Punjab Floods: Natural Disaster or Man-Made Crime?

Floods are not new to Punjab, the land of five rivers. For centuries, its people have lived with the rhythm of the monsoon—planting with the rains, harvesting with the sun, and coping with water’s occasional excesses. But the floods of 2025 stand apart for their sheer scale of destruction. Across Indian and Pakistani Punjab, millions of people have been affected, thousands of villages submerged, and countless hectares of farmland lost. Boats have replaced buses in many towns, and relief camps have become home to families who once lived in brick houses.

At first, such disasters are described as “acts of God,” events so overwhelming that no human effort could have stopped them. But a closer look reveals a more troubling truth. The rains were heavy, yes, but the devastation was amplified by human failings: shortsighted governance, poor infrastructure, unplanned urban growth, and an unwillingness to adapt to the realities of climate change. In other words, the floods were as much man-made as they were natural.

The monsoon rains that triggered the floods were unusually intense, but such events are no longer rare. Climate change has increased the frequency of extreme rainfall in South Asia. In Punjab, where rivers such as the Sutlej, Beas, and Ravi converge, heavy rains upstream in Himachal Pradesh or Jammu and Kashmir can quickly swell downstream flows. Yet climate alone cannot explain the devastation.

Punjab relies heavily on dams and barrages to control its rivers. Structures like Bhakra, Pong, and Ranjit Sagar are engineering marvels, but they are managed with priorities other than flood safety. In the months before the monsoon, reservoirs are often kept high to secure water for irrigation and power generation. When extreme rains arrive unexpectedly, there is no room left to hold the inflows. Authorities are forced to release massive volumes of water in sudden bursts, overwhelming villages downstream. Had reservoirs been maintained at safer pre-monsoon levels, the releases could have been gradual and less destructive.

Punjab’s traditional system of choes (small rivulets) and canals once carried away excess water. Today many are clogged with silt and plastic waste or blocked by illegal constructions. Roads and highways often lack sufficient culverts, turning them into barriers that trap water rather than channels that release it. Embankments, or dhussi bundhs, which are supposed to protect villages, have been neglected for years. Erosion, illegal sand mining, and lack of maintenance mean they fail under pressure, unleashing floods into settled areas.

Another man-made factor is the reckless expansion of cities and towns. Wetlands and floodplains that once absorbed water have been built over with housing colonies and malls. Natural ponds have been filled in, riverbeds narrowed, and drainage lines disrupted. In many cases, land that should never have been occupied has been parcelled out for development. These choices come back to haunt the region every monsoon.

On top of these local problems lies the global reality of climate change. Warmer air holds more moisture, which means heavier downpours in shorter spans. What used to be considered “100-year floods” now occur every decade or less. This requires new models of dam management, updated floodplain maps, and modernised drainage systems. Unfortunately, governance has not kept pace. Agencies responsible for disaster management often work in silos. Communication delays between dam authorities, state governments, and village administrations mean that people are warned too late to evacuate safely.

No one can stop rain from falling, but much of the destruction was avoidable. The disaster is less about water and more about management. If reservoirs had been managed with flood safety as a priority, sudden releases could have been minimised. If rivers and drains had been desilted regularly, excess water would have had natural pathways to flow out. If embankments were reinforced before the monsoon, villages would have been better protected. If cities had respected ecological boundaries, wetlands and ponds would have absorbed runoff. And if disaster agencies had issued timely warnings, families could have saved more belongings, livestock, and even lives.

Floods are often described in numbers: millions affected, hectares submerged, crores in losses. But behind each number lies a human story of loss, resilience, and survival. In Indian Punjab, farmers watched helplessly as fields of paddy and cotton disappeared underwater just before harvest. Some had taken loans for seeds and fertilisers, hoping for a good yield. Now they face not only crop loss but also mounting debt. For small farmers, the difference between a harvest and a flood is the difference between survival and ruin.

In Pakistan’s Punjab, families waded through waist-deep water carrying infants and bundles of clothes. Many refused to leave without their cattle, knowing that livestock were their only security. Makeshift camps on higher ground are overcrowded. Women struggle to find privacy, children fall sick from contaminated water, and the elderly face immense hardship. Yet volunteers provide glimmers of hope. Students have formed relief teams delivering food packets and medicines. Doctors have set up temporary clinics to prevent cholera and dengue outbreaks. Religious groups have opened langars to feed the displaced. Some villagers recall how strangers offered them shelter when their own homes collapsed. These acts of solidarity show that while infrastructure may fail, human compassion endures.

Punjab cannot afford to treat floods as one-off tragedies. They are a recurring threat, and with climate change, they will only intensify. To prevent the future from repeating the past, several steps are vital. Laws should prohibit construction on natural floodplains. Wetlands and ponds must be restored as ecological assets that store water. Bundhs should be inspected and reinforced before the rains, not after. Communities should be involved in monitoring and maintaining them. Agencies must coordinate seamlessly. Early warning systems should be modernised, with alerts sent directly to villagers via mobile phones.

As the waters recede, the real challenge begins—rebuilding lives. Relief operations are ongoing, led by governments, NGOs, and community groups. Among them:

• Roundglass Foundation has been active in districts such as Gurdaspur, Amritsar, Fazilka, and Pathankot, providing food, clean water, medical care, and shelter, and focusing on long-term rehabilitation such as rebuilding schools and health centres.

• Meer Foundation, founded by actor Shah Rukh Khan, has distributed relief kits in Amritsar, Patiala, Fazilka, and Ferozepur, including medicines, hygiene supplies, tarpaulins, and mosquito nets.

• Sarbat Da Bhala Charitable Trust has been supplying dry rations and essentials in flood-hit villages, working through local volunteers to reach remote areas.

These organisations offer trusted channels for donations and support. Contributions—whether in money, supplies, or time—can make a tangible difference for displaced families.

The 2025 floods in Punjab should not be remembered merely as another natural disaster. They must be seen as a turning point. Nature unleashed heavy rains, but it was human decisions—keeping dams full, neglecting drains, encroaching on wetlands, ignoring warnings—that turned rain into ruin. Calling it an act of God absolves us of responsibility, but acknowledging the man-made dimensions forces us to act.

The resilience of Punjab’s people, seen in farmers struggling to replant, families surviving in camps, and volunteers rushing to help, is inspiring. But resilience alone is not enough. It must be matched with accountability from those in power, foresight in planning, and respect for nature’s boundaries. If these lessons are learned, the tragedy of 2025 may yet serve a purpose: reminding us that disasters are not inevitable, that prevention is possible, and that the line between natural and man-made calamities is thinner than we think. Punjab—a land nourished by rivers—deserves to live with water as a blessing, not a curse.

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