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The Mohana: : a people adrift

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Mohamed propels his Hurro, the Mohana’s sleek traditional canoe, across the waters of Lake Manchar.
Mohana family aboard their houseboat. Once, more than 20,000 Mohanas lived on the Galiyo, their iconic floating homes. Today, only about forty remain, sheltering fewer than five hundred souls.
Mohamed and Imran sail across Lake Manchar. Today, with fish becoming increasingly scarce, some boats are now fitted with engines to reach distant parts of the lake.
A flag bearing the Kaaba of Mecca and the Green Mosque of Medina flutters above Lake Manchar. Deeply devout, the Mohanas are mostly Sunni Muslims, though they still carry traces of animist beliefs tied to fishing and hunting.
Bashir gazes at the few huts standing on the opposite bank of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), where he and his family have now settled on land.
The Mohanas’ huts, made of tarps, reeds and salvaged materials, line the brackish water of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), giving the place the impermanent look of a refugee camp.
Using polystyrene rafts, Mohana children move about to run small errands, visit relatives or simply play together. With few activities or toys, they learn to improvise and create their own pastimes.
On Lake Manchar, a vast freshwater mirror stretching nearly 250 km², the Mohana’s last lake village holds barely forty Galiyo. As they fall into disrepair, these floating homes slowly vanish, taking with them an ancestral way of life.
Mohana children sitting on the edge of their houseboat. For centuries, members of the Mohana tribe have lived aboard Galiyo, their traditional floating dwellings. But today, most have left the serenity of the lake to join the many settled Mohanas ashore.
Aziz, seated on the prow of a Mohana boat. The Galiyo — flat-bottomed wooden barges, delicately crafted — are the legacy of this people also known as Mallah (the name of their boatmen caste) or Mirbahar, literally “lords of the sea”.
A pelican in front of a Mohana village on the shores of Lake Manchar. The Mohanas share a unique relationship with birds like pelicans, whom they train as pets. Some of these birds, captured with patience and cunning, are sold at markets in nearby towns or serve to feed families, replacing the livestock they no longer have.
Mohana children attempting to tame a pelican in a village on the shores of Lake Manchar. The Mohanas live with birds in a relationship of intimacy and habit. Companions for fishing, pets, sometimes food or traded goods, birds are at the heart of their culture.
Three Mohana children playing with an empty can on the elevated banks of the RBOD. For Mohana children, simple games become refuge, and laughter, resistance.
A Mohana child helps his father return from fishing.
A fish at the bottom of a boat. Once thriving, the Mohana fishing industry fed an entire region. Today, it is no longer enough to sustain families.
View of Lake Manchar from the grills of the only fish market. Once thriving, the Mohana fishing industry fed an entire region. Today, it is no longer enough to sustain families. And with it, an entire culture falters, drifting on a lake that is now but a mirage of what it once was.
At Lake Manchar’s fish market, catches are sorted by species and size. The largest fish will be sold in local markets, while the smaller ones will be turned into flour to feed poultry farms.
Pollution in Lake Manchar has dramatically reduced fishing: from more than 15,000 tons per year in the 1970s, catches have dropped to just a few thousand tons today, according to the Sindh Fisheries Department.
At Lake Manchar’s fish market, catches are sorted by species and size. The largest fish will be sold in local markets, while the smaller ones will be turned into flour to feed poultry farms.
At Lake Manchar’s fish market, catches are sorted by species and size. In the 1930s, over 200 fish species were recorded. By 1998, only 32 remained. Since then, about a dozen more have disappeared. The species that remain today—tilapias, roaches, catfish, and bullheads—are the ones able to survive the polluted waters. But they are no longer enough to feed the community.
At Lake Manchar’s fish market, catches are sorted by species and size. In the 1930s, more than 200 fish species were recorded there. By 1998, only 32 remained. Since then, about a dozen more have disappeared. The species that survive today—tilapias, roaches, catfish, and bullheads—are those capable of enduring the polluted waters. But they are no longer enough to feed the community.
Young Mohanas arrange the day’s catch in fish tanks, before transporting them to the Karachi auction.
A Mohana covers the day’s catch with ice before transporting it to the Karachi auction, the large port city in southern Pakistan.
Portrait of Mansoor. This Mohana no longer lives by the lake but continues to come every day to transport the daily catch to the Karachi auction.
Mohamed prepares to cast his net into the water. Only the oldest Mohanas still know how to use this technique, now almost forgotten. Once, nearly every cast would bring fish. Today, even after hours of fishing, he often returns empty-handed.
Mohamed ferries children from one bank to the other of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) in his boat.
At first glance, the peaceful curves of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) give no hint of the polluted waters it dumps into Lake Manchar, leaving the ecosystem in ruin, and with it, the life of the Mohanas.
A young Mohana girl fills a canister at one of the few potable water cisterns installed on the shores of the lake.
A young Mohana girl fills a canister at one of the few potable water cisterns installed on the shores of the lake.
Filling canisters with drinking water has become a daily ritual for the Mohanas. With the lake’s water now unfit for consumption, they are forced to buy every liter: 50 Pakistani rupees, around 15 euro cents. A huge sum for those who now fish only a few kilos of fish per week.
When the potable water cisterns arrive near the villages, everyone knows there won’t be enough for everyone. Once, the Mohanas drank directly from the lake. Today, they have to pay for every liter.
When the potable water cisterns arrive near the villages, everyone knows there won’t be enough for everyone. Every drop of potable water is a treasure, every canister a victory.
Filling the canisters with potable water has become an act of survival for the Mohanas. With the lake’s water now unfit for consumption, they are forced to buy every liter: 50 Pakistani rupees, about 15 euro cents. A huge sum for those who now fish only a few kilos of fish per week.
During potable water distributions, everyone waits their turn to fill their canisters. First come, first served. Here, on the shores of Lake Manchar, every drop of potable water is a treasure, every canister a victory.
During potable water distributions, everyone waits their turn to fill their canisters. First come, first served. Here, on the shores of Lake Manchar, every drop of potable water is a treasure, every canister a victory.
On foot or by boat, once the canisters are filled with potable water, they must still be carefully brought back to the homes.
On foot or by boat, once the canisters are filled with potable water, they must still be carefully brought back to the homes.
Hira washes her cooking utensils in the murky waters of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD). Potable water, too precious, is reserved solely for drinking and meal preparation.
Nayla washes the family laundry in the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD). Clean water being strictly reserved for drinking and cooking, the polluted water must still be used for everything else: laundry, bathing, dishwashing.
Aboard their three houseboats, Asna and her granddaughters handle everything. Almost blind due to trachoma contracted from the polluted lake water, Mohamed, their patriarch, can no longer do anything. Skin diseases, diarrhea, chronic infections: ailments proliferate on Lake Manchar.
Shah Muhammad Tanweer and his team test the first mobile water purification unit using reverse osmosis, a glimmer of hope on Lake Manchar.
On the waters of Lake Manchar, the first solar-powered boat equipped with a reverse osmosis water filtration unit is a pilot project aimed at allowing a few Mohana families access to potable water without having to buy it at a high price.
On the waters of Lake Manchar, the first solar-powered boat equipped with a reverse osmosis water filtration unit is a pilot project aimed at allowing a few Mohana families access to potable water without having to buy it at a high price.
A Mohana child rests on the roof of a boat. Around him, dry wood, washing utensils, a fishing net, and a solar panel pile up, providing them with some electricity.
In the hold, Asna prepares the chapati dough. These flatbreads made from flour and water, cooked over a wood fire on a cast-iron plate, are the staple food of the Mohana people.
For the Mohanas who have settled on the shores of the lake, like Nayla and Hira, life is no kinder than it was on the Galiyo. The gestures, customs, and meals remain unchanged: flour, water, and chapatis to feed the family.
Bashir tries to charge his mobile phone on the only source of electricity in the camp: a solar panel connected to a few batteries. Like potable water, access to electricity is a precarious luxury for the Mohanas. The phone is often their only link to the outside world.
Bashir tries to charge his mobile phone on the only source of electricity in the camp: a solar panel connected to a few batteries. Like potable water, access to electricity is a precarious luxury for the Mohanas. The phone is often their only link to the outside world.
Along the brackish waters of the RBOD, children walk barefoot in the dust in front of a row of huts made from tarps, reeds, and salvaged materials. When it’s hot, the Mohanas sleep outside in the dust, and when the rain comes, they seek refuge inside, but the water seeps in, and the mud takes over everything.
On this part of Lake Manchar, aside from a few brick houses that rise, almost nothing has changed. There is neither a clinic, nor a school, nor even a mosque. Outside, the imam calls for prayer using a rusty microphone and ancient loudspeakers.
In a country like Pakistan, where Islam plays a central role, defining the very existence and identity of the nation, every village has its mosque. But here, the Mohanas are among the few communities without a designated place of prayer. Their faith is practiced under the open sky.
The tomb of Sheikh Dhaman, a revered Sufi saint by the Mohana community, rises from the waters of Lake Manchar.
Facing Lake Manchar, the remnants of a British colonial building dating back to 1916 still whisper the echoes of a bygone era.
From the high city of Mohenjo-Daro, one can gaze upon the remnants of an ancient city that flourished in the 3rd millennium BCE. A center of the Indus Civilization, the ancient city discovered in 1922 reveals one of the best-preserved urban archaeological sites in Asia, showcasing the brilliant organization of a forgotten society. The ruins testify to the history of a dynamic metropolis with a well-organized economic and cultural system.
The high city of Mohenjo-Daro served as both a religious and administrative center. At its peak, a Buddhist stupa from the 2nd century CE stands, built atop the ruins of the ancient citadel. Public baths, drainage, and sewage systems—the archaeological remains reveal an urban habitat that was particularly sophisticated for its time.
A well in the lower city of Mohenjo-Daro. Here, each brick seems to tell the story of one of humanity’s oldest and most illustrious civilizations.
A street in the lower city of Mohenjo-Daro. Here, every wall and every street is constructed from clay bricks that artisans along the banks of the Indus still make today, continuing practices that are over 5,000 years old.
View from the high city of Mohenjo-Daro in Pakistan. Although the lineage is not formally established, the heritage of the Mohanas is thought to trace back to the times of Mohenjo-Daro and the early peoples of the Indus Valley. While its history remains poorly understood and its script still undeciphered, archaeologists have uncovered seals adorned with images of boats, whose designs eerily resemble those used by the Mohanas today. Additionally, the term “Mohana” itself could derive from “Meluha,” the name given by the Mesopotamians to the people of the Indus Valley.
A Mohana boatman decorates a traditional board that will be used in the construction of a boat. Archaeologists have uncovered seals adorned with boats from the Indus Civilization, whose motifs strangely resemble those used by the Mohanas today.
The structure of a traditional boat is being assembled on a shipyard at the edge of Lake Manchar. Each hull is shaped in the continuation of an ancestral craft.
A traditional boat glides through the reeds of Lake Manchar. Silent, it seems to float between two worlds: that of yesterday and the one struggling to survive today.
A Mohana boatman hard at work in a shipyard on the shores of Lake Manchar.
On the shores of Lake Manchar, a Mohana boatman is busy at a shipyard.
A Mohana child hand-paints traditional motifs on a board that will be used in the construction of a boat.
A Mohana boatman repairs a Galiyo, the iconic floating home of his community.
A Hurro, the traditional canoe of the Mohana, slowly cuts through the waters of Lake Manchar.
The waters of Lake Manchar, a vast freshwater mirror stretching across nearly 250 km², and even more during the monsoon season. Nestled at the foot of the Khirthar Mountains in the Sindh province, this lake, the largest in the country, has long been an oasis of life, a unique, nourishing, and sacred ecosystem. But this natural sanctuary is dying. And with it, an entire world is sinking.
A Mohana fisherman emerges from a reed thicket. Out of necessity, those who once lived in harmony with their environment are now forced to adopt unsustainable fishing techniques. They surround the thickets—spawning areas—with nets, slip inside, then strike the water with bamboo poles to herd the fish into the mesh. A desperate method, which only accelerates the depletion of the lake’s fish resources.
A group of Mohana fishermen fold their nets. Each catch has become so rare that they no longer hesitate to fish during the breeding season, endangering the lake’s fish resources.
A group of Mohana fishermen fold their nets after a session. Faced with the dwindling fish population, even catches full of eggs are no longer spared. Immediate survival outweighs the preservation of tomorrow.
A Mohana fisherman emerges from the waters of the lake.
With a long bamboo pole, a Mohana fisherman strikes the surface of the water, attempting to guide the fish toward the stretched nets.
On both sides of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), Mohana fishermen stretch a large net, hoping to herd a few fish into a trap downstream. An exhausting technique for a catch that is often meager.
On both sides of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), Mohana fishermen stretch a large net, hoping to herd a few fish into a trap downstream. An exhausting technique for a catch that is often meager.
Mohana fishermen patiently detach their catch from the nets. A few scattered fish, a poor reward for an entire day of struggling against the depleted waters.
In front of an irrigation canal, a farm worker carries a pesticide sprayer.
Waters laden with industrial waste form a foul-smelling white foam on the surface of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD). In addition to poisoning resources, contact with these effluents can cause skin irritation, infections, and digestive disorders.
Black smoke rises from a brick kiln. The brick kiln owners, like the landowners, exert significant control over the vast agricultural plains of Sindh, to the detriment of workers and the environment. This unregulated sector contributes massively to air pollution, and consequently to climate change, which directly impacts the lives of the Mohanas.
Illegal water pumping from an irrigation canal. Using their political influence, the large landowners who rule over the agricultural plains of Sindh have gradually taken control of the irrigation service, manipulating existing laws to divert more water to their lands, drastically reducing the flow of freshwater reaching Lake Manchar.
Without any protection, a worker sprays pesticides on a mustard field. The use of pesticides has direct effects on the health of the men and women working in the fields, as well as on the environment. Pesticide residues spread into the soil, the groundwater, and inevitably, to Lake Manchar.
Without any protection, a worker sprays pesticides on a mustard field. The use of pesticides has direct effects on the health of the men and women working in the fields, as well as on the environment. Pesticide residues spread into the soil, the groundwater, and inevitably, to Lake Manchar.
In front of a wheat field, thick fumes from a brick kiln rise into the air. Agriculture sustains the majority of the population of Sindh, but it relies on a feudal system where a few powerful families own almost all the land.
Young workers harvest wheat in the scorching heat. Agriculture is the backbone of the Sindh province, employing nearly 70% of its population. But behind this statistic lies a feudal system where a few families control most of the arable land where wheat, cotton, and rice are grown. On their lands, an army of landless daily wage workers lives in extreme precariousness.
An agricultural worker piles up wheat straw, a backbreaking and poorly paid job.
Agricultural workers busy loading wheat straw into trucks. Once chopped, wheat straw becomes an important and highly popular fodder for cattle in Pakistan. The straw is transported in overloaded trucks across the country.
Agricultural workers lift a huge bale of straw with their bare hands, then place it on their heads. A daily, harsh, and physical gesture.
Balancing precariously on a makeshift ladder, the workers carry bale after bale of wheat straw up into the trucks. Every move counts, every step is measured.
Carrying the heavy bales of straw on their heads, the workers slowly climb the rungs of the wooden ladder.
While the bent silhouettes prepare the straw bales, their heads laden, they slowly climb the wooden ladder to load the straw into the trucks.
The trucks are loaded as much as possible. The men press the straw down with their feet until the load reaches twice the height of the trailer itself. Once the tarps are closed, the magnitude of the load is apparent, and the truck is ready to head toward the big cities.
Portrait of Farouk and Muddathir, two landowners from Hyderabad, visiting one of their farms. In Pakistan, a handful of families control the majority of agricultural land. In the shadow of their estates, an army of landless laborers lives under a system as old as it is unjust.
In villages on the banks of the Indus, the Mohana who left Lake Manchar try to survive, settled and often impoverished. Azra, 62 years old, now spends her days weaving wooden panels to insulate roofs. Once a fisherwoman on the lake, she now lives on dry land.
In the scattered Mohana hamlets along the Indus River, the birds are still there, like remnants of a world slowly sinking. On solid ground, the water people watch their culture inevitably fade away, fragment by fragment, like a fresco peeling off.
View of the Indus River, a millennial and sacred artery.
Yusuf, 58, a Mohana fisherman, casts his nets in the waters of the Indus River. Once settled by Lake Manchar, he now lives in a small village where he has resettled with his family.
“I loved living on the lake. I still remember its color, its reflections… Back then, the fishing was good. But when the fish began to disappear, we had to leave.” Yusuf, 58, left Lake Manchar twenty years ago. Today, he lives by the Indus River, but the memories of the lake remain.
Yusuf, 58, a Mohana fisherman, casts his nets in the waters of the Indus River. Once settled by Lake Manchar, he now lives in a small village where he has resettled with his family.
Portrait of three Mohana aboard a Hurro, the traditional boat. In the background, the rudimentary huts on the raised banks of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) testify to a precarious life.
Nets are stretched over the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) to catch the birds flying over its waters — the last resource for a community struggling to survive.
On Lake Manchar, nets are set up to capture migratory birds.
Cormorants are tethered at the edge of a Mohana village on Lake Manchar. Both pets and fishing companions, these birds are trained to attract migratory birds from Siberia.
Once, Lake Manchar was a paradise for migratory birds from Siberia. Today, pollution has caused their numbers to drop. But the Mohana, also known as the “people of the birds,” remain faithful to their ancient traditions, continuing to tame various bird species and keep them as pets on their boats or nearby.
The most unique aspect of the Mohana is their special bond with birds, their ability not only to tame them but also to train them to help with fishing.
When the nets no longer bring in much, the Mohana continue a practice unique in the world: bird hunting… with the help of birds. Ali Kasghar is one of the last masters of this ancient technique. He submerges himself up to his neck with a stuffed bird on his head as camouflage. Another living bird, attached to the end of a branch, acts as a decoy, allowing him to slowly approach his prey, until the fateful moment when, with a lightning move, he catches it.
When the nets no longer bring in much, the Mohana continue a practice unique in the world: bird hunting… with the help of birds. Ali Kasghar is one of the last masters of this ancient technique. He submerges himself up to his neck with a stuffed bird on his head as camouflage. Another living bird, attached to the end of a branch, acts as a decoy, allowing him to slowly approach his prey, until the fateful moment when, with a lightning move, he catches it.
Using a live bird as bait, the Mohana continue a silent and cunning hunt, where the art of waiting merges with the skill of camouflage.
Using a live bird as bait, the Mohana continue a silent and cunning hunt, where the art of waiting merges with the skill of camouflage.
Among the herons, a Mohana hunter slowly rises from the water, holding in his hand a thin branch with a living bird at the end, serving as a decoy to trap others.
Among the herons, a Mohana hunter slowly rises from the water, holding in his hand a thin branch with a living bird at the end, serving as a decoy to trap others.
Close-up of a bird’s foot, tied with string to a branch planted in the water. An image that speaks volumes about the ambivalent relationship between man and animal among the Mohana: complicity, use, dependence.
Herons tethered at the edge of a Mohana village on Lake Manchar. Mohana families live surrounded by birds with whom they share a unique bond.
On Lake Manchar, the Mohana live among the birds, in a relationship of intimacy and habit. Fishing companions, pets, sometimes food or trade goods, the birds are at the heart of their culture.
Mohana families live surrounded by birds: herons, cormorants, pelicans… they are an integral part of their life and culture.
A pelican near a Mohana village. The Mohana have a unique relationship with birds like pelicans, which they tame as pets. Some of these birds, caught with patience and cunning, are sold in nearby city markets or used to feed families, replacing the livestock they lack.
From a young age, Mohana children grow up surrounded by birds. Known as “the people of the birds,” they maintain unique bonds with these species.
From a young age, Mohana children grow up surrounded by birds. Known as “the people of the birds,” they maintain unique bonds with these species.
Portrait of Bashir aboard a Hurro, the traditional slender boat. In the background, the simple huts on the raised banks of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) are a testament to a precarious life. His dream would be to build a brick house for himself and his family.
A Mohana child flies his kite above Lake Manchar. Despite the difficulties, the gestures of childhood persist, light and fleeting like the wind.
Ali ferries the children and the community’s motorcycle across with his boat. This two-wheeled vehicle is their only link to the outside: a bridge between their isolation and the outside world.
A Mohana child plays on the raised banks of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), where huts made of tarps, reeds, and scavenged materials line up.
Mohana children are hypnotized by a spinning top. For the Mohana children, simple games become a refuge, laughter, a form of resistance.
Improvised slide on the steep slope of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) bank. The gestures of childhood persist: they slide carefreely. The source of their misfortune turned into a playground.
Improvised slide on the steep slope of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD) bank. The gestures of childhood persist: they slide carefreely. The source of their misfortune turned into a playground.
In the polluted waters of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), children play, dive, and swim. Some develop skin rashes, others digestive issues. No dispensary nearby. The price of staying here is very high.
A father speaks to his son behind the bars of the only fish market on Lake Manchar. Once, the fishing of the Mohana fed an entire region. Today, it no longer sustains families. And with it, an entire culture teeters, drifting on a lake that is but a mirage of what it once was. But the Mohana still cling to the hope of a better future for their children.
Mohana children joyfully discover the books just given to them. For most, it’s the very first time they hold a book in their hands.
At the edge of the Right Bank Outfall Drain (RBOD), a Mohana child flies his kite from the roof of a hut. Despite the difficulties, the gestures of childhood remain: light and fleeting like the wind.
From a young age, Mohana children grow up surrounded by birds. Known as “the people of the birds,” they maintain unique bonds with these species. Today, as they learn other languages, other trades, other dreams, their culture slowly fades, and with it, their way of life.
A Mohana family lifts anchor to move their boats. The Mohana, a people of the water, see their world slowly sink, inevitably. Their culture doesn’t disappear all at once: it fades in fragments, like a fresco peeling off, like a song whose lyrics are forgotten.
Propelled by a long bamboo pole scraping the muddy bottom of the canal, Bashir maneuvers his boat with precision. Each gesture carries the memory of the Mohana people. In front of him, the reed huts on the shore already seem like ruins. And as the sun sets behind the horizon, he continues to believe: perhaps a breath, a trace, a memory will survive.

The Mohana: a people adrift

Where: Pakistan

When: 2025

At the mouth of Lake Manchar in southern Pakistan, a gentle lapping of water breaks the silence. A small boat glides through the water, pushed by a long bamboo pole scraping the shallow, muddy canal bed. On board, Bashir Ahmed maneuvers his craft with agility. Each movement is precise, rooted in centuries of tradition. In front of him, a few reed huts stand solitary on the opposite bank.

His Hurro, a slender traditional dugout canoe, is more than just a means of transport. It is the legacy of a people who live to the rhythm of water: the Mohana. Also called Mallah (the name of their boatmen caste) or Mirbahar (literally “lords of the sea”), they have lived for generations on the waters of Lake Manchar—a vast expanse of freshwater, reaching nearly 250 square kilometers—and even more during monsoon season. Nestled at the foot of the Khirthar Mountains in the province of Sindh, this lake— the largest in the country—was long an oasis of life, a unique, nourishing, sacred ecosystem. But this natural sanctuary is dying. And with it, an entire world is slipping away.

On the other shore, his father, Mohamed, is waiting. He is the head of this small community of about fifty souls. The two men settle in the shade of a hut, sitting on a bed of tightly woven ropes. Around them, children run barefoot in the dust.
Mohamed speaks slowly, as if to ensure his words are truly heard. “We were the lords of the lake… This water was sweet, full of fish. It fed us. Our boats were our homes. Like Noah’s Ark, we believed they would never sink. But look now… The lake has turned to poison.”

That poison has a name: the Right Bank Outfall Drain, or RBOD. Built in the 1990s, this canal was initially meant to drain saline water from western Sindh to make its salt-ridden lands cultivable. In reality, it rerouted agricultural wastewater—laden with fertilizers and pesticides—along with industrial effluents and sewage from several major cities in the province directly into Lake Manchar. In just a few decades, the lake’s fragile ecosystem has collapsed. Climate change has only accelerated the collapse. A decrease in rainfall, combined with the construction of two upstream dams on the Indus, has drastically reduced the flow of freshwater into the lake.

Lake Manchar was once a paradise. Fish were plentiful, and migratory birds from distant lands would gather there. Nature and humans thrived in harmony. It was a fragile balance, but a real one. Today, it all seems like a dream—one from which you wake only to realize what has been lost. The loss of a unique, centuries-old way of life that may soon vanish forever.

“What can we do?” sighs Mohammed, his gaze lost in the murky waters of the lake. He knows, deep down, there is little chance of outside help. So he puts his fate in God’s hands: “God is great, our fate rests with Him.” He knows, like all Mohana, that the water will no longer save them. As the sun sets, he keeps believing—perhaps a trace, a breath, a memory will endure.

Full story, both in French and English, available on request.