Karachi reports fourth Naegleria death in 2025—but who’s keeping count?

Despite recurring deaths from a brain-eating amoeba, Karachi’s water safety response remains patchy, reactive—and disturbingly quiet.

*SITUATIONER*

By Mukhtar Alam

KARACHI: Karachi has now reported its fourth death of the year attributed to Primary Amoebic Meningoencephalitis (PAM)—an often-fatal infection caused by the brain-eating amoeba Naegleria fowleri. The latest victim, a 17-year-old boy from North Karachi, passed away at a private hospital on June 28. Health officials confirmed the cause and recorded the death a day before, on June 27. What makes this case particularly troubling is that the teenager, a student, had no known history of swimming, visiting recreational water bodies, or even regular ablution—commonly flagged as risk factors.

And yet, beyond the formality of health department confirmation and a few routine updates on social media, the public narrative barely budged. As is often the case, many journalists—myself included—felt some closure once the official machinery had “fed the factory,” fulfilling its bureaucratic steps. But perhaps it's worth taking a step back: have we even confirmed all four deaths this year properly? A simple recheck of the record—for accuracy’s sake—wouldn’t hurt. If it’s not too inconvenient, of course.

According to health officials, the fourth Naegleria death was certified on June 28 and reported accordingly in the media. After the health department’s post, most journalists—again, myself included—moved on, assuming the boxes had been ticked. But maybe we all need to pause. Why not recount those deaths, just for the record’s sake? It would help—especially when public memory fades faster than data.

Source: Sindh Health Department 

Looking back to 2012, we know this brain-eating amoeba tends to surface during four to five months of warmer weather each year. That gives us a stretch of about 65 active months to date. Doing the math, that’s an average of three deaths per month—each a grim reminder that the problem persists. These deaths fall squarely within the responsibility of the Sindh government. The health department’s real failing is its inability—or unwillingness—to run a consistent, meaningful awareness campaign.

Of course, the burden doesn’t lie with one department alone.

Responsibility is shared—by the Public Health Engineering Department, the Water Supply Corporation, local bodies like the Karachi Mayor’s office and the Municipal Commissioner, the Chief Minister’s Inspection Team, and elected representatives at every level. Whether the water comes from an RO (Reverse Osmosis) plant or a municipal supply line... do we even know what flaws exist? And if we don’t—shouldn’t we?

Sadly, no high-ranking official has stepped forward to meet the bereaved families. There’s no real accountability. No one from government circles has offered words of empathy. Human rights advocates stay silent. Morning shows and primetime talkers ignore it largely.

Shouldn’t a death caused by contaminated water spark something—anything?

In principle, every such death must prompt institutional accountability. Government bodies should take responsibility. They should offer reparations—not just in rupees, but through action, reform, and care for the families affected. Some form of public acknowledgment of loss. Something that says: “This life mattered.”

Instead, we get performance over substance.

The field investigation teams seem to follow a set script. A health awareness campaign will run on June 29 or 30—tick. No one expects more. Investigators have already implied that the teenager’s family bears some blame: Why wasn’t the overhead tank cleaned in six months? (Even though we all know 80% of homes, schools, and even hospitals can’t manage that either.) So, the file is closed.

No one investigated the house. No samples were collected from the area. No scrutiny of the RO unit or the water board's supply. If investigations do happen, why do the findings never reach the public?

Meanwhile, the food watchdogs remain busy regulating food outlets and producers. But who checks the quality of water supplied to millions—whether from government pipelines or private tankers? Who will finally make these bodies functional and answerable?

There used to be a committee in the health department for Naegleria—where did it go? Once, a senior bureaucrat’s acquaintance’s swimming pool was inspected, and the committee’s momentum was lost.

It’s accepted that the health department has its own share of challenges—but it should at least establish a seasonal, designated government focal hospital for these brain-eating infections, with proper publicity. That way, patients suffering from PAM, which causes 99% of the fatalities, won’t have to bear the unjust burden of being shuffled between public hospitals and private facilities.

With lab tests, ICU stays, ventilator charges, and high fees, how can the bereaved even maintain their dignity? Some families, after exhausting their savings at so-called private hospitals, are left with no choice but to apply for zakat—a final indignity atop their loss.

All of this… for water.

If only the government would take on the cost of chlorinating the water supply with sincerity, perhaps fewer families would be left mourning in the wake of Naegleria or other waterborne diseases. The Sindh Healthcare Commission (SHCC) collects significant fines—it could redirect some of that revenue to support affected communities.

We need to think.

And perhaps this thinking—this accountability—can be our collective sadaqah jariyah, our lasting good. Surely, we can identify where the system is working—and where it is failing.

Surely, we can do better. 

File photos: Social Track, Karachi.