He turned on the tap. Silence. No water flowed. He wanted to wash his hands and face—but couldn’t. He wanted a strong cup of tea—but it was impossible. Even a short shower, just a brief one, was out of reach. Most importantly, he was thirsty. He needed water—a jug, a glass, a handful, even a single drop—but there was none.
It may be hard to believe, but a day is approaching when no water will come from taps, pipes, or hoses, simply because there will be no water left.
My eyes widened. Dr. Parviz Kardavani, unfazed, repeated: “The day will come when taps, pipes, and hoses will be useless.”
I had come to ask him—professor, PhD in agriculture and desert engineering, member of the Middle East Water Network, trustee of Greenpeace, and head of Iran’s Desertification Committee—about this year’s drought and water scarcity, and how to use water efficiently. But without preamble, he painted a stark picture: “We have plundered our water. For decades, taps and pipes were symbols of civilization. But now, if we don’t act, these symbols will fail, and people will have to keep barrels in their homes, fill them bucket by bucket, and carry water by hand.”
He set the scene and handed me an empty barrel and bucket, saying: “Now go—find water and fill your barrel.”
I stepped outside—everyone carried buckets, all of them empty. But where was I supposed to find water? Kardavani said, “Before taps and hoses, there was a well at the end of every street, or at least a qanat in every neighborhood. Now, where can we get water? If we ignore this, even barrels, buckets, and pitchers won’t help. We’ve drawn so much from the earth that water we once reached at 8, 10, or 20 meters deep now lies 150, 200, or even 300 meters below the surface.”
He ran a hand through his snow-white hair, removed his glasses, and squinted. “Water ages like humans. This water is like an elderly person we should treat gently—but with our taps and hoses, we are striking its bent back again and again.”
The situation worsens daily. The amount of water remains the same, but the population grows, agriculture and industry expand, and higher awareness of hygiene increases demand. Rivers and reservoirs no longer suffice, so we dig deep wells to extract groundwater. Groundwater is like savings: once we spend it, our ‘monthly income’—the annual rainfall—cannot replace it. With these wells, we’ve plundered our water reserves.”
Once, people relied on qanats. Qanats never touched our savings; they provided just enough water steadily. But fifty years ago, wells became common. People thought wells were better: qanats overflow in winter, wasting water, while wells can be closed when not needed. Yet consumption grew so high that even wells had no rest.
Dr. Kardavani leaned back on the couch and smiled—a sad smile, more sorrowful than a nurse’s lament—and said, “I’m not saying wells are bad, but they would have been effective only if managed wisely. The number of wells and our extraction should have matched rainfall. Instead, in a plain where ten wells might have sufficed, we dug thousands. From an aquifer built over millennia, we’ve drained it bowl by bowl in fifty years—forgetting that one day, once the bowls are empty, no water will remain.”
He pointed at me reproachfully, speaking of the drying qanats and how our reckless water consumption has lowered the groundwater level, causing their death. When he said “death of the qanat,” it was as if a heavy burden had fallen on his shoulders. His brows furrowed as he continued: “These dead qanats will never come back to life. Humans—the noblest of creatures—strive with thought and ingenuity for a better life, yet this effort is like a silkworm that, the more it spins, the more it traps itself in its cocoon. Our generation has reached a point where we long for the calm and ease of our ancestors; they had no taps or pipes, yet they fetched water from qanats with effort and toil, and their nerves remained at peace.”
I said nothing, thinking of the qanats we have all contributed to destroying. Our hands are stained with the blood of our children’s future. Water is the source of life, yet through our mismanagement, we have denied it to generations to come—and we continue to do so.
Still reflecting on the dead qanats, Dr. Kardavani raised his voice: “In fifty years, this country faces a catastrophe. Groundwater in central Iran—from the Alborz to the Persian Gulf, and from the Zagros to Afghanistan and Pakistan—will be depleted. Cities like Yazd are at serious risk within the next twenty years. Perhaps within ten years, places like Abarkooh, Anar, or Jahrom may vanish. Fruit trees in Jahrom are already dying from water scarcity; a city that once produced the best citrus might one day become a charcoal exporter. Villages are emptying, and cities swelling. Urban residents bathe daily, wash cars and yards, demand green spaces—consuming and polluting water at an ever-growing rate. Their dominance diverts water from agriculture, reducing food production and creating the most dangerous kind of dependency.”
Dr. Kardavani observed that we have built cities without learning the culture of urban living. Our cities are like children who grew up without parental guidance—bold, demanding, and unmindful of resources. He concluded: “Among these children, Tehran is by far the unruliest.”
I sat there, dumbfounded. Words kept swirling in my mind: thug, bully, disaster, taps and pipes, green spaces, qanats, silkworms, drought, heat, thirst, death.
What can be done? Have we truly shut every door on ourselves? Dr. Kardavani said, “With this spoiled, unruly child, nothing can be done—except for the elders to come together and tell him the truth. We must awaken him, hope he opens his eyes, and sees reality. The truth is he’s poor, yet he spends as if he were rich.”
He went on: “The people need awareness. This is where media—visual, audio, and print—must step in. From here on, the stage cannot remain empty if we care for ourselves, our future, and the next generations. We must build a culture, establish regulations, and educate the public. People need to understand that in our land, the old concepts of years of abundance or drought no longer apply. Seasonal rains are not a sign that the situation is improving. We are on the water poverty line; we must tread carefully, because falling off it means death.”
Dr. Kardavani clarified for me the meanings of wastefulness, restraint, frugality, and squandering. Without hesitation, he said, “Of these four, we’ve only learned waste and squandering—but that must stop. We need to learn, practice, and teach how to use just what is necessary.”
He emphasized that awareness alone isn’t enough; we must also teach proper consumption. We should reduce cultivated land but manage it efficiently to maintain the same yields.
We must make full use of drip and sprinkler irrigation, educate people on sustainable water use, and, like other countries, recycle wastewater for reuse.
For nearly three hours, Dr. Kardavani shared practical strategies for responsible water use—methods anyone can apply. They are too many to detail here, but from the next issue of Amordad, one method will be presented each time under the “People” section, so readers can both recognize the looming danger and learn how to consume wisely.
Among all his insights, one sentence stuck with me most: “Planting lawns is a sin.”
