Such scenes have become tragically familiar in Pakistan. Every monsoon season leaves a new trail of devastation, each year compounding the grief of the last. This year alone, more than 750 people have been killed by rains and floods, echoing the catastrophic events of 2022 when nearly 1,700 lives were lost and billions of dollars in damage crippled the economy. Pakistan, a country responsible for less than one percent of global greenhouse gas emissions, finds itself disproportionately punished by the consequences of climate change. Melting glaciers in the north create unstable lakes ready to burst, while cloudbursts and sudden downpours devastate villages with little warning. The country’s geography is unforgiving, its weather extremes are intensifying, and its resources to defend itself remain limited.
Experts in meteorology acknowledge that the risk will only grow in the coming decades. Monsoons are becoming heavier, cloudbursts more frequent, and extreme heat waves more punishing. And yet, Pakistan’s climate budget tells a stark story of misplaced priorities. While defense spending has been elevated to nearly nine billion dollars, the Ministry of Climate Change has seen its allocation slashed to under ten million. Even with additional funds earmarked under IMF agreements, critics argue that many so-called climate projects are simply pre-existing infrastructure schemes. Against this backdrop, former climate minister Sherry Rehman’s warnings echo loudly: if Pakistan is unwilling to show commitment to its own resilience, how can it expect the world to invest in its protection?
On the ground, the challenges are daunting. In mountainous areas where connectivity is minimal, digital warnings cannot reach those most at risk. The Meteorological Department is investing in new radars, weather stations, and even sirens placed in glacial valleys, but these systems are far from foolproof. Many rural communities remain vulnerable not just to the forces of nature but also to the limitations of governance. Laws designed to prevent construction near rivers are routinely ignored, and whole families continue living on floodplains because relocation is impossible without new housing and livelihoods. Cultural traditions, entrenched poverty, and lack of alternatives mean that even when risks are known, moving people away from danger is extraordinarily difficult. In cities like Karachi, the story is different but no less dire. Rapid, unregulated urban sprawl has clogged drainage systems, blocked natural water pathways, and left millions exposed to deadly flash floods. Efforts to clear illegal constructions often stall in court, leaving infrastructure crippled and communities trapped in recurring cycles of disaster.
The international community has pledged some support, most notably at COP27, where Pakistan’s plight was central to the creation of the global Loss and Damage Fund. Yet funding promises often fall short of real needs, and with political instability shaking Pakistan’s governments, long-term planning is frequently disrupted. Even promising initiatives like the National Adaptation Plan or large-scale afforestation projects risk being sidelined as political priorities shift. On the streets and in villages, ordinary people struggle with a sense of hopelessness. Experts like architect Yasmeen Lari argue that too much faith has been placed in top-down governance and external bailouts, and not enough in equipping communities to build resilience themselves. In her work, she has encouraged villages to adopt climate-resilient housing designs, plant trees, and pursue food security as grassroots tools for survival.
But these efforts are scattered compared to the vastness of the challenge. Poverty, as many note, remains the greatest barrier to change. Without resources, families rebuild where they were destroyed, only to face the next disaster. Without money, governments delay projects or fail to enforce regulations. Without international investment, plans remain words on paper. In Swabi, as rescuers continued to claw through rubble, a funeral began only meters away, prayers rising into the heavy air as the nation braced for yet more rainfall. The monsoon season is far from over, and for many Pakistanis, the fear is not just of the waters already unleashed but of the floods still to come. The grief is ongoing, the danger unrelenting, and the question remains whether Pakistan can ever truly shield itself from the recurring devastation that climate change ensures will only grow worse.