Pakistan’s Unspoken Climate Emergency: Why Gilgit-Baltistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Cannot Wait
By Raja Abdullah khan and Muhammad Junaid
Climate change is no longer a looming threat on Pakistan’s horizon; it is a lived reality that strikes harder with every passing season. From super floods to melting glaciers, from parched plains to vanishing forests, the evidence is all around us. Yet, despite being among the ten most climate-vulnerable countries in the world, Pakistan has not declared a climate emergency. The reluctance stands in stark contrast to the scale of devastation the country has faced in recent years. As the world grapples with escalating climate crises, one question grows more urgent: how much longer can Pakistan afford silence?
A climate emergency declaration is not a routine warning. It is a political statement that acknowledges the severity of climate change as an existential threat. Countries like the United Kingdom, Canada, and New Zealand have declared climate emergencies, aligning national policies with the urgency of the crisis. Such a declaration does not merely serve a symbolic purpose; it reorients governance, financing, and planning around climate adaptation and mitigation. In practical terms, it enables governments to divert budgets towards climate-resilient infrastructure, invest in renewable energy, and establish faster mechanisms for disaster preparedness. Internationally, it positions a country to attract climate finance, technical assistance, and global partnerships. Domestically, it sends a clear message that climate is not an environmental footnote but a core issue of economic survival and national security.
Pakistan’s recent history is filled with disasters that could have justified such a declaration many times over. The catastrophic floods of 2022, which submerged one-third of the country and displaced over 33 million people, were described worldwide as a textbook case of climate catastrophe. Croplands were washed away, roads and bridges collapsed, and entire villages disappeared under water. International attention followed, and Pakistan secured pledges worth more than $10 billion at the 2023 Geneva Conference on Climate Resilient Pakistan. Yet, in the absence of an official emergency declaration, much of that financial promise has remained delayed, fragmented, or stuck in bureaucratic bottlenecks.
Even before the floods, recurring droughts in Sindh and Balochistan, heatwaves in Punjab, and glacial outbursts in the northern regions had been warning signs. Civil society groups, academics, and even provincial officials in Sindh and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa repeatedly called for a climate emergency. But Islamabad hesitated. The reasons may have been fiscal constraints, fear of international scrutiny, or simple political inertia. Whatever the rationale, the hesitation has cost the country valuable time and credibility.
While the 2022 floods drew global attention to the Indus basin, the northern regions of Gilgit-Baltistan (GB) and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP) remain the silent frontlines of Pakistan’s climate war. These are not distant territories; they are the lifelines of the country. GB alone hosts more than 7,000 glaciers, forming the water towers of South Asia. The Indus River, which irrigates the breadbasket of Punjab and Sindh, originates here. What happens in GB does not stay in GB it cascades downstream, shaping the fate of the entire nation.
The threats are growing by the day. Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs) have become frequent, with Hunza, Ghizer, and Skardu facing periodic devastation. The Attabad Lake disaster of 2010, which displaced thousands and blocked the Karakoram Highway, remains a grim reminder of the fragility of this landscape. A similar pattern is emerging in KP, where flash floods in Swat, Chitral, and Kohistan have destroyed bridges, swept away homes, and trapped communities in isolation. Deforestation in these valleys has worsened soil erosion, turning once-verdant slopes into flood conduits.
Climate shocks in GB and KP are not isolated tragedies; they are cumulative disasters with national consequences. Yet, the absence of an emergency framework means they are treated as episodic events rather than structural crises.
Declaring a climate emergency in GB and KP could change the trajectory of how Pakistan responds to these crises. First, it would allow provincial authorities to access international climate funds, particularly the Green Climate Fund and the newly established Loss and Damage Fund under the UN climate framework. These funds are designed precisely for vulnerable regions that face disproportionate risks from global warming.
Second, an emergency declaration would empower provincial disaster management authorities to prioritize glacier monitoring, early warning systems, and climate-resilient housing. It could fast-track resettlement for communities living under the constant threat of floods and landslides. For mountain communities in GB, where livelihoods depend on fragile ecosystems, such measures could mean the difference between survival and displacement.
Third, an emergency declaration could accelerate the transition to clean energy in both provinces. Households in GB and KP often rely on firewood for heating and cooking, driving deforestation. Subsidized access to renewable energy, whether through micro hydel projects, solar grids, or wind power, would not only protect forests but also improve the quality of life for residents.
Most importantly, a formal climate emergency would put pressure on federal authorities to recognize GB and KP as central to Pakistan’s climate strategy, not peripheral concerns.
Yet, one cannot ignore the risks. An emergency declaration, if not backed by institutional reforms, risks becoming little more than a political slogan. Pakistan’s National Disaster Management Authority (NDMA) and Provincial Disaster Management Authorities (PDMAs) have long been criticized for being reactive rather than preventive. Funding constraints, coordination gaps, and bureaucratic red tape often delay response efforts. Declaring a climate emergency without strengthening these institutions could expose the country to international skepticism, undermining rather than enhancing its credibility.
For a declaration to have teeth, it must be paired with reforms in planning, budgeting, and enforcement. Local governments in GB and KP need training, resources, and authority to implement community-based adaptation. Universities and research institutions in these regions should be integrated into national climate monitoring frameworks. And most critically, the voices of local communities who understand their landscapes better than distant officials must be central to any adaptation plan.
Pakistan is not waiting for climate change; it is already living it. The longer the state hesitates to call the crisis by its name, the more vulnerable its people become. For the farmers of Swat whose fields are washed away, for the families of Hunza who live under the shadow of melting glaciers, and for the millions across the Indus basin who depend on water from the north, the emergency is not tomorrow, it is today.
Declaring a climate emergency in Pakistan, starting with GB and KP, would not solve every problem overnight. But it would mark a critical shift in acknowledging the scale of the crisis and aligning national and provincial policies accordingly. It would signal to the world that Pakistan is not merely a victim of climate change but a country ready to lead in resilience. The choice is clear; continue to treat climate disasters as seasonal misfortunes, or finally confront them as what they truly are: a climate emergency.
The contributors are MPhil scholars at PIDE.
