A group of university students, under the supervision of Human Rights activist Ashiknaz Khokhar, recently visited one of the most overlooked and marginalized Christian settlements in Lahore—an informal slum community built along a sewage and rainwater canal.
The stench of the polluted water fills the air day and night, a constant reminder of the environmental and human rights crisis unfolding at the heart of a thriving metropolitan city.
For more than 40 years, Christian families have lived on the narrow edges of this canal. Originally treated as “slums,” they began constructing homes along the polluted waterway because no one objected—no developer, no government body, and no influential landowner.
At that time, the land was considered too hazardous to be of value. Today, however, the surrounding area has become high-priced real estate, but the residents themselves have no property rights, no protection, and no recognition of their decades-long existence.
Most of the residents belong to historically marginalized Dalit backgrounds, tracing their roots to colonial-era conversions to Christianity. The discrimination they face is therefore two-fold: first as religious minorities in Pakistan, and second within their own broader Christian community due to caste-linked prejudices.
The economic realities are harsh. Men often work low-paid garbage-collection jobs, women are employed as domestic workers, and children continue to be trapped in child labour, a cycle repeated across generations.
Some young boys and girls also face sexual harassment and molestation, a danger amplified by their social vulnerability and lack of community protection.
Education, the only powerful pathway out of poverty, remains largely inaccessible. Private schools are unaffordable, missionary schools are both distant and expensive, and public schools become another site of humiliation for these children.
Among the children living here is David, an eight-year-old Christian boy. Like many others, he dreams of going to school, playing with friends, and leading a life free of fear. But reality is starkly different.
Muslim children in nearby areas refuse to play with him, often hitting him and calling him the derogatory slur “Chora,” a deeply insulting term historically used to belittle Christians. The word carries connotations of caste, impurity, and servitude—a psychological wound that marks David long before he fully understands its weight.
For David, discrimination is not an occasional experience; it is a daily reality. His story is one of many, reflecting the circumstances that shape the childhoods of minority children living in vulnerable environments.
At 52, Martha Bibi is a cardiac patient who often struggles even to stand without support. The polluted air around the canal has already weakened her lungs; respiratory problems, asthma, and chronic infections are widespread in her community.
When she visits public hospitals, another barrier emerges. She is routinely denied free essential medicines because they are purchased with Zakat funds, reserved strictly for Muslim patients. As a Christian woman battling poverty and illness, she must pay out of pocket for treatments she cannot afford.
This systemic denial of care reflects the structural inequalities that minorities face, even in life-and-death situations.
In this settlement, the average male life expectancy is only 50–55 years due to prolonged exposure to sewage fumes, toxic waste, and dirty stagnant water. Skin diseases, chest infections, and respiratory disorders are widespread.
With no government development programs, no sanitation services, no clean drinking water, and almost no pastoral or church support, the community remains stuck in a generational crisis.
This is not only a social injustice—it is a climate justice issue. These families are forced to bear the brunt of environmental pollution created by a city that has given them nothing in return.
The visit by Ashiknaz Khokhar and his students revealed a truth often ignored: these families do not lack potential—they lack opportunity. If the government, churches, or civil society organizations establish even basic education centres, skill training programs, or community schools, it could transform entire generations.
A small investment in literacy, vocational skills, climate resilience training, health awareness, and child protection could uplift more than 90 families from poverty, exploitation, and hopelessness.
This community—despite facing discrimination from society, government systems, and even within Christian structures—remains resilient. What they need is recognition, rights, and respect.
The Christian families living along Lahore’s sewage canal have survived decades of neglect, discrimination, and environmental suffering. They are citizens of Pakistan, yet invisible in policy, planning, and protection.
Their struggles must not remain hidden. Their stories must not go unheard.
This community deserves property rights, clean air, safe water, education, healthcare, and equal dignity—the same rights guaranteed to every Pakistani.
And if institutions take notice and extend support, then children like David, women like Martha Bibi, and hundreds of forgotten families may finally step toward a life of dignity—one they have been denied for generations.
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Ashiknaz Khokhar
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