RAWALPINDI: Before the sun rises over Rawalpindi, 45-year-old Yaqoob is already awake. It’s 4:15 a.m., and the city lies still, holding its breath before another scorching day begins. In his tiny one-room home in Dhok Hassu, Yaqoob splashes water on his face — the fan above him lifeless due to yet another power cut.
This is how each day begins for Pakistan’s urban labourers — in silence, in heat, and in struggle.
Yaqoob has worked as a mason’s assistant for sixteen years, laying bricks, fixing sewer lines, and building walls under the relentless sun. He doesn’t speak the language of “climate change” or “global warming,” but he understands this summer feels different.
“Pehle dhoop lagti thi, ab dhoop kaat’ti hai.”
(The sun used to shine. Now, it cuts.)
By 9 a.m., the cement underfoot is unbearable. Plastic water bottles feel boiled. The foreman now allows short breaks every hour — not out of concern, but because collapse has become common.
Someone vomits around 11. Another worker lies on the floor by noon, his body struggling against the rising heat. Salt sachets and glucose packets are tucked into shirt pockets like armor.
“When your body feels like it’s cooking from inside,” Yaqoob says, “you can’t even swallow a roti.”
At home, his wife Parveen fills a tub for their youngest son, Hamza. Their elder, Nomi, sits quietly near a window, towel on his head, no longer playing cricket. Sometimes, he cries when the fan stops.
“What should I tell him?” Parveen asks. “That the sun has changed?”
The family’s struggle is mirrored across the country. In Jacobabad, families sleep under wet sheets. In Multan, clay pots are buried to keep water cool. In Thar, children are sent to cooler cities — if families can afford the move.
“Har jagah ka haal wohi hai. Bas jism aur dhool alag hai.”
(Same misery, just different dust and different bodies.)
Yaqoob recently helped carry a fainted teenager to a clinic — it was only his third day at the site. “He’s too young for this sun,” the nurse said. But the sun doesn’t check ID cards.
This isn’t a climate story with melting glaciers or rising seas. It’s a silent war waged in the heat — fought by people with no headlines, no safety nets, and no choice.
Pakistan’s climate crisis is not just scientific. It’s personal. It’s etched in the skin of daily wage earners, felt in overheated one-room homes, and seen in little boys who no longer play outside.
That night, as Yaqoob lies on the floor, he doesn’t dream of policy changes. He hopes for something smaller.
A breeze.
A single breeze.
One that might reach his son before morning.
