Climate war shock
THE war between the US-Israel and Iran catapulted a regional conflict into a systemic shock within an already fragile global economy, causing a dangerous rupture in the world’s climate trajectory. What made the moment uniquely perilous was not only the scale of military confrontation, but the fact that it was occurring at a time when scientists have repeatedly warned that the window to keep global warming within 1.5 degrees Celsius is rapidly closing effectively by 2030.
Energy lies at the heart of the economic fallout. The disruption of the Strait of Hormuz, through which about 20 per cent to 25pc of global petroleum liquid consumption passes, has triggered one of the sharpest energy shocks in modern history. About 80pc of the oil passing through the strait is destined for Asian markets. Oil prices surged by over 50pc since the war began, while gas prices in Europe and Asia have spiked dramatically. This has translated directly into inflationary pressures across economies. Energy is a foundational input; when fuel costs rise, so do transportation, manufacturing and food prices. Indeed, oil and gas prices can account for up to 50pc of food price variability globally, illustrating how deeply energy shocks penetrate everyday life.
The consequences are profoundly unequal. While the US, as a major energy producer, has been relatively insulated, much of the Global South is experiencing acute distress. Countries like Pakistan, dependent on imported fuel are facing crises, rationing and industrial slowdowns. For economies already grappling with debt and climate vulnerability, this surge in energy costs reduces fiscal space for adaptation — whether in building flood defences, investing in resilient agriculture, or expanding healthcare systems. Inflation is eroding household purchasing power, forcing governments to divert scarce resources towards subsidies rather than long-term climate resilience.
Yet the economic shock is only one dimension. The war also accelerated the climate crisis in both direct and indirect ways. In just the first two weeks the war generated more than the annual emissions of dozens of low-emitting countries combined. These emissions stemmed not only from fuel-intensive military operations but also from the destruction of infrastructure and the burning of oil facilities. The reconstruction that follows will add yet another layer of carbon output.
The US-Israel war against Iran accelerated the climate crisis in both direct and indirect ways.
Wars in the era of climate change are emblematic of a deeper structural problem: militaries are among the largest institutional emitters in the world, collectively responsible for an estimated 5.5pc of global greenhouse gas emissions. Yet they remain largely exempt from binding reporting requirements under international climate frameworks. The Paris Agreement, heralded as a turning point in 2015, did not mandate full transparency for military emissions. A decade later, this omission appears increasingly untenable. Instead of bending the emissions curve downward, exogenous shocks such as war are pushing it upward, eroding hard-won gains in renewable energy and climate governance.
The indirect climate impacts may be even more damaging. As energy insecurity deepens, countries are reverting to fossil fuels to ensure short-term stability. Europe, for instance, is already reconsidering elements of its climate agenda in response to soaring gas prices and supply disruptions. Such decisions risk locking in carbon-intensive infrastructure for decades, precisely when the global carbon budget is nearing exhaustion. With only around 130 billion tonnes of carbon dioxide remaining for a 50pc chance of limiting warming to 1.5°C, every additional million tonnes emitted today accelerates the timeline towards irreversible climate thresholds.
There is a profound irony here. A war rooted partly in energy geopolitics has simultaneously intensified dependence on the very fossil fuels that underpin both conflict and climate change. It is, in essence, a feedback loop of destruction — economic, environmental and geopolitical.
Looking ahead, the implications extend beyond the immediate crisis. This conflict has signalled the emergence of new theatres of war where control over energy routes and water systems will define strategic competition. The weaponisation of chokepoints like Hormuz today may be mirrored tomorrow in disputes over river basins, glaciers, and transboundary water flows. For South Asia, which is already one of the most climate-vulnerable regions in the world, this convergence of energy insecurity and water stress is particularly ominous. Glacial melt in the Himalayas, erratic monsoons and rising temperatures are already straining livelihoods; layering geopolitical conflict onto this fragility could prove catastrophic.
The tragedy of the present moment lies not only in the destruction it unleashes, but in its timing. At a point when humanity requires unprecedented cooperation to confront an existential climate threat, it has instead chosen escalation. The cost is being measured not just in lives and economic disruption, but in lost time — time that the planet does not have.
For a nuclear armed South Asia locked in a deadly embrace, the lessons are stark. Survival in the 21st century will not be secured through dominance over energy resources or strategic waterways, but through collective restraint and cooperation. The carbon emissions in tonnes (US-Israel-Iran War 5.1 million, first 14 days), (Israel-Gaza War 33.2m, 18 months), (Russia-Ukraine War 311m, four years) is enough to estimate how a conflagration in the Third Pole will affect the melting rate of glaciers in the Hindukush Himalaya region. The climate cost of conflict is both palpable and calculable and the risks associated with it are existential. We can remain locked in cycles of epic fury or choose peace as a precondition for survival. The choice will matter.
The writer is a climate policy analyst.
Published in Dawn, April 13th, 2026
