Emika Davis
Glendale, CA
2021, Senior, Creative Writing

Karachi, Pakistan: 2016

There is hardly any water at the outskirts of the city. In the rich parts of Karachi, they have running water, pools even. Here, we are too poor to have taps in our homes, so we get water from the tankers. They come rarely, though, and we must wait with hundreds of others for a couple liters. It is hardly enough to drink, clean, and cook with, but my parents ration it to make it last. If it doesn’t, we turn to other methods.

Sometimes, we ask our cousins and neighbors if they have any to spare. They, too, struggle with having enough, so we go looking elsewhere. The people who work the tankers take bribes, so sometimes we can get a little from them. We have to give them quite a bit of money, but water is worth far more. We can also wait into the deep hours of the night in the hopes that the pipes turn on and the water is clean, but the chances are rare. Often, the water is full of salt or contaminated with sewage. In the most desperate times, we turn to the mafia.

The gangs have illegal hydrants tapped into Karachi’s water mains, and they sell their water at exorbitant prices. They are part of why we at the outskirts don’t have enough. The government stops some of them, but others have connections to officials and can continue stealing water. We have no other choice but to buy from them sometimes. When I look at myself in the stolen water we have stored in buckets, I can’t help but ask how the world has come to this.

 

Humacao, Puerto Rico: 2017

Hurricane Irma passed by only a couple weeks ago, and it caused power outages and damage without even hitting us. Now, we can see Hurricane Maria on the horizon, and it is headed straight here. My family tries to prepare: we shutter the windows and grab all the valuables we can. The wind is already whipping by as we make the last of our preparations. We know they probably won’t help, but we have to do something with our hands and minds.

Next comes the rains. They batter our shoddy roof, already damaged by Irma. The wind howls in anger, attempting to knock the walls down. I can hear our home groan, and I cling to my family, praying it holds up. My feet are getting wet. Water is seeping in from outside, coming in through cracks under the doors and in the ceiling. I look into my dad’s eyes and see my fear reflected in his. Our home cannot protect us any longer. We have to get to higher ground.

We cannot risk leaving through the door, so we force a window open and squeeze through. The streets are flooded now, the water reaching my knees. I help my siblings through the window as I survey our neighborhood. The situation is even worse out here, with debris in the streets and people shouting for help. Roofs have collapsed and trees have toppled over, but the storm is nowhere near over. I look down and see my family reflected in the floodwater, and pray to God that we make it through alive.

 

Gwako, Nigeria: 2018

We get our water from the nearby river. We also wash our clothes in that river and play in that river. It is not clean. The cows relieve themselves nearby. We do not have toilets, so we have to do the same. We have no other options for water, though. There are no wells or taps and the rains are rare, so all we have is the river. We are too poor to find another way, and the foreigners can only do so much to help.

They come every so often, teaching us about sanitation. They give us powder to mix in the water so it won’t make us sick. It is very kind, but it’s not really a solution. We still have to get water from the river, and we can still get sick. We do not have enough doctors to help, so many of the young children die. Without more assistance, it will only get worse. It rains less and less here. Drought is common, and it means we often do not have enough for ourselves, much less the crops and animals. It causes even more problems, but we cannot control the weather. For now, I look into the river and see all of us gathered at its edge. We may have to rely on support from the outside, but we will find a way to survive.

 

Fongafale, Tuvalu: 2019

The water comes closer to our home every day. It approaches in an ever-increasing high tide, threatening our livelihoods. The fruit trees no longer ripen because the soil is full of salt water, and getting food from other countries is becoming more expensive. The weather grows warmer, the air more humid. On land, the palm trees are losing their color, just as the corals are under the sea.

The death of the coral reefs affects the fish. They now eat the algae the corals have released, and when we eat them in turn, they make us sick. My entire family has had to go to the hospital from eating bad fish, but it is what we have always eaten. The world is changing, and Tuvalu is being left behind. We are too small a country, too poor to fix things without help from the UN.

They try to build a seawall and speak of raising the level of the entire island, but progress is slow. Our only option for survival is leaving, but my parents and grand-parents refuse. “Tuvalu is our home,” they say. “We cannot leave.” Nothing can be done, though; the rest of the world does not care about our plight and will continue to hurt our environment without being hurt themselves. I look at myself in the rising ocean and see a prisoner trapped in a shrinking cage. We have to get out.

 

Varanasi, India: 2020

My family has traveled to the temples in Varanasi to bathe in the Ganga River. Many other Hindus are here, too, as we all practice our faith in the holy waters. The Ganga has provided for us since the very beginning, and it continues to do so. We submerge ourselves in its waters and take sips to cleanse ourselves. For the past few years, though, the flower petals and lamps typically floating in the water are accompanied by trash.

Some people complain about the amount of debris in the Ganga. They say we are harming the river and ourselves by throwing our trash into it, but the river is immortal. There is no way some trash could take it away. Then, they say that there are bugs in the water, resistant to medicine, that can make us sick if we drink it. It is impossible; the holy river could never cause illness.

Regardless, there are talks of cleaning up the river. They are going to treat water going into the river and stop people from putting their ashes in it. They talk of returning the river to its natural state and getting rid of the dams, but we need that water. Just as the river sustains our spirits, it sustains our stomachs. The Ganga will continue to provide no matter how much trash is in it, so what is the point of cleaning it? I see my reflection as I duck my head underwater, and I tell myself there is nothing to be worried about. The Ganga will continue to flow.

 

Glendale, California: 2021

I sit comfortably at my desk, working on homework on my laptop. I have never had to ration water as they do in Karachi or gather water from a polluted river in Nigeria. The taps in my home flow with clean water, or clean enough that we can put it in a filter and feel safe to drink it. The shower I typically use has corroded pipes, but I am now using my brother’s and the pipes will be replaced over the summer.

We may not deal with hurricanes or fast-approaching shorelines, but fires and droughts are common. Year after year, the fires grow more severe. They burn hotter and bigger, fueled by years of fire suppression, rather than management, and increasing temperatures. They are also worsened by severe droughts. The winter rains are hard to predict now. One year, we have torrential downpours and the next, close to nothing. The grocery stores are still full though, and we have yet to be directly affected.

I know that there is devastation around the world related to water and climate change, so I do what I can. I try to use water sparingly, turn off lights when they’re not being used, and limit what I buy. I do what I can to learn about the world and what our actions are doing to it. And when I see my reflection in my glass of water, I have hope that we can figure out how to fix our mistakes.

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A World of Water