ver the years, the Christian community of Lahore has provided the city with some of its finest judges, doctors, teachers and soldiers. However, no other profession has been so overwhelmingly dominated by this community as that of keeping the city clean.

About 80 percent of Lahore’s sanitation workforce is Christian. Come rain or shine, heat or cold, these sanitation workers go about their work on the roads, in the puddles, and within the drains. They sweep the streets, mop the floors, clear the drains (either with bamboo sticks or with their bare hands), and pick up garbage that no one else dares touch. Broken glass and other sharp objects, tossed carelessly in the garbage, cut them and noxious gases from the sewers suffocate them. Some die in accidents and some are impaired for life. They take it all in their stride. Hazards of the job? In return, the society shuns them and treats them as untouchables.

The following are the profiles of three men from different parts of the city: a sanitation worker with a settled job; a self-employed sewer cleaner; and a retired government sector employee who chose sanitation work over other options. They are all Christian; they are all illiterate; and they all help keep Lahore clean.

The Railway Man

Sarwar Masih* is a cautious man. He removes the manhole lid and immediately steps aside, letting the poisonous mix of hydrogen sulphide, methane, ammonia and other dangerous sewer gases escape. It will be at least 30 minutes before he can safely descend into the hole. “These fumes can kill,” he says, for the memory of three friends — who underestimated the toxicity of the gases generated by the decomposition of organic matter in the city’s underground drains and pipes — is still vivid in his mind. One survived, the other two did not.

“On hearing the news of the accident, I rushed to the place but it was too late. When we reached the site, my friends’ lifeless bodies lay by the roadside, covered in sludge. Sarfraz [the third friend] was still alive, so we turned him over and pressed on his back, making him vomit the deadly fluid,” Sarwar recounts.

A few weeks in the hospital and Sarfraz was back in the gutters, now much more wary when approaching a manhole. Today, he is Sarwar’s supervisor and has lived to warn his charges, who work in the Pakistan Railways sanitation department, of the dangers that await them in urban sewers.

So, what made a pro like Sarfraz let his guard down? “The officers,” says Sarwar. “They were in a hurry to get the blockage cleared as the locality was flooded. In spite of warnings by the workers, the officers ordered them to go into the hole where they were instantly knocked out cold.”

Underneath the sprawling metropolis that is Lahore, exists an intricate network of gutters and drains. Into these drains flow rivulets of sludge — putrid and toxic. From residential quarters to industrial installations, all empty their excretions and waste into this network, to be passed on to the nullahs which then dump these into the nearby River Ravi. When these drains are clogged, the city wrinkles its collective nose. That is when Sarwar and his friends spring into action.

Sarwar is 55 years old and a seasoned sanitation worker. His adopted profession is largely the domain of the minority community from which he hails. Christians make up about 5 percent of Lahore’s population but constitute around 80 percent of its sanitation workforce. This percentage touches nearly 100 when it comes to cleaning gutters. “Muslim sweepers prefer sweeping roads and streets as opposed to cleaning gutters and sewers,” he says, implying that Muslim sanitation workers are reluctant to physically enter the drains.

About 33 years ago, Sarwar had a fallout with his father, a brick kiln worker, another exploited segment of society, and left his village near Raja Jang for Lahore. “I was reckless and thought better prospects awaited me in the city.”

What sort of a job did he have in mind when he made the big decision to enter this great city? “Since I was angootha chhaap [an illiterate person unable to sign his name] and a Christian, I soon found out that my only job opportunity was in sanitation work. A cousin got me a job at the sanitation department of Pakistan Railways. I have been working with them ever since,” he says, scratching his beard, snow-white against his dark, weather-beaten skin. He goes on to boast that it is a permanent job with the assurance of a pension. This is even more crucial now that he retires in five years’ time.

Manual sewer cleaning is fraught with risks. These are both immediate, such as the risk of being asphyxiated by gases, and protracted in the form of skin and lung disorders. Although Sarwar has largely managed to remain unscathed over the years, barring a few minor accidents, he has seen many of his friends develop health problems on account of constant exposure to hazardous work environments. According to him, the Water and Sanitation Authority (WASA) has now acquired the capacity to clear drains mechanically, but the Pakistan Railways’ sanitation workers have no such luxury. “If you want a drain to be cleared, you have to send the man in,” he says.

What about the personal protective equipment (PPE) which accords a minimum level of safety to sanitation workers? “Koi vee nain! [none whatsoever],” he says. “A rope that girdles the waist, and a piece of cloth to cover the face are our only protections.”

Masks?

“None.”

Gloves?

“None.”

Boots?

“Are you kidding, sir jee?”

But surely there are injuries?

“We have our own [Railways’] hospital. If we are injured, they patch us up and we are good to go,” says Sarwar, nonchalantly.

Did he receive any training prior to descending into a manhole for the very first time? “We were guided by our ustaads [mentors] who had experience in this. Aggay gutteraan nay sab kujh sikha ditta [the rest we learnt hands-on].”

His tools comprise a long bamboo stick, made by splitting a bamboo tree trunk (Pakistan Railways sanctions once a month to its gutter cleaners), a shovel if needed, and a bucket. He ties the thick rope around his waist and descends cautiously into the manhole once he deems it safe enough to venture in.

When the drains are clogged, the city wrinkles its collective nose. That is when Sarwar and his friends spring into action.

The metal steps along the chamber wall are heavily corroded and not to be trusted as they are likely to give way under his weight. The rope is his only protection and only means of escaping any danger. The person holding the other end of the rope stays alert. A tug means that the man at the other end needs to be pulled out instantly.

How does he tackle the officers who are overly keen to send him in? “We procrastinate as much as we can on one pretext or the other. You have to do it tactfully without offending your superiors,” he says.

To be a sanitation worker, especially a sewer cleaner, in Lahore is akin to being an untouchable. They have always been shunned by a majority of the city’s population. It is widely believed that sanitation workers carry disease and contaminate the very place they sit. People do not share utensils with them (some households reserve a separate metal glass for them) or allow them to sit on their furniture. For some, shaking hands with a sanitation worker is an abomination.

Sarwar, however, appears reluctant to talk about the discrimination on account of his religion or profession. He has this to say: “There were those in the 1970s and early ‘80s who campaigned for Christian sanitation workers to be clothed in black militia so that they could be readily identified. They believed that gutter cleaners would contaminate their utensils and were best kept at bay, away from public places; particularly the eateries. They thought we were carriers of various diseases.”

Like most of his colleagues, Sarwar would rather not introduce himself as a sanitation worker. He is mindful of the stigma attached to his trade, knowing full well what effect such knowledge is likely to have on a stranger. So how does he introduce himself?

“I tell them I work for Pakistan Railways,” he says with a grin.

The Freelancer

“There is no choorra here; we are all sanitation workers,” says Amir Masih, as he tells off someone looking to hire a hand to unclog his gutter. The job is right up Amir’s street but he turns it down. He won’t stand for being called a choorra (a derogatory term for sanitation workers).

Even though the term was banned by the Punjab government in 2021 and its use made a cognizable offence, it still slips off tongues now and then.

Amir has been sweeping the streets of Lahore since the time he could hold a broom. His father worked on daily wages for the now defunct Lahore Municipal Corporation as a sanitation worker, as did his grandfather. Since school was never the family’s priority and the entire household was engaged in sweeping, Amir had very little choice. He went on to ply the trade of his forebears.

His father would work for LMC till noon and then operate privately in the evening, cleaning drains in homes or in the streets for residents of the area, with Amir always in tow. That is when Amir began to hone his skills. In the beginning, it was the odd toilet or blocked drainpipe. Later, he started challenging himself by venturing into the main drains and going down the manholes. Today, in Data Nagar, Badami Bagh, whenever a drainpipe is clogged and causes the street to flood, most heads turn to him. “I can go down the manhole as deep as 30 feet and into the drains as far as 50 feet with only a rope around my waist,” he says, boastfully.

Skilful as he is, Amir has his limitations. “I avoid attempting to clear a drain when it’s flooded. I am not a taroo [swimmer].”

He is also mindful of the dangers that await a sewer worker. He speaks of friends lost to the poisonous sewer gases that keep building up in the subterranean drains of Lahore and continue to claim the lives of those who either fall in them accidently through a crevice or venture down a manhole, underestimating their force to their peril.

“They were friends from Joseph Colony (a Christian neighbourhood). Onhan nun gas paey gayi [they were hit by the gas],” he says.

He also had a deadly experience with the gas: “It was so overwhelming. I could hardly breathe and felt dizzy. Frantically, I yanked at the rope, before I was heaved out of the hole just in time.”

Is the risk really worth it? Does it earn his family a comfortable living? Barely. At 40, Amir is still struggling to keep his head above water, given his meagre earnings. He says that the bad days, when he is without work, outnumber the good ones. Often, he has to turn to his siblings for help. He yearns for a more secure job.

Khushi, the eldest of his three daughters, is about seven years old and still not enrolled in school. Does he plan to send his children to school? “Of course,” he says. But then comes the caveat: “… when I am able to.”

Thankfully, his daughter hasn’t yet picked up the broom and is allowed to frolic in the streets.

Amir is a proud Christian who makes no secret of his faith in a country where religious minorities are routinely persecuted although he lives near Joseph Colony which once bore the brunt of the majority population’s pious wrath. He carries the holy cross not only in his heart but also on his right upper arm, held aloft by a defiant falcon. The python on the left arm, just underneath his vaccination marks, is more of a mystery. He frequently misses church and confesses to indulging in a little weed every now and then. But no one dares call him a choorra.

The Retiree

Every day, Robert rises with the sun. He turns on the electric motor that pumps water into the overhead tank so that it is filled by the time his sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren are up. He then sweeps the courtyard of his modest dwelling — a two-room servants’ quarter in a government residence rented to him by the officer to whom the house has been allotted.

Robert collects trash and disposes of it at the nearest Lahore Waste Management garbage point. Then, with a broom in hand, he walks towards Griffin Colony, a neighbourhood near Mughalpura, for his daily grind.

Remarkably agile for his years, 74, Robert sweeps the streets of a gated community; collects garbage in his wheelbarrow; and clears the clogged sewage pipes in the neighbourhood. He is paid individually by all the houses for his services. Drains, however, are cleared at a fee.

If you are polite to him, Robert will happily run an errand for you and bring groceries from the nearby market. He believes that people in the locality are less prejudiced than in some other parts of the city, even though there are always those who tread the traditional path of bigotry and are quick to remind him of his place in the world. He says that education has done this neighbourhood a world of good. “Not everyone here is afraid to shake hands with me,” he says.

Before retirement, Robert had worked as a skilled painter in a state-owned organisation. On his superannuation, he tossed his painter’s brush away and picked up the broom.

Why did he not try for a better job commensurate with his skills? He counts three factors that ‘qualified’ him for the job of a sanitation worker: he is unlettered, a Christian and jobless in Lahore.

*Name changed to protect privacy

This feature was commissioned by the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan 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 sectors and provides policy recommendations advocating the right to dignity and decent work for vulnerable labour groups.

The writer is a consultant