The Silent Death of a River Between Iraq and Iran ..The River That Feeds No More

by mohamad amereh

For decades, the Arvand River, also known as Shatt al-Arab, was a lifeline flowing along the border between western Iran and southern Iraq. On its banks, agriculture and fishing thrived, bustling markets emerged, and entire villages flourished thanks to its fresh waters. But the river that once gave life now stands as a symbol of decay. Saline tides creeping in from the Persian Gulf have devastated palm groves, weakened livestock and fisheries, and caused water levels to drop so drastically that rice farming and fish breeding are now banned in Iran’s Khuzestan Province.

Amid this silent collapse, the suffering of women and families comes into stark focus. Mothers are forced to walk for hours in search of clean drinking water. Farmers stand helplessly as their trees die before their eyes. Girls are pulled from school to work and help support their families. And young men migrate in waves, chasing any hope of survival elsewhere. Everyone here is caught in a crisis that goes far beyond water scarcity, it strikes at the core of human dignity and the basic right to survive.

Yet, what’s even worse than the drought or the salinity is the silence. No one hears the cries of those who have lost their river. No one tells the stories of those living on the edge of thirst. This story is an attempt to break that silence, to give voice to the unseen, and to document the slow death of a river and the people fighting not to die with it.

A Struggle to Survive

“This place used to be paradise. Life was beautiful. The palm trees were lush and fruitful, and everything we planted would grow abundantly. The soil was rich, the water plentiful, and there were never any disputes over water rights. But now, everything has changed. We’ve lost the soul of the land because of the salinity.”

With these somber words, Haj Karim recalls the tragic transformation of Shatt al-Arab.At 82 years old, he has spent most of his life working in the palm groves of Arvandkenar alongside his father and brothers. Now, all he can do is watch in sorrow as the thriving land of his youth slides into uncertainty and decline.

He continues: “When we were children, we used to swim in these waters. But now, because of the pollution and salinity, we don’t even allow our children to go near the river. The salt has robbed us of drinking water, and even the simple joy of being near it. Yes, the government sends us water by tanker trucks, but we still cling to hope that one day, we’ll have clean water again.”

The Arvand River, or Shatt al-Arab, was once far more than a body of water; it was one of the Middle East’s most vital sources of freshwater. For decades, it nourished fields, revived villages, and fueled local economies. But little by little, that role diminished. With the decline in flows from the Tigris and Euphrates, and the retreat of the Karkheh and Karun rivers, the river’s freshness began to fade. When the salty tides of the Persian Gulf crept inland, the results were catastrophic: a river no longer fit for drinking, farming, or living.

Then came the second blow. Waste from factories, homes, and hospitals began to pour into the river, unchecked. What was once a source of life became a carrier of disease. The water, now both saline and polluted, no longer heals, but harms.

In Basra, Khuzestan, and the southern regions surrounding the river, everything has changed. Fertile soil has turned to salt flats. Livestock that once grazed freely and produced milk are now sickly and dying. Traditional crafts, once a source of pride and income, have all but disappeared.

Death Upon Palm Trunks

Hassan Mahdavi, an agricultural engineer and owner of a farming supply shop in Arvandkenar, stands beside bags of fertilizer and boxes of seeds, recounting a tradition as old as the river itself:

“For thousands of years, farmers along the Arvand River/ Shatt al-Arab relied on its fertile banks. They understood the rhythm of the tides and built vertical irrigation channels that allowed water to flow into the palm groves during high tide. It was a natural system that nourished the trees with ease. But now, with the sharp decline in freshwater flow, that same tidal movement has become a curse for the palms.”

Mahdavi, who still tries to support local farmers with his expertise, shrugs with frustration:

“We have pesticides and fertilizers for all kinds of pests and diseases, but nothing can fight salinity. The only real solution is fresh water. But supplying enough of it to these vast groves and farmlands is incredibly difficult, sometimes nearly impossible.”

Just a few streets away, in his modest date shop in Arvandkenar, Ahmad Kiyar stands before crates of harvested dates, his expression heavy with quiet disappointment. He runs his fingers gently over one of the fruits and says with a voice full of regret:“The trees are still standing, yes, but their fruit is not what it used to be.”

Kiyar explains that while the salinity hasn’t completely killed the palms, it has seeped into the heart of the fruit.

“We still harvest dates, but the quality has dropped. No one really wants to buy them anymore. And if they do, the price barely covers the cost.”

He pauses, his voice wavering between nostalgia and the harshness of the present:“We haven’t just lost the crop,  we’ve lost the market too.”

Once, Kiyar and farmers like him supplied both local demand and exported their prized dates abroad. Today, they are forced to sell them cheaply,if they manage to sell them at all, before mold sets in and the harvest is lost entirely.

Nets That Catch Garbage, Not Fish

On the far side of the river, where choices are few and solutions even fewer, many faces waited silently for the chance to speak. As soon as they realized I was a journalist, they gathered around me, as if they had finally found someone willing to listen.

At the front stood a middle-aged woman, her face marked with anger and worry. Her name was Umm Salma, and beside her was her young daughter, calling her softly in a southern dialect. Speaking with a voice laced with pain, Umm Salma said:“We have no water, no life, and no future.”

Her words struck like a cry from someone who had run out of options. She spoke of her children falling ill from the salty water, of the palm trees that had withered, of the livestock that had died of thirst.

“I had no choice but to send my sons to Baghdad to find work,” she explained. “Yes, I’m worried about them. But what else can I do? There are no alternatives here.”

Her voice lowered as she added, more brokenly:“My husband falls apart every time he sees the trees he cared for over ten years dying in front of him. Our crops have lost their quality. We don’t even have clean drinking water anymore. Every day, we fight to survive, but the water is gone. Even the animals can’t bear it; they just die, one after another.”

A few steps away, a young man named Nour Al-Din stood quietly. In his twenties, he summed up his family’s tragedy in a few solemn words:

“Farming was our legacy. My father and grandfather lived by it. But today, nothing grows, nothing is harvested. I had to become a day laborer. The trees no longer support us.”

Not far from him, a fisherman had just returned from the sea. He opened his nets slowly and said with a heavy sigh:“We used to fish right here, in this river. Now, there are no fish. We have to go out to the sea, which is far more dangerous. And most of the time, when we pull up our nets, we find nothing but plastic bottles and trash instead of fish.”

When the Palm Trees Died, Everything Began to Collapse

Somayeh Sadat Mousavi, a lecturer and expert in rural entrepreneurship, puts it plainly: “This crisis and its consequences don’t just affect the environment and economy. They’ve deeply impacted the lives of people who depend on palm trees and dates for their livelihoods. That’s why we must pay special attention to the complex intersection of nature, local economies, culture, and daily life in southern communities, especially for women and children, who have suffered the most.”

Mousavi elaborates: “Salinity, soil degradation, freshwater scarcity, ecosystem collapse, and the slow death of the date palm, all of these factors have both direct and indirect consequences”.

She believes that the social and cultural dimensions are often overlooked, despite their massive impact.

For Mousavi, who focuses much of her work on women’s economic empowerment, the palm tree is far more than a plant: “It’s a way of life. It carries cultural and symbolic value for people. It’s part of their beliefs and their daily routines. And when the palms begin to disappear, everything else starts to fall apart.”

She goes on, offering a detailed explanation of how deep the crisis runs:“For generations, women and children have used palm fronds and branches for countless traditional crafts, basket weaving, floor mats, ropes, fans, table covers, dolls, curtains, rugs, and more. Every year, over 75% of palm byproducts are discarded as waste. And even from that discarded portion, women and children used to create marketable goods.”

But that, she notes, is becoming a thing of the past. Though simple on the surface, these handicrafts played a central role in rural life.

“Each product reflects the deep-rooted skills, knowledge, and creativity of women,” Mousavi explains. “Through these crafts, which may seem modest, women and children became entrepreneurs. They earned income, supported their families, preserved their culture, and even helped grow tourism in the region.”

She ends with a brief, striking reflection that captures the heart of the crisis:“A community is like an ecosystem. Every part of it, large or small, has a role in sustaining it. When that link breaks, the whole system collapses. And here, the palm tree was at the center of that system, and now, it is dying.”

A River That Tastes Like Bitterness

Inside a small health center on Minoo Island, Dr. Samira Ebrahimi flips through her patient records, running her fingers over the steadily climbing numbers. She looks up and says:

“Since 2018, we’ve seen a worrying spike in the number of children coming in with gastrointestinal illnesses, skin rashes, and recurring infections. The cases have nearly doubled, especially during the summer months, when the crisis intensifies.”

Despite the medical team’s efforts to raise awareness about the dangers of contaminated water, their advice often collides with a harsh truth: there is simply no clean water.

“We’ve urged families not to use river water for drinking, cooking, or even bathing, especially for children,” says Dr. Ebrahimi. “But what choice do they have? When there’s no clean water available, people are forced to use whatever they can find, even if it’s polluted.”

She explains that the crisis goes far beyond physical health. When water disappears, social life begins to unravel. In Basra, for instance, many girls have dropped out of school, not because they don’t want to learn, but because they’re tasked with walking long distances every day just to fetch water.

As girls spend more of their time chasing water, dreams fade and poverty advances.

“Women who are the sole providers for their families are now dealing with increased domestic violence, malnutrition, and a burden of responsibilities they simply cannot carry,” Dr. Ebrahimi says. “As poverty spreads, education becomes a luxury, one many can no longer afford, especially girls.”

A River That Has Lost Its Memory

At the heart of the disaster, agriculture is no longer just an endangered profession; it has become a symbol of total collapse. Ali Reza Farahbakhsh, a specialist in soil and water resources, describes what he calls “the fatal blow” to the palm belt surrounding Shatt al-Arab :

“Roughly 60% of the agricultural land around the river has been damaged in the past decade due to rising salinity. Food security is no longer guaranteed. Livelihoods are no longer sustainable. Without freshwater, even at minimal levels, palm trees cannot survive. And if the palms die, people cannot stay either.”

This warning is echoed by Dr. Zaman Mousavi of Khuzestan’s Water and Wastewater Authority, who attributes the crisis largely to human interventions, especially the dam construction upstream on the Karkheh River.

Dr. Mousavi breaks the crisis down with figures:“The Karkheh used to flow at about 2,200 cubic meters per second through Ahvaz. But a dam built just five kilometers before Abadan reduced that flow to just 12 cubic meters per second. The dam was initially intended to block seawater intrusion, but it ended up choking the river instead.”

And it wasn’t the only dam. Another was constructed at the point where the Karkheh splits into two branches, one flowing into Shatt al-Arab, the other known as the Bahmanshir. With a dwindling water supply, the Bahmanshir has effectively turned into a brine channel.

Salinity levels, measured by electrical conductivity (EC), have reached between 25,000 microsiemens per centimeter, according to the head of Khuzestan Water and Electricity Organization, which is twelve times the safe limit for drinking water, and seven times what palm trees can withstand.

The result has been widespread destruction of palm groves, and entire villages now rely on trucked-in water with salinity levels still as high as 10,000 microsiemens.

Dr. Mousavi paints a similarly grim picture from the Iraqi side:“The flow of the Tigris River is now fully regulated. Its waters no longer reach the Arvand. What remains in the river is a saline mix with EC levels reaching 25,000 microsiemens per centimeter. What flows here can hardly be called water anymore.”

 Microsiemens per centimeter is a measurement  widely used in fields like environmental science and water treatment to measure water quality, and the number is related to the concentration of dissolved ions in the liquid; a higher ion concentration, such as salts, means a higher number of microsiemens per centimeter

Even with the Ghadir water supply project operational, areas like Khorramshahr and Abadan still rely on drinking water with salinity levels around 20,000 microsiemens. Basra’s situation is even worse; it draws its water from the same river that has lost both its sweetness and its memory.

With promises about water releases from upstream countries and stalled negotiations between Iraq and Türkiye, Dr. Mousavi sees only one real solution:

“There is no way forward except to release water allocations. Both the Iraqi and Iranian governments must allow sufficient flow from the rivers that feed the Karkheh. Without that natural pressure of freshwater, there’s no stopping the advance of salinity, nor restoring balance to the river.”

Shatt al-Arab in Search of Its Lost Glory

Despite the gravity of the situation, the response so far has fallen short of the scale of the disaster, according to the interviewed local community. And efforts have mostly focused on the short-term.

The root problem remains: the absence of freshwater.

A study published in the Hydrogeomorphology Scientific Journal in 2021 indicates that the most effective long-term solution lies in releasing water from upstream sources, governments have resisted, citing domestic consumption priorities. As a result, the river remains hostage to drought until further notice.

In the face of this stalemate, some experts propose an alternative: building a regulatory dam at the mouth of the Shatt al-Arab, where it meets the sea. Such a structure could help block saltwater intrusion during high tides. But it is no magic bullet. Without a consistent flow of freshwater, the suffering will persist for the palms, the farmers, the villagers, and even the river ports that rely on navigation.

The more essential, and perhaps final, solution lies in true regional cooperation. Establishing a joint Iraqi-Iranian commission to manage Shatt al-Arab  has become a necessity, not a luxury. Such a body could coordinate water-sharing mechanisms, monitor pollution levels, prioritize usage, and invest in critical projects such as dredging the riverbed and building defenses against salinity.

What Shatt al-Arab needs today is not just clean water, but strong political will, and bold decisions that might restore a measure of its former glory, and return to its people the life they so rightfully deserve.