By: Mool Raj
Floods in Jammu & Kashmir are no longer aberrations of nature; they have become a recurring reality. Each year now arrives with the same anxious question — will this be another year of loss? As the waters recede once again, what remains is not just damaged homes and broken roads, but a deeper reckoning with how unprepared we continue to be.
The year 2025 will be remembered not for a single catastrophe, but for a relentless cycle of disasters that exposed the fragility of life in the Himalayas. Rain followed rain. Rivers rose without warning. Slopes gave way. Communities barely recovered from one blow before the next arrived. What once felt exceptional has become routine.
The memories of the 2014 floods still haunt Jammu and Kashmir. Entire neighbourhoods of Srinagar submerged, lives upended, livelihoods destroyed. A decade later, the script feels hauntingly familiar. Once again, swollen rivers threaten habitations, and once again, the cost of delayed preparedness is paid by ordinary citizens.
This year’s calamities unfolded with unsettling speed. Prolonged dry spells gave way to intense rainfall, overwhelming rivers and drainage systems designed for a climate that no longer exists. In the Valley, the Jhelum rose ominously, flooding low-lying areas and farmland. In Jammu, cloudbursts triggered flash floods, landslides and road collapses, cutting off entire regions in minutes.
Nature’s warning was unmistakable. So was our vulnerability.
Agriculture bore the brunt. Apple orchards stood waterlogged, crops failed, and livelihoods built over decades were washed away. Tourism slowed as roads shut down and uncertainty spread. Basic infrastructure—power lines, water supply, healthcare access—buckled under pressure. For families already navigating economic stress, recovery became a distant hope rather than an immediate possibility.
What made the situation starker was not just the scale of damage, but the familiar gaps in response. Early warnings often arrived too late or lacked local specificity. Communication networks failed when they were needed most. In many villages, it was neighbours—not systems—who carried out rescues, proving once again that community resilience often outpaces institutional preparedness.
Yet amid the devastation, a quiet shift began to emerge. The conversation started moving beyond relief toward resilience. Authorities spoke more openly about climate adaptation, risk mapping, and long-term planning. The need for better forecasting, stronger infrastructure, and coordinated disaster management entered public discourse with new urgency.
There was also a growing recognition that engineering solutions alone are not enough. Wetlands must be protected, not encroached upon. Floodplains must be respected, not built over. Urban planning must acknowledge environmental limits rather than challenge them. And communities themselves must be equipped with knowledge, training, and resources to respond when systems fail.
Perhaps the most important lesson of 2025 is this: disasters are no longer episodic; they are structural. Climate change has altered the rhythm of life in the Himalayas, and governance must adapt accordingly. Preparedness can no longer be seasonal. It must be permanent.
The question before Jammu and Kashmir is no longer whether floods will return, but whether we will be ready when they do. The mountains will continue to shift. The rivers will continue to rise. What remains within our control is how we listen, how we plan, and how we act.
If 2025 is remembered as a year of loss, let it also be remembered as the year we finally chose foresight over denial—and resilience over regret.
The author is a writer and a columnist
