When Water Wages War: The Politics of Rivers, the Battlefields of Nations

In a world grappling with climate change, economic instability, and intensifying geopolitical rivalries, a silent yet potent force runs beneath the radar of mainstream diplomatic discourse—water. On March 22, diplomats, environmentalists, academics, and global leaders converged in New York for the first United Nations conference focused solely on water in nearly 50 years. It was momentous occasion, long overdue, where delegates were expected to reiterate a familiar but profound truth: water is life.

Indeed, this elemental resource sustains the human body, nurtures the soil, drives our industries, and even inspires artists and poets to elevate the human experience through beauty and symbolism. In many spiritual traditions, water is cleansing and holy; in public health, it is fundamental. But as we romanticize the purity and necessity of water, we must confront a darker, more complex reality: water is also death. And increasingly, it is war.

As a scholar deeply immersed in the dynamics of water security, with a particular focus on its intersection with conflict and military strategy, I have studied how the use—and misuse—of water is becoming an increasingly prevalent instrument of coercion, domination, and violence. The upcoming UN conference provides not only an opportunity to emphasize water’s positive potential but also a critical platform to scrutinize how it is being weaponized across the globe. The journey toward a safer and more sustainable world begins by confronting the paradox of water as both healer and destroyer.

In Pakistan, the memory of the catastrophic floods triggered by a climate-driven "monsoon on steroids" still haunts many. Swelling beyond its banks, the mighty Indus River drowned hundreds of children and even more adults in what became one of the most devastating climate-induced disasters in recent South Asian history. But the role of water in human death extends far beyond the natural wrath of floods and the slow agony of droughts. It is increasingly shaped by the hand of man—deliberately manipulated in the service of political and military goals.

Water’s use as a weapon is not a novel phenomenon. It has long served as both shield and sword in the theater of human conflict. Back in the early 16th century, none other than Leonardo da Vinci, working alongside political theorist Niccolò Machiavelli, attempted to divert the Arno River to deprive the rival city of Pisa of its lifeblood. Though the effort ultimately failed, it marked one of the earliest recorded attempts at hydrological warfare.

Fast-forward four centuries to the bloody trenches of World War I: Belgian farmers and teenage volunteers, intimately familiar with their local terrain, used their knowledge to deliberately flood parts of the Yser River valley, halting the advance of German troops. These are not isolated episodes—they are part of a historical continuum that reflects our ability to transform rivers from carriers of life into instruments of siege.

In more recent times, water has continued to function as a silent partner in political violence. Following Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014, Ukraine responded by cutting off the region’s sole water source—a strategic move that crippled agriculture and increased civilian hardship. 

Just weeks ago, Russian troops reportedly employed the Dnipro River in defensive maneuvers to impede Ukrainian advances, reaffirming that rivers remain tactical assets on the modern battlefield.

Beyond the battlefield, water bodies have also become the silent witnesses—and sometimes accessories—to heinous crimes. In 1961, during the height of tensions in France, Parisian police reportedly drowned scores of Algerian protestors in the Seine River. The violence was systematic and state-orchestrated, its traces quietly swept away by the river’s current.

Syria’s protracted civil war offers similarly disturbing examples. In 2013 and again in 2015, executed bodies were discovered floating in the Aleppo and Al Assi Rivers, respectively—gruesome messages from a regime willing to use water as both dump site and deterrent. Sudan, too, has its own share of aquatic atrocities. In 2019, at least 40 civilians were thrown into the Nile by government forces during a brutal crackdown on anti-regime protests. Ironically, this atrocity echoed the colonial violence of 1898, when British forces killed some 13,000 Sudanese at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles in Omdurman.

Water is not just used to end lives. It is used to traumatize the living. During the siege of Sarajevo in the 1990s, Serbian snipers perched in high-rises targeted women and children who dared venture out to access tap stands at the end of narrow alleys.

The leaky pipes of Beirut’s refugee camps served as hunting grounds in the 1970s, where Palestinian civilians were picked off from afar. Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish, reflecting on this grotesque reality, likened the snipers to predators stalking “thirsty gazelles,” ultimately concluding, “killer water.”

And there are subtler forms of hydrological warfare that escape immediate public scrutiny. In 2006, during the Lebanon War, Israeli airstrikes reportedly targeted public water reservoirs in southern Lebanon. The motive seemed clear: deprive those fleeing toward Beirut of any incentive—or means—to return. In Kosovo during the 1990s, elderly villagers were allegedly thrown into wells by militias, a horrifying tactic meant to dissuade younger family members from coming back to contested areas. Water’s role in settler colonialism is equally insidious. Along the West Bank, Israeli authorities provide water to Jewish settlements while imposing severe restrictions on Palestinian communities, using a combination of bureaucratic red tape and direct control over resources. This discriminatory hydropolitics transforms water from a basic human right into a lever of domination—making water policy nearly indistinguishable from political and military objectives.

Despite its potency, the weaponization of water is not always effective. The famed British "Dambusters" campaign during World War II, long celebrated as a bold and innovative military operation, is often misunderstood. While the mission did succeed in breaching two German dams using specially engineered “bouncing bombs,” its actual impact was questionable. Most of the casualties were not German soldiers, but Russian female prisoners of war laboring in munitions factories along the Ruhr River.

More recently, the Islamic State’s attempts to leverage control over key dams in Iraq and Syria demonstrated the limitations of hydrological dominance. Holding a dam does not guarantee control over downstream populations—particularly in regions where water infrastructure is fragile and easily sabotaged. These miscalculations reveal a crucial truth: while water can be a powerful tool of conflict, it is not always a controllable one. Its effects are diffuse, and its strategic utility varies based on geography, infrastructure, and timing.

This dark dimension of water conflict is playing out now, with alarming intensity, in South Asia. As India and Pakistan exchange gunfire along the Line of Control in Kashmir—despite officially being in peacetime—analysts are increasingly concerned that the water-sharing dispute between the two nuclear-armed neighbors could become a new flashpoint for escalation.

The situation worsened when India conducted airstrikes across the Pakistani border, targeting—among other sites—the Neelum-Jhelum hydroelectric project, a critical piece of Pakistan’s water infrastructure. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi escalated tensions further by declaring that India would no longer allow its water to flow freely into Pakistan. "India’s water will now be used for India’s development," Modi stated defiantly.

This marked a dramatic shift from decades of treaty-bound cooperation under the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT), a 1960 agreement brokered by the World Bank. The treaty divides the Indus Basin’s six rivers between the two countries: India retains control over the eastern rivers—Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej—while Pakistan depends on the western rivers—Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab.

For over six decades, the IWT had weathered wars, diplomatic ruptures, and cross-border terrorism. But India’s unilateral suspension of the treaty in April, citing repeated acts of terrorism linked to Pakistan-based militants, sent shockwaves through the international community. The immediate provocation was an attack on Indian tourists in Kashmir by a group allegedly linked to Pakistan—an allegation Islamabad denies.

Pakistan responded with stark clarity: any move to curtail water flow from India would be seen as an “Act of War,” triggering a response with “full force across the complete spectrum of National Power.” Such language leaves little ambiguity about the seriousness of the situation.

The implications are staggering. Nearly a quarter of Pakistan’s GDP comes from agriculture, which is wholly dependent on the Indus River system. As environmental planner and water policy expert Himanshu Thakkar noted, Pakistan’s entire food system, energy grid, and economic sustainability are entwined with uninterrupted access to these waters.

Yet, while India’s threats are real, its ability to execute them is not absolute. Experts point out that India currently lacks the dam and reservoir infrastructure to fully control water flow into Pakistan. Nonetheless, symbolic gestures are already being made. On May 4, India reportedly lowered sluice gates at the Baglihar Dam, drastically reducing the Chenab River’s downstream flow by up to 90 percent. Similar tactics are anticipated at the Kishanganga project, impacting the Jhelum.

The full impact of these actions won’t be felt immediately. As environmental scholar Hassan F. Khan observes, it’s during the dry season—from December through May—that India’s actions could become crippling.

 

During these months, when water levels naturally drop, storage and timing become strategic weapons in themselves. Without timely water releases, crops wither, power shortages intensify, and drinking water becomes a luxury.

Another vector of weaponization is information. India’s former Indus Water Commissioner, Pradeep Kumar Saxena, has noted that the suspension of the IWT means India could stop sharing vital flood data with Pakistan. Without access to upstream flow data, Pakistan is left vulnerable during monsoon seasons, increasing the likelihood of catastrophic flooding.

As the world heads into the UN conference on water, there’s a vital truth that must not be ignored: humanity is at a crossroads. Water reflects who we are—our highest ideals and our darkest impulses. In its clear depths, we can see both the generosity of life and the calculation of war.

Fortunately, there are signs of resistance against this trend. International legal scholars are drafting principles aimed at protecting water infrastructure during conflict.

If such initiatives gain momentum, they could eventually form the basis of a new UN convention or be integrated into Security Council resolutions.

The abuse of water as a weapon can be delegitimized—just as the use of human shields or attacks on hospitals and schools are now broadly condemned under international humanitarian law. But it will require collective resolve and unprecedented cooperation.

This battle—between water as a force for peace and a weapon of war—will not be won at a single conference. But every step forward, every resolution passed, every treaty enforced, will help shape a world where rivers are not rivers of blood.

Because if we are to preserve our shared future, we must treat water not merely as a resource, but as a covenant between peoples. A covenant we break at our peril.