Every monsoon, the clouds darken over Pakistan’s northern hills, and the rivers begin to swell. As dictated by logic, warnings are issued, red alerts flash across screens, advisories circulate through texts and recorded phone messages, and social media start forecasting upcoming destruction. Despite this, we embrace peril with open arms and witness a national romance with disaster. Most of us take the monsoon not as a season of risk but as a backdrop for Instagram reels and riverbank barbecues. Thousands march towards the mountains, dragging along children, women and elders, as if they are compelled by some unspoken thrill for fatalistic romance with nature’s wrath.
Only during the current season, more than 220 people have lost their lives, while thousands of others have nearly escaped death. Most of them were tourists from the plains of the country who were unfamiliar with the weather and terrain of the hilly areas. In Swat, a family picnic turned into a watery grave for over seventeen people as they chose to go deep inside the riverbed area to take selfies. Several people lost their lives when their vehicles plunged into gorges because they chose to drive late at night on dangerous, hilly roads. While Pakistan’s monsoon floods were making global news, 35 tourists were swept away by flash floods in Babusar, having probably chosen it as an ideal time to travel. These are not isolated tales but chapters in a book we keep writing but do not bother to read.
A triad of fatalism, institutional weakness, and cultural bravado defines Pakistan’s risk culture.
The question is what drives this reckless resolve to challenge nature. A probable answer lies in the deeper fault lines of our societal risk culture. Referred to the collective ways in which a society perceives, reacts to, and manages risk, risk culture shapes how individuals, communities, and institutions interpret and respond to dangers and threats. Sociologists such as Ulrich Beck and Mary Douglas argue that modernity has generated new anthropogenic hazards that necessitate both material and cultural adaptation. They further say that risk is socially constructed, and our cultural norms, values, and belief systems shape and filter our approach to dealing with it.
A triad of fatalism, institutional weakness, and cultural bravado defines Pakistan’s risk culture. We do not understand risk as a dynamic to be calculated, mitigated, or prepared for. It is, instead, viewed as a test of faith, a stroke of luck, or an inconvenience to be brushed aside. Our children grow up watching adults embrace danger, rather than avoiding or preparing rationally for it. Resultantly, we ignore warnings, romanticise hazards, and see disaster preparedness as paranoia. Pakistan is one of the most vulnerable states to climate change-induced disasters. The monsoon, once a cherished and celebrated season, has now become a season of calamities and tragedies. Instead of internalising this reality and altering our behaviour, we have normalised this risk too. A larger part of society sees travelling to the hills during the monsoon as daring, equating proximity to danger with courage.
State institutions are reflective of society’s collective culture, and in this case, they also enable the cycle of recklessness. Authorities issue warnings, but enforcement is not guaranteed. Despite forecasts, roads to vulnerable valleys remain open for tourists, hotels continue to serve guests, and tourism operators continue to promote hilly sites without hazard disclaimers or guidelines. Moreover, the eroding public trust in institutional knowledge exacerbates the situation, and people continue to view official warnings with scepticism, turning instead to anecdotes and instinct, both of which are poor substitutes for scientific knowledge.
For some, pointing to society’s role in such tragedies may amount to victim-blaming. However, they should remember that probing social behaviours is a diagnosis, not blame. Neglecting the role of social behaviour and flawed perceptions in repeated disasters is to leave the problem festering. Moreover, recognising the cultural dimensions of risk does not absolve the state from its responsibilities. Thus, victims deserve empathy, but future victims deserve foresight.
The recent disasters are a reminder that Pakistan needs a new risk culture that recognises the power of prevention, treats nature as a sovereign force, and respects science. It requires embedding risk education in school curricula and mandating hazard disclosures in tourism campaigns. On the administrative end, it requires penalising illegal construction in vulnerable zones, effectively monitoring vulnerable areas, installing early warning systems, and regaining public trust. Above all, it requires a shift in social norms. Mountains are not lovers to be wooed in the rain, and riverbanks are not picnic spots in the monsoon. Nature is beautiful but merciless when provoked. Until we respect this reality, we will continue to perform a ritual of collective forgetfulness, a national danse macabre with disaster. Our risk culture, if left uncorrected, will not only remain flawed but also fatal.
The writer is a Senior Research Associate at the Centre for Aerospace and Security studies, Lahore. He can be reached at [email protected].