THERE is a road from Muzaffarabad to Chakar, Sudhan Gali and Ganga Choti that is, on a clear day, one of the most beautiful drives in Azad Kashmir.
Clouds drift low across the mountains, deodar trees stand in long silent rows and the blue water of Zilzal Lake appears suddenly between the hills. It is the kind of road that briefly makes you forget everything else. People who travelled this road fifteen or twenty years ago remember something more than just the view. The forests were denser then. In some places, the trees were so thick that daylight barely reached the road below. These forests were not simply part of the scenery. They protected the mountains, sheltered wildlife and quietly sustained the natural balance of the entire region.
Over the years, that balance has slowly weakened. Hotels appeared near the tree line. Shops spread deeper into the hills. Trees disappeared and construction moved forward with little planning. Much of this happened in the name of tourism and development, but very little attention was paid to what these changes meant for the landscape itself. As forests retreated and human settlements pushed further into previously undisturbed areas, wildlife gradually began losing space. This pattern is not limited to Azad Kashmir. Across Pakistan’s northern regions, the same story can be seen. A few days ago, that reality became impossible to ignore. Two men from Sarbala Salmia village near Chakar, Muhammad Rafique and Muhammad Akram, were returning home at night when they were attacked by a herd of wild boars. Both men were critically injured and later died. The incident brought the usual reaction. The Wildlife Department was blamed. The government was criticized. Photographs circulated on social media for a few days. Fear and anger spread quickly and then, like most things in this country, the attention moved elsewhere. But one important question remained behind: why are wild boars increasingly reaching human settlements in the first place? The answer lies beyond a single incident.
Wild boars are highly adaptable animals. They reproduce quickly, travel long distances in search of food and survive in conditions where many other species struggle. For decades, forests gave them everything they needed: shelter, water, food and safety. But when forests shrink and human activity spreads deeper into mountain areas, the distance between wildlife and people begins to disappear. The animals do not suddenly become aggressive without reason. They follow food and survival. Increasingly, that path now runs through farms, village edges and mountain roads. This is not just a Pakistani problem. From the United States to Australia, governments now use wildlife management programmes, drone monitoring and buffer zones to reduce conflict between wild boars and human settlements. Many European countries also report increasing sightings near urban areas. The difference is that most countries have recognized that environmental disruption affects both animals and people and that planning before tragedy matters more than reacting after it.
In northern Pakistan and Azad Kashmir, several problems are now feeding into each other. Deforestation continues despite repeated plantation campaigns. Climate change is affecting rainfall, water sources and food availability in high forests. Unregulated tourism is putting additional pressure on already fragile mountain ecosystems. At the same time, the institutions responsible for managing forests and wildlife often lack resources, planning and long-term coordination. Nowadays, in villages near forests, people avoid travelling alone after dark. Farmers report growing damage to crops. Children and elderly residents are often the most vulnerable. This is no longer only an environmental issue. It is also becoming a question of public safety and daily life. The government’s responsibilities are clear. Authorities need to identify high-risk areas, conduct proper wildlife surveys and strengthen response teams in affected regions. Local communities should also be provided with practical support such as solar fencing, crop compensation and early warning systems.
At the same time, responsibility does not rest with the state alone. In many rural areas, open garbage dumps near homes remain common, attracting wild animals closer to villages and farmland. Illegal logging, poaching and the destruction of forest cover continue despite repeated warnings about environmental damage. Communities living close to forests are themselves under economic pressure, but the long-term consequences of environmental neglect are becoming harder to ignore. The mountains around Ganga Choti are still beautiful. Chakar’s valleys still attract visitors. Zilzal Lake is still blue. But beneath that beauty, something quieter is changing. Forests are shrinking, wildlife is losing ground and fear is entering places where it did not exist before. We build roads, expand hotels and celebrate rising tourism numbers. Perhaps that is progress. But if development comes at the cost of making these mountains less safe for the people who actually live there, then it is worth asking what kind of progress this really is. The deaths of Muhammad Rafique and Muhammad Akram were not just an isolated tragedy on a mountain road. They were also a warning about a balance that is slowly breaking down. And unlike the brief outrage that follows such incidents, that warning is unlikely to disappear quietly.
—The writer is a young activist who comes from Islamabad and now lives in Dubai.
