No data, no mobility
It was 2011, and we were a group of four girls, ready to bunk the boring Chemistry class to watch the new Marvel film. Students at a public sector university, none of us had cars, so we hopped on the snail-paced 11-C right outside our university gate, paid Rs15, and in 45 minutes were at the Atrium.
This was the first time I had travelled to the other end of the city in a public bus and unaccompanied by my family. It was exciting, like the road trips my family would take when I was young, to our village in Sindh. I would notice tea shops with quirky names and dogs with sad eyes. In the trips to rural Sindh, wide, vacant land and heaps of shrubs would rapidly move past me, like scenes in an indie movie; in Karachi, heaps of concrete structures with slapstick graffiti.
Buses allowed me to move freely, and see the city beyond the fear of my parents who had witnessed the horror of the ethnic conflicts and the 1990s operations. When the routes were longer, I would think about Bobby Baji, our neighbour at our previous house, who told my mother that she would disembark from one bus and take another just to avoid going home early to her dysfunctional family.
I did not have these problems, but I did come from a family where a woman travelling independently must have a reason; anything else was loitering, “awaragardi”. I was one of those kids for whom arguments, even from elders, had to have a solid logic, and needing a reason to travel made no sense. I knew mobility was the first step to financial independence, even if it was in a city with lethargic transport, muggings, targeted killings and citywide shutdowns on the calls of a man in London. I even learned to deal with harassers in the bus, nearly beating up a man the third time I was harassed; the first two times, I froze.
However, commute become the bane of my existence when I started working professionally. You have to be at work on time, look presentable, smile at the office bully. The burnout was quick. I asked colleagues to drop me home if it was dark, or skipped office, which was in Korangi, altogether when I was late and had missed the company transport. I was a young woman who’d defied her traditional desi family, but without access to transport mobility, I was stumped at the way I felt, helpless and immobile.
Thankfully, almost a year into my professional life, Careem started operations in Pakistan. I felt free again, as much as an upper-middle class woman in Karachi can. I did not have to wait for my brothers to get free to drop me to places, who would sometimes refuse on short-notice. I’d go out to get my hair done, go shopping, and to the new fancy cafes with my colleagues. I made the upward mobility that many in the city and those who migrate here dream of—I was freer than my grandmothers, aunts and most women in my family. And I did not travel just for work, I travelled for fun, going to the beach and park picnics with friends—a luxury unavailable to many women in the country, and considered a given by those with privilege. (This reminds me a woman boss said to me that transport, provided by the organization after the Lahore motorway rape case, for women who worked evening shifts was “affirmative action”.)
Three months back, I went out to get my laptop fixed, hoping the computer guys will do a miracle with the old, slow machine. Then when I tried to book a Careem back home, it wouldn’t open due to slow Internet. I felt that familiar feeling of dread. My laptop had most of my journalism work in there, was not insured (if that’s even a thing in Pakistan), and I felt my shoulders tense up with the fear of being mugged despite being in an upscale area. Rickshaw was not an option; and I did not know the bus routes anymore. Once again, I was 18—this time my mobility not controlled by my family, but by the state.
Soon after the ban on X, Pakistanis started reporting issues with the Internet. Facebook and WhatsApp have become slower in the past four months, and mobile data makes you feel you are in the dial-up connection era. The Wireless and Internet Service Providers Association of Pakistan said in a statement this month that government’s use of technology for surveillance has reduced speeds by 30/ to 40%. This has affected freelancers and businesses, the association said.
A less-talked about issue is mobility, especially in a city like Karachi. Noman, a teacher from Lyari, uses Bykea regularly. One day, he had to go to multiple locations—a routine day in the life of a Karachiite—but it became an ordeal. “After I was at my second location, IBC Clifton, I had to walk for five minutes to get a stable connection to book a ride,” he said. After he finally booked the ride, it came to an end near the Governor House, because the bike broke down. On the sidewalk in a busy area, Noman waved the phone up and down in the air to catch signals, walked forward and backward, dodging the heavy traffic, and was able to book a ride again after 10 minutes.
It is a wonder that in a country with a huge young population that is always on the go, the government does not feel it necessary to announce beforehand about Internet shutdowns. Hamza, who writes subtitles for an OTT platform, says that it “takes ages” for the ride-hailing apps to open, and more time to book a ride. On days when signals are shut due to “security concerns” in the city, including the PTCL Internet, he has to take three public buses to go to work, when on regular days he can simply ride a Bykea and be on his way. While many now use the Red Bus, launched by the Sindh government, young men and women prefer Bykea for its quick commute and to escape the ordeal of waiting on the street for the bus, afraid of muggers.
In 2024, when other countries consider Internet access a basic right, the Pakistani government is banning SIMs of tax non-filers. This made things especially difficult for those living independently, in a metropolis like Karachi.
Amna*, a communications professional who frequently uses Careem to meet up with friends and get to work, had her SIM blocked when she failed to file her tax returns in time. As a single woman living alone, she had to rely on hotspots on her friends’ phones to book a ride back home.
“I had to go to a majlis, and my Bykea ride was near, but in the wrong street. I couldn’t call him, so I went to a nearby dhaba and asked for their hotspot,” says Amna. But the shopkeeper did not know how to turn on the hotspot and was hesitant to let her tinker with his phone. So, Amna saved the Bykea’s number in the shopkeeper’s phone and called the rider from there. It took her 15 minutes to get in touch with the rider who was somewhere in a nearby street.
Ahmed*, a classical musician in Karachi, also had his SIM blocked because he failed to file his tax returns in time. While he did not face mobility issues because he owns a bike, his every day, important communications with his students, studios and fellow musicians became a headache for him.
The government has also blamed users for the slow Internet speed, and the blocking of SIMs of non-filers has not been questioned by any lawmaker. These measures add to a common person’s issues because Pakistan lacks a good technology infrastructure, fiber connectivity, and fast and free Internet hotspots.
Amna spent a Saturday evening catching up with a friend in Gulistan-e-Johar. When it was time to go home to DHA, she used her friend’s Wi-Fi to book a ride and stepped out. But the rider couldn’t find the location, and she could not call him. She tried to find a café—except there weren’t any major shops or cafes with Wi-Fi at a walking distance. So, she walked back to her friend’s house, connected to the Wi-Fi, and only then was able to get in touch with the driver.
The government says other countries also install “firewall”, which experts say has slowed down the internet; do these countries also not have free hotspots? Many big cities offer free Wi-Fi, to which the user can automatically connect. These include New York, Seoul, Hong Kong and various cities in Europe. If the IT Minister says it is their “right” to install a firewall, is it not the “right” of people to expect measures that counter the internet slowdown?
“Apart from apps not opening, the locations do not update on time. Sometimes it shows two minutes away, when the captain is farther, or he is at my location but I would not know,” says Maria, a psychiatrist who lives independently and uses Careem and InDrive.
Despite an abysmal transport system, employers in Karachi would rarely accept late sign-ins or excuses. It is probably the only metropolis in the world where the transport infrastructure works against you reaching anywhere on time. This means many educated middle and upper-middle class men and women depend on ride-hailing apps for direct commute. But some I talked to also wondered out loud whether their complaints are “first-world problems” even when they directly affected their day-to-day routines.
“It has been a nightmare. Every day you wake up and wonder whether the Internet will work or not, which sets the tone for the day. Maybe, it is a first-world problem in a country like this, but it is true that we have come to depend on the Internet for commute, entertainment and ordering grocery,” says Maria.
Sindhu Abassi is a freelance contributor
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the author