Encroached, Polluted, Ignored: Our Wetlands are Dying

Credit By: DR ASAD AIJAZ

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• 12 Apr 2026

Will the government wait until Ramsar tags are withdrawn, bird migrations shift elsewhere and lakes turn into stagnant ponds before it acts with urgency?

The story of Kashmir’s wetlands is, in many ways, the story of our own short-sightedness. In a valley that survives on snowmelt, springs and slow rivers, marshes and lakes are not ornamental backdrops for postcards; they are living infrastructure. They sponge up floods, recharge aquifers, host migrating birds that have crossed continents, and sustain fishing, fodder and farming for thousands of families. Yet, over the past few decades, we have watched Hokersar, Wular, Dal, Anchar, Hygam and Shallabugh steadily shrink and choke under encroachment and waste  and the Govt’s response has been, at best, half‑hearted.

Consider the scale of what is at stake. Jammu & Kashmir has five wetlands designated as Ramsar sites namely Hokersar, Wular, Shallabugh, Hygam and Surinsar‑Mansar  recognised internationally for their ecological importance. Dal and Anchar, though not on that list, are every bit as critical to Srinagar’s hydrology. These water bodies regulate floods on the Jhelum, temper extreme weather, and provide livelihoods through fisheries, lotus stems, fodder and tourism. Yet their physical footprints have declined as marshes are converted to real estate and paddy, and as roads and embankments slice through natural channels.

Take Wular, once counted among the largest freshwater lakes in Asia. It was declared a Ramsar site in 1990, and a dedicated Wular Conservation and Management Authority (WUCMA) was set up with elaborate management plans. On paper, we have dredging drives, willow removal, embankment strengthening and catchment treatments.

In reality, decades of encroachment, willow plantations on the lake margins, and unchecked inflow of sewage and silt have left vast stretches silted and degraded. Official reports to the National Green Tribunal themselves admit continuing encroachments, sedimentation and poor solid‑waste management, a quiet admission that plans have far outpaced implementation.

Dal Lake tells an even more uncomfortable truth, because its decline has unfolded in full public view. For years, courts have banned illegal constructions and governments have announced ambitious rehabilitation schemes. Yet investigations show that, in nearly two decades, only a fraction of the promised rehabilitation of Dal‑dwellers has actually been completed, while encroachments creep back whenever public attention shifts.

More than half of Srinagar’s lakes and wetlands are believed to have been encroached upon in the past century. The UT’s own Economic Survey notes that around 9–10 metric tonnes of solid waste have to be collected from Dal and its environs every single day, a staggering figure that points to chronic, ongoing pollution rather than meaningful prevention.

Water quality data are equally damning. Monitoring of Dal and its backflow channels, such as Nayadar and Jogilankar, has found them “nearly anaerobic” in stretches, with biological oxygen demand touching 23.5 mg/L in some locations – many times above acceptable limits for healthy aquatic life. Translated into ordinary language, this means parts of the lake are suffocating. When a water body that supports tourism, fishing and a key cultural landscape is allowed to reach this state despite multiple conservation authorities and court orders, it is hard not to call it governmental apathy.

Even our designated bird sanctuaries are under stress. Hokersar – “the queen of wetlands” – is a Ramsar site and an Important Bird Area, a critical stopover for migratory waterfowl arriving from Central Asia. Bird counts during the 2024 Asian Waterbird Census show impressive numbers on paper, over four lakh birds at Hokersar but the picture on the ground is more fragile.

A severe dry spell in winter 2024–25 left Jammu & Kashmir with an 85.8% rainfall deficit over a crucial period, forcing managers to close gates early just to retain some water in the wetland. Hydrological stress, encroachment on fringes and pollution from nearby settlements are steadily eroding the resilience of a site that exists, legally, to be protected.

Across the valley, the drivers of this decline are depressingly familiar: land‑use change, solid waste, untreated sewage and unplanned construction. Marshes around Dal, Anchar, Gilsar and Khushalsar have been filled to make way for houses, roads and orchards, severing inflows and natural drainage.

Even Ramsar wetlands like Hokersar and Shallabugh are ringed by expanding agriculture and built‑up areas, with poaching and disturbance still reported from outside their nominal “core” zones. Sewage treatment lags far behind urban growth, so lakes continue to receive nutrient‑rich waste that fuels weed growth and algal blooms.

Climate change is now compounding this mismanagement. The dry winters we have just witnessed are not an isolated event. Reduced snowfall, erratic precipitation and retreating glaciers are altering the valley’s water cycle. Wetlands, which should act as buffers against such variability, are instead becoming victims. Lower water levels expose more area to encroachment, concentrate pollutants and stress migratory birds that arrive to find shallow, degraded feeding grounds.

The common thread running through all this is a governance model that treats wetlands as projects rather than as living systems. We create specialised authorities, draft “action plans” in response to court orders, and showcase dredging or fencing as achievements. But we shy away from the politically uncomfortable steps enforcing no‑construction zones, relocating influential encroachers, investing in full sewage treatment coverage, and integrating wetland management with land‑use planning across entire catchments. When policy stops at the edge of a file and does not reach the lake’s edge, apathy is not too strong a word.

Kashmir’s wetlands are not beyond saving, but time is short. The revival of lotus in parts of Wular after willow removal shows that these ecosystems retain a remarkable capacity to heal when given space and clean water. What is missing is not knowledge; scientists, planners and local communities have long spelt out what needs to be done.

What is missing is the political will to enforce the law, to treat wetlands as central to climate resilience and public safety, and to recognise that every new encroachment, every truckload of garbage dumped today, is a debt our children will pay in floods, water scarcity and lost livelihoods.

In the end, the question is simple: will the government wait until Ramsar tags are withdrawn, bird migrations shift elsewhere and lakes turn into stagnant ponds before it acts with urgency? Or will it finally acknowledge that in a fragile Himalayan valley, protecting wetlands is not an environmental luxury but a basic duty of governance? The answer will decide whether future generations inherit living lakes or just faded memories of what once was water.

(The Author has Ph.D. in environmental science, and works as a lecturer)