PUBLISHED
September 14, 2025
KARACHI:
When the rains came this year, the fields in southern Punjab turned into shallow lakes overnight. Families marked the rising water on their walls, livestock was shifted to rooftops, and crops that had taken months of labour were destroyed in hours. In the north, flash floods in Buner carried away roads, homes and entire hillsides, the torrents made worse by slopes stripped of their forest cover. In Sindh and Karachi, familiar scenes unfolded: neighbourhoods drowning in knee-deep water, drainage channels choking, markets closing as the monsoon forced its way through the city.
The destruction is not new. From the “super floods” of 2010 to the devastation of 2022, Pakistan has lived through disasters that displaced millions and left damages in the billions. In 2025, the cycle has repeated again, exposing the same weaknesses that were supposed to have been addressed.
Once more, the public debate has narrowed to a single question: if only more dams had been built, could this have been avoided? The answer is more complicated. Experts say dams can help but cannot stop monsoon cloudbursts, flash floods on degraded slopes, or urban waterways blocked by encroachments. Even in China, where thousands of dams exist, flooding remains a reality. Pakistan’s challenge is far broader: a crisis of governance, of planning, of lost forests and unprepared cities.
The waters will eventually recede, as they always do. But the questions left behind are the same: why warnings failed, why lessons from 2022 were not applied, and why a country living on the frontline of climate change still treats floods as a passing emergency rather than a permanent national challenge.
The dam debate – a convenient smokescreen
Each monsoon brings back the same refrain, “if only Pakistan had built more dams, this would not have happened.” It is a line repeated in parliament, echoed across talk shows, and invoked as the simplest explanation to a complex crisis. Dams are presented as the missing shield, the structure that could have kept floodwaters at bay.
There is some truth in the argument. Pakistan’s surface storage is alarmingly low, only about 30 days of average river flow compared to India’s 170 or the United States’ 900. Every major flood revives the demand to “catch up” by constructing more mega reservoirs. But as Dr Hassan Abbas is an expert in hydrology and water resources points out, the numbers don’t add up.
“Back to the numbers, the Tarbela dam can hold 12 bcm, Mangla 7 bcm, all other smaller ones combined, another 3 bcm. Kalabagh, if it is ever built, would add a modest 6 bcm. But we are up against 135 bcm during the monsoon. And once the dams are filled, the river is wild again,” he said.
The scale of the Indus floods, in other words, is far greater than what dams can contain. Even when dams are built, they silt up in a generation or two, reducing their capacity. Worse still, dams and diversions dry out wetlands and riverine forests that once acted as natural buffers. “These natural ecosystems are like sponges, they absorb water during the wet seasons and gradually release it during the dry season and they perform the most important function of breaking the flood peaks during torrential downpours,” notes Dr Abbas.
For him, the entire philosophy of ‘controlling’ floods with concrete has run its course. “The concept of fighting and controlling the floods through changing natural systems is outdated,” he argues, adding that the approach of change-fight-control has to gradually, and systematically metamorphose into a conform-adapt-manage approach.
This shift becomes even more urgent under climate change. “Pakistan’s rivers will first see bigger and heavier clouds that would bring more water in the rivers, followed by longer droughts and heavier flooding as glaciers retreat,” he warns.
These are flows no dam can permanently tame. “The scale of these floods cannot be handled with existing or even additional dams,” says Dr Abbas, describing how barrages, levees and engineered channels have often made flooding worse by raising riverbeds and weakening floodplains.
Instead, Dr. Abbas calls for restoring river systems and unlocking the storage already lying under Pakistan’s feet. His most striking claim is about the country’s aquifers. “Pakistan’s riverine aquifers, if replenished systematically, could provide up to ten times more storage than our existing reservoirs, without the evaporation losses or sedimentation risks. Unlike dams, aquifers do not displace people, do not fill with silt, and can hold more water than the largest reservoir ever built in the country,” he informed.
The numbers are staggering. He estimates the fresh water in riverine aquifers at more than 400 million acre feet, equivalent to over 1,000 days of storage, compared to Pakistan’s current 30 days in surface dams. “This reservoir of water is so vast, it ranks among the natural wonders of the world,” he said. “If managed properly, this alone could secure Pakistan against both floods and the longest conceivable droughts.”
But the choice is political. For decades, Pakistan’s water planning has been driven by the visibility of mega structures, the lure of foreign loans, and the politics of dam-building. The quieter, less visible solutions – aquifer recharge, wetlands restoration, reforestation of floodplains – have remained sidelined. Dr. Abbas warns that continuing down the current path is not only risky but dangerous, saying, “Putting cascades of dams along the rivers and constructing higher dykes to restrict river’s flooding would only increase the damages in case of failure.”
The debate on dams may dominate every monsoon, but as Dr. Abbas’s research makes clear, Pakistan cannot build its way out of floods with concrete alone. Real resilience lies in living with water, not fighting it. That means restoring wetlands, protecting forests, recharging aquifers, and giving rivers the space they need. Yet this shift depends not only on science but also on governance. It is the responsibility of agencies like the NDMA and PDMA to translate forecasts into warnings, and warnings into action. The question is whether those lessons have been learned, or whether, as in 2022, millions were once again left exposed when the rains came.
Governance and institutional failures
If the debate on dams exposes one side of Pakistan’s flood crisis, the failures of governance expose the other. Even the most accurate forecasts lose their value if they do not reach people in time, or if they are too vague to trigger action.
This year, once again, warnings were delayed or ineffective. The Pakistan Meteorological Department issued forecasts of heavy rainfall, but the communication to the public and provincial authorities lacked clarity. In many districts, families said they received no formal alerts before water entered their homes. A report noted that NDMA’s red alerts were often vague, provide little actionable guidance, and are not well coordinated, leaving citizens unprepared and local officials unsure of what steps to take.
The criticism is not new. After the devastation of 2022, when more than 30 million people were affected, NDMA promised a stronger early warning system. Its National Disaster Risk Reduction Strategy 2025–2030 laid out ambitious goals, “Modernising preparedness and response systems, improving anticipatory action mechanisms, and ensuring that warnings are impact-based rather than data-heavy.” Yet, three years later, the experience of communities suggests that much of this remains on paper.
The institutional confusion makes matters worse. The Meteorological Department issues forecasts, IRSA manages river flows, provincial PDMAs are responsible for on-ground response, and Rescue 1122 is called in for evacuations. When so many agencies share the responsibility, the public often asks: what is NDMA actually doing, beyond issuing press releases after disasters have already struck?
Parliamentary committees have raised similar concerns. In August 2025, members questioned why, despite large budgets and international pledges, agencies remained unable to give timely alerts. One lawmaker observed that, “Forecasts are still treated as background information, not as instructions that must be acted upon.” The gap between science and governance is evident, and it is often the poorest who pay the price.
For NDMA, the task is not only to issue warnings but also to ensure that they reach the last mile. That means translating technical forecasts into simple language, disseminating alerts through phones, radios, mosques, and community networks, and linking every warning to a concrete action plan. A farmer in Sindh does not need to know millimeters of rainfall. He needs to know if his village will be inundated, how deep the water might be, and whether evacuation is necessary.
As one disaster management expert put it in a recent interview, “People act on impacts, not on millimeters. Warnings must say who will get wet, how deep, and by what hour.” Until NDMA and provincial bodies accept this principle, the cycle of warnings without preparation will continue.
NDMA’s flood alert system
NDMA has invested in a digital flood alert system linked to the Pakistan Meteorological Department and provincial disaster authorities. In theory, alerts are sent via SMS, broadcast on television and radio, and shared with district administrations. In practice, the system breaks down at the most crucial step: turning a forecast into a clear, actionable warning for communities in danger. Messages are often generic, warning of “heavy rainfall” without specifying which villages are at risk, how high water could rise, or when evacuation is necessary.
The authority has also launched the PAK NDMA–Disaster Alert mobile application, which is meant to provide real-time flood and weather warnings. Yet its efficiency has been questioned. Alerts often arrive late, and coverage is patchy. More importantly, during heavy rains and flooding, many people do not have reliable access to smartphones, internet, or even electricity. For those most at risk, the app fails to fulfil its purpose.
Neighbouring countries offer sharper examples. In Bangladesh, flood alerts are issued in local languages through mobile networks, mosque loudspeakers, and community volunteers. Warnings are impact-based, telling residents not just about rainfall but about what to expect, for example, “water will reach waist height in your area, move livestock to higher ground.” In India, the Central Water Commission issues daily bulletins naming rivers, districts, and likely impacts, giving local administrations time to prepare. Pakistan’s alerts, by comparison, remain too technical and too detached from community realities.
Disaster experts stress that improvement does not require new satellites or more technology, but better communication. Alerts must be hyper-local, translated into plain language, and tied to pre-agreed evacuation and relief plans. Until then, the gap between forecast and action will keep leaving citizens unprepared.
Despite years of promises of reform, the human toll this year has been staggering. According to NDMA’s own SitRep, from June 26 to September 12, 2025, at least 956 people lost their lives and 1,062 were injured. Punjab and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa bore the highest casualties, with 268 and 504 deaths respectively. The causes of death tell their own story: nearly half were due to flash floods while another quarter came from houses collapsing in the rains.
The destruction of homes and livelihoods was equally severe. 8,481 houses were damaged across the country, with KP alone losing over 3,200 and Gilgit-Baltistan more than 1,200. Nearly 6,500 livestock perished, a loss that hits rural families the hardest. Roads and bridges worth hundreds of kilometers were washed away, including 431 km in KP and 201 km in Azad Jammu and Kashmir, cutting off entire valleys.
The NDMA also recorded 5,399 rescue operations that evacuated close to 2.8 million people, the vast majority in Punjab. Relief camps were set up for about 101,000 displaced people, while medical camps treated over 355,000 patients. These figures reflect enormous effort, yet they also expose the scale of vulnerability.
For all the alerts issued and the app-based warnings in place, the numbers show that Pakistan’s disaster management machinery still reacts after the water has already arrived. As one expert noted, “People act on impacts, not on millimeters.” Until forecasts are translated into timely, localized instructions, the SitRep will continue to read like a balance sheet of failure rather than prevention. The lesson from Bangladesh’s cyclone warning system or India’s dam release protocols is that speed, clarity, and last-mile reach make the difference between survival and loss.
NDMA was contacted for comment, but did not respond at the time of filing this story.
The lessons of 2022 were meant to change how Pakistan responds. But in 2025, with villages once again submerged and cities once again caught off guard, the question lingers: Were those lessons ever applied, or were they quietly filed away as the waters receded? And beyond early warnings, another failure runs just as deep. For decades, authorities have allowed deforestation, wetland degradation, and unchecked construction in floodplains to continue.
From north to south, entire housing colonies and markets have been built on natural waterways that once carried monsoon runoff safely to rivers. In Karachi, drains designed a century ago for a much smaller population are now clogged with concrete and shops. In Punjab and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, societies have crept into riverbeds and seasonal streams, narrowing the channels until the water has no choice but to spill into homes. Once these settlements are in place, they are politically impossible to demolish, even when engineers warn they block the path of floods.
The damage is visible in infrastructure too. In Karachi, a newly built expressway was washed out this year because it had been constructed over a natural watercourse. In Lahore, gated societies have expanded over stormwater drains, riverways forcing the runoff back into residential streets. Similar patterns are seen in smaller towns, where unchecked approvals allow entire neighbourhoods to rise on land meant for the flow of rain. The result is that each monsoon, water reclaims its space, leaving families marooned in neighbourhoods that should never have been built.
Short-term vs long-term measures
In the wake of every flood, the government announces relief packages. This year has been no different. Farmers have been promised loans to help them replant their fields, while development funds allocated to members of parliament are being redirected for emergency support. These measures provide short-term relief, but they do little to prevent the cycle from repeating when the next monsoon arrives.
The longer-term picture is stark. Pakistan cannot continue to spend billions on recovery without investing in prevention. That means restoring forests, protecting wetlands, managing rivers, reforming urban planning, and building early warning systems that actually reach the people in harm’s way.
The cost of ignoring these measures is already evident. In Buner, flash floods this monsoon carried away homes and roads after heavy rainfall pounded the bare hillsides. Local residents pointed to the trees that once covered the slopes, slowing down rainwater and holding the soil in place. Without them, the torrents rushed unchecked. Research has confirmed this connection. As the report “Deforestation, Forest Degradation, and Flood Risk in Pakistan” by WWF noted, “Studies in Swat and Peshawar valleys confirm that deforestation increases flood risk by accelerating runoff and destabilizing slopes. The 2010, 2022 and 2025 floods, while primarily driven by extreme monsoon events, were amplified by land-use changes, sedimentation, and weakened watershed resilience.”
There are also stories of hope when nature is restored and protected. According to WWF Pakistan, In Gilgit-Baltistan’s Shigar district, the village of Alchori faced floods again this year, but the outcome was different from the devastation of 2020. Back then, 220 kanal of land was damaged, households were swept away, and 2,500 trees were lost. In 2025, the damage was far more limited. Only 100 kanal were affected, one hotel was impacted, and 50 trees were lost. The difference was the construction of a gabion bund in 2024. WWF Pakistan explained how this wall of rocks and wire mesh became Alchori’s shield against the torrents, slowing waters, reducing erosion, and protecting lives and land. “When we protect nature, nature protects us,” the organisation noted, calling it a clear demonstration of how nature-based solutions can reduce disaster risks and build resilience.
Environmentalists argue that prevention must start with reforestation and watershed management. This is not simply about planting trees, but about restoring ecosystems that act as natural buffers against floods. The Pakistan Climate Crises Charter (2022) set out a clear agenda, “All future infrastructure and development projects must incorporate nature-based solutions/ecosystem-based adaptation (EbA) and green infrastructure including rehabilitation of degraded riparian zones; development of riparian corridors along rivers; maintenance of natural flow paths through streams and canals; rehabilitation of natural wetlands; [and] formulation and implementation of a watershed management policy that includes reforestation.”
These solutions are not new, but they have struggled to find political traction. Experts point out that they are often more cost-effective than concrete projects. Restored wetlands can absorb flood peaks, riverine forests can slow water velocity, and aquifer recharge can store water for drought periods. “No other engineering intervention can match this capacity, and the cost is much lower than building large dams,” stated in the study “Restore Pakistan’s rivers, handle floods, droughts and climate change.”
The role of communities is equally important. The Climate Crises Charter highlights the need for local-level planning, insisting, “Local level plans should include localized hazard and risk assessment information, while ensuring the participation of local communities e.g., community-based organizations.” It also recommends creating Community Emergency Response Teams to strengthen first response. “There is a need to develop community engagement programmes to build the capacities of vulnerable communities as first responders,” states the report Pakistan Climate Crises Charter 2022.
For Pakistan, the contrast could not be clearer. Short-term relief provides temporary support, but only long-term investment in ecosystems and community preparedness will break the cycle of destruction. The choice is between spending each year on rebuilding what has been lost, or building resilience that can withstand the floods to come. And that choice depends not only on ideas but on money. Without financing that is steady, transparent, and focused on resilience, the promise of reforestation, wetland restoration, and community preparedness will remain out of reach. Which brings the debate to the hardest question of all: how will Pakistan pay for it.
The financing dilemma
In the aftermath of the 2022 floods, Pakistan stood before the world with damage so massive it defied simple repair. International donors responded with pledges totaling about US$11 billion for flood recovery and resilience. But according to more recent reports, less than a quarter of that money was actually made available for the communities hit hardest. Less than $3.4 billion worth of projects have been executed, even though the commitments were much larger.
The government now claims it will rely on its own resources, resisting the idea of begging abroad. The promise is appealing, sovereignty, local ownership, less debt. But what that means in practice is still murky. Can Pakistan fund its disaster management and resilient infrastructure from within its existing budgetary and fiscal constraints? The signs are worrying.
Economists warn that Pakistan’s ability to finance flood prevention and resilience is limited by its macroeconomic condition. After 2022, a World Bank-led Post-Disaster Needs Assessment (PDNA) estimated that the total reconstruction and recovery needs were well above what the country could muster on its own.
One expert noted in Brookings that immediately after the 2022 floods, despite pledges, “The recovery and reconstruction needs are likely to exceed Pakistan’s available resources”.
Inflation, debt service, and weak tax base make domestic financing difficult. When almost 90 percent of flood-recovery pledges are tied to loans or delayed outcomes, the burden often shifts onto Pakistan’s future budgets and borrowed funds. An adviser to the finance minister recently said Pakistan would begin negotiating over climate-financing of US$1 billion through the IMF’s Resilience and Sustainability Trust but that success will depend on how quickly projects are designed and counterpart funding is allocated.
There is also concern from analysts that donor disbursement has been inefficient and misaligned. A report highlighted that less than half of the roughly $11 billion pledged by the European Union, China, Asian Development Bank and others in the wake of the 2022 floods has been delivered or effectively deployed.
Accordingly, the question for Pakistan is not whether it needs money, the need is obvious, but how it will mobilize and manage it. Will budgetary allocations be shifted permanently toward resilience rather than relief? Can disaster risk financing frameworks ensure funds are available before crises instead of being reactive? Can public-private partnerships, blended finance, or climate trust funds provide stable sources of money without indebting the country further?
Without credible plans or named economists to speak publicly yet, the gap remains. The data, the reports, and the repeated failures signal urgency. The next move must be to decide whether Pakistan will continue relying on vague pledges or build a transparent, resilient financing framework that turns commitment into action. Because even if the money is secured, the future brings heavier rains, melting glaciers, and more extreme weather. Financing alone will not be enough if Pakistan is not ready for the climate shocks that are certain to come.
Climate future
Every year the water recedes, and every year the cycle begins again. Pakistan treats each flood as an isolated disaster, when in reality it has become a recurring pattern. The NDMA itself has projected that the intensity of climatic events was 22 percent more intense this year compared to the last year and it is likely to increase by another 22 percent in the next cycle. That means more rainfall in shorter bursts, stronger cloudbursts in the north, and greater pressure on river systems already weakened by deforestation, encroachment, and poor management.
Scientists have been warning of this trajectory for years. A landmark study of the Hindu Kush Himalaya in 2019 concluded that the region could lose between one third and two thirds of its ice fields by the end of this century. Dr. Hassan Abbas described the consequences bluntly, saying, “Pakistani rivers will initially have more water in the drier summer months due to higher glacial melting until 2050-60, and thereafter much less; the wetter months, however, will see bigger and heavier clouds that would bring more water in the rivers; and, with more energy in the system, the frequency and severity of the extreme events, longer droughts and heavier flooding, would increase.”
This is not a distant risk but a lived reality. The floods of 2010, 2022, and now 2025 show how the same rainfall that was once absorbed by forests, wetlands, and floodplains now tears through bare slopes and clogged cities. Dr. Abbas has argued that past strategies of building around rivers rather than with them have made the country more vulnerable. “The concept of fighting and controlling the floods through changing natural systems is outdated. The world’s leading water experts argue that the ‘change-fight-control’ approach has to gradually, and systematically metamorphose into a ‘conform-adapt-manage’ approach,” he said.
If Pakistan continues to rely on dams, ad hoc relief, and weak enforcement, the future will not bring fewer disasters but bigger ones. As Dr. Abbas has put it, “What we need, therefore, is to learn to live with larger floods; improve our capacity to survive longer droughts; and invoke engines of green economy that help reduce greenhouse gases and enhance sequestration of atmospheric carbon dioxide.”
The pattern is clear. Without a comprehensive strategy that blends governance, water management, environment, urban planning, and international cooperation, Pakistan will remain trapped in the cycle of disaster, relief, and forgetfulness. The climate will not wait for the country to act. The question is whether Pakistan will.
When the rains ease and the waters finally drain away, life in Pakistan slowly returns to its fragile rhythm. Farmers replant in the mud, shopkeepers reopen their stalls, and families repair the cracks left in their walls. But the cycle has now repeated too many times to be dismissed as fate. The floods of 2010, 2022, and 2025 tell the same story of warnings missed, forests lost, cities unprepared, and financing left uncertain. Pakistan can no longer afford to treat these deluges as passing emergencies. Floods may have passed this year, but without strategy, the next deluge is already on its way.