Recent encounters with unseasonal heavy rainfall have once again exposed serious vulnerabilities in our disaster management system.

Just as the monsoon period was expected to end, intense precipitation hit the country, causing significant disruption—damaged roads, overflowing rivers, and widespread displacement of residents. This is not just a matter of unpredictable weather; it points to major structural failures.

Take the start of October, for example. The Kathmandu Valley and nearby districts were hit with over 120 millimeters of rain in under eighteen hours—more than what is usually expected for the entire month. The Bagmati River surged past its usual boundaries, flooding the surrounding floodplains.

Residents living near the river had to evacuate in the middle of the night. Major highways like Mugling–Narayanghat became impassable, leaving thousands stranded.

The official response was minimal at best. The National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Authority issued travel advisories, restricted vehicle movement, and deployed a limited number of excavators to clear blocked roads.

Clearly, this level of response is inadequate for a crisis of this magnitude. For a national capital that purports to be the country’s administrative heart, such measures resemble capitulation more than crisis management.

Advisories are no substitute for preparedness; movement restrictions do not ensure the delivery of essential supplies; warnings without substantive follow-through are reduced to mere formalities.

What is especially troubling is the predictability of these outcomes. The Department of Hydrology and Meteorology had issued clear warnings about heavy rainfall between October 1 and 4. Danger zones were mapped. River levels were monitored.

Satellite data from international sources provided additional confirmation. Local governments, security agencies, and national disaster offices had this information well in advance. Yet most of the damage was neither prevented nor mitigated.

The science was there, but the system did not act. The gap between knowing and doing is what keeps Nepal trapped in an endless loop of reaction. It has become a pattern repeated every year: the same ministries issue warnings, the same offices fail to coordinate, and the same families lose everything they have built.

Each year, we rebuild roads and bridges knowing they will wash away again. We approve construction on riverbanks and floodplains knowing the rivers will return to claim them.

We rely on outdated drainage systems, cheap materials, and informal settlements in high-risk zones because enforcement is easier to avoid than to uphold.

This is not a climate problem alone—it is a governance problem. When roads collapse, it is not the rain’s fault, but the absence of standards, oversight, and accountability. When landslides cut highways, it is because contractors are allowed to cut slopes carelessly and walk away. When floods destroy homes, it is because local authorities permit settlements where none should exist.

The floods prove that our infrastructure is built for fair weather, not for the world we actually live in. Nepal’s monsoon is becoming more unpredictable with changing climate patterns, yet the systems meant to respond to these new conditions are outdated.

Most local governments still rely on handwritten maps and delayed communication lines. When the rain arrives, they are reduced to waiting for central instructions that come too late.

We have become far too comfortable with failure as the status quo. Whenever a major flood or landslide hits, the usual script plays out: initial panic, public statements of sympathy, some emergency funds tossed around—and then nothing. The sense of urgency evaporates as soon as the crisis appears to pass.

Budgets are quietly reassigned, reports are filed to tick boxes, and everyone just waits for the next inevitable incident.

Accountability in Nepal’s disaster management remains shallow. Agencies issue forecasts, but few are responsible for turning those forecasts into action. Municipalities are tasked with local preparedness but lack both technical staff and adequate funding.

Federal ministries have overlapping mandates and often compete rather than coordinate. The result is paralysis. Warnings become paperwork. Committees meet after tragedies.

The focus shifts to distributing relief instead of preventing loss. Even when inquiries are launched, they rarely lead to reform or consequences.

This kind of normalization is risky for any country. It chips away at accountability and stifles any drive for meaningful progress. When disasters become routine, lives lost become statistics. We stop asking why the bridges collapse every year, why drainage clogs after every rain, why we still rely on outdated maps, or why reconstruction always costs more than prevention.

It is time to stop calling these disasters “natural.” They are human failures exposed by natural triggers. The rain did not destroy infrastructure—weak systems did. The rivers did not kill people—the absence of planning did.

Every washed-out bridge and damaged settlement should trigger investigation—not for the sake of blame alone, but for correction. Someone approved those designs. Someone ignored risk assessments. Someone delayed maintenance. Accountability means naming those failures and fixing them before they repeat.

Preparedness is not complicated, but it is consistently neglected in Nepal. We already have the technical capacity, data, and international support to build a functioning disaster resilience system. What we lack is coordination and enforcement.

Roads, bridges, and embankments are not designed to withstand higher rainfall thresholds. The “average” is no longer relevant. Engineering codes should reflect worst-case scenarios. Forecasts only matter if they actually reach people in time to make a difference. Real-time alerts must go out quickly—through mobile networks, radio, even local ward systems—so communities are not left in the dark until it’s too late.

Local governments must be ready to act, not just wait for central approval. That means having trained disaster personnel on hand, emergency supplies stocked, and access to rapid-response funds. Without those basics, any response will fall short.

Regulation of construction on floodplains and unstable slopes is no longer negotiable. Relocation of those most at risk must be handled proactively and compassionately, through well-planned programs—not last-minute evacuations after disaster strikes. And let’s not forget: every major project, whether it is a hydropower plant or a rural road, absolutely requires a thorough climate risk assessment before getting the green light. Ignoring that step is just asking for trouble.

When people accept mediocrity as normal, institutions learn to offer nothing better. Every bridge that collapses, every flooded street, every road that fails is a reminder that taxes and budgets are being wasted. We cannot continue to mourn the dead without asking who let them die.

True disaster management begins long before the disaster itself. It lies in the maintenance of infrastructure, the training of local responders, the mapping of vulnerable households, and the coordination between weather departments and local offices. Relief saves lives temporarily. Preparedness saves them permanently.

If we continue to accept recent floods as unavoidable, we will be here again next year—with more damage and more excuses. The real tragedy is not that Nepal faces floods. It is that every time it does, we act as if it is new. We cannot keep fighting modern disasters with outdated systems.

We cannot keep rebuilding what we know will break. And we cannot keep calling this “natural” when it is man-made. Nepal does not lack warnings, data, or talent. It lacks execution, accountability, and courage. Until that changes, Nepal’s next disaster is already scheduled.