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A Wake-Up Call Ignored — A Broader Reflection on Negligence, Nature, and National Accountability. The recent anecdote shared by Dr. Fakhrul Islam, and thoughtfully relayed via WhatsApp by Karamat Hussain Raja a month back, is far more than a witty reminiscence from the past. It is a mirror held up to the present—a powerful, albeit tragic, commentary on the way we continue to ignore nature’s warnings and encroach upon the spaces that were never meant for human settlement. The disaster in Swat, though only the most recent in a long series of similar catastrophes, calls for deeper introspection, not just about a single flood or region, but about a nationwide culture of administrative negligence and environmental disregard. Dr. Islam’s anecdote features the late Crown Prince of Swat, Miangul Aurangzeb, whose sharp wit was underscored by a profound understanding of natural justice. His fictional exchange with the rivers of Swat was not merely clever storytelling—it was a symbolic indictment of the repeated violations of ecological boundaries. The rivers, in his tale, had pleaded for their rightful space, warning that their wrath was not vengeance but justice reclaiming what was theirs. Unfortunately, we in Pakistan have turned such stories into reality. Across the country, and most perilously in ecologically fragile regions like Gilgit-Baltistan, unchecked urban expansion, unregulated tourism, and unplanned construction continue to pose existential threats to both people and the natural world. In Gilgit-Baltistan, for instance, communities live on the knife-edge of climate instability, hemmed in by glacial lakes, seismic fault lines, and steep terrains that magnify the impact of even minor environmental shifts. Yet buildings spring up at the very mouths of glacial outbursts, along active landslide zones, and on the banks of powerful mountain streams—rivers that have flowed for millennia with little tolerance for encroachment. It is not the rivers, glaciers, or rainfall that kill. It is the planners who didn’t plan, the administrators who didn’t enforce, and the political leadership that prioritized short-term populism over long-term resilience. Miangul Aurangzeb’s parable is, in effect, a parable for all of Pakistan. Our rivers have always spoken—through erosion, overflow, and shifting courses—but no one listens until tragedy strikes. Climate change has further compounded this crisis. Pakistan ranks among the most climate-vulnerable countries in the world. Gilgit-Baltistan alone is home to more than 7,000 glaciers, many of which are now melting at accelerated rates due to global warming. The resulting Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs) threaten not only life and property but also destroy the already scarce infrastructure—roads, bridges, water channels—on which isolated communities depend. And yet, development projects in such regions often ignore environmental impact assessments, or worse, proceed despite known risks. Administrative apathy exacerbates these vulnerabilities. Laws meant to regulate construction near riverbeds or restrict illegal logging often remain unenforced. When disaster strikes, the response is reactive: relief tents, food rations, and media statements—until the next flood washes away another village and the cycle resumes. This pattern of negligence perpetuates a tragic norm: that lives lost to natural disasters are somehow inevitable. In truth, they are not. What we need is a national awakening—a comprehensive shift in how we interact with nature and how our systems prioritize people’s safety over profit or political gains. Local governments, especially in high-risk regions like Swat and Gilgit-Baltistan, must be empowered with both the authority and resources to enforce land use regulations. Development should be guided not by political pressures but by climate science, ecological wisdom, and a commitment to future generations. Education too must play a role. As the story of Miangul Aurangzeb illustrates, wisdom does not come only from textbooks or technology, but from understanding our relationship with the natural world. If schoolchildren in Swat, Gilgit-Baltistan or elesewhere grow up learning that rivers, and flashflood courses, have rights and that mountains must be respected, then perhaps they will build differently—literally and metaphorically. In short, the tragedy in Swat is not just a local disaster; it is a national failing and a planetary warning. As Dr. Fakhrul Islam’s anecdote reminds us, nature does not speak in press conferences, but in floods, landslides, and glacial bursts. The rivers have warned us before, and they will warn again. The real question is: will we continue to ignore them until it is too late? Or will we, at long last, learn to listen? It is still time the Environmental Protectgion Agency (EPA) in collaboration with other allied agencies and respective administrative authorities, undertakes a meticulous survey of the region to pinpoint such vulnerabilities and and act strictly to correct these situations.
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