Salma, who goes by one name, is a Bengali-speaking widow and mother of nine. She carries bitter memories of the deadly 2015 Karachi heatwave that killed her two children, nine-year-old daughter Noor and 16-year-old son Rasheed. She works as a daily wage labourer at a crab factory in her neighbourhood.
She now lives in a small makeshift hut made of wooden logs, palm leaves, cloth sheets and gunny bags, with the flag of Pakistan fluttering on top. She built the hut after moving from a one-room house nearby.
She still remembers the heatwave of 2015, one of the deadliest in the country’s history. Over 1,200 people lost their lives and more than 40,000 suffered from heatstroke and exhaustion. “We used to live in that house at that time,” she pointed to a small dwelling with an iron sheet roof held down with stones to stop it from being blown away by strong winds. “I still remember, it was a Friday when our small home suddenly became so hot it felt like a furnace.”
Both her children had become weak. They were vomiting and complaining of headaches. She took them to a small private clinic in the neighbourhood, where the doctor said they were suffering from heatstroke and gave them some medicines. He also put them on intravenous drips. But it wasn’t enough. Noor died that night. Rasheed followed the next morning.
“It was a small house with little space. I used to cook under the same roof with the iron sheet. When I started cooking, my children always went outside because they couldn’t sit in that heat,” Salma said. She had spent 17 years living in that house.
In 2016, she decided to move. She sold her only goat and bought a small patch of land reclaimed from the sea. That meant cutting down mangroves and dumping building debris to push back the water. Her new home is slightly cooler, but not by much. It stands next to thick mangroves that block the breeze, and the surrounding sea water, mixed with sewage, “almost boils” around the hut. When it gets too hot, she closes all openings with cloth, and she and her children use hand fans to try and stay cool.
“During the burning summer days, I don’t let my younger children go out to play. I keep them at home and give them jaggery drink – water mixed with jaggery – as it helps cool the body,” she said. If she has any extra money, she adds some ice.
She lives in one of Karachi’s biggest informal settlements, Machar Colony, which means “Mosquito Colony.” Located near Karachi Port, the colony sprawls across miles and houses nearly 700,000 people. The residents come from many ethnicities – Bengali, Burmese, Afghan, Pashtun, Mohajir, Sindhi, Kachhi – and are united by poverty. Most of the land was reclaimed from the sea by dumping garbage and rubble. The streets are uneven and bumpy, and garbage burns in many places. The government considers it an illegal settlement, so there are no basic services – no clean water, no sanitation, no electricity. Women and children bear the brunt of this neglect.
Some residents have managed to hook up electricity, but Salma is not among them. There isn’t even an electric fan in her hut. For her, the biggest challenge isn’t just electricity, it’s water.
“Six litres of water cost me PKR 30 and I need at least 30 litres a day for drinking, cooking and bathing. After working 12 hours, I barely earn PKR 300,” she said. Almost half her income goes to buying water. Occasionally, when she has a little extra money, she gives it to her daughter to buy some ice, so her children can have cold water during the extreme heat.
In 2025, the heat returned with new ferocity. In April, temperatures in parts of Sindh, Punjab and Balochistan soared to nearly 50°C. Shaheed Benazirabad touched 49°C in mid-April, making it one of the earliest extreme heat events in memory. The heat settled in and didn’t let up through May and June. In Bhakkar, the temperature again hit 50°C, and in cities like Karachi, temperatures hovered between 42°C and 46°C with suffocating humidity.
In Machar Colony, heat radiated from the debris-covered ground and the metal rooftops. Families like Salma’s had no fans, no cool rooms, no escape.
When she heard from a coworker at the crab factory that a heatwave alert had been issued in May, Salma panicked. “After the death of my two children, I came to know that there had been a heatwave forecast by the government back then. So I was afraid. If the city experienced another heatwave like that, any one of my children could die.”
She took a day off from work to stay home and watch over them. This time, her children survived. But not everyone was so lucky. She said some neighbours lost their loved ones. Reports from local charities suggested dozens of people died due to heatstroke, though government officials denied any such deaths.
Salma has stopped waiting for official answers. She focuses on surviving. She has even let go of wearing the burqa. The garment is culturally important in her community, but a few summers ago she fainted while wearing it during a long walk. She hasn’t worn one since.
In the buildup to COP30, global climate discussions are once again turning toward the impact on the world’s most vulnerable. For people like Salma, climate change isn’t a debate – it’s the daily reality of living in unbearable heat, without resources, and with the fear of loss looming every summer.
