Kiran Asim
When bodies are pulled from the water, that is not a rescue. It is the most painful, public confession of failure.
Retrieving silent corpses from rivers and flood debris is not rescue. True rescue is when living humans are swiftly and effectively saved from the jaws of death. The word “rescue” itself means an organized, timely intervention to preserve life—not merely counting the dead under the cameras.
Last week in Swat, the death of tourists should have been a moment of collective shame for every official responsible. These were not just drowned travellers. They were witnesses to the collapse of the illusion that Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is governed at all. An FIR should be lodged against the fake public representatives, the Deputy Commissioner of Swat, the Director General of Rescue 1122, and the Chief Minister of KPK.
Could a helicopter not have been deployed to save those stranded in the raging floodwaters? Where did the billions allocated for “emergency response” disappear? Are these enormous budgets kept only for buying biscuits and fuelling luxury convoys? This is the so-called “new Khyber Pakhtunkhwa,” where, after thirteen years of continuous rule, the administration could not even procure a single rescue helicopter. Instead, as lives perished, the same officials were more concerned with raising slogans like Chalo, Chalo Islamabad Chalo (March to Islamabad), abandoning their cranes and rescue vehicles to rot while they fled back across twelve districts.
This is what happens when public assets—rescue trucks, ambulances, and trained personnel—are diverted from life-saving work to political rallies, protests, and spectacles of force. When the institutions meant to protect the public become tools of political theatre, all that remains in a disaster is regret, devastation, and funeral processions.
For twelve years, the people of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa have suffered a regime under Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) that imposed itself like a curse. A ruling clique lacking basic intelligence, conscience, and humanity has tried desperately to hide its failures behind loud speeches. Their inability to save guests trapped for hours is undeniable evidence of their incompetence. Only days ago, they were bragging about lending money to the federal government, yet they could not arrange a single helicopter in time. They are experts only in corruption and devouring public resources.
Last year, six brothers were swallowed by the floods. This year, an entire family was erased by the same indifferent currents. These were not simply tourists swept away; what drowned in Swat was the last pretense of “change.” The reality of thirteen years of PTI’s empty slogans and broken promises sank before the eyes of the world.
Consider this: in over a decade of rule, the government could not build even the most basic rescue infrastructure for Swat—a major tourist region generating vital revenue. Before this, five young men perished in Kohistan. Their tragic deaths were an early warning that the system would fail again and again.
If this is the condition of prominent areas, what happens in the far-flung districts? Only recently, on the Skardu road, four bodies lay decomposing on the river rocks for days because no rescue agency arrived. This is not an isolated case. There are hundreds of such examples across Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where lives end in slow agony while 62 so-called “active departments” watch in paralysis.
Eighteen people witnessing the naked dance of death for hours before vanishing into oblivion is not an “accident.” It is a national tragedy. It is proof that this province has become nothing but a playground for a handful of elites who enjoy peace, security, and every conceivable privilege while the poor are left to drown in rivers, fall from bridges, and die on broken roads.
The Kohistan mega corruption scandal, which recently surfaced, shocked even the Chief Minister and advisers of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Billions of rupees meant for infrastructure and public welfare were siphoned off through ghost projects, fraudulent contracts, and brazen kickbacks. Those funds could have built modern rescue stations, equipped emergency responders with boats and helicopters, and trained personnel to handle disasters. Instead, the money vanished into the pockets of contractors and politicians who will never face justice.
Instead of depending on the Pakistan Army to respond to every emergency, the government should have equipped civil institutions like Rescue 1122 to deliver immediate help. It is not the Army’s responsibility to cover for the failures of District Administrations and incompetent rescue leadership. Even after so many disasters, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa still lacks a fully functional, well-funded, modern rescue authority. Every day, innocent lives pay the price of this criminal negligence.
These are scenes of unspeakable sorrow—where parents watch their children swept away while officials bicker over budgets, blame each other, or simply look the other way.
It is time to ask hard questions: Why are helicopters only available to fly politicians to rallies? Why are rescue trucks lined up at protest marches instead of flood sites? Why must the poor die for the rich to maintain their delusions of power?
This is not merely bad governance. This is an unforgivable betrayal of public trust.
If there is any decency left among those who rule Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, they must be held accountable for every life lost to their corruption, arrogance, and incompetence.
