A Landslide Broke the Pipes. What Broke the System?

We thank those who worked tirelessly to restore our water supply. But gratitude should not stop us from asking a simple question: Why did one landslide disrupt an entire district?

Heroic recovery tells one story. Infrastructure resilience is the more important one.

BY Malai Hassan Othman | KopiTalk with MHO

The massive landslide at Kampong Batang Mitus that damaged 16 major water supply pipes left much of Brunei-Muara without water for days. Daily routines came to a halt. Businesses struggled to operate. Health services were stretched. For many households, the absence of something as basic as running water became a slow and wearing hardship, felt hour by hour.

 

As water gradually returned to taps, the public conversation began to shift. The dominant tone turned to praise — of tireless effort, heroic work, and a job well done.

There is no denying that those on the ground deserve recognition. Engineers, technicians, contractors, and labourers worked under harsh conditions, through rain, mud, and unstable slopes. Many laboured late into the night, away from their families, doing difficult and sometimes dangerous work. Their commitment was real. 

 

Their sacrifices were not small.

 

They deserve thanks.

 

But appreciation must not become forgetfulness.

 

The risk now is that the story ends too neatly. When applause becomes the conclusion, the harder question quietly slips away: why was the system so vulnerable that a single landslide in a rural area could disrupt water supply to the country’s most populated district?

 

The landslide was triggered by heavy and prolonged rainfall. That is not disputed. 

 

Nature played its part. But nature alone rarely explains the scale of a disaster. 

 

Damage usually occurs when natural stress meets human design choices. The central issue is not simply that a slope failed, but that one failure point was enough to bring the entire system down.

 

For a capital district to depend so heavily on a single transmission corridor is a risk that should have been recognised long before this incident. When 16 large pipes can be severed in one event, it exposes a system with little redundancy and limited tolerance for failure. These are not abstract concerns. Redundancy and contingency planning are basic principles in modern infrastructure management.

 

Residents have begun asking straightforward questions. Why was there no backup main pipeline. Why was there no temporary bypass ready to divert supply while repairs were underway. Why did emergency measures only intensify after water had already been lost, instead of systems being in place to cushion the impact from the start.

 

These questions do not diminish the work of those repairing the damage. They ask why such extreme efforts were required in the first place.

 

The impact of the disruption went far beyond inconvenience. Clinics adjusted medical schedules. Dialysis services had to be carefully managed. Restaurants closed or reduced operations. Schools faced practical difficulties. Families queued patiently with containers, waiting under the sun. Hotels in unaffected areas filled quickly as residents sought access to basic facilities.

 

All of this points to a system without sufficient buffers.

 

Public praise for emergency response is understandable. But praise must never replace reflection. When official messaging focuses almost entirely on how quickly repairs were carried out, it risks sounding reassuring without being reassuring. It comforts in the moment, but it does little to strengthen the system for the next crisis.

 

Accountability here does not mean blaming individuals. It means institutional responsibility. It means asking whether known landslide-prone areas were properly assessed. It means examining whether slope protection, drainage, and monitoring were adequate. It means questioning whether critical infrastructure corridors were given the level of protection their importance demands.

 

It also means asking whether lessons from earlier disruptions were truly learned, or quietly archived.

 

Some observers note that the affected area has long been environmentally sensitive. If that is so, continued reliance on a single exposed corridor becomes difficult to defend. If it is not, then the risk assessment process itself deserves scrutiny.

 

What remains missing is a clear and honest public explanation of lessons learned. Not statements of reassurance, but a sober account of what failed, what could have been mitigated, and what will change. Without that, confidence rests on hope rather than preparation.

 

Water security is not only about treatment plants and pipelines. It is about planning for failure before failure happens. It is about recognising that extreme weather is no longer rare. It is about building systems that bend without breaking, so that recovery does not depend solely on exhaustion and sacrifice.

 

There is nothing ungrateful about asking these questions. On the contrary, it shows respect for the very workers who are repeatedly called upon to fix what might have been prevented. They deserve systems that do not collapse so easily.

 

The public can hold two truths at once. We can be thankful for those who worked tirelessly to restore the water supply. And we can expect institutions to ensure that such widespread disruption does not become familiar, predictable, or quietly accepted.

 

If this incident is remembered only as a story of successful emergency repair, its most important lesson will be lost. But if it becomes a turning point — towards honest assessment and preventive investment — then the hardship endured by many may yet lead to a stronger and more resilient system.

 

In the end, leadership is not measured by how well a crisis is fixed, but by how rarely the same crisis is allowed to happen again. (MHO/02/2026)