Displaced Yet Again, Southern Lebanese Decry Lack of State Support 

A view shows buildings in Baisariyeh, southern Lebanon June 25, 2024. (Reuters)
A view shows buildings in Baisariyeh, southern Lebanon June 25, 2024. (Reuters)
TT

Displaced Yet Again, Southern Lebanese Decry Lack of State Support 

A view shows buildings in Baisariyeh, southern Lebanon June 25, 2024. (Reuters)
A view shows buildings in Baisariyeh, southern Lebanon June 25, 2024. (Reuters)

Ahmed Abu Della was born in the Lebanese village of Yarine before the land to the south was known as Israel.

He hoped to spend his final days there - but 80 years later, with his hometown pummeled by Israeli shelling, Abu Della's children gave him an ultimatum: leave Yarine, or we will come there to die with you.

Abu Della and his younger brother were the last residents of Yarine still living there this spring. Most families fled in October, soon after Lebanese armed group Hezbollah began trading fire with the Israeli military in parallel with the Gaza war.

"What let me last so long was the soil itself," Abu Della told Reuters, with tears in his eyes as he described the home he built in Yarine, surrounded by his beloved farmland and cattle. "If you turn the soil over, you'll find our fingerprints in it."

More than 95,000 people have been displaced in southern Lebanon since hostilities erupted, according to the International Organization for Migration (IOM). Across the border in Israel, 60,000 people have fled their homes.

But unlike in Israel, where the state is funding hotel stays and other temporary housing for those displaced by the war, families in Lebanon have received little to no state support.

More than 80% of those displaced in Lebanon are being hosted by relatives or friends, according to the IOM. Another 14% are renting out homes and just 2% are living in collective shelters.

Yarine's residents are among the majority who have relied on relatives - and it isn't the first time.

Many of the town's residents remember fleeing Yarine in 1978, during the Israeli military's incursion in the early years of Lebanon's civil war.

They traipsed to the port city of Sidon, through several towns in the south and into the mountainous Chouf region before eventually settling on the outskirts of Baisariyeh, 50 km (31 miles) north of their hometown, and building modest homes.

As more people from Yarine settled there in the 1980s, they set up water pipes and built their own school, earning the area the nickname of "the Yarine district" of Baisariyeh.

'STILL BEING SCATTERED'

Samer Abu Della, Ahmed's nephew, was born in "Yarine district" near Baisariyeh in 1979. Growing up to become a teacher, he built a home in Yarine with his wife and six children in 2011, thinking the border had stabilized after the month-long war between Hezbollah and Israel in 2006.

But now, he's back to "the district" after having fled shelling on the border.

"This feeling, or rather past experience, stays. It becomes something that gets passed down through generations. We said, 'two days and we'll be back (home),' then 30 years went by until we went back," said Samer.

"That's the feeling that some people are afraid of," he said outside his mother's modest home on the outskirts of Baisariyeh, where he was now staying.

Samer's two young sons slept on the couch for months, while he, his wife, and their four daughters squeezed into a single bedroom. His mother's kitchen table wasn't big enough to fit the 11 people now living there, so she served two rounds of each meal to make sure everyone had a seat.

Samer said there were at least 70 families like his who had fled Yarine and were now back in Baisariyeh - and that their meagre means were not nearly enough.

Families in Lebanon have been hit hard by a five-year economic meltdown that has blocked their savings in banks, slashed the value of the Lebanese pound and forced the state to lift subsidies that once made some basic services affordable.

Lebanon's government has not announced stipends or other forms of long-term support to those affected by the hostilities, while Hezbollah has distributed some financial packages and covered rent for some families.

The Abu Della family said it received a food basket from the Southern Council, an official body, but it was not enough to cover their needs during their displacement.

"No one knocked on our door and no one asked... Everyone's been dealing with their own situation through their own efforts," said Lamia Abu Della, 74, Samer's aunt.

"We were displaced in 1977 and we're still being scattered from here to there. But what do we do? This was imposed on us - it's not in our hands."



Morocco Mobile Desalination Units Quench Remote Areas' Thirst

Since 2023, Morocco has built some 44 of these desalination stations, also called "monobloc" -- compact, transportable units © - / AFP
Since 2023, Morocco has built some 44 of these desalination stations, also called "monobloc" -- compact, transportable units © - / AFP
TT

Morocco Mobile Desalination Units Quench Remote Areas' Thirst

Since 2023, Morocco has built some 44 of these desalination stations, also called "monobloc" -- compact, transportable units © - / AFP
Since 2023, Morocco has built some 44 of these desalination stations, also called "monobloc" -- compact, transportable units © - / AFP

In the small fishing village of Beddouza in western Morocco, locals have turned to the Atlantic to quench their thirst, using mobile desalination stations to combat the kingdom's persistent drought.

Since 2023, Morocco has built some 44 of these desalination stations, also called "monobloc" -- compact, transportable units that have come as a boon against the increasingly tangible effects of climate change.

The potable water is distributed with tanker trucks to remote areas in the country, currently grappling with its worst drought in nearly 40 years.

"We heard about desalinated water in other villages, but we never expected to have it here," said Karim, a 27-year-old fisherman who did not give his last name, gathered among dozens with jerrycans to collect his share of water.

Hassan Kheir, 74, another villager, described the mobile stations as a godsend, as groundwater in the region "has dried up".

Some 45,000 people now have access to drinking water directly from the ocean in Beddouza, about 180 kilometres (112 miles) northwest of Marrakesh, as a result of three monobloc desalination stations.

These units can potentially cover a radius of up to 180 kilometres, according to Yassine Maliari, an official in charge of local water distribution.

With nearly depleted dams and bone-dry water tables, some three million people in rural Morocco urgently need drinking water, according to official figures, and the kingdom has promised to build 219 more desalination stations.

Monobloc stations can produce up to 3,600 cubic metres of drinking water per day and are "the best possible solution" given the ease of distributing them, said Maliari.

For cities with greater needs, like Casablanca, larger desalination plants are also under construction, adding to 12 existing national plants with a total capacity of nearly 180 million cubic metres of drinking water per year.

By 2040, Morocco is poised to face "extremely high" water stress, a dire prediction from the World Resources Institute, a non-profit research organisation.

With coasts on both the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, the North African country has banked on desalination for water security.

In Beddouza, the population is relatively better off than those in remote areas further inland.

About 200 kilometres east, in Al-Massira, the country's second-largest dam has nearly dried up.

The dam has filled up to an alarmingly meagre 0.4 percent, compared to 75 percent in 2017, Abdelghani Ait Bahssou, a desalination plant manager in the coastal city of Safi, told AFP.

The country's overall dam fill rates currently average 28 percent but are feared to shrink by 2050 as drought is expected to persist, according to the agriculture ministry.

Over that same period, official figures project an 11-percent drop in rainfall and a rise in temperatures of 1.3 degrees Celsius.

As the country grapples with the increasingly volatile effects of climate change, King Mohammed VI has pledged that desalination will provide more than 1.7 billion cubic metres per year and cover more than half of the country's drinking water needs by 2030.

The lack of water also threatens Morocco's vital agriculture sector, which employs around a third of the working-age population and accounts for 14 percent of exports.

Cultivated areas across the kingdom are expected to shrink to 2.5 million hectares in 2024 compared with 3.7 million last year, according to official figures.

In 2023, 25 percent of desalinated water was alloted to agriculture, which consumes more than 80 percent of the country's water resources.

Against this backdrop, authorities in Safi were in a "race against time" to build a regular desalination plant which now serves all of its 400,000 residents, said Bahssou.

The plant is set to be expanded to also provide water by 2026 for Marrakesh and its 1.4 million residents, some 150 kilometres east of Safi, Bahssou added.