (another 50 should soon be brought onto the road as well), the sludge and big boulders that clog the drains still need to be taken out manually.’
Not if Sadiq can help it.
He, together with a group of philanthropists, engineers and designers, has come up with an indigenous solution—a prototype of a gutter-cleaning machine that has two functions: a grabbing arm that can be sent deep into the sewer to bring up stones, rocks, glass, metal, sludge and silt, and a high-pressure jetting contraption to unclog the lines. ‘It’s probably the cheapest sewer-cleaning machine in the world, costing Rs1.5 million; in India, it is equivalent to 4 million Pakistani rupees and in the UK it costs Rs40 million,’ he says.
But if manual scavenging is banned, how and where will these illiterate sanitation workers find an alternative source of income? Sadiq has an answer for that. ‘The two men who go into the sewers can operate this machine from the ground above instead of having to dive into the filthy water,’ he says. ‘If this finds acceptance and starts functioning across Pakistan, I’ll die a happy man.’
Disclaimer: This feature was commissioned by the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) as part of a series of profiles of sanitation workers across the country. These profiles are being released as part of the Shakeel Pathan Labour Studies Series, which documents working conditions across various labour sectors and provides policy recommendations advocating the right to dignity and decent work for vulnerable labour groups.
