The Tree That Wasn’t There: A Walk-Through Vanishing Forests

Metal rasp of ripped leaves that dance with the wind is not a means to bring you calmness. Last summer I walked through the hills of Swat, a place where I escaped from childhood when I moved out to the city. The air smelled of pine needles and damp soil. That day it smelled like diesel smoke and sweat. And there should be a tree of deodar that you should be proud of, none but there is a green tower in the sky only with a blunt bleeding.

I’ve always been observant, noticing the absence of trees, the raspy wind, and the silence where birds once sang. The disappearance of these things felt like a theft from my childhood, and it led me to start questioning. What happened to our forest? Why doesn’t anyone talk about it? And why does this theft seem visibly happening? When I was young, my family went to the mountains for a long time. My father pointed to the whole green belt,

“Yeh sab Pakistan ka fakhhar hai. dekhna, yeh sab hamesha rehnge.” (“This is Pakistan’s pride. You know it will always stay.”)

I believed 5%, well below the recommended UN 25% (Reported by UN Environment Program) ecosystem that once existed. Wild animals that were grazing freely. This is a story that currently has no place to develop. I once spoke with a schoolteacher in Kaghan who told me how children in the valley used to learn under trees. Real classrooms under the canopies of green.

“Abh sirf pathar bacha hai,” he said: “Only rocks remain now.”

And here is the heartbreaking part, the trees are not just dying, they are being killed. They insert forest personnel, and the truck drives out of the valley under a fog cover. The timber mafia acts like a silent bond that moves quickly and disappears faster (Reported by Global forest Watch). It’s slow and subtle, like hair falling off an aging scalp. No one notices it until it’s barely naked. However, what hurts even more is our silence. In the meantime, this sky has submerged in a dry, dusty shell. We say we love nature, but we don’t defend it.

As poet Ahmed Faraz once said:
 “Raqs mein hai sara jahan, aur khamosh hum hain…”
 (“The whole world is in motion, yet we remain silent…”)

I remembered the birds crying years ago, the fallen needles were soft and clean enough to make me dizzy. This time it was different. It’s packed with plastic like broken glass under my shoes. The sun was too hot at 7am and the hills looked tired. I took a break with a curve that once saw a group of pine seedlings. Only one person was left. The needle was soft and trembling. I crouched next to it and placed my hand on the bark. It was warm.

This slider felt like resistance, like hope; this is about survival. Climate change is no longer a distant threat. As a result, floods, heat waves, droughts, and smog, Lahore and Karachi every winter. In 2022 alone, experts have been strengthened after the disaster, the floods in Pakistan, of over 33 million people, lost their lives (Reported by OHCA organization). Forests are natural flood barriers. The trees secure the ground. Your absence creates chaos. We say it’s noble but really, we are trying to save ourselves. It’s not just greed. Sometimes it’s about survival.

In Gilgit Baltistan and KP, where winter is brutal and gas-bound, villagers rely on wood to cook and heat their homes. I don’t blame them. They do what they need. This means you are a criminal, and you have no better options. I did not pass through these communities. We do not offer solar heaters, eco-friendly ovens, or sustainable alternatives. Law only. Just judgement. There is another aspect of history. Some people fight back.

There is an elderly man planting a chessling every Friday in Haripur. Gilgit has a teacher who transformed her school into a forest kindergarten. And there are students in Lahore and Karachi who have founded the Guerilla Garden Project with abandoned actions. You are not waiting for the government. You realized something, Forest is not someone else’s fault, it’s ours. I don’t have all the answers. I’m still overwhelmed.

Looking at the extent of destruction, I still feel small but I stopped doing it as if it wasn’t my problem. I started with trees. Last year, I planted it in our garden. Neema tree, strong, bitter, and beautiful. Every week, I pour it, sit close by, and talk to him like an old friend. It reminds us that change is not always in marching or guidelines. Sometimes it comes under your nails on the ground. Just a pause. Look out your window. Are there trees? What do they mean to you? Do you remember a time when there were more? Ask your parents if they do. Ask your children if they care. And then, do one small thing

“Plant one tree this week. Just one.”

Not in a park where someone else will care for it. Plant it where you can. In your yard. On your rooftop. Outside your street, Anywhere, Give it a name. Feed it stories. Let it grow.  Because forests don’t vanish all at once. They disappear tree by tree. Unless someone decides to stay—and grow one back.