The beach at Gadani is lined with the bodies of dead ships. Their rusted hulls stretch across the sand like skeletons, each one cut open and stripped bare. The air smells of salt, smoke and burnt metal. Sparks fly as men bend over the steel with gas-cutters, their faces darkened by soot, their hands swollen and scarred. The sound of hammering and flame fills the air — steady, relentless, and familiar.
This is one of the hardest jobs in Pakistan. The men who work here come from Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. They earn their living by dismantling ships that once crossed the world’s oceans, piece by piece, under a burning sun. Most live in small settlements nearby, often without clean water, electricity or toilets. While helmets and gloves were previously rare, it did seem during this visit that most workers were wearing them — though I can’t say whether that is the case normally or just for the visit. Burns and cuts are common, and when someone dies, the news doesn’t travel far. Gadani’s workers have long been invisible — building the country’s economy from its edges, while remaining outside its concern.
When Reuters once called Gadani a “10-kilometre death trap,” quoting a worker who said, “We are treated like dogs, and the owners don’t care if we die,” it wasn’t an exaggeration. More than a decade later, those words still hold true in many ways. The conditions remain harsh, and the balance between survival and dignity continues to tilt in favour of the former. Yet, beneath that grim surface, there are small signs that something may finally be changing.
I recently visited Gadani as part of a field visit organized by the International Labour Organization (ILO), led by its Country Director, Geir T. Tonstol. Driving along the coast, past mountains of metal and sand, the view alternated between wreckage and resilience. In some yards, workers were seen wearing gloves and masks, attending short safety briefings before starting work. Small areas had been cordoned off for hazardous waste. There was a quiet sense of order in places that once operated on chaos. It was not transformation — not yet — but the beginnings of awareness.
The ILO–IMO Joint Intervention, supported by the Norwegian government and implemented with Pakistan’s Ministry of Maritime Affairs, the Pakistan Ship Breakers Association and the Balochistan Development Authority (BDA), has helped introduce some long-missing basics to Gadani. Safety training sessions are being conducted for workers and supervisors. Protective equipment is being distributed. Waste is being sorted instead of dumped. For an industry that has spent decades in neglect, these are modest but meaningful steps. Pakistan’s ratification of the Hong Kong Convention for the Safe and Environmentally Sound Recycling of Ships marks another turning point — at least on paper.
But Gadani’s challenges go deeper than compliance. At its peak, the shipbreaking yard employed more than 30,000 workers across 130 active yards. Today, barely a handful remain. The industry, once a source of national pride, has withered under the weight of outdated practices and a lack of investment. While others in the region adapted to global safety and environmental standards, Pakistan lagged — and paid the price. As the rest of the world moved toward sustainable recycling, Gadani was left behind, caught between poverty and policy paralysis.
“The industry knows it cannot survive without compliance,” said Naeem Khalid, National Project Coordinator for the ILO’s Ship Recycling Project. “Buyers, insurers and governments abroad are demanding safer, greener recycling. Pakistan must adapt.” His words carry a simple truth: reform is no longer optional. Without it, there will be no industry to save.
The federal government has also announced a Rs 12 billion redevelopment plan for Gadani, promising a small hospital, housing, a school, a park and a modern water supply system. On paper, the plan sounds promising. But on the ground, there is cautious optimism. The men who work here have seen many promises before — plans that arrive with cameras but this time, perhaps, might just stay to see them through. As one worker told me, watching the sea beyond the yard, “We hope they mean it this time — because even small changes can make big differences.”
That quiet hope says more than any report. Gadani is not just about ships and steel. It is about how Pakistan treats its workers — the very people who hold up its industries, build its cities, and power its exports. It is about the hierarchy of value we assign to human life, and how easily we accept suffering as the cost of progress. The shipbreaking workers of Gadani earn their living through skill, strength and courage, but they were denied the basic protections that should come with that work.
Driving back from the yards that evening, with the coastline fading into the rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but think of Gadani as a mirror of Pakistan itself: full of potential, endurance and talent, yet repeatedly let down by those who refuse to see its worth. Reform here will not come through foreign funding or conventions alone. It will come when those in power begin to see workers not as expendable labour, but as citizens who deserve safety, respect and voice.
Gadani doesn’t ask for sympathy. It asks to be seen. If Pakistan is serious about rebuilding its industries, it must start here — with its people. The men who cut through steel with bare hands have already shown more strength than most systems built to protect them. Perhaps, with care and commitment, the beach that once dismantled ships can finally begin to rebuild itself — piece by piece, with love, from Gadani.
