Drowning in silence

It always begins the same way. A dark sky. A quiet unease. And then, suddenly, too much rain. But this time, in eastern Punjab, the water did not stop. Not for homes. Not for lives. Not even for memory.

Villages near the Sutlej were swallowed whole. Entire families were forced to climb trees, wait on rooftops, or cling to anything that floated. Crops were gone. Livestock swept away. There were mothers carrying their children through water up to their waists, not even knowing where the road had disappeared.

Over 1,200 people have lost their lives to flooding across Pakistan since June. Nearly half of them in August alone. These are not just statistics. They are stories cut short. The girl who never returned from school. The farmer who stayed behind to guard his cattle. The grandmother who waited too long for someone to come.

The truth is none of this is new. We see these images every year. Floods arrive, alarms are raised, news cycles stir for a while, and then everything fades until the next monsoon. But in places like Bahawalnagar, Kasur and Okara, it does not fade. It stays. In the form of broken homes, makeshift shelters and the smell of damp earth that will linger for weeks. Maybe longer.

You can ask, as we always do, why does this keep happening? And the answer, once again, is not just the rain. It is our readiness, or lack of it. Many people in the flood-hit areas say they received no warning. No alerts. No official message. Just the sound of water growing louder. Sirens, loudspeakers, even simple mobile alerts could have saved lives. But they came too late, or not at all.

Relief camps have now been set up. Some have tents. Many do not. Clean drinking water is short. Medicines are hard to find. People sleep on the ground, soaked and sleepless. Volunteers try their best. Neighbours help each other. But this cannot be the only plan we rely on year after year.

Climate change is not waiting. Pakistan contributes very little to global emissions, yet we suffer among the most. Our glaciers are melting. Our monsoons are unpredictable. Our rivers are rising faster. This is not a distant threat. It is already happening, and we are not prepared.

What should we do? The answers are not complicated. Set up real, working early warning systems that reach even the most remote villages. Build elevated shelters that are permanent, not temporary. Train local rescue teams before the rains come. Equip them with boats, gear, maps, and a clear chain of command. Protect the forests. Trees are not decoration. They hold the land in place. We cut them, and the land gives way.

We also need to rethink where we allow homes to be built. If certain areas flood every two or three years, we cannot keep putting people back there without proper support. Relocation is not just about moving people. It is about giving them something better, something safer.

People do not want our pity. They want to be safe in their homes. They want a government that plans before, not after. They want to feel seen before they are underwater.

Let's not pretend this is just bad weather. Climate change is real, and it is already here. The rivers have spoken. Again. The question is, have we listened? Because if we have not, the next flood will not ask for permission. And it will not wait for us to catch up.

It is time we stopped being surprised by something we could have seen coming. This time, we have no excuse.