It happened again. Swat Valley awoke to tragedy. Children, mothers, and fathers sat by the riverbank at breakfast, clicking selfies. They were flanked by lingering government warnings and a declared Section 144 ban. But neither warning siren nor barrier stood between them and the surge that followed.
When the water comes, they will say there was no government.
On the evening before June 26, the Pakistan Meteorological Department issued a stark flash flood alert for Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, valid through June 28. Yet when dawn broke, that warning existed only on paper. No SMS alerts targeted to KP residents. No riverbank patrols. No evacuation protocols. Just silence.
At around 8 a.m., the river began to rise rapidly. A local man, recording a video in Pashto from the middle of the river, warned that they were ‘in the river taking selfies’ and added pointedly, ‘when the water comes, they will say there was no government’. Minutes later, the river surged. By 9 a.m., footage surfaced. Stranded tourists, desperately waving, clinging to rocks, crying for help. And they waited, for more than two hours, before Rescue 1122 and local agencies arrived. By then, the water had claimed too many.
Official tolls remain grim. At least 17 were swept away. Nine bodies recovered. Several are still missing. Entire families from Sialkot and Mardan were lost in minutes. And then, as always, came the ritual. Suspensions. Inquiries. Condolences. Promises. But ask yourself, what did Section 144 truly achieve? It existed only on paper. No barriers. No patrols. No ground enforcement.
And now the mirror turns to us. To the people. The citizens. The selfie hunters. The defiant day trippers. Why, despite weather alerts and stormy skies, do we push toward the river instead of away from it? What thrill outweighs our safety? And the harder question. When locals warn us, why do we disregard their advice? Even if you are visiting a new place without doing your homework, would it hurt to trust the voice of someone who lives beside that river and knows its moods?
Section 144 existed only on paper. No barriers. No patrols.
Here lies the bitter irony. The government failed to protect its citizens, and we, the citizens, failed to protect ourselves and our loved ones. A double failure. A shared shame. To the KP government. Where were the sirens, the barricades, the real-time SMS alerts? To NDMA. Why do your warnings not translate into action? To every citizen. When disaster strikes, must we always blame the state? Or will we finally accept that sometimes it is our stubbornness that leads us to the edge?
This was not a freak act of nature. It was the outcome of systemic neglect and societal carelessness. And unless both are addressed at the same time, we will keep writing these obituaries. And then there is the irony that stings the most. Every mobile phone in this country can force-feed citizens a Prime Minister’s voice message just to announce a token relief of a few rupees on electricity. And Section 144, when used for political reasons, becomes a haunting tool to suppress opponents with full force. But when it comes to saving lives, it exists only in name.
A river in flood is not a photo opportunity. It is a line between life and death.
But it is not too late. SMS alerts targeted to every district. Sirens are at every riverfront. Real enforcement of flood bans. And nationwide campaigns teaching our people one simple truth. A river in flood is not a photo opportunity. It is a line between life and death. If June 27 does not wake us, the river will. Again. And next time, it will not ask who was at fault. It will only take.
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.
