The smell hits before the street does. Garbage, sweat, diesel, and something else — burnt rubber or maybe rage. Above it all, a politician’s banner hangs limp in the heat: “Together for Progress.”
The man under it carries a pistol in his waistband. He’s not a cop. He’s not hiding either.
You think this is a story about ethnic violence. But really, it’s about how a city rotted from the inside out — and how blood was spilled to control trash.
The Politics of Broken Pipes
Karachi didn’t collapse overnight. It unraveled, block by block, as services that were supposed to belong to the state — water, sanitation, electricity, land — were taken over by ethnic political mafias.
Water tanker mafias became a law unto themselves.
Garbage disposal was outsourced to Chinese firms, then botched by local contractors.
Land grabs were sanitized with legal jargon, ethnic loyalty, or a bullet.
You ever wonder why garbage piles up in one neighborhood but not the next? Why some areas have flowing water while others fight over tankers? It’s not incompetence.
It’s power.
In the 1980s and 90s, as Karachi swelled with rural migrants — Pashtuns from KP, Sindhis from the interior, Baloch from Makran — the city’s biggest ethnic group, the Urdu-speaking Muhajirs, felt cornered. So the MQM rose. First as a student movement, then as a street army.
Every rival group responded in kind.
The ANP armed its Pashtun base.
The PPP dug in with Lyari’s Baloch.
The state? Mostly looked away — until it didn’t.
Turf Wars Over Trash
Here’s what I noticed: the violence wasn’t random. It followed roads and routes — especially those that moved people, or money.
The Lyari Expressway displaced thousands, but no one talked about how it redrew ethnic boundaries.
The Green Line BRT runs through what used to be MQM strongholds. Some call it development. Others call it demographic disruption.
The Katchi Abadis that dot Karachi aren’t just informal housing. They’re flashpoints — where municipal neglect meets political exploitation.
Control over garbage isn’t just about sanitation. It’s about legitimacy. You clean an area, and people see you as their savior. You let it rot, and you remind them who’s boss. The PPP’s influence in Sindhi neighborhoods? Built partly on that soft, decaying power.
And then there’s land.
Land, Blood, and Memory Loss
Korangi. Baldia. Orangi. These aren't just place names. They’re warning labels. Some of Karachi’s deadliest riots started over who could live where — and who couldn’t.
In 2011, 339 people were killed in targeted ethnic violence. That was the official count. Unofficial? Much higher.
A weird thing happened when I walked through Qasba Colony last year. People whispered about the old days, the turf wars, the disappearances. But no one — no one — wanted to talk about who started what.
It’s like the city signed a collective pact of amnesia.
But garbage doesn’t forget.
It piles up where memory is most inconvenient.
Then Again, Maybe This Is What a City Looks Like After It’s Been Abandoned
Urban planners still draw diagrams for Karachi — metro systems, sewage upgrades, slum regularization.
But they forget one thing: this is a city where ethnicity decides your address, and your address decides your fate.
You can’t plan a future on land soaked in fear.
Not until someone claims the blood, the bones, the garbage — and does something other than profit from it.
But hey, what do I know?
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