IN the mountains, rain is part of life.
It falls without fear, runs through stone and soil and settles into rivers that know how to carry it. But in recent years, the rain has changed. It no longer arrives gently or leaves quietly. It comes in bursts, loud, sudden and unforgiving, like a sky that no longer trusts the earth beneath it. This July, the damage could no longer be mistaken for chance. In Gilgit-Baltistan, landslides buried parts of the Babusar Road. In Islamabad, the narrow lanes of Saidpur are filled with muddy water, sweeping past homes older than the city’s parliament. In Chilas, tourists were carried off by floods. Some made it back, others did not. In Chakwal, nearly 423 millimeters of rain fell in a single day. Walls gave way, roofs caved in and homes turned into ponds of brown silence. In the Neelum Valley of Kashmir, entire roads disappeared beneath rock and water. In three weeks, more than 200 lives were lost. Most of them were not on any list until they were gone.
These are not unusual storms anymore. Meteorologists call them cloudbursts, a term as clinical as it is insufficient. For those who live through them, they are not weather events; they are the hour when everything changes. In a small village along a riverbank, a father stood still. The bridge that once connected his home to the world had vanished in the night. The water, now wide and violent, rushed over what was once a quiet stream. His son had not called since the evening before. The phone tower was out. So was the electricity. No one knew if the school across the river was still there. Pakistan is no stranger to rain, but something has shifted. The seasons used to come with rhythm and rules. Summer melted into monsoon and the rivers would rise slowly. Now, it is different. The rain strikes when it wants, with no warning and little mercy.
Yes, the planet is warmer. Climate scientists have warned about this warming for years. Warmer air holds more moisture. Glaciers melt faster. Rivers swell more quickly. And when the clouds burst, they do not sprinkle, they unload. In July, parts of Gilgit-Baltistan reached 48 degrees Celsius. That heat turned ice into floodwater and floodwater into destruction. But this story is not just about nature. It is about what we built in nature’s path. We built hotels along the Swat River, markets in Murree and concrete roads through forested valleys. We cleared trees, filled water channels with stones and paved over the earth’s memory of drainage. In our rush to welcome tourists, we forgot to respect the land that made tourism possible. So when it rains, the water does not wait. It rushes into homes, crashes through walls and finds its way through the same roads we once called development. We do not lack warnings. The Meteorological Department issues them often, though with outdated tools and limited reach. Sometimes they arrive late. Sometimes they arrive unnoticed. But more often, no one is listening.
What we do lack is preparation. Small dams could store floodwater, but a few have been built. Local governments are often the first to respond, yet the last to receive resources. Forests could slow the water, but they are being cut faster than replanted. Riverbanks, once natural buffers, are now sites of sand mining and illegal construction. And so the cost of each storm falls on those least able to bear it. A woman in Azad Kashmir lost her entire home. Not just the walls and roof, but the quilt her mother made, the books her children read and the kitchen where she made tea every evening. She did not want relief money. She wanted her routine back. If there is a solution, it will not come only from policies. It must come from the way we think about our place on this land. Preparedness is not just about machines or walls. It is about memory, humility and care.
In 2021, floods hit Germany’s Ahr Valley. The government reviewed its disaster response. Agencies talked to one another. Warning systems improved. In Japan, massive underground tunnels now redirect floodwaters away from cities. These countries did not stop the rain. They learned how to live with it. Pakistan must do the same. Not just for its cities, but for its villages. Not just for this monsoon, but for every season to come. Tourists heading into valleys must be briefed. Schools should teach children how to read a weather alert. Local communities should know when to evacuate and where to go. The information must flow faster than the water. This is not just a climate issue. It is a governance issue. A planning issue. A moral issue. The people of Chilas, Chakwal and Neelum do not need another camera crew or a minister’s visit. They need protection, policy and a promise that this will not keep happening every year. Because the sky is not done. It will roar again. And the question is not whether we can stop it, but whether we will be ready when it does.
—The writer is a young activist who comes from Islamabad and now lives in Dubai.
