“Our lives are crushed in these kilns. This cruelty passes from one generation to the next,” says 17-year-old Mussarat, her voice steady but eyes hollow from a lifetime of unending labor. “I was married at 12, whether I wanted to or not. Now I have two children who will likely spend their lives the same way — born into debt, raised in bondage, and buried in bricks.”
This is not fiction. This is Pakistan’s modern-day slavery — played out daily on the scorched grounds of thousands of brick kilns from Punjab to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
Mussarat’s story is one of many — one of intergenerational debt, child marriage, sexual harassment, and a life shackled to loans that are never meant to be repaid.
Her descent into this life of bondage began when her father developed a severe mental illness. With no money for treatment, her mother borrowed Rs. 300,000 from a kiln owner — a debt that became a life sentence.
Mussarat started working at the kiln as a child. At 11, she began menstruating. By her second period, she was married off. “In our area, a girl is considered ready for marriage the moment she hits puberty,” she says.
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Worse still, Mussarat’s marriage wasn’t based on choice, affection, or consent. It was an “exchange deal” — a common practice in impoverished kiln communities where families marry off their daughters in return for brides for their sons. “If there’s no girl to trade, then any male relative will do — even someone my father's age,” she says grimly.
In the early years of marriage, she didn’t work, but that changed when her husband and his brothers borrowed more money to try reclaiming family land. Legal fees and a lost case pushed their debt to Rs. 1.3 million. The entire family, including Mussarat, was forced into full-time labor.
Adding to her trauma was sexual harassment. “At our old kiln, the owner would enter workers’ homes without permission, throw men out, and harass women. Everyone knew, but we were all too indebted to speak out,” she recalls. She and her husband eventually escaped to another kiln, but the wounds — physical and mental — remain.
Rozina Bibi, 40, tells a similar tale from her current kiln in Paroa, Dera Ismail Khan. Originally from Dera Ghazi Khan, she’s been working in kilns since her marriage ten years ago. Her father-in-law took a loan decades ago, and the debt was passed down like a cursed inheritance.
Her husband, illiterate and unaware of the terms, was exploited. The kiln owner in Dera Ghazi Khan never deducted repayments properly and kept inflating the debt. A new owner in DI Khan "paid" the old loan, only to trap them again — this time with measly weekly wages of Rs. 4,000–5,000, from which Rs. 1,500 is cut for debt.
Rozina has six children, and education for them is a distant dream. “This debt never ends. Every need forces us to borrow again,” she sighs. The house given to them is barely livable — no roofed bathroom, no door, just a hand pump, and two cramped rooms.
Even during pregnancy, Rozina made bricks. She returned to work a day after delivering each child. “If I don’t work, how will we eat?” she asks. During menstruation, she cannot maintain hygiene, leading to infections. “No one helps us here. And we can’t speak up. Everything is verbal — we have no proof, no voice.”
Malik Aslam Luchra, president of the Brick Kiln Owners Association in Dera Ismail Khan, claims workers take loans by choice during emergencies like weddings, funerals, or illness. “They work to repay it, often with their families. We try to treat them well. But the government doesn’t support us or them. No microloans, no welfare — so what choice do they have?”
He confirms that 20% of kiln workers in the region involve entire families in labor. While some owners may exploit, most, he insists, do not.
But the reality on the ground paints a grimmer picture.
According to Pakistan’s Constitution, Article 11 bans all forms of forced labor. The Bonded Labour System (Abolition) Act of 1992 criminalizes debt bondage. But enforcement remains dismal.
Nauman Mohib Kakakhel, lawyer at the Peshawar High Court, states: “These women are victims of illegal bondage. The law protects them, but who will fight for them?” He refers to Articles 3 and 25 — which guarantee equality, protection, and fair wages.
Assistant Labour Director Muhammad Yaqoob admits, “We can only act when someone complains. But most contracts are verbal. Often, workers and owners conspire to hide the nature of their arrangement. We need people to come forward.”
Khawaja Zahid Naseem, of the Naheeda Mehboob Elahi Foundation, believes brick kilns are Pakistan’s silent slavery zones. “This is not employment — it's a system of lifelong debt and exploitation. If we don’t act, entire generations will rot in this cycle.”
Brick kilns continue to operate as hidden factories of generational suffering. Women like Masrat and Rozina don’t just work with mud — they are trapped in it, voiceless and invisible.
They raise children, endure abuse, survive harsh conditions — all while chained to debts they didn’t even create.
Mussarat ends with a haunting question: “Tell me — who would choose a life like this?”
