| T |
wenty-two-year-old Zakiya of Ranchore Lines brought her baby into the world not in the safety of a hospital ward, but in the cramped backseat of a rented car in the middle of Karachi’s flooded streets. On August 19, as rain battered the city, her family’s effort to reach Sobhraj Maternity Hospital near Urdu Bazar ended in a deadlock. Floodwater had swallowed every road leading to the hospital. The car became her delivery room; the darkened sky her companion.
That Tuesday, Karachi was not just under water—it was under siege. The city’s fragile infrastructure gave way, its lifelines cut off. Ambulances stopped moving; hospitals stood isolated; and thousands of people were trapped in their homes or stranded on broken roads. The citizens faced not just heavy rain but also the paralysis of the entire health system. For hours, the country’s largest metropolis resembled a city abandoned by its protectors.
Among the most heart-wrenching tragedies was the story of Dr Farhan Ahmed, a senior medical professional who had spent years treating patients in emergencies. A resident of Gulshan-i-Iqbal, he tried frantically to shift his ailing mother to a specialised health facility as her condition deteriorated. He dialled ambulance services again and again, but none could respond.
By Tuesday evening, Edhi and Chhipa had already suspended their fleets. Nearly 90 percent of their ambulances are ageing hi-roof vans, incapable of navigating submerged roads. Dr Ahmed’s own car stalled in floodwater, leaving him helpless as his mother breathed her last without medical care. “She died in front of me,” he whispered to relatives, “I could not even take her body to the morgue.”
For hours, Karachi’s hospitals—NICVD, JPMC, Civil Hospital, Shaheed Benazir Bhutto Trauma Centre, and dozens of private facilities—were besieged not by patients but by silence. Doctors, paramedics and nurses waited inside, their emergency rooms staffed and ready, but the patients never came. From 2pm onwards, distress calls poured in from every corner of the city. Families begged for help for heart attacks, strokes, accidents and complicated pregnancies. But the flooded streets made it impossible for them to send help.
“I received two calls from relatives of heart attack patients who could not reach the NICVD,” an official who wished to remain anonymous shared, his voice heavy with grief. “I tried to guide them over the phone to find a nearby clinic, but we could do nothing more. It was the most helpless moment of my career.”
Across Karachi, the story kept recurring. On Shara-i-Faisal, stranded vehicles stood like tombstones in knee-deep water; inside, patients clutched their chests in pain. University Road became a graveyard of cars where families wailed for help. In North Nazimabad and New Karachi, pregnant women sat on charpoys in flooded homes, waiting for transport that never arrived. By nightfall, the cries of children, the panic of families and the frustration of doctors painted a portrait of collective despair.
The city’s power grid too collapsed, plunging homes and hospitals into darkness. Generators at several hospitals sputtered and failed, unable to run for prolonged hours. Life-saving surgeries were postponed mid-schedule. In maternity wards, incubators for newborns went off. In operating theatres, anesthetists waited in vain for electricity supply. The collapse of mobile phone networks made the situation worse. Families were cut off, unable to call ambulances or inform relatives. Karachi—a city of more than 20 million—was silenced, its people reduced to whispering prayers in darkened rooms.
For women like Zakiya, who gave birth in a car, and for men like Dr Ahmed, who saw his mother pass away without medical care, August 19 was not just another rainy day. It was the day the city’s weaknesses were laid bare. Its outdated drainage system, incapable ambulance fleet, unreliable electricity and absence of a coordinated health emergency plan turned rain into death.
Officials later confirmed at least 15 deaths from electrocution, drowning and wall collapse that day. The residents believe that the toll—including deaths from lack of access to healthcare—was far higher. “Many people died in their homes or in traffic jams, who will count them?” asked a resident of Malir whose elderly father had passed away waiting for dialysis.
At the Jinnah Postgraduate Medical Centre, a senior nurse described the frustration of the staff. “We had doctors, medicines and empty beds but the patients could not reach us. In our helplessness, every call for help felt like a slap in the face.”
The tragedy was not entirely unforeseen. Karachi has suffered similar paralysis before. Yet, the city remains unprepared. Experts have repeatedly warned that extreme monsoon events are becoming more frequent due to climate change. But year after year, little changes.
The solutions, experts say, are neither unknown nor impossible. Karachi needs drainage systems that can handle extreme rains; ambulance fleets that include high-clearance vehicles and boats for emergencies; hospitals that are equipped with resilient power backup and satellite communication systems; and mobile health units deployed in flood-prone areas. Above all, the city needs a coordinated disaster-health plan that does not leave citizens at the mercy of chance.
Attempts to reach Mayor Murtaza Wahab remained unsuccessful.
On August 19, Karachi’s streets drowned in water and its people drowned in grief. Unless lessons are learnt from this catastrophe, the next monsoon will write the same tragic headlines.
The writer is an investigative reporter, currently covering health, science, environment and water issues for The News International.