The suffering of the Pakistani people, displaced by what was initially described as the worst floods in 70 years—before experts revised their assessment, declaring it the worst in the country’s history—continues to unfold. Twenty million people left homeless, standing in waist-deep water if they were lucky enough to find no higher ground. Hunger, disease, humiliation, and despair, culminating in death—whether by drowning or sheer hopelessness—now define the tragedy of a nation that declares ‘There is no god but Allah’
Despite its long history of poverty, Pakistan has upheld values of solidarity with humanity, regardless of religious differences—values that have elevated its people in the annals of history. But today, they desperately need to lift their heads above the murky, cholera-ridden waters that threaten to consume them.
The world, with its selective memory conditioned by self-interest and hollow superiority, has seemingly forgotten that in 1953, when devastating floods swept through the southwestern Dutch province of Zeeland, claiming over a thousand lives, the Pakistani people donated aid to help the Netherlands recover.
A plaque in the Flood Museum in Ouwerkerk records this act of solidarity. The plaque, a glass panel once displayed in cinemas, was originally placed near Karachi’s port in March 1953 to encourage donations for the Dutch.
But now, in August 2010, with the roles reversed, what have the Dutch done? ‘All the best, inshallah.’
The Dutch newspaper Algemeen Dagblad published an image of Pakistani children, all victims of the monsoon floods, alongside a question: ‘Will your donations reach them?’ The result? Dutch citizens hesitated to donate, refusing to return the kindness once extended to them.
De Volkskrant acknowledged that the scale of the floods and the suffering they caused had failed to penetrate the Dutch conscience. A financial analyst told the paper: ‘The Dutch are wary of every appeal and fundraising campaign for disaster victims.’ Meanwhile, De Pers commented: ‘We feel great sympathy—but nothing more.’
In Germany, the response was no different. The state’s two official television channels, along with several private networks, openly cited concerns that donations might end up in the hands of the Taliban as justification for refusing to organise charity telethons for Pakistan’s flood victims.
This reluctance embarrassed the United Nations, which in its first appeal managed to raise only 20% of the required donations. Forced to issue a second appeal, the UN sought $460 million in emergency aid for Pakistan, describing the floods as ‘one of the worst disasters to affect any country in recent years’, in the words of John Holmes, the UN’s humanitarian chief. The scale of destruction—homes and farmland lost—exceeded the combined impact of the 2004 tsunami and the Haiti earthquake.
Although the official response from the Muslim world was slow, particularly given the crisis unfolded during Ramadan, the people—whom their Prophet once described as having goodness in them until the end of time—understood the call to uphold a fundamental humanitarian principle, one unchanged by their own poverty or the corruption of their governments.
From the wealthy Gulf states to the poorest African nations, the Muslim world mobilised its conscience, despite strict and unjust Western scrutiny over their donations. Everyone felt a duty towards their brothers and sisters trapped in a flood of disease and epidemics. Donations quickly rose, reaching 50% of the UN’s target. Suddenly, Western governments found themselves scrambling to declare their support for Pakistan—not out of genuine compassion, but out of fear. Fear that their moral hypocrisy would be exposed to the Muslim world. Fear that, one by one, the last fig leaves would fall, revealing their ugly ethical nakedness for all to see.
This article is originally published by AlBorsa in Arabic and later AI-translated by South Push.