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Wednesday, July 22, 2026

The Boiling City: How Dhaka’s Informal Workforce is Being Drowned by Invisible Heat


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As the afternoon sun hammers down on Dhaka’s sprawling Tejgaon neighborhood, the asphalt radiates a blistering, suffocating fury. In a narrow, tin-roofed room that acts less like a home and more like a domestic pressure cooker, Samiha Begum gathers her school-aged children and flees to the shade of Hatirjheel Lake.


“The room starts heating up as soon as the sun rises,” Samiha says, the despair of survival etching deep lines into her face. “Even if it rains in the morning, the heat becomes like a boiler once the sun comes out. My children cannot stay inside... Here, the air is cooler than in my house.”


For Samiha, and millions of others driving the beating heart of Bangladesh’s capital, extreme heat is no longer a fleeting seasonal discomfort. It is an escalating, multi-pronged catastrophe creeping into their homes, eroding their health, and quietly devouring their livelihoods.


A Crucible of Climate Change

Bangladesh stands on the frontline of a planetary crisis, and its mega-city capital is bearing the brunt. According to recent data, the country’s maximum temperature has climbed by 1.1°C since 1980, but the true agony lies in the “feels-like” index—which has surged by a staggering 4.5°C. In Dhaka, the heat index routinely spikes 65% higher than the national average, transforming the world’s second-largest city of 37 million people into an urban furnace.


Meteorologists warn that the nature of the heat has fundamentally warped. It is no longer confined to the scorching depths of summer; it now bleeds dangerously into the monsoon season. Intense, erratic cloudbursts end abruptly within hours, leaving behind a merciless sunshine that locks humidity into the atmosphere, creating a suffocating greenhouse effect.


Nowhere is this felt more acutely than in Dhaka’s sprawling informal settlements. Home to an estimated 4 to 5 million people, these neighborhoods are packed with cramped, poorly ventilated tin-roofed rooms that trap heat long after dark.


The Economy of Exhaustion

The human toll of this thermal siege is inextricably tied to an economic crisis. A landmark study by People’s Courage International (PCI) into informal workers across South and Southeast Asia reveals that 74% of surveyed migrants in Dhaka report direct, severe negative impacts from rising temperatures, while 100% report suffering from extreme weather events.


Bangladesh’s informal economy employs roughly 85% of its entire national workforce—nearly 60 million people. When heat strikes, it strikes the pillars holding the nation’s economy upright. In 2024 alone, heat-related health impacts and productivity losses stripped the country of 250 million workdays, costing a staggering $1.78 billion—about 0.4% of the nation’s GDP. Dhaka recorded the worst productivity losses of any surveyed city, a grim testament to its heavy reliance on outdoor labor, grueling manual factories, and a complete absence of cooling infrastructure.


Consider the daily grind of Tayeb Ali, a rickshaw puller living in the Rayerbazar slum. To earn a living, he must manually push a heavy passenger cart through streets that feel like open ovens.


“Ten minutes of running rickshaw means twenty minutes of rest. I get exhausted quickly,” Tayeb confesses, his body buckling under the strain.


Even when the sun goes down, relief refuses to come. Researchers call it a “recovery deficit.” Workers spend all day marinating in blistering heat, only to return to homes that act as thermal reservoirs at night. Tayeb runs multiple electric fans in his cramped room, yet sleep remains an elusive luxury. Chronically sleep-deprived and physically depleted, he wakes up late the next morning, cutting his hours short and trapping his family deeper in a cycle of poverty and debt.


The Health Toll of the Invisible Crisis

Beneath the lost wages lies a silent health epidemic. The PCI study highlights that among Dhaka’s urban migrants, 71% face heat-linked physical ailments, 69% grapple with food insecurity, and 66% struggle just to access clean water and sanitation.


Prolonged thermal exposure triggers a cascade of physiological collapses: dehydration, heatstroke, cardiovascular strain, severe exhaustion, and creeping kidney disease. Yet, for Dhaka's informal workers, missing a day of work means missing a meal. Mothers like Hamida Begum in the Mirpur area watch helplessly as their children fall sick over and over again. “They sweat all day and become ill more often than before,” she says.


Between 2001 and 2022, Dhaka recorded 35 separate heatwave events—a frequency and duration that is only accelerating as urban heat islands expand across the concrete expanse.


A Race Against Time

The warnings from experts are stark and unyielding. Mitigating this crisis demands an immediate, radical pivot in urban planning: aggressive urban greening, massive investments in climate-resilient housing for the urban poor, upgraded public health networks, and robust early-warning systems.


For now, however, millions of workers in Dhaka wake up each morning facing a cruel binary choice: brave the blistering elements to earn a meager crust, or stay home and watch their families starve. As the climate clock ticks forward, the city's informal workforce remains trapped in the crosshairs of a warming world—struggling not just to progress, but simply to survive the day.

When the Mountain Breathes Mud: Meppadi’s Endless Monsoons and the Price of Progress


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Every monsoon in the hill town of Meppadi, Kerala, begins not with the sound of falling drops, but with an involuntary glance upward.


For Nishal, a resident of the hamlet of Kalladi in Wayanad, the road outside his house no longer matters when the skies turn dark. His eyes are locked on the slope above. There, a massive, weeping mound of excavated soil sits like a ticking clock—a grim monument left behind by the excavation of the ambitious Anakkampoyil–Kalladi twin-tunnel project. With every torrential downpour, that artificial hill becomes the source of an escalating, suffocating terror.


"People are scared to live here," Nishal says quietly. "The soil was kept there so it could be used later for construction. But once the monsoon arrives, we don't feel safe anymore. If it isn't managed properly, another disaster could happen."


His fears are not born of paranoia. They are etched in fresh, bleeding memories.


The Shadow of 2024

On July 7, 2026, a devastating landslide swept through the tunnel construction site, claiming eight lives—seven migrant workers and the project's construction manager. Though smaller in scale than the apocalyptic Chooralmala-Mundakkai landslides that tore Meppadi apart in July 2024, the Kalladi tragedy ripped open a terrifying, unresolved question: How safe are the hills that people continue to live beneath?


For Roshna, a 56-year-old former Block Panchayat member living near the site, every rainy day is a sentence of profound uncertainty.


"I am 56 now. If something happens to my house, I cannot build another one," she confesses.


Yet, Roshna is not anti-development. Few residents are. They desperately want the economic lifeline that the Rs 2,134-crore twin-tunnel road promises—a shortcut connecting landlocked Wayanad to the coastal district of Malappuram, bypassing the notorious, accident-prone Thamarassery Ghat. What haunts them is not the tunnel itself, but the reckless alterations inflicted upon an already fragile landscape.


Anatomy of a Catastrophe: Science Meets Vulnerability

Why does Meppadi keep failing?


To understand the region's vulnerability, scientists point to a volatile cocktail of ancient geology, changing climate patterns, and aggressive human intervention.


The Fragile Foundations: The Western Ghats are among the oldest mountain systems on Earth, weathered by millions of years of monsoons. In Meppadi, thick, unconsolidated layers of lateritic soil rest precariously over fractured bedrock, steep slopes, and geological lineaments.


The Saturated Earth: Prof. S. Abhilash, Head of the Department of Atmospheric Sciences at Cochin University of Science and Technology (CUSAT), notes that unlike the 2024 disaster—which was preceded by two weeks of continuous, slope-saturating rainfall—Kalladi's failure highlights how minor triggers can catastrophe-proof an already altered landscape.


Ecological Shifts: Decades of replacing native, deep-rooted forest cover with shallow-rooted coffee and tea plantations have stripped the hills of their natural anchors. When combined with unscientific slope cutting, base excavations, and unmanaged soil dumping, the terrain becomes a ticking time bomb.


A Warming Sea: Adding to the terrestrial stress, a warming southeastern Arabian Sea is shifting weather patterns. Vertically developed cumulonimbus clouds, once discharging over the ocean, now barrel inland, unleashing unprecedented bursts of intense, localized rainfall across northern Kerala.


Childhood Interrupted by a Rumble

The true cost of this environmental unraveling is measured in human trauma.


When the Kalladi landslide struck at 11 a.m. on July 7, 2026, a six-year-old boy in Meppadi bolted in terror. Having survived the 2024 Chooralmala disaster, the sound of the earth collapsing was an immediate, visceral trigger. He ran to his mother, threw his arms around her, and shook violently, refusing to let go.


For him—and scores of other children in Meppadi—childhood is punctuated by trauma. Schools have barely reopened before monsoons force closures, disrupt commutes, and cast long, fearful shadows over classrooms.


The psychological toll on women, who frequently manage households alone while men work abroad, is equally devastating. "Women here have forgotten how to smile," Roshna says. "Every time it rains heavily, the same questions come back—what if another landslide happens, where do we run, how do our children survive?"


The Verdict on Progress

Following the Kalladi disaster, the Kerala government swiftly suspended all work on the tunnel project, citing critical lapses by the contractor and an unheeded warning from the district collector regarding slope stability. Legal challenges have fought their way up to the Supreme Court, which previously declined to halt construction due to its immense public importance, leaving safety compliance in the hands of statutory regulators.


Yet, as investigations proceed, the people of Meppadi remain trapped in a relentless loop of waiting for the next rain.


For Nishal, Roshna, and their neighbors, recovery is not a bureaucratic milestone or a government compensation check. It is measured entirely by a simple, elusive human need: learning whether they can ever trust the hillside above their homes again.

Beneath the Glare: Pakistan’s Green Revolution Is Built on the Backs of Invisible, Scorched Workers


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KARACHI — On the sun-baked concrete rooftops of Pakistan’s sprawling urban centers, a quiet revolution is unfolding. Nearly a fifth of all Pakistani households now draw their power from the sun, driving a massive distributed solar boom that has successfully bypassed geopolitical energy crunches and saved the nation billions of dollars in fossil fuel imports.


Yet, step out onto those same blazing rooftops at noon, and you will find a starkly different reality.


While homeowners rejoice over plunging electricity bills and a cleaner grid, the workers who install, maintain, and scrub the gleaming photovoltaic arrays are locked in a daily battle with a brutal, life-threatening environment. Operating in temperatures that push the human body to its absolute limits, these men form the invisible, unprotected foundation of Pakistan's renewable energy future.


The Cost of the Midday Sun

For 33-year-old Abdul Rehman, the memories of scrubbing solar panels in Karachi’s searing summer heat remain visceral.


“It was one of the worst experiences. I felt I would faint,” Rehman recalls. Working through the peak heat left him severely dizzy and dehydrated, teaching him a harsh lesson: "I will have to take care of myself because no one else will."


Driven by custom and convenience, many property owners demand that panel maintenance take place during broad daylight when solar output is at its peak. This forces informal cleaners—often migrant workers rushing to big cities in desperate search of a livelihood—onto blazing rooftops between 12:00 PM and 2:00 PM.


"I see most of them going to wash solar panels at the peak heat time. That’s so dangerous," Rehman says, adjusting his cap. "लेकिन क्या करें? [What can they do?] They must earn for their families."


While Pakistan’s distributed solar industry has generated hundreds of thousands of jobs since 2017, the vast majority of manual workers and installation technicians operate within the informal sector. Their labor is physically demanding and hazardous, yet formal safety nets are practically non-existent.


A Double-Edged Blade: Heat and Metal

The dangers facing solar workers extend far beyond atmospheric temperatures.


When installation and maintenance crews climb onto roofs, they are met with reflective glare and searing hardware. Solar panel frames are built primarily of aluminum—a metal that rapidly absorbs solar radiation.


"The frames and structures of the solar panels get very heated up, and the hands of the technicians can get burnt," explains Nadeem Nawaz, a project manager at Shama Solar. "But it is also too hot to wear the thick safety gloves."


Compounding the immediate risks of thermal burns, electrical shocks, and acute heat stroke are severe long-term health hazards. Medical experts warn that intense, chronic exposure to ultraviolet (UV) radiation—magnified by the rays bouncing off light-colored concrete rooftops—accumulates over time, causing irreversible DNA damage.


"Over time, these changes increase the risk of developing skin cancers, including basal cell carcinoma, squamous cell carcinoma, and melanoma," notes Dr. Maryum Nouman, head of medical oncology at the Dow Comprehensive Cancer Care Centre in Karachi.


According to World Health Organization and International Labour Organization estimates, nearly a third of all non-melanoma skin cancer deaths globally are directly linked to occupational sun exposure. In Pakistan, solar technicians face this exact peril daily, largely without UV-rated sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats, or specialized cooling gear.


Searching for Protection in the Shadows

Labor advocates argue that the systemic neglect of solar workers highlights a glaring blind spot in national policy.


"While everyone who has been a part of the solarisation in Pakistan has benefitted from it, the labour working on this green energy revolution have not, with no rights and meagre wages," says Farooq Tariq, president of the Haqooq Khalq Party.


Zehra Khan, general secretary of the Home Based Women Workers’ Federation, echoes this frustration, emphasizing that because these workers are largely unrecorded, they lack any formal mechanism to claim compensation for heat illness or workplace injuries.


Despite these grim conditions, cautious glimmers of hope are beginning to emerge. Pakistan recently approved a comprehensive Occupational Safety and Health (OSH) Code of Practice for the construction sector. Endorsed by the International Labour Organization, the new code features explicit provisions for electrical systems—including solar infrastructure—and sets legally binding standards for managing environmental hazards, equipment safety, and heat stress.


For pioneers like Abdul Rehman, who now firmly refuses daytime cleaning slots in favor of late-afternoon and nighttime hours, the shift cannot come soon enough. But until enforcement catches up with policy, thousands of workers will continue to brave the inferno, keeping Pakistan’s green energy dream alive under the harshest of skies.

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