By Mehrab Shah Afridi
A profound and unsettling silence is falling across the mountains of north-western Pakistan. It is a silence that speaks not of peace, but of loss. In the high passes of Lundi Kotal, where the air was once a vibrant tapestry of sound and movement, the familiar rhythms of nature are unravelling. The raucous calls of chukar partridges that echoed from every rocky slope have faded. The sky, once etched with the elegant, determined V-formations of migratory cranes, is now often an empty, bleached blue. This growing quiet is more than a seasonal shift; it is an omen, a tangible testament to an ecological crisis unfolding along one of the planet’s great avian migratory highways.
The figures, as relayed by Divisional Forest Officer for Wildlife, are as stark as the newly silent landscapes. The number of migratory birds traversing through Khyber Pakhtunkhwa has not merely dipped; it has plummeted to a dangerous and alarming low. This is a precipitous decline, a collapse driven by a brutal confluence of man-made pressures. The triple threats of climate change, rampant and unchecked human activity, and the deteriorating conditions in Afghanistan—a crucial buffer zone for these intrepid travellers—have created a perfect storm, pushing a timeless natural phenomenon to the brink.
To understand the scale of this loss, one must envision the journey itself. It is an epic, intercontinental trek undertaken by a spectacular array of waterfowl—ducks, swans, geese, and the stately cranes—alongside majestic birds of prey like falcons and eagles. They travel from the cold, vast breeding grounds of Mongolia, Siberia, and Central Asia, navigating by ancient instinct along the invisible aerial highway of the Indus River flyway. For millennia, this route has guided them southwards through Afghanistan into the warmer climes of Pakistan and India. Their calendar was as reliable as the turning of the earth: arriving around September, gracing Pakistan’s water reservoirs from January to February, and embarking on the return journey north by March or April.
But this ancient rhythm is now being violently and chaotically disrupted. “Climate change has affected both the timing and the routes of these birds’ migration,” Ijaz explains, his voice carrying the weight of observed data and deep concern. The predictable schedules are gone, replaced by an erratic and confused pattern. Some flocks now arrive disconcertingly early, in July or August, while others are delayed, their internal clocks scrambled by a warming planet. The entire delicate climatic system that governs their existence—the timing of snowmelt, the patterns of rainfall, the very temperature of the air—is unravelling, leaving the birds out of sync with the natural resources they depend on.
Their journey, always perilous, has become exponentially more so because it is entirely dependent on a chain of sustenance—a series of pit-stops offering food, water, and safe havens. That chain is now broken. On the ground, the assault is visceral and concrete. The relentless spread of construction, the tarmac scar of new roads and motorways, and the sprawling, unchecked concrete of housing societies have devoured their natural habitats. The once-expansive water reservoirs along the River Swat, vital avian rest-stops, have been strangled by population growth, pollution, and the encroachment of infrastructure.
Perhaps the most geopolitically poignant disruption lies to the north. Ijaz notes that the chronic insecurity, the reverberations of war, and the lurking presence of landmines in Afghanistan have transformed a crucial passageway into a perilous and deadly barrier. The wetlands and natural lakes there, once critical stopover points where birds could rest and feed, are now polluted and rendered psychologically and physically unsuitable. “Where there is war, the very air is wounded,” observes Jannat Khan, a 55-year-old resident of Lundi Kotal, with a hunter’s poignant wisdom. “The smell of gunpowder and the sound of gunfire frightens the birds. They change their paths.”
The birds, it seems, are being forced to find new, unknown routes, bypassing landscapes that have served as their ancestral motels for thousands of generations. The statistics offer a cold, hard confirmation of what the eyes and ears of locals already know. Where once nearly half a million birds would traverse this route, their mass movement a spectacle of life itself, now only a few scattered hundred are seen in areas that once hosted countless thousands. The vibrant, living skies are becoming a fading memory, a story told by elders. This loss is felt most acutely by people like Jannat Khan, whose lives have been intimately intertwined with this natural phenomenon for generations.
His voice, etched with the regret of a man who has witnessed the depletion of his own world, carries a powerful testimony. “There were chukars on every mountain,” he recalls, the sorrow palpable in his tone. “The water reservoirs were full of birds; there was life everywhere. Now the water is gone, the trees are cut, and the birds have left.” He speaks of the crane flocks he hasn’t seen in years, their absence a personal and cultural bereavement. This encroaching silence in the mountains is more than just an absence of sound; it is an ecological void. Migratory birds are not merely aesthetic wonders, fleeting decorations in our sky. They are vital players in the intricate balance of nature, integral to the health of agricultural land, aquatic systems, and forest ecosystems.
Their disappearance is not an isolated event; it is a flashing red light, signalling a profound systemic failure. The warning from the silent mountains of Lundi Kotal is unequivocal. Ijaz’s call for urgent, concerted action—for the government, the forest department, and the public to protect natural habitats, restore water reservoirs, and safeguard these creatures—is a plea for a collective course correction. If this trajectory continues unchecked, the majestic lines of birds that once symbolised life, freedom, and the enduring pulse of the planet will become a relic of the past, confined to history books.
