A Dialogue with the Glacier: Lessons from Borith and Passu
By: Israruddin Israr
The journey began at the tranquil Borith Lake, its calm waters reflecting the rugged beauty of the Karakoram peaks. From this serene oasis, I set out toward the mighty Passu Glacier, starting from Borith Zero Point. The trail wound through stony slopes and alpine silence, each step carrying me closer to a timeless world of ice. When I finally stood before the glacier, I felt dwarfed by its majesty, an ancient sentinel of nature’s strength and memory.
Yet beneath that grandeur, there was unease, a quiet anger pulsing beneath the frozen surface. These are not ordinary times. The glaciers of Gilgit-Baltistan, once symbols of stability and life, are now melting at alarming rates. Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs) tear through valleys, washing away homes, schools, and dreams. Landslides choke rivers, sever roads, and isolate communities. Nature, it seems, is no longer whispering; it is roaring its warnings.
I was alone that day, just me and the glacier. A one-on-one, in-camera meeting with a giant of nature. No audience, no noise, only the sound of the wind, the crack of distant ice, and the voice of conscience echoing through the valley.
I spoke to the glacier as if it were the voice of the earth itself. “Why this rage?” I asked. “Why such fury upon these valleys and the people who love these mountains?”
The glacier answered, not in words, but in the deep language of silence, an ancient tongue of cracking ice and gushing meltwater. Yet its meaning was clear:
“Humans have wronged us. For greed, for illusion, they wound the earth. They burn its breath with fossil fuels, choke its lungs with carbon, poison its veins with chemicals. They raze forests, dam rivers, and cloak the skies in greenhouse gases. Their cities consume, their industries devour, and their hearts know no restraint.”
I felt the weight of its truth. But the glacier was not finished. Its silent voice carried another accusation:
“Even when they claim to act, they deceive. They build fake promises, like those so-called early warning systems your governments boast about. Corruption eats their roots, greed hollows their cores. Warnings fail, lives are lost, and yet they speak of progress. If humans cannot be sincere to each other, why should nature be sincere to them?”
The words struck hard. Indeed, humans have not only betrayed the earth, they have betrayed themselves. We are masters of false assurances, addicts of profit. We erect fragile systems, then watch them crumble under the weight of corruption. And all the while, nature watches. Silent. Patient. Until patience runs out.
When humanity becomes fake, nature retaliates with truth.
I promised to carry this message back. In response, the glacier extended its hospitality. I scooped a shard of its snow, pure and bitterly cold and let it melt on my tongue. It tasted of age, of forgiveness still possible, if only we dare change. I drank from its waters and felt both blessed and warned.
As the sun sank behind serrated peaks, I returned to Borith, where Akhtar Karim, a renowned social activist of Gojal, welcomed me to his tent village. That night, under a canopy of stars, we shared tea, laughter, and reflections. Yet even amid warmth and camaraderie, the glacier’s voice lingered:
A solemn hymn of warning and hope: Correct your path. Restore harmony. Abandon greed. Respect life, before the last ice melts, and with it, the last chance for pardon.
