Pakistan’s soil weeps once again under the deafening roar of floodwaters. When monsoon rain falls from the sky, they do not merely strike the earth as drops of water; they shatter hopes, wash away homes, and drown the fragile dreams of those who had so little to begin with.
This year, within just three weeks, over a hundred lives have been surrendered to the waters across Punjab, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, and Gilgit-Baltistan. Half of these were children, those tender buds that had not even bloomed. They were meant to hear the ringing of school bells, to laugh in playgrounds, to grow into the promise of tomorrow. Instead, they were carried away from the rooftops of their own homes, swallowed by a merciless flood.
Streets Turned into Rivers
The very streets that once echoed with the laughter of children playing cricket in the evenings are now streams of murky water, where boats float in place of bicycles, and garbage drifts where kites once soared. The walls of homes, which once stood as symbols of dignity and shelter, collapsed like sand under the force of the raging current. Everywhere lies the stench of rot, the slimy touch of moss, the suffocation of mud, and the unmistakable face of despair. Life itself seems submerged, and in the deafening roar of the flood, even human cries for help are drowned.
Rescue workers fight with all their strength, yet water, like fire, is a ruthless enemy. Its speed and ferocity defy the limits of human endurance. On one side stand helpless families waving frantically for salvation, while on the other, helicopters circle above—machines of hope that often fly away, leaving only the echo of their rotors behind. And then comes that unforgettable, stone-carving sight: a mother, hands raised in desperate pleas, yet met with nothing but noise, not solace.
More Than Just a Natural Disaster
What we face is not merely an act of nature. It is a cruel intersection of climate change and human negligence, a recurring tragedy that year after year forces us into mourning.
Do we not remember 2022? When nearly one-third of the entire country lay submerged? When were thirty million people displaced? When Pakistan bared its wounds before the world and pleaded for help? Aid was pledged, promises were made, and some relief arrived. But what did we truly learn from that catastrophe? Nothing. Today, once again, we stand unprepared, as if history had taught us no lesson at all.
The Mountains That Weep
Nowhere is the vulnerability starker than in Gilgit-Baltistan. Here, the glaciers, those ancient guardians of the valleys—are melting at unprecedented speed. Temperatures soar beyond 48°C, and glacial lakes threaten to burst at any moment, unleashing walls of water upon villages nestled below.
In a matter of minutes, entire hamlets vanish from the map. Courtyards that once rang with children’s laughter are now wastelands of stone and silence. Fields once green with crops lie buried beneath silt and rubble.
The so-called early warning systems, once promised with great fanfare, either were never built or collapsed like paper under the first assault of the flood. How could a mother, singing a lullaby to her child in the fragile shelter of her home, ever know that within moments a torrent of icy water would sweep away her entire existence?
Cities of Our Own Undoing
The planes are a little better. Our cities did not drown merely in rainfall—they drowned in the consequences of our own reckless urbanization. Lahore, Karachi, Islamabad—each a graveyard of broken promises and poor planning.
We buried natural drainage channels beneath layers of concrete. We sold off the green belts that once softened the rivers’ rage. Illegal housing societies mushroomed before our very eyes, and instead of curbing them, we legitimized them with permits and approvals.
So, when the rain fell, where was the water going? It entered our homes, seeped into our children’s beds, and carried away not just furniture and possessions, but also the fragile scaffolding of hope itself.
The Vicious Cycle of Forgetting
Why does this happen every time? Why do we always resign ourselves to a few tents, a few sacks of grain, and yet another international loan?
The floods of 2010 brought us to our knees, and we borrowed. The year after, again we borrowed. The floods of 2022, once more, sent us begging. And today, in 2025, the story remains unchanged.
Billions of dollars have been borrowed, and while one generation has already gone to its grave repaying them, the next stands on the brink, and a third is already bent beneath the same burden. Our schools, hospitals, and clean water projects are sacrificed at the altar of this endless debt.
Worse still, what do we build with those loans? Instead of resilient homes for the poor, we see the rise of luxury colonies—new DHAs and Bahria Towns—while the cries of the flood-affected are silenced beneath the din of construction machinery. This cruel cycle of “flood and forgetting” seems unbreakable.
The Human Wounds That Never Heal
Floodwater does not merely demolish walls, wash away crops, or tear apart roads and bridges. They break human hearts, scatter dreams, and crush the very essence of humanity.
When a mother watches her child slip into the torrent before her helpless eyes, it leaves a wound upon the soul that no medicine can ever heal. When a father sees his family rendered homeless, his silence is heavier than death itself.
After the 2022 floods, studies revealed that families who received timely psychological support recovered far better. But the majority lived with nightmares for years. Children trembled at the sound of rain. Women shivered at the sight of rising water. Yet these invisible wounds are always neglected. We rush to repair broken roads, but who repairs broken minds?
The Urgent Need for New Politics
It is time to abandon the politics of reaction and embrace the politics of preparation. We need early warning systems that exist not merely on paper but in reality—systems that can sound alarms, guide evacuations, and save lives before disaster strikes.
Our meteorological offices must not stop at forecasting; they must issue actionable instructions at the district level: when to open a dam, when to evacuate a village, when to halt transport.
Our cities must be given room to breathe. Floodplains are not vacant land for profiteering; they are natural buffers, our last line of defense. Construction of them must be banned outright. Green belts are not expendable luxuries; they are lifelines. Islamabad, Lahore, and Rawalpindi cannot be suffocated beneath the weight of endless gated societies.
Breaking the Chains of Debt
Above all, Pakistan must break free from the curse of debt-driven disaster response. Why can we not establish a National Climate Resilience Fund—a transparent, accountable pool supported by overseas Pakistanis, philanthropists, zakat, and charitable donations?
If properly organized, such resources could strengthen embankments, build durable housing, and enhance drainage systems, rather than vanishing into the black hole of emergency tents and short-term relief. Imagine if every rupee spent today on flimsy shelters was instead invested in resilient villages, how much suffering could be spared tomorrow?
Healing the Hidden Scars
And yet, the most neglected need remains psychological and social healing. Floods do not leave behind only mud and wreckage; they leave scars on the human spirit. We must stand beside survivors not only with food and blankets, but with counseling, solidarity, and communal strength.
So, when the waters recede, no family feels abandoned in silence.
Climate Change Is No Distant Threat
Let us be clear: climate change is not a threat to the future. It is here, it is now, it is the roar of our rivers, the collapse of our hillsides, the storm pounding upon our rooftops. Pakistan, though contributing less than one percent of global emissions, bears some of the heaviest burdens.
We released little carbon but displayed boundless apathy. And it is this apathy that transforms every rainfall into a calamity.
A Final Plea
Let this monsoon not be remembered only for the lives it claimed, but for the lessons it finally compelled us to learn. Let us rise beyond the thinking of tents and boats. Let reconstruction be not just for today, but for generations unborn that no child ever waves a piece of cloth from a rooftop, no mother ever cries out to a passing helicopter in vain.
O my homeland, how long will you continue to drown? How long will you count the corpses of your children? How long will you suffocate under the burden of debt? Awake, transformed one day, the rivers carry away not just villages, but the very existence of the nation itself.
Comments are closed, but trackbacks and pingbacks are open.