Dr. Jazbia Abbasi
The reports of cloudbursts and floods emerging from various parts of Pakistan are deeply distressing. Homes submerged, roads turned into rivers—these scenes make it seem as though nature has made Pakistan its target. But is this merely nature’s doing, or have we invited this devastation with our own hands?
Floods are nothing new in Pakistan. 2010, 2011, 2020, 2022—every few years, floods arrive, wreak havoc, and then recede. Each time, the government announces relief, international agencies provide funds, and then everyone forgets. But the 2025 floods are different. This time, it’s not just heavy rains—cloudburst incidents have also been recorded, something rarely heard of before.
These floods have turned life upside down in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa’s Buner district and surrounding areas. In just one hour, the skies unleashed more rain than the region typically sees in an entire year. Roofs of houses, livestock pens, and mountain pathways—all were swept away in a single roar. The death toll keeps rising, dozens remain missing, and warnings of more rain are terrifying enough on their own. Whether it’s an official statement or an international news report, the numbers may vary, but the suffering is the same. This has been the most devastating monsoon spell of the year so far, and its effects are far from over.
Simply put, when moisture, atmospheric instability, and mountainous terrain combine, they create clouds that dump over 100 millimeters of water in just an hour over a few square kilometers. The result? Clouds above, slopes below, and settlements in between—disaster strikes. Experts say predicting such events is nearly impossible, but their intensity and frequency are increasing due to global warming. With every 1°C rise in temperature, the air’s capacity to hold moisture increases by about 7%. So why would rain fall gently? It will pour relentlessly. The sky’s fury reminds us that nature’s imbalance is a consequence of our own negligence.
According to the National Disaster Management Authority (NDMA), from June 26 to August 17, nationwide rainfall and flood-related deaths have reached the hundreds. Thousands of homes have been partially or completely destroyed, bridges have collapsed, and in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa alone, hundreds of kilometers of roads have been damaged. Buner, Swat, Shangla, Gilgit-Baltistan—the names change, but the scenes remain the same: homes buried under debris, bridges washed away, and makeshift camps under open skies. This is the cry of Buner’s survivors. Officials claim the rain was too sudden and intense for timely evacuations. The truth is, in some cases, warnings were insufficient; in others, accessibility was an issue; and in many, our own complacency—”Don’t worry, nothing will happen”—proved deadly.
Remember 2022? When floods killed at least 1,700 people nationwide, caused billions in economic losses, and left villages in Sindh and Balochistan submerged for months? To understand the causes, we must look at both global and domestic factors. Rising global temperatures have led to increased heavy precipitation events in South Asia, as warned by UN experts for years. In northern Pakistan, melting glaciers form lakes that eventually burst. The UNDP has projects for protective infrastructure, early warning systems, and community resilience—but these only work if we enforce hazard zoning laws and regulate construction accordingly.
We’ve cut down so many trees that the land can no longer absorb water. Illegal deforestation continues in northern regions, while authorities remain asleep. Unplanned construction on slopes, encroachments along rivers, and blocked storm drains—yet we pray for the water to pass by harmlessly. Our drains and rivers are clogged with garbage. No cleaning, no planning. When heavy rain comes, the water has nowhere to go, flooding streets and homes.
Internationally, injustice persists too. Major carbon-emitting nations evade responsibility. While the Loss and Damage Fund has been established, initial amounts are meager—announcements don’t patch the holes in the roofs of the homeless. Meanwhile, we continue settling in floodplains, altering natural waterways, and then wonder why the water doesn’t change its course.
Every time floods come, the prime minister calls an emergency meeting, aid is announced, and weeks later, everything is forgotten. When water reaches our doorstep, we scramble for tents, food packets, and temporary shelters. But what we need is **pre-disaster planning**: hazard zoning, strict land-use enforcement, early warning systems, and local volunteer networks.
We wake up only when water enters our living rooms. We build selfie spots in the middle of roads but ignore clogged drains. Our municipal philosophy? “The more you cover, the shinier it looks.” The result? Cities turn into oceans when it rains. The real news isn’t that roads became rivers—it’s that we turned rivers into roads.
After the 2010 floods, did we find a permanent solution? No. After the 2022 floods, did we build a major dam? No. We only react; we don’t take preventive measures.
Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf’s (PTI) “Billion Tree Tsunami” in KP restored over 350,000 hectares of land, earning international recognition. Later, the federal “Ten Billion Tree” program was launched, praised by the UN Environment Programme. Applause is due—but the truth is, even under PTI, urban planning saw no major reforms. Trees alone can’t stop floods; reforestation stabilizes slopes and reduces landslides, but when cloudbursts hit, weak urban planning and blocked drains render even trees helpless. Pakistan’s allies, financial institutions, and neighbors all share responsibility in this story. Post-2022, international agencies funded recovery—additional housing funds in Sindh, World Bank’s climate resilience frameworks. But aid must come with accountability.
This is not an accident—it’s a pattern. If relocating people from hazard zones has a political cost, pay it. Turn construction bylaws into concrete action. Restore natural waterways. Expand community-based warning systems. Conduct flood drills in schools. Make reforestation about watershed management, not just photo ops. Mangrove forests along coasts capture carbon and shield against storm surges—if we don’t plant this “green barrier” today, water will become our wall tomorrow.
If we still don’t learn, the next flood will leave us repeating: “This is God’s wrath!” When in truth, it’s the result of our own neglect. The sky doesn’t understand our politics—it simply pours. The question is, why don’t we learn to adapt instead of just flowing with the current?
The next time we build over a storm drain or sell plots in a river’s embrace, remember—we showed the water the way to our homes ourselves. And when the skies break open, they don’t see political flags—only slopes, drains, and drainage. Governments will change, but if awareness doesn’t, we’ll keep rewriting this article every monsoon—with new numbers, old tears, and the same question: **What have we learned?**
