MUZAFFARABAD – The first sound was the rocks, a deep, grinding roar from the mountains above. Then came the water, a churning, coffee-brown torrent that swallowed the wooden bridge in an instant. For Shakeela Bibi, huddled on her rooftop in Chattar Kalas with her children clutched tightly to her chest, the world narrowed to the relentless climb of the floodwater up her walls.
“I kept telling my children, ‘We will survive, we will survive,’” she recalled, her voice breaking as she pointed to the void where the bridge once stood. “But when the water took away my brother’s house, I realised we were all at Allah’s mercy.”
Her family was rescued hours later by local volunteers in a small, precarious fishing boat. Others in her neighbourhood were not so fortunate.
Shakeela’s story is one thread in a vast tapestry of loss and despair woven across the Himalayan region of Jammu and Kashmir throughout August and into September 2025. From the pilgrim trails of Jammu to the remote valleys of Gilgit-Baltistan, from the high-altitude desert of Ladakh to the communities of Azad Kashmir, torrential monsoon rains and catastrophic cloudbursts have unleashed a wave of destruction that has ignored political boundaries and united a divided land in a shared catastrophe.
A Region Submerged: No Land Untouched
The scale of the disaster is staggering in its geography and its severity. The floods have carved a path of indiscriminate ruin through territories administered by both India and Pakistan, exposing a common vulnerability to an escalating climate crisis.
In the Indian-administered Jammu division, a sudden cloudburst on August 14th turned the revered Machail Mata pilgrimage route into a death trap. Tons of mud and rock slid down mountainsides, swallowing entire groups of devotees. Official figures confirm at least 65 dead, with hundreds more missing, their fate likely sealed beneath the debris. Survivors spoke of devotional songs turning to screams, echoed in valleys suddenly cut off from the world.
Just days later, on August 26th, a massive landslide in Reasi buried homes and vehicles, claiming 38 lives. Among the dead were children visiting the Vaishno Devi shrine. One rescue worker, his hands raw and bleeding, described a grim scene: “We dug with bare hands because machines couldn’t reach. The mountain just came down on them.” By the end of August, the death toll in Jammu alone had surpassed 120, with infrastructure—bridges, highways, entire villages—washed away or isolated.
Further north, in the breathtaking but fragile terrain of Gilgit-Baltistan, a lethal combination of glacial melt and cloudbursts triggered devastating mudslides and flash floods. The human cost is profound: at least 45 lives lost, 993 houses completely destroyed, and 87 bridges collapsed, severing vital connections between communities. In a tragedy that struck at the heart of local resilience, seven young volunteers in Danyor lost their lives while courageously attempting to repair a drainage channel to save their town.
In Azad Kashmir, towns like Muzaffarabad, Bagh, and Bhimber were hammered by cloudbursts. In one heartbreaking incident, six members of a single family were buried alive as their home collapsed. The education system ground to a halt as schools were shuttered for days, their access routes blocked by landslides.
Even Ladakh, a high-altitude desert known for its stark beauty, was not spared. Swollen, furious rivers tore through centuries-old farmlands, destroying the traditional irrigation systems, or zings, that are the lifeline for agriculture. Communities were left with the cruel paradox of their homes being flooded while their future water security was washed away.
The Human Toll: Beyond the Numbers
The statistics are numbing, but they fail to capture the intimate texture of the loss.
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~122 deaths reported in Indian-administered Jammu & Kashmir and Ladakh in August.
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~45 deaths and nearly 1,000 homes destroyed in Gilgit-Baltistan, with 70% of the population in the Ghizer district affected.
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An estimated 10-20 deaths in Azad Kashmir, with dozens more missing.
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A national toll in Pakistan exceeding 800 dead and 150,000 displaced, with Azad Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan bearing a significant portion of the devastation.
Behind each number is a life upended. Farmers stand in silent shock where their annual crop once grew, now a wasteland of silt and rock. Children sift through the mud-filled ruins of their classrooms, searching for salvageable books. Families mourn not just loved ones, but the obliteration of generations of memory and livelihood—photographs, heirlooms, and carefully assembled dowries, all swept downriver.
Response and Resilience: Official Action and Community Gaps
Governments on both sides of the Line of Control (LoC) have scrambled to respond, announcing relief measures and deploying resources.
In Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir, the administration pledged approximately ₹6 lakh (roughly $7,200) in compensation for each victim’s family. The Indian Army has been at the forefront, constructing temporary Bailey bridges to reconnect devastated districts like Ramban and Doda.
In Islamabad, the federal government approved $10.8 million in immediate relief aid for Gilgit-Baltistan. Across the territory, officials distributed tents, food packages, and established emergency shelters. In Azad Kashmir, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif directly handed out compensation cheques as part of a larger Rs 4 billion ($14.3 million) relief package, while local administrations ordered pre-emptive school closures for safety.
Yet, for many in the most remote and severely impacted areas, official help has been slow, insufficient, or entirely absent.
“We have not seen a single government official,” said Muhammad Ashfaq, a farmer from Ghizer whose home and fields were obliterated. “Our only help came from the youth of our own village.”
This gap has been filled by remarkable displays of community solidarity and established civil society organisations. Groups like the Aga Khan Development Network (AKDN) and local volunteer rescue teams have emerged as lifelines, evacuating thousands of stranded people, distributing essential supplies, and providing critical medical aid where state machinery has failed to reach.
The Unignorable Climate Catalyst
Scientists and researchers point to a clear and alarming pattern: the Kashmir Himalayas are on the front lines of the global climate crisis. The region experienced rainfall 726% above normal in August, a historic deviation not seen since record-keeping began in 1950. Rising global temperatures are accelerating glacial melt, adding immense volumes of water to already saturated watersheds and making such extreme weather events more frequent and more deadly.
“The data is unequivocal. Every year, the mountains are crumbling faster,” said Dr. Seema Qureshi, a climate researcher based in Srinagar. “What used to be once-in-a-generation floods are now happening every few years. The climate crisis is no longer a future threat; it is our present reality. Without serious, coordinated investment in adaptation, we will see these tragedies repeat and worsen.”
Voices from the Rubble
Amid the mud and ruins, individual stories of resilience and heartbreak paint the truest picture of the disaster.
In Muzaffarabad, 16-year-old Hina sifted through the rubble of her collapsed home, not for valuables, but for her schoolbooks and uniform. “I don’t know if I can return to school this year,” she whispered, her future as uncertain as the ground beneath her feet.
In Skardu, a shopkeeper watched, motionless, as volunteers dug through two feet of mud that had once been his livelihood. “It took me 20 years to build this,” he said, his voice hollow. “The river destroyed it in 20 minutes.”
And in Reasi, the echoes of the landslide were replaced by the sounds of desperate digging. As one rescuer recounted, the silence was the worst part. “We could hear them crying at first, but then the mountain had buried them alive.”
A Shared Future Forged in Crisis
The floods of 2025 have delivered a brutal lesson: rivers and storms do not recognise flags, borders, or lines of control. The water that rages through Muzaffarabad finds its source in the same mountains that overlook Srinagar; the clouds that burst over Gilgit affect the rivers that flow into Ladakh. The people of this region, regardless of administration, face the same existential threats from a changing climate.
Yet, the response remains fractured, tied to competing political priorities, bureaucratic hurdles, and short-term relief cycles. The path to long-term resilience requires a paradigm shift: transcending political divisions to share data and early warnings, investing in climate-resilient infrastructure and sustainable development, and, most importantly, heeding the voices of the communities who live with these escalating risks.
As the waters finally recede, the people of Kashmir, as they always have, begin the agonising work of rebuilding their lives from whatever scraps they can salvage. But the questions hanging in the rain-cleansed air are ones that demand an answer from governments and the international community alike: How many more Augusts like this can Kashmir endure? And when the next flood inevitably comes, who will truly stand with its people?
Additional reporting from contributors in Srinagar, Gilgit, and Leh. The Azadi Times maintains editorial independence and supports the right to self-determination for the people of Kashmir.
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