The monsoon arrived not with warning, but with vengeance. It had rained the night before-nothing extraordinary at first, just a steady rhythm of water tapping on rooftops, filling the valley’s silence. In the village nestled within the lush, deceptive serenity of Swat, the people were used to rain.

But this time, the sky wasn’t weeping-it was breaking open. And no one was ready for what poured out of it.

Fifteen members of the same family-spanning three generations-awoke to the sound of rushing water. First, it was under the doors. Then it was at their feet. And in what felt like minutes, it was at their waists, then necks. Screams tore through the night, mingling with the roar of the rising river.

They ran-wherever they could. The eldest grandfather was struggling to carry a crying toddler. The mother clutched her baby to her chest. The teenage cousins tried to form a human chain to help their ailing grandmother across the flooded path. But nature was not kind, and the land they loved turned against them.

Because if a nation cannot rescue its own from the rising waters, what, truly, is left to preserve?

They climbed onto the roof of a nearby structure, but the water came for that too. Clinging to each other, eyes wide with fear and disbelief, they shouted for help. They waited, hoping that someone, somewhere, would see them.

But no help came. No helicopters slicing through the........

© Daily Times