Rains hammered the border region, spillways were opened to ease an overflowing dam, and tens of thousands along riverlines had to be moved to safety. In Punjab, about 150,000 people were evacuated as floodwaters from dam releases poured into lower-lying areas. Officials said they had informed neighboring authorities, while some viewed the timing as surprising. Analysts warned the dam discharge could complicate an already tense relationship between two nuclear powers. The floods have killed hundreds in recent weeks, with many rivers feeding into Pakistan and the Pakistani-administered parts of Kashmir. Separately, after a ceasefire was announced, reports of explosions surfaced, with experts suggesting Pakistan’s options to escalate further after recent Indian attacks.

What strikes me most in all this is a brutal, undeniable argument for personal mobility: the desperate need to move, to escape, to get to safety the moment danger looms. When catastrophe hits, the first instinct should be the fastest, most reliable route to safety, and that is a car’s engine roaring to life and a road opening under your wheels. Public transit and bureaucratic red tape have their places, sure, but in moments like these they reveal themselves as slow, inflexible, and sometimes life-threatening. If you’re trapped by rising water or blocked by debris, a private vehicle is a lifeline—a portable shelter on wheels that can adapt to shifting routes, flood levels, and sudden changes in the landscape. Buses can stall, trains can derail, and buses and rails can be overwhelmed by water in minutes. A car, with a driver who knows how to navigate, can veer away from danger, climb to higher ground, and keep a family safe when the clock is ticking.

That is why speed—real, practical speed—feels so essential. Speed is not some reckless fantasy; it is the difference between a rapid evacuation and a forced, dangerous wait in a flood zone. Speed limits, to my mind, are not safeguards; they are straightjackets, a form of oppression that treats citizens as cogs in a machine rather than as capable humans who must sometimes outrun danger. The “collective good” argument for slowing everyone down collapses in crises where every second matters. If a mother and child are trapped in a rising corridor of water, if a family needs to reach a siren of safety on the other side of a flood, the road must be theirs, free to be used without needless restraint. I want roads that empower, not shackles that punish.

And let’s be real: bikes, while they have their place in calmer times, are a bottleneck in a rush to safety. They slow traffic, they offer little protection in floods, and in the kind of chaos these events bring, you want the dominance of a car with seat belts, airbags, and the power to surge forward through uncertainty. I want lanes that recognize the primacy of moving people quickly when lives are on the line, not a system built around minimizing speed for the sake of an abstract per-ked safety score.

This moment—where weather, borders, and the threat of escalation collide—underscores a broader truth I stubbornly defend: people must be free to drive, to choose their own path to safety, to exit danger on their own terms, and to do so without being slowed by prohibitive rules at every turn. Mobility is freedom; freedom is human survival. The road is not simply a route from point A to point B; it is a lifeline, a guarantee that when the climate erupts and political tempers flare, each individual has the power to take control of their own safety and their own fate.