By profession, I am a civil engineer, but for as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with nature and the beautiful conifer forests in my homeland in the Murree Hills. These forests are part of my heritage and a shared legacy of the generations that have grown up and lived in the Himalayas. As a native living in the hills of Murree, I feel compelled to tell a story of the devastation brought to Murree, which is both deeply personal but also concerns all of us. The story is of the devastation brought to Murree in the name of development and of the waters of the twin cities of Rawalpindi and Islamabad, which are now at grave risk. It is the story of the “Queen of the Hills”, which now stands on the brink of a complete ecological collapse.
Murree is not simply a hill station or a tourist resort but also an important water tower in Pakistan. The maximum rainfall of the Potohar Plateau occurs in Murree. The Soan River originates in its foothills, flowing westward, and the Korang River, also fed by streams from the Murree Hills, carries water towards Islamabad.
The springs of Murree have recharged the groundwater aquifers that feed Rawalpindi, Islamabad, and the villages scattered across the foothills of the Himalayas since the birth of these cities. But today, this critical ecosystem, the rivers, aquifers, springs, and valleys, is under mortal threat.
More than 175 years ago, in the year 1847, a British officer, Major James Abbott, identified Murree as an ideal summer resort for the British army. His recommendation was approved, and by 1849, Murree Ridge was occupied; in 1851, Brigadier-General Sir Henry Montgomery Lawrence formally established Murree as a hill station. Major Abbott was promoted in 1849 and appointed the first Deputy Commissioner of Hazara. His ‘discovery’ shaped the colonial landscape of the Punjab hills, but it was also the commencement of the destruction of Murree’s delicate ecology.
Unlike the local population, the British carved out settlements on icy mountain slopes. The people of this land, on the contrary, had always favoured temperate valleys, where winters were gentler, snowfall lighter, and water more reliable. But the British, weakened by the oppressive heat of the subcontinent, saw a retreat in Murree and altered its landscape to suit their needs.
Deforestation, overgrazing, exploitative land use, and rampant soil erosion have stripped the land bare and altered the water ecosystem
Abbott’s vision of Murree cantonments and bungalows was developed at Kuldannah, Barian Cantt, Clifden, Gharial, Upper Topa, and even up to the Chinar Golf Club in Bhurban. Each of these required the clearing of thick conifer forests and brought damage to the delicate ecosystem.
What was once a seamless expanse of deodar, chir, and blue pine became a patchwork of barracks, parade grounds, and golf courses. The scars of that destruction are still visible today, layered with fresh wounds inflicted by modern construction.
For centuries, the mountain springs were the source of drinking water for local households, the foundation of irrigation, and the quiet force sustaining rivers during dry seasons. Entire valleys of maize, apple orchards, and cauliflower fields once thrived on their steady trickle. Today, most springs have dried up and gone. The remaining few are seasonal, disappearing in the dry months when they are most needed. Along the Murree Ridge from Kashmir Point to Khaira Gali and towards PC Bhurban, the water channels have collapsed, which has also altered the river water volumes. The Soan and Korang rivers are weakened, and the River Haro has also lost its vigour. Once, the springs kept rivers alive and running even in the long winter season. Now they become completely dry, leaving entire river basins at risk.
Deforestation, overgrazing, exploitative land use, and rampant soil erosion have stripped the land bare and altered the water ecosystem. Rainfall, once steady and prolonged, now comes in violent torrents. Within hours, whole villages flood, but the fast-moving water gushes downstream without naturally recharging the underground springs.
The common village property, historically called ‘shamlat lands’, has been seized by land grabbers and the land developer mafia. The streams and water channels there have been damaged and turned dry because of relentless and ill-planned construction. Roads, buildings, and even public infrastructure projects have been built over streams and rivers. Every year, new link roads slice into the fragile land, further blocking the veins that once carried water. Blasting for highways and hotels shatters the rock formations and natural channels that guide water to the underground aquifers.
What was once a land of steady rains and fertile valleys has become a land of floods, droughts, and water-strapped villages
The Murree Expressway is a case in point. It is, in fact, a monumental ecological disaster which has destroyed underground channels and devastated natural springs. But it was constructed so that the rulers of today would be able to reach Murree in minutes from Islamabad, and Murree was treated by them just as the British treated it — a retreat and a vacation spot.
The impact of relentless development is not confined to Murree: the aquifers of Rawalpindi and Islamabad have also been disrupted, contributing to violent spillovers in Rawal Dam, Khanpur Dam, and Simly Dam, which are the main sources of drinking water for the twin cities.
Climate change has also accelerated ecological degradation. The annual snowfall rate has declined, and the snow days have been reduced. Though the average annual rainfall rate has not changed, its pattern has altered. Once, the gentle, soaking rains recharged underground aquifers, which is not the case with the lashings of heavy bursts of rain experienced presently. The result is flooding in the monsoon and a shortage of water for the rest of the year. Apples rot and cauliflower withers, leaving farmers to mourn their orchards and crops. Nature's rhythm has truly collapsed in the Murree region. Unconventional, prolonged dry spells in the Murree region tend to dry up the underground aquifers.
The truth is that Murree is dying. Its springs, once the lifeline of these mountains, are vanishing. What was once a land of steady rains and fertile valleys has become a land of floods, droughts, and water-strapped villages.
Can anything still be done to save Murree? Not merely for its tourism, nor even its forests — but for its waters. Can we protect what remains, restore what is broken, and treat Murree as the fragile, life-giving water tower it has always been? This is the question that we should ask ourselves and our governments. For myself, Murree is worth fighting for and worth saving, no matter what the efforts needed for its conservation cost.
Murree is more than a hill station. It is the foothills of the Himalayas where many rivers form and flow downstream to sustain life in the twin cities. Its fate is tied not only to the villagers who still rely on springs, but to the millions in the twin cities, as well as hundreds of villages.
The British cut the first trees and made the first scars on the Murree Hills, but today it is the greed of property dealers, the self-interest, hubris, and the criminal negligence of the subsequent governments, as well as the complacency of all who remain silent spectators, that is now killing Murree.
Murree is dying at a time when Islamabad’s climate experts, think tanks, United Nations agencies on the environment, and a Federal Climate Change Ministry issue polished reports citing ‘climate change’ as the reason for all man-made disasters. Yet all we have to do is look towards the Murree Hills to know what the real reasons for the ecological destruction of the Queen of the Hills are, which is now breathing its last. It is indeed the tragic story of a Queen who was betrayed by her own people.