The Gilgit-Baltistan village where no one says climate change but everyone talks about the weather
I grew up believing that the year truly began in July. For most children, summer meant school holidays. For us in Gilgit-Baltistan, it meant going home. We spent the rest of the year waiting for those two months. Like many families from the mountains, ours was spread across different cities for work and education. July and August brought everyone back. University students returned from Islamabad, Lahore and Karachi. Parents finally took time off work. Weddings were planned months in advance because these were the only weeks when the villages were full again. After months of quiet, every house had guests, every courtyard had children, and every evening seemed to belong to everyone. When I think of those summers, I don’t remember a single event. I remember a feeling. Packing a light sweater because mountain evenings stayed cold even in July. Rolling down the car window as soon as we reached the valley because the air felt different. Wheat fields turning golden. Apricot trees heavy with fruit. Children disappearing into the orchards after breakfast and returning only when someone called them home. Women moving from one house to another without knocking. Elders sitting for hours in the
Dawn | discovered by Dawn | Aug 18, 2026, 8:57 AM
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