In Pakistan’s southern desert belt, the wind carries more than just sand. It carries the weight of unspoken stories, of children who leave school to carry water, of mothers who walk for miles under a scorching sun, and of fields left fallow season after season. Umerkot, a drought-prone district in Sindh, is quietly unraveling. And with it, so is the resilience of its people.

Women in Umerkot walk over three kilometers daily to collect brackish water, often at the expense of education and income.

Climate change in Pakistan is usually associated with catastrophic floods, melting glaciers, or intense heat waves. These sudden disasters draw media attention and rapid (if temporary) policy response. But slow-onset climate events like drought unfold silently and are routinely ignored. Yet, as the case of Umerkot reveals, their impacts are no less severe.

Women in Umerkot walk over three kilometers daily to collect brackish water, often carrying it on their heads in blistering heat. “Sometimes we cook once in two days, there’s just not enough,” says Fatima, a mother of five. For many women, water collection replaces any hope of education or income generation, and in turn, girls are often pulled out of school to help. One woman explained, “My daughter missed school for two weeks to help me fetch water.”

The effects ripple out. Health indicators are worsening. “My child had diarrhea for three days, but we had no money to take him to the clinic,” a mother told us. Skin infections and stomach illnesses are rampant due to the consumption of unsafe water. Meanwhile, rising food insecurity forces families to ration meals, skip medical visits, and, in many cases, make the painful decision to migrate.

The silent crisis of drought is creating another silent crisis: the breakdown of rural life. “We cannot grow crops anymore, there’s no water, no fodder, so we move to survive,” said one elder. Livestock, once a cornerstone of local livelihoods, are dying. “Even the goats are dying. There is no grass, and the water makes them sick.”

Compounding the issue is the fact that 92% of farmers in the region are landless. “No rain → no crops → no harvest → no income,” one farmer summarized. With landowners unwilling or unable to support them, tenant farmers and daily wage workers are left with nothing.

Slow-onset disasters like drought must be fully integrated into national and provincial disaster risk management systems.

But none of this is new. Since 2018, repeated drought events have exposed the same vulnerabilities: weak disaster response systems, missing early warnings, poor coordination, and a lack of institutional memory. Unfortunately, there is little evidence that these lessons have translated into sustainable improvements.

For instance, the District Disaster Management Authority (DDMA) is meant to coordinate drought response. But as one local official admitted, “The DDMA exists on paper. During droughts, we wait for directions from the province.” Aid distribution remains inconsistent and inaccessible to many. “We keep registering our names in every list. But when the trucks come, they go to the same few places,” a woman complained.

Gender exclusion exacerbates the crisis. Despite bearing the brunt of water insecurity, women are rarely consulted or included in planning. “They call only men to meetings. But we are the ones who stay behind, cook with no water, and feed children with no food,” one mother shared. Their participation in water governance, resilience planning, and even basic decision-making is largely absent.

But what’s perhaps most alarming is that the institutional response to this recurring disaster has become cyclical and reactive. There is little focus on long-term adaptation or resilience-building. And when new measures are introduced, they often duplicate past efforts without drawing on what was already known. In one case, wheat husk was recently proposed as a new strategy to improve composting, despite it being a recommended practice since 2018, alongside chicken manure and cow dung, to maintain nitrogen balance in organic compost. It appears that knowledge is not only being lost but is being rediscovered as if it were new.

Institutional response to drought has become reactive and cyclical, with little focus on long-term adaptation or resilience.

The way forward is clear, but it requires a shift in mindset and planning.

First, slow-onset disasters like drought must be fully integrated into national and provincial disaster risk management systems. This means developing early warning mechanisms that are timely, localized, and accessible. Communities should receive practical, actionable information in their local languages via mobile alerts, radio, and mosque announcements—not after the damage is done.

Second, water resilience must be treated as a development priority. This includes investing in decentralized rainwater harvesting systems, solar-powered water pumps, and small-scale storage tanks. These interventions are not expensive, and communities in Umerkot have shown willingness to maintain them—if given the chance.

Third, climate adaptation plans must include income diversification. Skills training in areas like sewing, solar maintenance, and food processing could allow rural families—especially women and youth—to earn independently of agriculture. One woman noted, “If I can stitch clothes at home, I won’t have to wait for help.”

Fourth, the government must preserve institutional memory. Best practices should not disappear with project closures or staff transitions. Climate projects need embedded knowledge systems and proper handover mechanisms. Otherwise, as we’ve seen in composting efforts, we will keep restarting what was already working.

Finally, and most importantly, we must center community voices, particularly women’s. The current top-down structure ignores those who know the landscape best. If women were involved in water planning, early warning dissemination, and food storage schemes, the system would be more grounded and responsive.

Empowering women in water governance and decision-making would make climate adaptation more grounded and effective.

Umerkot’s slow crisis is not unique. Dozens of rural districts across Pakistan face similar conditions. But this moment offers an opportunity to rethink how we address climate vulnerability, not with piecemeal aid or seasonal interventions, but with sustained, locally informed strategies.

In a district where children drink from contaminated puddles and families sleep with empty plates, drought is not just an environmental issue; it is a moral one. Ignoring it because it lacks visual drama is no longer an option. The wind in Umerkot still carries stories. But if we listen carefully, we’ll hear not just sorrow, but solutions.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. They do not represent the views, beliefs, or policies of the Stratheia.