On a quiet evening along the Makran coast, fishermen from villages near Gwadar watch lights shimmer on the horizon. They are not ships heading for port, but floating oil storage tanks and bunkering vessels anchored offshore. To planners in Islamabad and Beijing, these installations are symbols of connectivity and energy security. To people living along this coast, they are something else entirely–distant, silent structures carrying risks they did not choose and cannot control.
Gwadar’s offshore oil facilities are being presented as practical solutions to global energy flows. Oil arriving by sea can be stored offshore, transferred to pipelines and moved inland without crowding a shallow, fragile port. On paper, it sounds efficient. In reality, these floating tanks turn Pakistan’s western coastline into a frontline asset in any serious regional crisis.
The Arabian Sea is not a quiet backwater. It sits next to the Strait of Hormuz, through which a large share of the world’s oil passes every day. Any military confrontation involving Iran, the Gulf states, or external powers immediately raises the stakes across the region. In such a scenario, offshore oil storage near Gwadar would stand out as obvious, high-value targets. They are large, slow, and difficult to hide. They cannot be moved quickly, and they depend on constant protection.
In modern conflicts, energy infrastructure is no longer off-limits. Tankers have been seized, pipelines attacked, and refineries struck in conflicts from the Middle East to Eastern Europe. Floating storage tanks are especially vulnerable. A missile, a drone, or even a well-planned act of sabotage could turn them into fireballs or spill millions of barrels of crude into the sea. Pakistan may not be a direct party to a conflict, but hosting such infrastructure pulls it into the risk zone regardless.
For local communities, the concern is not abstract geopolitics. It is the sea itself. The Makran coast supports fishing livelihoods that have existed for generations. Even a limited oil spill can poison breeding grounds, destroy nets, and wipe out income for months or years. Compensation, if it comes at all, arrives late and rarely covers long-term damage. Fishermen know this from spills elsewhere in the world. They also know that once the damage is done, the companies responsible often disappear behind legal clauses and foreign jurisdictions.
There is also the question of control. Much of the oil stored offshore near Gwadar is not meant for Pakistan’s domestic use. Strategic decisions about sourcing, storage volumes, and onward movement are taken in foreign boardrooms and foreign capitals. Pakistan provides the location and bears the consequences, but it does not command the asset in any meaningful sense. If tensions rise, it is not Islamabad that decides whether the oil stays, moves, or becomes leverage in a wider power struggle.
Security planners often argue that protection can be arranged. Naval patrols, surveillance systems, and exclusion zones are cited as solutions. But every layer of protection comes at a cost, both financial and political. Securing offshore oil facilities means permanent military presence, restricted sea access, and tighter controls on local movement. Fishing boats can be pushed farther away. Traditional routes are disrupted. The coast becomes a guarded space rather than a shared one.
There is a deeper structural risk as well. Heavy reliance on CPEC-linked pipelines, terminals, and transport corridors creates single points of failure. When oil flows depend on a narrow set of routes, any disruption can have outsized effects. A damaged pipeline, a blocked port approach, or an attack on a storage vessel can halt the entire chain. Hostile actors understand this logic well. Modern conflict often targets systems, not cities.
Environmental hazards compound these risks. Offshore oil storage requires constant maintenance, monitoring, and emergency response capability. Rough seas, mechanical failure, or human error can trigger accidents even in peacetime. Pakistan’s track record in environmental regulation and enforcement is uneven. When foreign companies operate under special arrangements, accountability becomes even weaker. Cleanup responsibility can turn into a legal dispute rather than an immediate action.
For residents of Gwadar, these debates feel distant yet deeply personal. Many have already seen their coastline reshaped by fences, security posts, and restricted zones. Promises of jobs and development have arrived slowly, if at all. When people ask what happens if an oil tank leaks or is hit, answers are vague. When they ask who will protect their livelihoods, there is silence.
None of this means energy cooperation is wrong by definition. Countries need fuel. Trade routes matter. Infrastructure can bring benefits if designed with care and shared responsibility. But placing high-risk energy assets offshore, next to a fragile coast and in a volatile region, demands honesty about costs as well as gains. At present, those costs are being quietly socialised, while control and profit remain concentrated elsewhere.
Pakistan’s coastline should not be treated as empty space available for strategic experiments. It is home to people, ecosystems, and livelihoods that cannot be relocated when plans go wrong. Turning the waters off Gwadar into floating oil depots may serve global energy logistics, but it also turns Pakistan into a stakeholder in conflicts it cannot shape and disasters it may not be able to contain.
In the end, the question is simple- when the lights glow offshore at night, who truly benefits from what they illuminate, and who will bear the consequences if those lights suddenly go out?