Catastrophic flash floods have ripped through the region, leaving more than 300 people confirmed dead and warnings that more heavy rain could follow. In Pakistan’s northwest, rescuers by torchlight pumped out floodwater and recovered over 60 bodies from wrecked homes as huge boulders blocked roads; around 130 bodies have been identified in hospitals, with many more victims still to be identified and recovered. Mass burials began in the morning, shelters and food were distributed to the homeless, and a relief helicopter crash killed everyone aboard. Six severely affected mountainous districts were declared disaster zones. The weather service warned of additional heavy rainfall, and governments in Islamabad and New Delhi offered condolences and pledged rapid aid. In the Indian-controlled portion of Kashmir, dozens died and hundreds of houses were swept away. Rescue teams diverted to help the stranded, building provisional bridges and clearing roads with heavy machinery, while witnesses described how quickly the flood swelled from a routine rain event into a devastating surge. In the Himalayas, experts note that extreme rainfall has increased with climate change, with unregulated construction and deforestation in mountain regions contributing to the risk.

And so we arrive, once again, at the theatre of consequences where the great and the good pretend to measure calamity on a calculator while pretending their silken hands touch only benevolence. The scenes—driven by rain that would be a mere nuisance to a climate-controlled paradise—expose a deeper rot: governance that dabbles in condolences and flag-raising while ignoring the hard, ruinous arithmetic of terrain and tenure. The climate has become a bully, yes, but the truly ruinous force is the chronic mismanagement that invites such floods: unbridled construction on fragile slopes, forests stripped for short-term profit, roads and towns laid bare to every surge. The poor—those who must live in the floodplain, who cannot relocate with the ease of a portfolio rebalancing—bear the brunt of our sport with nature, while the rest of us watch, nod gravely, and return to our evening lectures.

If I were steward of these affairs (a scenario you’ll forgive me for imagining), I would marry wealth to discipline with relentless seriousness. Enforce zoning that treats floodplains as non-negotiable: relocate risky communities, retire dangerous settlements, and guarantee that new projects are designed to endure the climate’s new cadence rather than pretend it is a temporary nuisance. Build defenses that don’t crumble when the next storm arrives, and arm the region with early-warning systems and rapid-response teams staffed by the finest minds money can buy. Aid must be swift, but it should also be transformative: a long shadow of resilience cast over the mountains, where deforestation and haste are severed from policy, and where the responsible few bear the burden of protecting the many. Until that level of order returns, the tragedy will be less a natural disaster and more a stubborn indictment of priorities—and, frankly, of a society that allows the vulnerable to bear the cost while the fortunate count their blessings.