Drought-hit Morocco closes its famous public baths 3 days a week to save water

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A Moroccan traditional bath is empty of customers in Rabat on March 4, 2024 following a new rule closing the facilities a few days a week in an effort to save water. (AP Photo)
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Notice posters are shown outside at a Moroccan traditional bath, announcing a new rule closing the facilities a few days a week in an effort to save water. (AP Photo)
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A Moroccan traditional bath is empty of customers in Rabat on March 4, 2024 following a new rule closing the facilities a few days a week in an effort to save water. (AP Photo)
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Updated 08 March 2024
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Drought-hit Morocco closes its famous public baths 3 days a week to save water

  • Little rainfall and hotter temperatures have shrunk Morocco’s largest reservoirs, frightening farmers and municipalities that rely on their water
  • Morocco’s neighbors have chosen to ration water in varying ways. In Tunisia, entire neighborhoods had their taps shut off for several hours each day last year

RABAT, Morocco: For years, Fatima Mhattar has welcomed shopkeepers, students, bankers and retirees to Hammam El Majd, a public bath on the outskirts of Morocco’s capital, Rabat. For a handful of change, they relax in a haze of steam then are scrubbed down and rinsed off alongside their friends and neighbors.

The public baths — hammams in Arabic — for centuries have been fixtures of Moroccan life. Inside their domed chambers, men and women, regardless of social class, commune together and unwind. Bathers sit on stone slabs under mosaic tiles, lather with traditional black soap and wash with scalding water from plastic buckets.
But they’ve become the latest casualty as Morocco faces unprecedented threats from climate change and a six-year drought that officials have called disastrous. Cities throughout the North African nation have mandated that hammams close three days a week this year to save water.
Mhattar smiled as she greeted families lugging 10-liter (2.6-gallon) buckets full of towels, sandals and other bath supplies to the hammam where she works as a receptionist on a recent Sunday. But she worried about how restrictions would limit customer volume and cut into her pay.
“Even when it’s open Thursday to Sunday, most of the clients avoid coming because they are afraid it’s full of people,” Mhattar said.
Little rainfall and hotter temperatures have shrunk Morocco’s largest reservoirs, frightening farmers and municipalities that rely on their water. The country is making painful choices while reckoning with climate change and drought.
The decision to place restrictions on businesses including hammams and car washes has angered some. A chorus of hammam-goers and politicians are suggesting the government is picking winners and losers by choosing not to ration water at more upmarket hotels, pools, spas or in the country’s agricultural sector, which consumes the majority of Morocco’s water.
“This measure does not seem to be of great benefit, especially since the (hammam) sector is not considered one of the sectors that consumes the most water,” Fatima Zahra Bata, a member of Morocco’s House of Representatives, asked Interior Minister Abdelouafi Laftit in written questions last month.
Bata asked why officials in many municipalities had carved out exceptions for spas, which are typically used by wealthier people and tourists. She warned that hammam closures would “increase the fragility and suffering of this class, whose monthly income does not exceed 2,000 or 3,000 dirhams at best.” Hammam workers make an amount equivalent to $200 to $300.
Laftit has not yet responded, and his office did not respond to questions from The Associated Press.
The closures affect the roughly 200,000 people directly or indirectly employed in the hammam sector, which accounts for roughly 2 percent of the country’s total water consumption, according to Morocco’s national statistics agency.
Hammams have been closed in cities including Casablanca, Tangier and Beni Mellal since the interior minister asked local officials to enact water-saving measures earlier this year. With the price of heating gas high and temperatures dropping, the closures have raised particular concern in towns high in the Atlas Mountains where people go to hammams to warm up.
Mustapha Baradine, a carpenter in Rabat, likes to enjoy hammams with his family weekly and doesn’t understand how the modest amount of water he uses is consequential in a drought. For him, the closures have fostered resentment and raised questions about wealth, poverty and political power.
“I use only two buckets of water for me and my children,” he said. “I did not like this decision at all. It would be better if they would empty their pools,” he said of local officials.
Morocco has reduced the prevalence of poverty in recent years, but income inequality continues to plague both rural and urban areas. Despite rapid economic development in certain sectors, protests have historically arisen among working class people over disparities and rising costs of living.
Morocco’s neighbors have chosen to ration water in varying ways. In Tunisia, entire neighborhoods had their taps shut off for several hours each day last year. In part of Spain, communities were prohibited last summer from washing cars, filling swimming pools and watering gardens.
Fatima Fedouachi, the president of a hammam owners’ association in Casablanca, said the closures had changed the economics of operating a hammam. Though hammam associations have yet to publish statistics on layoffs or lost revenue, they have warned about the effect on owners, chimney technicians and receptionists.
“Owners are obligated to perform their duties for their workers,” Fedouachi said.
Even on days when they’re closed, Fedouachi said, most hammams continue burning wood to keep the baths warm rather than let them cool off and heat them again. Owners would prefer rationing for certain hours each day instead of being forced to close, she added.
Some hammam-goers say the closures appear to be raising awareness of drought, regardless of how much they save. Regulars like 37-year-old housekeeper Hanane El Moussaid support that nationwide push.
“If there’s less water, I prefer drinking over going to the hammam,” El Moussaid said.
 


As tensions flare on Israel-Lebanon border, war-torn communities struggle to rebuild

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As tensions flare on Israel-Lebanon border, war-torn communities struggle to rebuild

  • One year into a shaky ceasefire on this heavily fortified border, Israel’s government says most of those displaced have returned to their homes in the north
  • Israel’s government says it has invested hundreds of millions of dollars in border recovery efforts, that it plans to invest more in economic revival
METULA, Israel: Ilan Rosenfeld walks through the burnt-out shell of his former business, stepping over crackling pieces of clay plates that used to line his cafe and past metal scraps of Hezbollah rockets littering the rubble.
It’s all that’s left for him in this small, war-ravaged town — the northernmost in Israel, surrounded on three sides by Lebanon.
“Everything I had, everything I saved, everything I built – it’s all burned,” he said as he scanned the damage of the business he’d run for 40 years in Metula, which has long been at the crosshairs of flare-ups along the volatile border. “Every day I wake up, and all I have left are tears.”
Rosenfeld was among tens of thousands of people forced from their homes when war broke out between Israel and the militant group Hezbollah in October 2023, following Hamas’ attack in southern Israel.
One year into a shaky ceasefire on this heavily fortified border, Israel’s government says most of those displaced have returned to their homes in the north, where they struggle to pick up the pieces of their lives. Others are reluctant to come back, as Israel has stepped up attacks in Lebanon. Communities like Metula that were in the center of the conflict remain little more than ghost towns, most still half empty, with many people skeptical of their government’s promise to keep them safe.
The Israeli strikes into southern Lebanon continue, with several a week. Hezbollah has refused to completely disarm until Israel fully withdraws.
“The security situation is starting to deteriorate again,” Rosenfeld said, looking at the bomb shelters on a list recently distributed by the local government. “And where am I in all this? I can barely survive the day-to-day.”
In some towns on the Israel-Lebanon border, the return has been a trickle
Metula residents were among the 64,000 forced to evacuate and relocate to hotels and temporary homes farther south when Hezbollah began firing rockets over the border into Israel in fall 2023. Months of fighting escalated into a full-fledged war. In September 2024, Israel killed 12 and wounded over 3,000 in a coordinated pager attack and killed Hezbollah’s leader in a strike. A month later, the ceasefire deal was reached.
Today, residents have trickled back to the sprawling apple orchards and mountains as Israel’s government encourages them to go home. Officials say about 55,000 people have returned.
In Metula, just over half of the 1,700 residents are back. Yet the streets remain largely empty.
Many hoped to rebuild their lives, but they returned to find 60 percent of the town’s homes damaged from rocket fire, according to the local government. Others were infested and destroyed by rats. The economy — largely based on tourism and agriculture — has been devastated.
With many people, especially young families, reluctant to return, some business owners have turned to workers from Thailand to fill labor shortages.
“Most of the people who worked with us before the war didn’t come back,” said Jacob Katz, who runs a produce business. “We’ve lost a lot … and we can’t read the future.”
Rosenfeld’s modest cafe and farm were perched on a hill overlooking the border fence. Tourists would come to eat, camp in buses converted to rooms and enjoy the view. But now, the towns on the Lebanese side of the border have been reduced to rubble by Israel’s attacks.
Without a home, Rosenfeld sleeps in a small shelter next to the scraps that remain of his business. He has little more than a tent, a refrigerator and a few chairs. Just a stone’s throw away sit a military watch tower and two armored vehicles.
Israel’s government says it has invested hundreds of millions of dollars in border recovery efforts, that it plans to invest more in economic revival, and that residents can apply for support funds.
But Rosenfeld said that despite his requests for government assistance, he hasn’t received any aid.
He’s among residents and business leaders who say they feel forgotten. Most say they need more resources to rebuild.
“The Israeli government needs to do much more for us,” Metula deputy mayor Avi Nadiv said. “The residents who live on Israel’s northern border, we are Israel’s human shield.”
A spokesman for Zeev Elkin, a Cabinet minister overseeing reconstruction in the north, said the local government has not used funds allocated to reconstruction “due to narrow political and oppositional considerations.”
Hezbollah-Israel tensions are flaring
As Hezbollah refuses to disarm, Israel has accused Lebanon’s government of not doing enough to neutralize the militant group. The Lebanese army says it has boosted its presence over the border area to strengthen the ceasefire.
Israel continues to bombard what it says are Hezbollah sites. Much of southern Lebanon has been left in ruins.
The strikes are among a number of offensives Israel has launched – including those in Gaza, the West Bank and Syria – in what it calls an effort to crack down on militant groups.
The Lebanon strikes have killed at least 127 civilians, including children, since the ceasefire took hold, according to a November UN report. UN special rapporteur Morris Tidball-Binz said the strikes amount to “war crimes.” Israel has maintained that it has the right to continue strikes to protect itself from Hezbollah rearming and accuses the group of using civilians as human shields.
Last week, Israel struck the southern suburbs of the Lebanese capital of Beirut, killing Hezbollah’s top military commander. The group, still weakened by last year’s fighting, has not responded.
‘The army cannot protect me’
In Metula, signs of the tensions are everywhere. The local government’s list of public shelters reads: “Metula is prepared for an emergency.”
Explosions and gunfire periodically echo from military drills while farmer Levav Weinberg plays with his 10-, 8- and 6-year-old children. Weinberg, a military reservist, said his kids are too scared to ride their bikes on the street.
Weinberg, 44, and his family returned in July, skeptical of the government’s promise that everything was returning to normal but eager to keep their business alive.
Metula’s government continues to encourage people to come back, telling residents the region is safe and the economy will bounce back.
“Today we feel the winds of, let’s call it, the winds of war – but it doesn’t deter us,” Nadiv said. “Coming back to Metula – there’s nothing to be afraid of. ... The army is here. The houses are fortified. Metula is prepared for anything.”
Weinberg isn’t so sure. In recent weeks, he and his wife have considered leaving once again.
“The army cannot protect me and my family,” Weinberg said. “You sacrifice your family to live in Metula these days. It’s not a perfect life, it’s not that easy, and at some point your kids pay the price.”