Six years ago on a crisp November day, a group of workers in the afternoon shift at Rajput Polyester dispersed for the Maghrib prayers. The 30,000-square foot factory was located in a busy neighbourhood within Sundar Industrial Estate, located 45 kilometres from Lahore’s epicentre.

Around 5pm, with nearly 150 workers inside the premises,the two-storey building came crashing down.

The collapse was theworst industrial disasterin Pakistan since the 2012 factory fires in Karachi and Lahore, and killed 45 people while injuring roughly one hundred others. What followed were grim accounts of suffering: on-site amputations, victims perishing in the arms of rescue workers, and the lingering cries of trapped workers.

So what happened after the Rajput Polyester factory came tumbling down and disappeared from public consciousness?

It appeared unexpected to some, as Sundar Industrial Estate remains one of the country’s most acclaimed industrial park projects.

“I never expected such news from Sundar,” says Tariq Mehmood, a steel fabricator with a unit inside the estate, “Sundar introduced a facilitative culture where you weren’t being quibbled by corrupt officers and bureaucratic red tape at each turn.”

In the immediate aftermath of the rescue operation, one question lingered on everyone’s mind: who is to be held responsible?The obvious scapegoat was Rana Ashraf, the factory owner who died in the collapse;it is now believed that Mr Ashraf was aware of cracks that had recently emerged in the building’s concrete structure owing to persistent vibrations from the newly installed machinery on the top floor.

After many weeks, the investigative committee set up by the then chief minister Shehbaz Sharif implicated a number of individuals, including Ashraf, his architect and some of the individuals involved in the map approval process.

“This won’t solve anything” was the indubitable consensus during a series of deliberations among the estate’s Board of Management consisting of a scattershot of resident industrialists.

Taking days at a stretch away from their businesses, the board members started a campaign to convince their peers that real change was needed.

The message was rudimentary, yet effective: we can blame bureaucrats, government officials and policymakers all we want, but nothing changes until we – the manufacturers, industrialists, businessmen -- mend our ways.

The consensus was: structure stability certificates, seen for too long as another layer of bureaucratic red-tapism, must not be delayed or circumvented; building by-laws, generally deemed ungainly hurdles to growth, will no longer be negotiated; and any action that jeopardizes occupational safety in the pursuit of profit, will be penalized.

“Buy it”, spurted an influential member during an informal committee meeting, visibly shaken by a debate on the justification of purchasing international standard safety apparatus “even if there is no precedent set by other agencies. If it saves even one life, it is worth it”.

‘One life’ usually does not tip the scales in a city like Lahore, plagued with bomb blasts and police encounters for more than a decade, but it did on that day.

There were some reform attempts at the provincial and national level, leading to increased activity within risk mitigation and disaster response bodies. Industrial and labour rights non-profits also sprung into action, and for a few months at least, there seemed at least some seriousness of intent.

Yet, there are countless stories that will never get the spotlight.

There were the resident factories that fed, bathed, and warmed the rescue workers for weeks without any recognition. There was the team of army surgeons, who volunteered to perform onsite surgeries without rest.

And the dozens of firefighters, who would never be honoured. There would be no crowd-sourced fundraisers to raise money for their children’s educations nor any monuments to commemorate their bravery.

Of course, there were those too who chose to profit from tragedy.

Not long after the disaster, this writer was approached by a gentleman named Aslam, who claimed to be a protégé of the deceased factory owner. He was convinced that he held a generous ownership stake in the factory. Unable to make headway, he smiled, shook hands and never showed up again.

Then there was the retired army officer, who was sent to help clean up the debris from the site as a charitable action. Later, it transpired that he aimed to make some bucks by selling offwhatever machinery or valuables he could salvage from the rubble.

A quick drive through the industrial estate today, with its sprawling green public parks, large digital displays, and modern minimalist facades, you’d think the events of Nov 4, 2015 are all but forgotten.

But, as you cut across the main artery and see the fire tenders and rescue vehicles lined up in front of an imposing building marked ‘Industrial Safety Unit’ in large acrylic letters,a glimmer of hope arises that perhaps, on this rare occasion, a lesson has been learnt.

The author is a digital media policy advisor and documentary filmmaker based in Toronto, Canada.

Published in Dawn, December 26th, 2021