Floods, Fear and Fortitude

Disasters are not natural. They only occur when hazards meet vulnerability.- Terry Cannon

Skies are not always silent with tears. Sometimes they scream - loud, ferocious, merciless. The monsoon, once looked forward to as an expected bearer of our hope, becomes unrecognizable. It stops being poetry and becomes panic. What begins as gentle rain turns into walls of water, swallowing streets, homes and unfortunately with them: certainty.

Floods don’t knock. They barge in. A child's exercise book or a bed that once held weary dreams  float, sodden and disoriented, among the wreckage of nature's chaos. The news tells us about numbers and rainfall maps  but it does not convey the heartbreak of watching years of your life slowly sink beneath rising waters. It does not convey the trembling forefinger gripping a drenched photo. It does not listen to the silence of a person who loses not just a home but a history.

 Floods are not only a disaster from nature, they are deeply human events. They test us in ways we couldn't imagine. You don't know what resilience is until you see a father carry his sleeping child through waist-deep water, wondering with each step where a dry step may land. You don’t understand helplessness until you’ve tried to dial a loved one knowing there’s no signal, no electricity and perhaps no safety.

But alongside the fear, there’s something else that rises. Fortitude. In narrow lanes where the water touches windowpanes, strangers become saviours. Someone stretches a hand from a rooftop. A group pulls in a boat made of plastic drums and bamboo. Volunteers swim to reach the elderly trapped inside. People cook whatever they can find, distributing food through makeshift rafts. 

Disasters themselves don't discriminate, but resilience does unite us. Flood waters never ask who you are, where you are from or what possessions you have. They wash away the illusion of separation. Everyone becomes equal: equally vulnerable, equally human. And in that raw exposure, something powerful happens. Communities that once lived side by side begin living for one another. The rhythm of survival drowns out prejudice.

Yet we cannot romanticize resilience. To call someone strong does not erase their suffering. Fortitude is not born from choice, it is born from necessity. And still, people endure. They don't only build back broken walls, they build back broken hearts. Brick by brick, prayer by prayer, act of kindness by act of kindness. 

There is trauma too, that the waters leave behind, silent and invisible. Children who cannot help but flinch at every thunder strike. Adults who struggle to dispose of every drop of clean, potable water, who are always worried about thirst. The anxiety of the uncontrollable, the burdensome grief of starting over and the despair of being invisible. Mental health after natural disasters is rarely spoken of, but it remains flooded and broken in the mind long after the streets have dried. 

In every house where floodwater reached the switchboard, fear has seeped into the wiring. And yet, they still switch on the light the next day. That is fortitude. Some may call it hope. Others may call it foolish optimism. But those who have lived through it will tell you, it is survival. A spirit stitched from grit and grace.

Communities emerge from these disasters changed, not just because of what they lost but because of how they stood. They tell stories not of drowning, but of saving. Not of weakness, but of waiting. They remember the boy who ferried medicines. The girl who kept singing in the dark. The strangers who became brothers. The water came for their homes, but they didn’t let it take their humanity.

We bend, we break, but we begin again. With every monsoon, every flood-affected region, every evacuation spurred by panic and uncertainty there is the same lingering question: Were we prepared? The answer is NO. Climate change is not a never-to-come crisis. It is a crisis in full damage control mode right now. Bad drainage, unplanned development and disappearing wetlands all contribute to the chaos. Preparedness is not an expensive option. Because behind every "miracle rescue" lies a failure of prevention.

And yet, in the middle of these truths, we see people do what systems couldn’t. Not because they had to, but because they couldn’t bear not to. People save each other because it’s the most human thing to do.

So this monsoon, as the clouds gather and memories rise like the water once did, let us remember what floods reveal. They reveal our fragility. But also, our fire. They show us how nature humbles. But also, how humanity heals. They drown homes. But sometimes, they also drown hate. They wash away belongings. But often, they leave behind the priceless: compassion, connection and courage.

Let us honour not just the survivors, but the silent fighters. The ones who lost everything and still offered something. Because the truth is, water may rise again. But so will we.