Dying in Silence As the Taps Betray

Asem Mustafa Awan

Islamabad: In a forgotten corner of Pakistan, where the poverty rate nears the halfway mark and the state’s promises hang like torn posters on crumbling walls, something as basic as clean drinking water becomes a privilege.

The crowd that gathers each day at local water filtration units is no less than a testimony to survival. But what they collect is not clean. It’s discolored, foul-smelling, and likely laced with invisible dangers. Yet it is still considered safer than what comes from most household taps a mix often tainted with fecal matter, chemical runoff, and disease.

Every morning and evening, these filtration plants open for a short window. Households send whoever they can spare mostly children, women, and the elderly to fill blue plastic containers with water that might barely be safe. They wait, jostle, and push not out of choice, but necessity. In a nation where more than 80% of the population lacks access to safe drinking water, hope is measured in liters. Water, no longer a human right, is rationed like luxury.

Pakistan ranks among the top ten countries globally with the highest burden of waterborne diseases, according to the World Health Organization. Hepatitis A and E, typhoid, diarrhea, and parasitic infections kill thousands each year. Poor sanitation contributes heavily, but so do neglect, corruption, and the inaction of those responsible.

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This public health disaster is rooted in systemic failure. There is little to no monitoring of water quality at many filtration units. Filters are rarely replaced on time—if ever. Maintenance is bypassed with bureaucratic excuses, and when infrastructure fails, it’s left to rot until donor funds are procured to repaint decay.

The state’s spending priorities tell a larger story. Massive budgets are reserved for elite housing, protocol, and security. Public health, meanwhile, is left underfunded and overstretched. Parliamentary discussions center around privileges and car upgrades while UNICEF and Pakistan’s own research councils warn of a looming water crisis.

But water is only one symptom of collapse. The Human Development Index (HDI) for Pakistan remains among the lowest in South Asia. Millions of children remain out of school. Fake medicines flood markets. Expired food items line rural shelves. Hospitals often run without oxygen. Youth unemployment has crossed 22%, leaving a restless, disillusioned generation in its wake.

The divide is striking. On one side, lush lawns are watered by high-pressure systems; on the other, a mother worries if the water her child brings might give him cholera. There is no reconciliation between these two worlds one behind tinted glass, the other burning under a relentless sun.

Those in charge live untouched. From climate-controlled offices to VIP protocols, they float above policies they never suffer. Their children do not fetch water in jerry cans. Their medicine isn’t expired. Their meals don’t come with repackaged dates.

Reports from The Lancet and World Bank have long outlined the crisis. Pakistan needs billions annually for the next decade to fix its broken water infrastructure. Yet every year, budget cuts and redirection of funds ensure the status quo remains intact. The warnings are no longer forecasts—they are daily realities.

And still, the suffering plays out. A boy crouches beside a plastic drum, trying to fill it before the taps run dry. His skin shows signs of infection from constant contact with untreated water. A girl balances a container larger than herself, her schoolbag hanging limp from a shoulder. For them, each drop demands effort; each sip, a risk.

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Some filtration units display banners boasting ISO certifications, yet few survive real inspections. The irony is brutal—standards are announced, but water isn’t safe.

The resilience of Pakistan’s poor is often celebrated in hollow speeches. But resilience forced by abandonment is not strength. It is desperation.

Across cities and villages, access to clean water decides who survives illness, who works without falling sick, who sends their child to school instead of a water queue. This is not a call for handouts. It is a call for basic justice. A country cannot claim progress while letting its children fall ill from the very water they drink.

There is no hero in this story. Only survivors. And the longer they are left to suffer in silence, the harsher the verdict becomes not just against institutions, but against the very notion of a shared humanity.

Change begins with transparency. Where funds were allocated, they must be audited. Where standards were promised, they must be enforced. Where lives were lost not only to disease but to decades of indifference they must be remembered.

If any shred of public conscience remains, action is due. Not tomorrow, not in donor forums, but now. Because no child should fall ill just trying to quench their thirst. And no nation can call itself civilised while such suffering exists in plain view.

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.