Dr. Fiaz Fazili
In the heart of Kashmir, where the mountains stand as silent sentinels, nature speaks in a language both fierce and unforgiving. A cherry orchard in Budgam lies in ruins after a hailstorm, its blossoms shredded like confetti. In Ramban, entire villages sink into the earth, swallowed by landslides triggered by relentless rains. A cloudburst in Ganderbal washes away homes, leaving families to sift through mud for fragments of their lives. These are not mere events—they are warnings, etched in the language of floods, fires, and quakes, urging humanity to pause, reflect, and reform.
Natural disasters have long been humanity’s unheeded teachers, their lessons inscribed in scripture and science alike. From the Qur’an’s warnings of divine accountability to the Bible’s prophecies of trembling earth, from the Vedic tales of Kali-yuga’s chaos to the oral traditions of ancient civilizations, these events are framed as wake-up calls—checks on humanity’s hubris. Yet, as we rebuild and mourn, we often forget the deeper truths they reveal: our responsibility to steward the earth, to live with integrity, and to confront the moral decay that invites calamity.
Nature’s Wrath, Humanity’s Mirror
Over the past decade, Kashmir has borne the brunt of nature’s fury. In 2023, flash floods in the Jhelum River claimed 12 lives and displaced thousands in Srinagar, echoing the devastation of the 2014 deluge. Hailstorms in April 2024 ravaged apple orchards in Shopian, costing farmers crores in losses. A 5.8-magnitude earthquake in Doda last year cracked homes and schools, a stark reminder of the region’s seismic vulnerability. These disasters, scientists say, are amplified by climate change—deforestation, unchecked construction, and carbon emissions tilting nature’s balance. But scriptures offer another lens: calamities as divine reminders to mend our ways.
The Qur’an (4:135) calls for unwavering justice, urging believers to stand firm in truth, even against themselves. The Bible (Matthew 24:6-7) foretells earthquakes and famines as signs of reckoning. Vedic texts describe Kali-yuga’s moral decline, where greed and deceit provoke cosmic unrest. Across faiths, the message converges: disasters are not random—they reflect our collective failure to honor the Creator’s laws.
Take the story of Ghulam Mohammad, a farmer in Pulwama. In 2022, a freak hailstorm destroyed his entire saffron crop, his family’s livelihood for decades. “I thought it was just bad luck,” he says, sitting amid his barren fields. “But then I saw how we’ve cut forests, built on riverbanks. Maybe this is Allah’s way of telling us to stop.” His words echo a growing sentiment in Kashmir, where communities are grappling with the link between environmental neglect and divine retribution.
The Silence of Truth
Yet, the hardest truth to face is our own complicity—not just in environmental destruction, but in the erosion of moral courage. In Kashmir, a society once anchored in faith and community, an unholy despair has taken root. Truth-tellers are fading, drowned out by a culture that shrugs, “Your truth is yours, mine is mine.” Relativism has become a shield, excusing corruption, power theft, land grabs, and adulteration in food and medicine. We wear masks, as poet Zareef Ahmad Zareef laments, indulging in “Tarangari and Tarangari”—empty posturing to avoid accountability.
Why do we shy away from truth? I posed this question to friends, family, and colleagues. The response was telling: “Does truth always win?” For many, honesty feels like a gamble. A shopkeeper in Srinagar, who requested anonymity, admitted to diluting milk to cut costs. “If I don’t, I can’t compete,” he said. “Speaking out won’t change the system—it’ll just ruin me.” A government clerk in Baramulla confessed to taking bribes, justifying it as “the way things work.” These are not isolated acts but symptoms of a society that rewards deceit over integrity.
This moral drift has consequences. In 2023, a fire in Sopore’s market gutted 50 shops, later traced to illegal electrical tampering—a byproduct of widespread power theft. The community mourned, but few dared to name the root cause. “We’re afraid,” says Aisha, a schoolteacher in Anantnag. “Calling out corruption or immorality feels like standing alone. People want peace, not confrontation.”
The Cost of Lies
Lies, like disasters, compound over time. A single falsehood—told to impress a boss, appease a friend, or dodge accountability—snowballs into a habit. It seeps into homes, workplaces, and societies, breeding resentment and mistrust. The shopkeeper’s diluted milk sickens a child. The clerk’s bribe delays a road repair, stranding a village. The unspoken truth festers, as Edmund Burke warned: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”
Consider the case of a young doctor in Srinagar, who uncovered adulterated medicines at a local pharmacy in 2024. When she reported it, she faced threats and ostracism. “I was told to stay quiet, that it’s ‘how business works,’” she recalls. “But how could I, knowing patients were dying?” Her courage saved lives but cost her job. Her story is a microcosm of Kashmir’s struggle: the upright are sidelined, while the corrupt thrive.
A Path to Redemption
The scriptures offer a way out: introspection, repentance, and reform. The Qur’an (30:41) warns, “Corruption has appeared on land and sea because of what men’s hands have wrought.” But it also promises mercy for those who seek forgiveness and mend their ways. If we heed these warnings—curbing environmental destruction, confronting moral failings, and fostering truth—calamities may yet be averted.
Communities are beginning to act. In Kulgam, a 2023 initiative led by local youth replanted 10,000 trees to combat deforestation, inspired by a devastating landslide that claimed five lives. In Bandipora, a group of women launched a campaign against food adulteration, testing local markets and naming violators. These efforts, small but significant, show what’s possible when truth and action align.
A Call to Courage
Kashmir stands at a crossroads. Nature’s warnings—its floods, quakes, and storms—are mirrored by the moral storms within us. We cannot ignore the cherry blossoms’ ruin, the sinking villages, or the silenced truth-tellers. To move forward, we must embrace “microscopic honesty,” as the author calls it, speaking truth with compassion, even when it stings.
This means challenging the shopkeeper’s deceit, the clerk’s bribe, the community’s silence. It means standing, as the Qur’an urges, for justice, though it be against ourselves. It means rejecting “Tarangari and Tarangari” for mutual trust and respect, as Zareef Ahmad Zareef envisioned. Above all, it means recognizing that we come from the same source—divine, eternal—and are accountable to it.
The lessons are clear: steward the earth, uphold truth, and rebuild with resilience. As the mountains of Kashmir bear witness, every disaster is a chance to awaken, to return to the moral horizon that awaits beyond this life. May we find the courage to listen, to act, and to hope. Ameen.
(Note: Dr. Fiaz Fazili is a medico at Mubarak Hospital, Srinagar, and a columnist on social, moral, and religious issues. He champions positive perception management and can be reached at drfiazfazili@gmail.com.)
