Children of the Sewage Nation

Asem Mustafa Awan

Islamabad: In a nation where nearly half the population lives below the poverty line, the image of seven barefoot children foraging for discarded vegetables in a flood of sewage is not a rare accident—it is a system’s mirror.

Captured in Lahore’s fruit and vegetable market, the photograph is both brutal and heartbreaking. Five girls and two boys, none past their early teens, wade through a cesspool of filth, clutching plastic bags, poking at floating debris with sticks. This is their daily ritual—a heartbreaking routine of sifting through decay to bring home what little they can.

They are not playing. They are not unaware. They are serious, focused, determined—because they are the breadwinners. Too young for school, too poor for hospitals, too invisible for policies, they are old enough to carry the burdens of poverty on narrow shoulders.

And the water they wade through is not just rain—it is a toxic soup of waste, animal droppings, rotting vegetables, and chemical runoff. It harbors hepatitis, typhoid, cholera, and skin diseases.

One boy already shows signs of infection, with open lesions on his neck and scalp. He may not survive long enough to see a doctor—because access to treatment costs far more than his life is worth in the eyes of this system.

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Pakistan has long topped the charts for waterborne diseases, with hepatitis C reaching epidemic levels, according to World Health Organization (WHO) and Pakistan Medical Association reports.

Poor sanitation, open drains, and untreated drinking water kill thousands every year, especially children. And yet, accountability remains absent. No official has ever been held to account for a broken pipeline or a contaminated stream.

The World Bank states that nearly 45% of Pakistanis live in poverty, but that figure hides a more devastating truth: a vast segment of the population is not living—it is surviving, clawing through scraps, inch by inch. The rest of the population barely makes ends meet, while a sliver of the elite controls the majority of the wealth, often untouchable by law or morality.

When billions are siphoned through offshore accounts, when elected representatives secure for themselves unlimited fuel, luxury residences, taxpayer-funded electricity, and 24/7 security, the question lingers—why does a child in Pakistan have to rummage through sewage just to feed themselves?

The question goes beyond food and water. It speaks of stolen futures. These children have no playgrounds, no schools, no protection from predators—human or bacterial. The state claims to offer free primary education, healthcare, and safety. But for millions like them, these are promises etched only in dusty official papers, never in practice.

Lahore, the so-called ‘heart of Pakistan’, routinely sees urban flooding with every monsoon spell. Despite decades of budget allocations, the drainage system fails year after year. The result? Markets become swamps, roads turn into rivers of waste, and the poorest—those without shelter, without voice—are the ones who must navigate them just to survive the day.

These children are part of a population forgotten by design. The structures meant to protect them—public health, education, child welfare—are barely functional. Even when aid or programs arrive, they are often consumed by corruption before reaching their intended beneficiaries.

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Pakistan’s crisis is not just economic—it is moral. The image from Lahore is not an anomaly. It is the rule. From Karachi’s garbage mountains to Peshawar’s open drains, children all over the country are forced to interact with environments unfit for human life. It is not just a failure of infrastructure—it is a collapse of conscience.

The billions looted and laundered over the years—by politicians, bureaucrats, and their business partners—if recovered and reinvested, could transform this nation. But that requires accountability, not immunity; reform, not reward. That requires a government that places public welfare above private gain.

What happens to a nation where children must compete with stray dogs and rodents for rotten food? Where childhood is lost in the rot of waste and disease, not just metaphorically, but literally?

The image of those seven children trudging through foul waters must not disappear with the news cycle. It must linger—as a haunting reminder of what happens when systems fail and lives are forgotten. It must not be sanitized, nor reduced to “human interest.” It must be remembered for what it is: a national disgrace. A moment when the nation’s soul, if it still exists, should have stirred.

There are no victors here. Only children enduring what no one should. And with each passing day of silence, their suffering becomes a permanent stain on our collective conscience.

Asem Mustafa Awan has extensive reporting experience with leading national and international media organizations. He has also contributed to reference books such as the Alpine Journal and the American Alpine Journal, among other international publications.

The article is the writer’s opinion, it may or may not adhere to the organization’s editorial policy.