Cloudbursts are not new to Jammu and Kashmir, yet each time they strike, we appear startled, unprepared, and tragically vulnerable. The recent disaster at Chosoti in Kishtwar once again exposed the fragile balance between nature and human intervention. While the meteorological department had issued clear advisories about intense weather, the decision to allow mass gatherings in ecologically fragile zones has raised uncomfortable questions about accountability. Was this an inevitable act of nature, or a preventable human failure?
Let’s be honest—cloudbursts will happen. They are sudden, violent, and beyond our capacity to stop. But what is within our control is preparedness, regulation, and foresight. When warnings are issued, the onus lies with the administration to act decisively, either by halting or by safely regulating such gatherings. If permission was granted despite the red flags, then the state must answer whether adequate preparedness measures were in place. Were rescue teams pre-positioned? Were escape routes clearly marked? Were travellers made aware of dos and don’ts in case of sudden floods or landslides?
If no permission was given officially, then the question shifts: how did large gatherings proceed without enforcement of restrictions? Either way, this points to a systemic failure of governance. Disasters may be natural, but the magnitude of human tragedy they unleash often comes from our own negligence.
This is not about one event or one district. Over the years, we have seen multiple tragedies during mass gatherings in sensitive terrains—the Amarnath cave route has witnessed repeated casualties from floods and landslides. Each time, there is mourning, temporary outrage, and then silence, until the cycle repeats. The lesson is simple but stubbornly ignored: nature does not bend to faith, politics, or administrative convenience. It must be respected with policy, science, and strict regulation.
Another crucial dimension often overlooked is the wisdom of local communities. In Kishtwar, many locals survived because they recognized the signs—changes in wind, unusual sounds from mountains, sudden darkening of the sky. Their intimate relationship with the landscape alerted them to run for safety. Tragically, it was mostly non-locals, unfamiliar with the terrain and its dangers, who fell victim. This highlights a vital truth: knowledge can save lives. If such indigenous awareness could be systematically transferred to visitors through training and awareness sessions, countless lives could be protected in future.
Therefore, it is time to frame policies that go beyond logistical arrangements of food, tents, or barricades. What is needed is a comprehensive disaster-management framework specifically designed for high-risk zones. This framework must include:
Mandatory orientation for participants: Before starting, every visitor should attend a short session where they are briefed about basic disaster signals, safe spots, and evacuation plans.
On-ground signage and drills: Clearly marked escape routes, regular mock drills, and local volunteers trained to guide people in emergencies.
Strict adherence to weather advisories: No mass gatherings should be permitted when the meteorological department issues warnings. Administrative decisions must prioritize safety over pressure.
Integration of local knowledge: Employ local guides and residents as official safety marshals—they understand the terrain better than any outside agency.
Citizen responsibility charter: Every participant should be given clear dos and don’ts, not as optional advice but as compulsory safety rules.
Let us not forget the role of citizens themselves. Forests and fragile valleys are not picnic grounds or entertainment parks. Treating them as such only worsens ecological imbalance and makes disasters deadlier. Littering, deforestation, or reckless construction not only scar the environment but also weaken natural defences against floods and slides. A cultural shift is needed where visitors respect the sanctity of these ecosystems rather than treating them as amusement zones.

Dos and Don’ts for Safer Yatras

Dos
Always follow official weather advisories before and during travel.
Stay in groups and listen to instructions from local guides or authorities.
Learn basic signs of cloudburst or landslide risk—sudden dark skies, rumbling sounds, or swelling streams.
Identify nearest safe zones and keep track of escape routes.
Carry minimal luggage and keep essentials like water, torch, and first aid ready.

Don’ts

Do not ignore warnings from authorities or locals.
Do not camp near rivers, nallas, or unstable slopes.
Do not treat forests as picnic spots—avoid littering, fires, or noise pollution.
Do not take unnecessary risks for photography or adventure.
Do not assume faith or habit guarantees safety—nature’s fury respects no one.
Policy must internalize these basic principles, and citizens must own them as part of their responsibility. Safety is not a one-sided obligation; it is a shared duty between the state and society.
The question, then, is not whether cloudbursts can be stopped. They cannot. The real question is whether future ones must always translate into loss of innocent lives. With foresight, planning, and education, the answer should be no. A state that prides itself on hosting large gatherings must also shoulder the responsibility of ensuring they do not turn into mass funerals. Anything less is not just negligence—it is betrayal.
The tragedy at Kishtwar should not fade into the routine cycle of condolences and committees. It should mark a turning point. A turning point where government recognizes that preparedness is not optional, where citizens recognize that forests are not playgrounds, and where local knowledge is valued as much as official expertise.
Because the next cloudburst will come. The only question is: will we be ready, or will we repeat the same mistakes and count the dead again?

Email:--------------------------- naseerbita@yahoo.com