Syria Fishermen Despair At Water Loss, River Pollution

The lack of water and the pollution are "driving further biodiversity loss along the lakes and rivers" in Syria's north and east - AFP
The lack of water and the pollution are "driving further biodiversity loss along the lakes and rivers" in Syria's north and east - AFP
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Syria Fishermen Despair At Water Loss, River Pollution

The lack of water and the pollution are "driving further biodiversity loss along the lakes and rivers" in Syria's north and east - AFP
The lack of water and the pollution are "driving further biodiversity loss along the lakes and rivers" in Syria's north and east - AFP

Around war-torn Syria's biggest freshwater dam reservoir, fishermen say their catch is now a fraction of what it used to be as environmental pressures have decimated aquatic life.

Ismail Hilal, 50, sat on the hull of his rowboat -- now lodged firmly on the shores of Lake Assad -- as gentle waves washed in, talking about the way of life he has lost.

After 37 years as a fisherman, he has retired his nets, declaring defeat as fish stocks have declined, water levels have dropped and pollution has worsened in the Euphrates and the dam reservoir it feeds.

"I have spent my whole life on the water, since childhood," said Hilal, a father of seven. "But I was forced to stop this year. I couldn't live on fishing anymore."

Syria has endured more than a decade of civil war, and the nearby town of Raqa was the center of ISIS group's brutal "caliphate" until their ouster in 2017.

The battered country, where half a million died in the conflict, has also suffered the impacts of climate change, from searing summer heat to prolonged drought.

The flow of the Euphrates -- one of the region's mighty streams, where the world's earliest civilisations flourished -- has been further impacted by upstream dams in Türkiye.

Other fishermen AFP spoke to also blamed the river's low water levels, lack of rainfall, worsening pollution and overfishing for the sharp decline in fish stocks.

Fishermen now "barely take in five percent" of their catch from former times, Hilal said.

He now works in a restaurant in Tabqa, on the eastern edge of the lake, toiling in front of a flaming hot oven and preparing and grilling fish instead of catching them.

The Euphrates, said to have nourished the biblical Garden of Eden, runs for almost 2,800 kilometres (1,700 miles) through Türkiye, Syria and Iraq, where it empties into the sea.

From the Turkish border, it flows southeast across Syria, irrigating its breadbasket region and filling the reservoirs of three hydroelectric dams that provide drinking water and electricity for millions.

Lake Assad is the biggest reservoir, stretching across 600 square kilometres (230 square miles).

But its water level has dropped by four metres (12 feet) since last year, says Dutch peace-building group PAX, which blames a "downward spiral of drought and water shortages".

The lack of water and the pollution are "driving further biodiversity loss along the lakes and rivers" in Syria's north and east, said the group's Wim Zwijnenburg.

Raqa province received only 208 mm per month of rainfall last year, according to the UN Food and Agriculture Organization.

An AFP team visiting Lake Assad saw vast plumes of algae -- an indicator of pollution, according to experts, that sucks oxygen from the water and kills aquatic life.

When Ali Shebli, 37, a fisherman like his father, pulled in his long green nets, they were empty except for a few bits of the seagrass that now chokes some shallow areas.

"In the past, we could take in 50 kilogrammes of fish" per day, he said. "But now we barely get one or two kilos, and sometimes nothing ... because of the low water level and the pollution".

Shebli, who struggles to support his wife, three children and his ill father, said the falling fish stocks had made the family's situation "disastrous".

The crisis has impacted the wider local economy.

Fish are displayed on blocks of ice at a market in nearby Raqa, a town under Kurdish control since the ISIS was ousted by the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces.

But fishmonger Ragheb Ismail, 45, scaling fresh fish on a bench, said what is on offer now is a far cry from the times when there were "tons of fish" for sale.

"Now even the biggest fishmonger has no more than 200 kilogrammes on offer because of the drought, the lack of water and the high temperatures," he said.

These days, he said with frustration, there are plenty of customers but "not enough fish".



In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
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In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)

We watch video after video, consuming the world on our handheld devices in bites of two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 15. We turn to moving pictures — “film” — because it comes the closest to approximating the world that we see and experience. This is, after all, 2024, and video in our pocket — ours, others', everyone's — has become our birthright.
But sometimes — even in this era of live video always rolling, always recording, always capturing — sometimes the frozen moment can enter the eye like nothing else. And in the process, it can tell a larger story that echoes long after the moment was captured. That's what happened this past week in Beirut, through the camera lens of Associated Press photographer Bilal Hussein and the photographs he captured.
When Hussein set up his camera outside an evacuated Beirut apartment building Tuesday after Israel announced it would be targeted as part of military operations against Hezbollah, he had one goal in mind — only one. "All I thought of," he says, “was photographing the missile while it was coming down.”
He found a safe spot. He ensured a good angle. He wasn't stressed, he said; like many photographers who work in such environments, he had been in situations like this one before. He was ready.
When the attack came — a bomb, not a missile in the end — Hussein swung into action. And, unsurprisingly for a professional who has been doing this work for two decades, he did exactly what he set out to do.
Time slowed down
The sequence of images he made bursts with the explosive energy of its subject matter.
In one frame, the bomb hangs there, a weird and obtrusive interloper in the scene. It is not yet noticed by anyone around it, ready to bring its destruction to a building that, in moments, will no longer exist. The building's balconies, a split-second from nonexistence, are devoid of people as the bomb finds its mark.
These are the kind of moments that video, rolling at the speed of life or even in slow motion, cannot capture in the same way. A photo holds us in the scene, stops time, invites a viewer to take the most chaotic of events and break it down, looking around and noticing things in a strangely silent way that actual life could not.
In another frame, one that happened micro moments after the first, the building is in the process of exploding. Let's repeat that for effect, since even as recently as a couple generations ago photographs like this were rare: in the process of exploding.
Pieces of building are shooting out in all directions, in high velocity — in real life. But in the image they are frozen, outward bound, hanging in space awaiting the next seconds of their dissolution — just like the bomb that displaced them was doing milliseconds before. And in that, a contemplation of the destruction — and the people it was visited upon — becomes possible.
Tech gives us new prisms to see the world
The technology to grab so many images in the course of little more than one second — and do it in such clarity and high resolution — is barely a generation old.
So to see these “stills,” as journalists call them, come together to paint a picture of an event is a combination of artistry, intrepidity and technology — an exercise in freezing time, and in giving people the opportunity to contemplate for minutes, even hours, what took place in mere seconds. This holds true for positive things that the camera captures — and for visitations of violence like this one as well.
Photography is random access. We, the viewers of it, choose how to see it, process it, digest it. We go backward and forward in time, at will. We control the pace and the speed at which dizzying images hurtle at us. And in that process, something unusual for this era emerges: a bit of time to think.
That, among many other things, is the enduring power of the still image in a moving-picture world — and the power of what Bilal Hussein captured on that clear, sunny day in Beirut.