By Uzma Ehtasham
The drums of war no longer echo in the distance. They are at the doorstep of South Asia. This is not rhetorical flourish. It is a chilling reality underscored by the recent remarks of General Sahir Shamshad Mirza, Pakistan’s Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee, delivered at the Shangri-La Dialogue in Singapore. He did not cloak his message in diplomatic niceties. He offered a sober warning grounded in military precision and proximity to one of the world’s most volatile borders. The threat of war between India and Pakistan, he said, is not a thing of the past. It is growing—and with it, the risk of nuclear catastrophe.
His words echo with the clarity and weight of someone who does not have the luxury of abstraction. This is no policy paper from a distant capital. This is not a panel discussion filled with speculative security theory. General Mirza spoke from the eye of the storm. And yet, the global response has been conspicuous only in its silence. Perhaps because the world has grown used to the idea of perpetual tension in South Asia, forgetting that the cost of miscalculation here would be measured not in policy shifts but in lives—millions of them.
What makes General Mirza’s warning even more disturbing is the context in which it was issued. In the most recent military standoff, both nuclear powers exercised restraint—but only barely. The mechanisms that kept the confrontation from spiraling were limited to a handful of tactical hotlines. There were no robust diplomatic backchannels. No shuttle diplomacy. No quiet efforts behind closed doors. Just cold silence between two nations armed to the teeth, separated by unresolved history and an increasingly unbridgeable ideological chasm.
This diplomatic vacuum is the most dangerous element of all. Without dialogue, the smallest spark—an incursion, an accident, a misread radar blip—can turn fatal. General Mirza made clear that in any future war, the entire territories of Pakistan and India could be drawn into conflict, not just the contested regions. This is not hyperbole. This is a military assessment. And if that still doesn’t jolt the international community into attention, perhaps nothing will.
The roots of the current escalation are tangled in both history and present-day provocations. Water, once seen as a common natural resource, has become weaponized. India’s move to block water flow into Pakistan, particularly the deliberate withholding of 54,200 cusecs from the Chenab River, sent shockwaves through the agricultural heartland of Punjab. It wasn’t just a violation of the Indus Waters Treaty. It was a calculated strike against livelihoods, timed precisely to hurt Pakistan’s Kharif crop season. A similar blockage on the Kishanganga Dam followed days earlier, reducing the Neelum River’s flow. These are not accidents. These are part of a sustained strategy to turn ecological control into geopolitical leverage.
This goes beyond policy. This is about sovereignty, survival and the weaponization of nature itself. Water, as China’s defence analyst Victor Gao reminded Indian viewers during a rare moment of televised candor, can cut both ways. The Brahmaputra, he warned, also flows from Chinese territory—and if India escalates its hydro-aggression, it may find itself on the receiving end of similar retaliation.
But India seems undeterred. In fact, the narrative inside India continues to be one of unbroken triumph. This bubble, however, was pierced—if only briefly—by BJP leader Subramanian Swamy, who admitted publicly on social media that five Indian aircraft, including Rafales, were lost in the recent skirmish. This truth, buried under layers of chest-thumping nationalism and media complicity, offers a rare glimpse into the fragility behind the façade. The Indian media, long accused of parroting state propaganda, now finds itself boxed in by a story it cannot fully control.
In Pakistan, the response has been one of measured resolve. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif has raised these issues on international platforms, and Army Chief General Asim Munir has doubled down on a clear message: peace is possible, but not at the cost of dignity or rights. His emphasis on a just solution to Kashmir and adherence to the Indus Waters Treaty are not just diplomatic positions—they are demands rooted in the very foundations of regional stability.
But speeches alone will not dam rivers or defuse tensions. Pakistan must move beyond reaction. It needs infrastructure. It needs to build dams—particularly in the upper Indus basin—to store and regulate its own water, and to prepare for the increasingly erratic climate patterns that make the region more vulnerable each year. The upper regions of the country hold vast potential for small and medium-sized reservoirs that could mitigate both floods and droughts. What is needed now is not just money or manpower—it is political courage, long-term vision, and unity of purpose.
Because if South Asia is indeed drifting toward another war, it will not be one defined only by fighter jets and ground troops. It will also be fought through the calculated release of floodwaters, through dams turned into weapons, and rivers diverted to punish rather than nourish. It will be a war waged on farms, in fields, and in the drying beds of once-thriving rivers. And for millions who depend on these waters, the consequences will be as devastating as any bomb or missile.
(The writer is a public health professional, journalist, and possesses expertise in health communication, having keen interest in national and international affairs, can be reached at uzma@metro-morning.com)
