The sea that once sustained generations is now stripped by deep-sea trawlers, leaving Gwadar’s fishermen adrift and uncertain.
In Gwadar’s Padi Zer, where the towering silhouette of Koh-i-Batil meets the endless shores of the Arabian Sea, the fishermen push their boats into the surf as the evening tide rolls in. The sun casts golden shadows over the water as others offload their modest haul from ice boxes.
A small crowd gathers, murmuring with hope, asking for fish to take home. But the replies come tinged with disappointment, echoing in Balochi: “Mahee ady jend nest” (there’s no fish today). Still, a few kaashuk-loojar (sardines) are handed out, small offerings from a sea that gives only just enough. The process takes over an hour, as the sparse catch is finally carted off in qingqi rickshaws to fish trading companies.
As the sun sinks lower, one of the sailors returns to Padi Zer, now seated across Waado Aani Jah — the boat makers’ point — alongside other fishermen sipping their chai ordered from a nearby teashop. The salt still clings to his skin, his clothes still carrying the scent of the sea. You wonder aloud how he’s found the time to return, barely bathed, barely rested. He offers a knowing smile and says:
“I return to remind myself — and my conscience — that we don’t turn to the sea just for a living, we belong to it. No matter the odds and challenges.”
Yet, beyond these shores, new boundaries appear. The same people who have always lived by the sea now find themselves edged out of places they once moved through freely.
Koh-i-Batil — the heart of Gwadar’s landscape — spans vast across the landscape. From its peak, the entire city stretches out in a breathtaking panorama: sunlit waters, winding roads, the pulse of a city shaped by sea and stone. But today, this landmark is a restricted area. Visitors have to wait, present their IDs, and are often denied access altogether. Even those allowed through are confined to a single section of the mountain.
One can’t help but think: Did the indigenous people of Gwadar ever imagine that “development” would fence them out of their own heritage? Can progress truly uplift a community if it erases their access to the very spaces that gave them meaning?
key player in China’s economic ambitions. Situated in Pakistan’s volatile Balochistan province near the Iranian border, it has been thrust into the spotlight as a key node in the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) — a large-scale infrastructure and economic development project initiated by China in 2013. Amid barren deserts and jagged mountains, this remote city is being fantasised as the next big commercial hub, a gateway for Chinese trade and investment into the region.
Home to an indigenous Baloch fishing community, the city is home to approximately 100,000 residents whose lives are still defined by hardship. Electricity is sourced from across the border in Iran, but it’s erratic at best. And while CPEC’s vision has yet to bring tangible change to Gwadar, the city’s struggles don’t end there. More than the economic exclusion, the sea itself, seems to be slipping away. Clean water is scarce and the once-abundant sea now yields little more than scraps, picked over by industrial deep-sea trawlers before reaching local shores.
It’s no secret that Gwadar is reeling from the impact of deep-sea trawling. As fish disappear from its waters, indigenous fisherfolk are left struggling to sustain their way of life.
The 750km coastline of Balochistan — including towns and cities such as Gwadar, Pasni, Ormara, Ganz, Pishukan, Jewani, Surbandan, along with surrounding fishing villages — has long supported communities that lived in harmony with the sea. However, illegal, unreported, and unregulated (IUU) deep-sea trawling has crippled local fish production and inflicted lasting damage on the marine ecosystem.
Saki Baksh, a fisherman from Gwadar, explained the scale of the crisis: “Even 10 days of our hard work at sea can’t match what a single trawler catches in one day.”
Balochistan Fisheries Ordinance, 1971.
Nako Chakar, an 80-year-old former fisherman, no longer goes to sea but still walks the Gwadar shoreline, listening to the fishermen as they unload their catch. Their conversations tell a different story now — of vanishing fish, changing nets, and a sea no longer as generous.
“When your livelihood depends on something, you treat it with care,” he reflected. “For us, the sea was sacred. I remember waiting for my father’s return with the day’s catch. My sons once waited for me the same way. Now I watch them return frustrated, cursing the trawlers that swept away the fish from their nets.”
“We used to catch fish with ease, each season bringing its own bounty,” he reflected. I would ride a camel to nearby towns to sell our catch. But when the trawlers arrived, we didn’t realise what was coming. We just saw big boats — never imagining they’d end up destroying our coast.“
Local fishermen operate in small, single-engine boats that allow them to navigate carefully without disrupting others or risking collisions. In contrast, deep-sea trawlers — large vessels with around 40 crew members — move at high speeds, often crashing into these smaller boats and causing significant damage.
While local fishermen work 12-hour shifts, trawlers operate around the clock. Equipped with three engines, generators, diesel fuel, and ice storage, they tow massive nets that sweep both surface and deep-sea fish. Their fine-mesh plastic nets, also known as gillnets, trap even the smallest fish, pushing certain species toward extinction.
Right: Two types of nets used by deep-sea trawlers.
Unsurprisingly, the actions of deep-sea trawlers have become rather brazen today; they frequently detain, attack, and intimidate local fishermen. On May 28, 2024, an incident in Gwadar saw a trawler crew murder a local fisherman and abduct another. In response, fishing communities and local activists launched protests, blocking major highways. Outraged by the unchecked violence and looting, they decried that deep-sea trawlers operate with impunity under the protection of powerful authorities and remain above the law.
According to one fisherman, who spoke on condition of anonymity, encounters with trawler crews can be dangerous. “They are often armed. If a local boat crosses their path, they don’t hesitate to fire warning shots,” he said.
Aziz Peer Baksh, CEO of Atlantic Seafood Company, a locally owned enterprise in Pasni, also pointed to the destructive practices of large trawlers operating in the region. He said that the trawlers transport their catch to Karachi, where it is processed for export. “They often capture massive bycatches — including turtles, dolphins, sharks, whales, and squid — which they sell to seafood companies at low prices,” he claimed.
According to Baksh, the production of key species such as sardines, Indian mackerel, green mussels, pomfret, mud crabs, sole fish, shrimp, and prawns has plummeted. “This sharp decline has pushed our incomes to the brink of collapse and endangered marine life,” he added. “Local fishermen and sailors who once supplied fish across Balochistan and Karachi are now struggling. The reason is clear: they are bringing in fewer fish than ever before.”
United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), 1982, United Nations General Assembly (UNGA) resolutions (61/105, 64/72, 66/68, 71/123), and international guidelines on fishing by the Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) call for urgent action to conserve and manage vulnerable marine ecosystems (VMEs) in the high seas.
Moreover, Goal 14 of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) calls for the sustainable management and protection of marine ecosystems. As a result, several countries, including the United States, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia, have either banned or regulated commercial fishing by deep-sea trawlers in vulnerable areas.
Ellie Hooper, an oceans campaigner at the Greenpeace Aotearoa — one of New Zealand’s largest environmental organisations — explained in an article that bottom trawlers use various types of nets indiscriminately, regardless of the fish’s seasonal availability. This approach threatens marine life, as species are caught regardless of their breeding seasons. Trawlers drag large and heavy nets across the sea floor, plowing through biologically rich and diverse ecosystems, crushing corals, sponges, various aquatic species and their habitats as they go.
For this reason, bottom trawling has a large bycatch impact, with many non-target species being fished in the process. The article further stated that “dragging heavy nets across the seabed disturbs marine sediments, which is the world’s largest carbon sink”, highlighting the practice’s significant contribution to climate change.
In 2021, a groundbreaking study published in Nature, an international journal, revealed that fishing boats using heavy nets to trawl the seafloor — often at great depths — release as much carbon dioxide as the entire aviation industry.
Moreover, according to the Second World Ocean Assessment (WOA II), “fishing, especially bottom trawling, constitutes the greatest current threat to seamount ecosystems”.
Overfishing has led to a sharp decline in fish populations, with many fish being caught before reaching maturity. “Like all living creatures, fish need time to grow, but they’re often caught at the larval stage,” he explained.
He noted that fishing practices have drastically changed over time. In the past, small-scale fishermen would spend only three to four hours at sea, while larger boats stayed out for seven to 10 days. Today, smaller boats are staying out for as long as eight hours, with some even making multiple trips within a 24-hour window.
“The pressure to earn quick profits has placed an immense burden on the sea,” he added.
According to him, fishing techniques have also changed significantly, with modern nets featuring smaller mesh sizes and stretching over much longer distances — ranging from five to 30 kilometres (km) — compared to the larger, shorter nets used in the past. He added that previously, fishermen targeted specific species based on season and demand. Today, they catch whatever they can find, driven by market needs. “Every size and type of fish is now bought, further worsening overfishing,” Nadeem said.
“Deep-sea trawlers are to be blamed for the use of fine mesh nets, rampant overfishing, increasing number of boats, destructive fishing techniques, and the disregard for seasonal restrictions. These practices have caused irreversible damage,” the official acknowledged.
Though legal frameworks such as the Sindh Fisheries Ordinance of 1980 and the Balochistan Sea Fisheries Ordinance of 1971 are in place to protect vulnerable marine species — including various types of sharks — their enforcement remains largely ineffective. For instance, the Marine and Fisheries Department in Gwadar confirmed that the Karinj (Mobula) is now extinct, with only 17 recorded sightings between 2021 and 2022. The sawfish has disappeared entirely.
12 nautical miles of a country’s Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ), and larger vessels must remain at least 35 miles from the shoreline. Yet, these regulations are routinely flouted.
“There is an entire chain of officials who take bribes from the trawler mafia, turning a blind eye to these violations,” said KB Firaq, a Baloch educator and social activist from Gwadar. “Anyone standing on the shore can see trawlers openly fishing in Gwadar’s waters.”
A local fish trader Rasheed from Pasni echoed this concern, alleging that the Fisheries Department receives substantial bribes from deep-sea trawler operators, which is why they are able to operate freely without any restrictions.
Nadeem, director of the said department, acknowledged that while the department is large and it’s possible that some individuals may be involved in corrupt practices, there is no confirmed evidence to support such claims.
He further elaborated on the difficulties in enforcing fishing regulations, particularly when it comes to monitoring vast stretches of the sea. “The sea is huge — it can’t be monitored like a road. By the time we receive information and reach the spot, the deep-sea trawlers have usually fled. In today’s social media age, fishermen often post videos online instead of informing local fisheries coordinators, which delays our response. These posts sometimes alert the trawler operators as well, giving them time to escape. If we’re properly informed and fail to act, we can be held accountable,” he stated.
His words, however, hold little solace for Nahuda Khuda Dost Wajo, a sailor and president of the Mahigeer Ittehad — which fights for the fisherfolk’s rights. “The trawlers have already destroyed other seas, and now they are doing the same to ours. At this rate, we’ll have no catch left in two years.”
The impact of overfishing has also changed the economics of the industry. The value of fish — once determined by size, weight, and shine — has diminished. “Fish don’t get a chance to grow or mature anymore. Their size has shrunk, their luster has faded,” Wajo lamented.
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