A region that turns water into a weapon may ultimately discover that no border can contain the consequences of thirst.
THE Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) is a 1960 water-sharing agreement between India and Pakistan, brokered by the World Bank, governing the use of the six-river Indus System. It allocates the three Eastern Rivers (Ravi, Beas, Sutlej) to India and the three Western Rivers (Indus, Jhelum, Chenab) to Pakistan, creating a lasting framework for irrigation and hydroelectric development, though it has come under severe strain recently, with India temporarily suspending participation in April 2025 following militant attacks.
As of May 2026, Pakistan has approached the UN Security Council (UNSC) urging the restoration of the 1960 Indus Waters Treaty, which India suspended in April 2025 following a major terror attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir. India maintains that the treaty will remain in abeyance until Pakistan takes action against terrorism, declaring that “blood and water cannot flow together”.
Currently, India has maintained the suspension of the treaty for over a year, following the April 23, 2025, decision.
Pakistan’s UN ambassador has submitted a formal letter to the UNSC President, seeking intervention against what it terms “water coercion” and urging the restoration of the pact. India has rejected the attempts to resume the treaty, accusing Pakistan of being a “global epicentre of terror” and violating the agreement’s spirit through ongoing violence.
In June 2025, a Court of Arbitration stated that the treaty did not provide for unilateral suspension, a finding that India has rejected, calling the court “illegal”. The issue is highlighting a shift from bilateral resolution to international scrutiny, with Pakistan aiming to increase diplomatic pressure on India to reverse the suspension. This situation represents the most severe disruption in the 1960 treaty’s history, highlighting deep geopolitical tensions between the two nations. India has always taken the position that external arbitration is not acceptable. Waters belong to the commons and, therefore, India’s position is not tenable in the international arena and in the scope of law.
The crisis surrounding the Indus Waters Treaty is often discussed in strategic and legal terms: river allocations, arbitration clauses, dam construction, security doctrines, and diplomatic leverage. Yet beneath the language of statecraft lies something more fundamental — the question of whether justice in international relations can exist without humanity. Water is not merely an instrument of policy. It is survival itself. Any debate about controlling, suspending, or weaponizing access to it inevitably becomes a moral debate as much as a legal one.
In recent months, tensions between India and Pakistan over the treaty have intensified, with Pakistan seeking international attention, including appeals to the United Nations Security Council. The dispute has triggered familiar nationalist rhetoric on both sides. In India, many voices frame the treaty as an outdated concession that should be reconsidered in light of cross-border terrorism and security concerns. In Pakistan, the issue is increasingly portrayed as existential, touching directly upon agriculture, drinking water, and national survival. Between these narratives stands a difficult truth: states may speak the language of sovereignty, but ordinary people bear the consequences of escalation.
The Indus Waters Treaty itself has long been regarded as one of the most resilient agreements in modern diplomacy. Signed in 1960 with the support of the World Bank, it survived wars, military crises, and decades of political hostility. The treaty divided usage rights over the rivers of the Indus basin, granting India primary control over the eastern rivers while recognizing Pakistan’s primary rights over the western rivers, subject to certain Indian developmental uses. Its durability was often celebrated as evidence that cooperation could survive even where broader peace had failed.
That durability now appears fragile.
India’s increasingly hardline posture reflects a broader transformation in regional politics. Security concerns dominate strategic thinking in New Delhi, particularly after repeated militant attacks linked to Pakistan-based groups. From the Indian government’s perspective, treaties cannot exist in a vacuum detached from persistent violence. Many Indian nationalists argue that continuing the treaty unchanged while suffering attacks amounts to rewarding hostility. They believe India has been excessively restrained and should use every available lever, including water diplomacy, to pressure Pakistan.
Yet there is another perspective – one that sees this logic as profoundly dangerous. Water is unlike trade tariffs or diplomatic access. It is tied directly to civilian life. The rivers governed by the treaty sustain millions of farmers, families, and ecosystems across Pakistan. Even the suggestion that water access might become conditional on political or military disputes creates fear far beyond elite diplomatic circles. International humanitarian principles emerged precisely to prevent essential resources from becoming tools of coercion.
Critics of India’s position therefore argue that the treaty cannot simply be treated as another negotiable arrangement subject to political moods. They point out that the agreement contains no straightforward unilateral exit mechanism and was designed specifically to survive periods of conflict. From this perspective, attempts to suspend or undermine it weaken the credibility of international commitments more broadly. If treaties endure only during moments of goodwill, then they cease to function as safeguards against crisis.
This argument becomes especially compelling when viewed through a humanitarian lens. International law is often criticized for being selective and unevenly enforced. Powerful states invoke legal principles when convenient and reinterpret them when strategic priorities shift. Yet the alternative – abandoning legal restraint altogether — risks normalizing collective vulnerability. Water insecurity can rapidly transform into food insecurity, economic collapse, migration pressures, and social unrest. The moral concern is therefore not abstract idealism but practical human survival.
To say this is not to deny India’s legitimate security concerns. States do possess a right to defend themselves against violence and militancy. Pakistan’s own record regarding extremist networks has long drawn international criticism. However, acknowledging these realities does not automatically justify linking civilian water access to geopolitical conflict. There remains a difference between confronting armed groups and destabilizing systems upon which millions of civilians depend.
The global response to the dispute also reveals how international institutions operate less through pure justice than through competing strategic interests. China’s position, for example, cannot be understood solely through legal interpretation. China maintains close ties with Pakistan while simultaneously competing with India across multiple fronts, including border disputes and regional influence. Any Chinese stance at the Security Council would likely reflect this broader rivalry as much as concern for treaty law. Similarly, Russia has historically enjoyed deep relations with India but increasingly balances its diplomacy according to changing geopolitical realities.
This is the uncomfortable reality of international law: morality alone rarely determines outcomes. Great powers often interpret principles according to strategic convenience. Smaller states appeal to norms because norms provide some protection against raw power. Institutions such as the United Nations can amplify pressure and shape narratives, but they do not exist outside geopolitics. Justice in the international arena is therefore always incomplete, constrained by the unequal distribution of power among states.
And yet humanity still matters.
Public opinion, moral pressure, and cross-border empathy influence politics more than governments admit. During moments of nationalist escalation, dissenting voices often become especially important. To criticize one’s own country is frequently portrayed as betrayal, particularly during international disputes. But democratic societies depend upon the existence of citizens willing to place ethical concerns above tribal loyalty. An Indian who sympathizes with Pakistan’s humanitarian concerns is not necessarily rejecting India itself. Rather, such a position may reflect a belief that patriotism should not require moral silence.
Indeed, one of the tragedies of South Asian politics is how effectively historical trauma has been transformed into permanent suspicion. The legacy of partition, wars, militancy, and propaganda has encouraged populations on both sides to see each other primarily through the lens of threat. In that environment, empathy becomes politically difficult. Citizens are encouraged to think strategically before they think humanely.
But water resists these divisions. Rivers cross borders without regard for nationalism. Ecological systems do not recognize military narratives. Climate change will only intensify these realities, making cooperation increasingly necessary. The Indus basin faces mounting environmental stress, glacier melt, population growth, and resource pressure. In the long term, neither India nor Pakistan can secure stability through confrontation over shared water systems.
The real challenge, then, is whether South Asia can preserve a framework in which even hostile states continue cooperating over essential human needs. The treaty’s greatest significance may not lie in technical clauses or arbitration procedures but in the principle, it represents: that some forms of interdependence must survive political conflict.
Law without humanity becomes sterile power. But humanity without law risks becoming powerless sentiment. The tension between the two defines not only the Indus dispute but international politics itself. A just approach requires both moral imagination and institutional restraint — the ability to recognize the humanity of those across the border while still navigating the realities of security and sovereignty.
In the end, the question is larger than India or Pakistan alone. It concerns what kind of world states wish to build: one where essential resource become instruments of pressure whenever conflict emerges, or one where even one adversary can accept certain limits in the name of shared human survival.
Between security, sovereignty, and shared humanity, South Asia confronts a dangerous question: Can water ever be treated as a weapon without endangering civilization itself?
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Ranjan Solomon is a writer, researcher and activist based in Goa. He has worked in social movements since he was 19 years of age. The views expressed here are the author’s own and Clarion India does not necessarily share or subscribe to them. He can be contacted at [email protected]
