Water weaponisation : Climate change or a dangerous rift

Punjab is drowning once again. Over 1.2 million people have been affected, nearly 250,000 displaced, and more than 1,400 villages lie submerged under brown, unforgiving water. Families huddle in makeshift shelters, farmers stand helplessly by ruined crops, and children wander barefoot through flooded lanes that were once their homes. The devastation is immense—but what makes this year’s disaster different is not just the ferocity of the rains. It is the unsettling suspicion that water, a source of life, is being turned into a weapon.

From the vantage point of ordinary Pakistanis, this flood feels like more than just a natural calamity. It feels like a crisis complicated by politics, mistrust, and the fragile state of water cooperation between India and Pakistan. For decades, the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) served as a safety net, ensuring that no matter how bad the politics, at least the rivers were governed by rules. But today, that safety net is unraveling—and with it, a dangerous narrative of “water weaponisation” is taking hold.

More Than Monsoons

Of course, the climate story cannot be ignored. South Asia is now facing monsoon patterns that are heavier, more erratic, and more destructive than in the past. Flash floods from glacial melt in the north collide with cloudbursts in the plains, overwhelming defenses designed for a gentler era. Experts have long warned that climate change will not just raise temperatures but will destabilize entire river systems, and Punjab’s catastrophe is living proof.

But floods, no matter how destructive, are part of life in this region. What makes them unbearable this time is the sense that Pakistan was left exposed. Heavy rains coincided with dam releases from across the border. And while India insists it sent a warning “on humanitarian grounds,” Pakistan argues that these warnings were not delivered through the treaty’s Permanent Indus Commission—the official channel that legally obligates advance notice.

That distinction matters. For families scrambling to evacuate, the difference between a binding treaty notification and a vague diplomatic message can be measured in lives lost.

When Rivers Become Weapons

So what does it mean to say water is being “weaponised”? It doesn’t necessarily mean dams are opened with the intent to destroy Pakistan. It’s subtler—and perhaps scarier.

Weaponisation is about unpredictability. It’s about one country knowing it can, at any moment, change the course of rivers that millions depend on. It’s about turning nature into leverage. Even if India never deliberately floods Pakistan, the fact that it can withhold information, delay warnings, or release water abruptly creates a permanent vulnerability.

Imagine being a farmer on Punjab’s floodplain. You’ve seen monsoons before; you know how to brace for them. But now, instead of certainty, you live with doubt. Will the warning come in time? Will the water surge overnight? Is this flood the wrath of nature, or is it politics flowing downstream? That creeping mistrust—that fear that rivers are no longer natural but strategic—is the essence of water weaponisation.

The Treaty That Once Gave Security

The Indus Waters Treaty of 1960 is often described as one of the world’s most successful water-sharing agreements. It divided the rivers, created monitoring mechanisms, and survived wars that broke out on land. For Pakistan, its strength was not just technical—it was psychological. No matter how bitter the politics, the rivers had rules.

But after the Pahalgam attack and subsequent escalations, India suspended participation in the treaty framework. Pakistani officials and international legal experts argue this suspension has no legal basis; Article IV clearly obligates advance notification of extraordinary discharges. Yet, without formal channels, Pakistanis are left relying on humanitarian “alerts” that may or may not come on time.

That’s why Planning Minister Ahsan Iqbal accused India of “water aggression.” His words reflect not just a legal grievance, but a human one: when a treaty designed to protect lives is bypassed, floods stop being just natural disasters. They become political ones too.

Human Lives in the Middle

It is easy to get lost in the language of diplomacy, articles, and obligations. But on the ground, the cost of broken trust is measured in human suffering.

In Gujranwala, where at least 15 lives were lost, families rushed out of their homes at midnight when rising waters breached the banks. In Narowal, farmers wept over fields of wheat and rice flattened in a single night—crops that represented their entire year’s survival. In makeshift camps, parents scramble to keep children safe from disease outbreaks.

For these families, the question is painfully simple: could this loss have been reduced if warnings had been timely, if communication had been transparent, if politics had not overshadowed humanitarian obligation?

This is why the suspicion of water being used as a weapon stings so deeply. It leaves people feeling not only abandoned by nature, but betrayed by systems that were supposed to protect them.

Why the World Should Care

Some may dismiss this as yet another episode in the long rivalry between India and Pakistan. But the stakes are bigger. The Indus Basin sustains more than 250 million people. It is one of the most water-stressed regions in the world, and climate change is tightening the squeeze. If the most resilient water treaty on Earth can be sidelined, what precedent does that set for other fragile regions?

The fear of water being weaponised is not confined to Punjab. Around the globe, rivers cross borders, and in every case, upstream countries have power over downstream ones. If water becomes another instrument of political coercion, the world could see not just local floods, but international instability. Food security, migration, and regional peace are all tied to how rivers are shared.

A Way Forward

From my perspective, Pakistan must respond on two levels.

First, diplomatically. Islamabad should push for arbitration under the Indus Waters Treaty framework, reaffirming its right to timely and formal notifications. The World Bank, as a guarantor, must step up to its responsibility. The United Nations should also be engaged—not just as a mediator between two rival states, but as a custodian of humanitarian norms. Water should never be allowed to slip into the domain of political coercion.

Second, domestically. Pakistan needs to accelerate its own resilience. That means building smarter reservoirs, strengthening flood defenses, and investing in early warning systems that don’t depend entirely on external notifications. It also means distinguishing clearly between climate-driven disasters and man-made lapses, so that international support is mobilized with credibility.

Reclaiming Trust in Rivers

Ultimately, the fight is not just against floods—it is against fear. Fear that rivers can be turned against people, fear that treaties no longer matter, fear that politics will decide who lives and who drowns.

Punjab’s tragedy is a reminder that water is not just a natural resource—it is a human right, a shared lifeline. To weaponise it, even indirectly, is to weaponise survival itself.

For the families in relief camps, the debate about treaties and geopolitics may feel distant. But for policymakers, diplomats, and international actors, the message could not be clearer: let rivers remain rivers. Let them not become the newest battleground of South Asia.