Heroes and public safety

A legacy of the Covid-19 years, I hope, is a broader recognition of the work of frontline workers. During some of the darkest days of the pandemic, there were communities, across the world, that would celebrate the extraordinary work of those at the forefront – physicians, nurses, technicians, first responders and those who took a personal risk to keep the disease at bay. This idea of heroism is the same across many facets of life in a society – of personal risk, high likelihood of a terrible outcome, and service to others. Let us keep this thought of risk and service to others in our minds for a second. And now bring in another idea – the idea that some of the places among our midst are dangerous, likely to breed infection and are contaminated by nasty bugs. It is places that bring wastewater, sewage and other organic and inorganic waste together. From a public health point of view, making sure that these places follow health and sanitation guidelines is essential for the wellbeing of society. A lapse there can risk the lives of millions. Now let us combine the two thoughts. Of places of highest risk, and people who work in those places. We all know who works in those places in our society, and yet, we cannot imagine considering these people ever as heroes, or people who we owe a great debt of gratitude. In fact, we are far on the other extreme. We consider those who work in these awfully difficult and toxic places, full of pathogens, as the lowest amongst us. We have all kinds of terrible names for them. So much so that official advertisements for jobs to do this work specifically list that these are only open to non-Muslim members of our community – suggesting that these jobs are beneath the dignity of much of society. I cannot imagine large sections of society would ever consider sanitation workers as people who keep us safe. This notion of recognition of their work as an integral pillar of public safety, worthy of deep respect, would be considered laughable by many and even offensive by a certain sizeable section. The reason to bring this up this week is three-fold. First, I read an editorial in a leading English daily last week describing the plight of the sanitation workers in Pakistan, and the fact that this year alone, twenty-six sanitation workers have died while doing their jobs. I cannot say that I was shocked, but I am glad that newspapers are bringing up the issue. Second, in the world of infectious diseases, wastewater and sewage has become a major topic of research and discussion, and there is rigorous data showing how these conditions create an enabling environment for nasty pathogens. At conferences on infection, the issue of wastewater is front and centre. To imagine someone working there for a poor salary, and no dignity, would be unacceptable to anyone who cares about human dignity or public health. Third is perhaps a personal reason. I live in a town slightly outside the city that was settled two centuries ago. Our home has its own septic tank (as opposed to town sewage in some of the newer areas). Over the weekend, we got our septic tank serviced. I am indebted to the person who came and serviced it – and if it was not for him (or another person like him), we would risk fines, damage to our property and exposure to disease. Since I had already read the editorial by then, as I spoke to him, I wondered about our interaction. Indeed, this was a professional business transaction, but also one where I was benefitting from his experience, wisdom and his ability to keep my home safe. The idea that somehow he is different from me, or somehow, I am better in any shape or form would be preposterous. Much is said about our 'values' of respect for those who help us. That may be true, but only after a long list of qualifiers has been applied. For some who keep us safe, we use the most extraordinary language of gratitude, for others, we expect them to be grateful to us for being allowed to exist.