Ortensia Tserem, a 27-year-old indigenous woman from the Amazon jungle, arrived with her partner to the coastal city of Ica in search of better economic opportunities. She never imagined that living without water would become part of her daily life. In her wooden shack in a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of Ica, she has had to make space for plastic containers to store the water she buys to meet the needs of the couple and their two young children. CREDIT: Mariela Jara / IPS

By Mariela Jara
ICA, Peru , Jul 20 2023 (IPS)

Living without water in a desert area is part of the daily life of Ortensia Tserem, a member of the indigenous Wampis people from the Amazon rainforest of northeastern Peru, who came three years ago to the outskirts of the coastal city of Ica with the dream of better economic opportunities for her family.

However, the scarcity of water is a major hardship. Every week she has to buy water from tanker trucks, which costs about 56 dollars a month, a heavy burden on the family’s small income."The worst thing is not having water," said Fernández. "You get used to the sun, to the wind... but without water and sanitation it is very difficult. We don't leave because we have nowhere else to go: We just hope that the authorities will make good on what they promised us as candidates: to bring us drinking water." -- Alicia Fernández

“I have a three-year-old girl and a one-year-old baby boy. The most difficult thing is to make sure we have water for their hygiene, so that they don’t get sick,” she told IPS while showing the plastic drums where she stores water in her shack in the Intercultural settlement of Nuevo Perú on the outskirts of Ica, the capital of the department of the same name.

Like hers, the 150 families who settled in this desert area in the department of Ica, south of Lima, lack water, sewage and electricity services.

The shantytown is part of the area known as Barrio Chino, located at kilometer 163 of the Panamericana Sur, a major highway that runs across the country. It is populated by people from towns in Peru’s Andes highlands and Amazon jungle who are keen to become part of Ica’s agro-export boom.

Agricultural exports, which account for four percent of Peru’s GDP, are one of the factors that have exacerbated the problem of water scarcity in Ica, the sixth smallest of the country’s 24 departments, which had just over one million inhabitants in 2022, according to the National Institute of Statistics and Informatics.

“Since early 2000 in Ica we have been feeling the worsening water shortages due to the lowering of the water table as a result of the drilling of wells, when after the agrarian reform the large landed estates reemerged as a result of agro-exports,” Gustavo Echegaray, an engineer and renowned expert on water resources, told IPS.

Engineer Gustavo Echegaray poses for a photo at his office in Santiago, a city in the semi-desert coastal Peruvian department of Ica. The consultant and expert in water resources warns that in Ica, where agro-export activity has overexploited water, things will collapse if measures are not taken to correct the water imbalance. CREDIT: Courtesy of Gustavo Echegaray

Groundwater is considered the reserve for the future, so good management and sustainable use are imperative, he stressed.

Echegaray, who lives in Santiago, a city in Ica, also experiences daily water rationing. In his neighborhood they receive one hour of piped water a day, with which they fill tanks and containers for household use.

This complication of day-to-day life in the cities is much worse in the impoverished neighborhoods on the outskirts.

The right to water, a distant goal

Tserem, 27, said the right to water, guaranteed in international treaties and in Peru’s constitution, is just an empty promise. “Look at how living without water affects our health, our food, our environment, our peace of mind,” she explained as she gave IPS a tour of her modest wooden house.

The family has a latrine in the backyard, and taking a daily shower is an impossible dream.

Ortensia Tserem (L) and María Huincho moved from other parts of Peru three years ago to the outskirts of Ica, the capital of the coastal desert department of the same name in south-central Peru. Their families were drawn by the agro-export boom of which Ica is the epicenter, but they struggle to get temporary jobs and casual work, and their biggest challenge is access to drinking water, which they have to buy from tanker trucks. CREDIT: Mariela Jara / IPS

Her partner is a day laborer on one of the large farms dedicated to export crops, whose work varies according to the seasonal labor requirements. “Right now it’s the slow season, there’s no harvest yet; he is helping to prune the tangerine trees, but only for a few hours a day,” she said in a quiet voice.

Fewer hours of work means a reduction in income, making it even more difficult to afford to buy water.

She is also employed during the harvests and at other times of higher demand for labor on the nearby large landed estates, and the rest of the time she spends raising the children and doing household chores.

María Huincho, 39, who moved here from the Andean department of Huancavelica, adjacent to the highlands of Ica, faces a similar situation. She came with her partner and their three young children with the hope of working on one of the farms that grow export crops like blueberries, grapes, tangerines, artichokes or asparagus.

A view of the Nuevo Peru Intercultural settlement, a shantytown which forms part of the area known as Barrio Chino, inhabited by families from different regions of Peru who came to the department of Ica, hoping for jobs on the large export-oriented fruit and vegetable farms. The 150 families in the neighborhood suffer from severe water scarcity. CREDIT: Mariela Jara / IPS

“I’ve been here for three years now and the hardest thing is to go without water. I bathe once a week, more often than that is impossible,” she told IPS. She is Tserem’s neighbor and they help each other in their daily chores. “You can never just sit still doing nothing here,” she said, smiling as she looked around at the large sandy field where the wooden houses have been built.

Ica is known worldwide for the pre-Inca Nazca Lines, ancient geoglyphs in the sand made by the Nazca culture which developed a complex hydraulic system with an extensive network of aqueducts that astonished the world when they were discovered.

Today, water stress is a reality in a large part of the department, one of the hardest hit by the growing water scarcity in this South American country of 33 million people.

Aquifer depletion

According to the United Nations, people require 20 to 50 liters per day of clean, safe water to meet their needs for a healthy life. Peru, despite its great diversity of water sources, has failed to guarantee the populace the right to water.

The National Center for Strategic Planning (Ceplan) has projected that by 2030, 58 percent of the Peruvian population will live in areas affected by water scarcity. Overexploitation is one of the reasons.

“Life without water is very difficult,” said Rosa Huayumbe (L) as she and Alicia Fernández paused on their way home, after walking down the steep unpaved road they take every day to buy food and water, which they pipe up to their homes using hoses. The two women have lived for eight years in the Dos de Mayo neighborhood, part of the municipality of Subtanjalla in the department of Ica. CREDIT: Mariela Jara / IPS

Echegaray, the engineer, told IPS from his hometown that at the end of the 2000s the agricultural frontier in Ica was smaller, but under the authoritarian government of Alberto Fujimori (1990-2000), who changed the country’s economic model to a free market regime, land that was wasteland was allocated for business investment.

“The agricultural frontier has grown a lot on the side of what used to be desert, in the Villacurí pampas (grasslands), which are before the entrance to the city of Ica and also in the lower valley. Due to the irrigation technology that they began to use, a large amount of uncultivated land was made available by drilling new wells, which was done without any controls until 2009,” said the expert.

The result was seen in the decrease of water for small-scale agriculture and for local human consumption, Echegaray said.

“The population of the department of Ica has grown and at the same time the amount of water has decreased. A serious problem has been generated in the lower part of the province (also called Ica) and in general in most of the districts where water is rationed, there are areas where families have access to piped water one or two hours per week or every 15 days,” he said.

He added that due to the overexploitation of the wells, the water table is more fragile and an imbalance is occurring – in other words, the amount of water filtering into the aquifers is less than what is extracted from the wells.

Life is very hard without water

In March 2009, Law 29338 on water resources was approved, which regulates areas where water is protected or where its use is banned.

The bans refer to the “prohibition to carry out water development works; the granting of new permits, authorizations, licenses for water use and discharges.” The National Water Authority (Ana) has already applied this to the aquifers of Ica, Villacurí and Lanchas, all three of which are in the department of Ica.

But despite the ban, reports continue to appear from Ana itself about new wells in the aquifers. “Not all of them are detected,” lamented Echegaray.

Rosa Huayumbe (L) and Alicia Fernández, who came to Subtanjalla, in the Peruvian department of Ica, the center of the agro-export boom, climb the steep, dusty road they walk every day to get to their homes in the Dos de Mayo neighborhood, where the severe water shortage constantly disrupts their lives and makes a huge dent in their meager family incomes. CREDIT: Mariela Jara / IPS

Rosa Huayumbe, 47, was born in the Amazonian city of Iquitos and her friend Alicia Fernández, 30, is from Pisco, a city in Ica. They came to the Dos de Mayo neighborhood in the Ica municipality of Subtanjalla eight years ago, and they have never had piped water in their homes.

This is a poor, desert area, where sand covers the unpaved streets and small houses, most of which are made of wood.

They live in a steep area and must stretch meters of hose so that the tanker truck can deliver water to their homes. They buy three dollars of water a day to cover their basic necessities.

“We work on the large farms,” Huayumbe told IPS. “Right now there is only work for men, which is pruning. We have more time to spend with our children but no money and it’s an even bigger problem to buy water.”

“The worst thing is not having water,” said Fernández. “You get used to the sun, to the wind… but without water and sanitation it is very difficult. We don’t leave because we have nowhere else to go: We just hope that the authorities will make good on what they promised us as candidates: to bring us drinking water,” she added during a pause climbing the steep dirt road back to their homes.

Echegaray said that if something is not done, Ica will run out of water and collapse. He called for studies to determine the water imbalance, which is estimated to be between 38 and 90 million cubic meters per year. “The difference is too big,” he said.
.
He also proposed putting into operation some natural dams and increasing experiments in planting and harvesting water that revive ancestral techniques to restore the aquifers.

The water table is falling in Egypt's desert oases, raising questions of sustainability. Credit: Cam McGrath/IPS

By Cam McGrath
BAHARIYA OASIS, Egypt, Jul 12 2014 (IPS)

Using a hoe, farmer Atef Sayyid removes an earthen plug in an irrigation stream, allowing water to spill onto the parcel of land where he grows dates, olives and almonds.

Until recently, a natural spring exploited since Roman times supplied the iron-rich water that he uses for irrigation. But when the spring began to dry up in the 1990s, the government built a deep well to supplement its waning flow.

Today, a noisy diesel pump syphons water from over a kilometre below the ground. The steaming-hot water is diverted through a maze of earthen canals to irrigate the orchards and palm groves that lie below the dusty town of Bawiti, 300 kilometres southwest of Cairo.

“The deeper source means the water is hotter,” Sayyid explains. “The hot water damages the roots of the fruit trees. It also evaporates quicker, meaning we have to use more water to irrigate.”

Bahariya, the depression in which Bawiti is situated, is one of five major oases in Egypt’s Western Desert. While Egyptians living in the densely populated Nile River Valley and Delta depend on the Nile for their freshwater needs, communities in this remote and arid region rely entirely on underground sources.“This [water drawn from the Nubian Sandstone Aquifer] is fossil water, which means it was deposited a very long time ago and is not being replenished. So once you pump the water out of the aquifer, it’s gone for good” – resource management specialist Richard Tutwiler

Since ancient times, freshwater has percolated through fissures in the bedrock, making agriculture possible in the otherwise inhospitable desert. Water was once so plentiful in the five oases that they were collectively known as a breadbasket of the Roman Empire on account of their intensive grain cultivation.

Ominously, where groundwater once flowed naturally or was tapped near the surface, farmers must now bore up to a kilometre underground, raising fears for the region’s sustainability.

“Historically, springs and artesian wells supplied all the water in the oases,” says Richard Tutwiler, a resource management specialist at the American University in Cairo. “But water pressure is dropping and increasingly it has to be pumped out, particularly as you go from south to north.”

The water is drawn from the Nubian Sandstone Aquifer, an underground reservoir of fossil water accumulated over tens of thousands of years when the Saharan region was less arid than it is today. The vast aquifer extends beneath much of Egypt, Libya, Sudan and Chad, and is estimated to hold 150,000 cubic kilometres of groundwater.

But it is a finite resource, says Tutwiler.

“This is fossil water, which means it was deposited a very long time ago and is not being replenished,” he told IPS. “So once you pump the water out of the aquifer, it’s gone for good.”

Extraction is intensifying in all of the countries that share the aquifer. In Egypt alone, an estimated 700 million cubic metres of water is pumped from deep wells each year.

The increase in water usage is the result of agricultural expansion and population growth. Nearly 2,000 square kilometres of desert land has been reclaimed by groundwater irrigation in the last 60 years. Farmers employ flood irrigation, a traditional technique in which half the water is lost to evaporation and ground seepage before reaching the crops.

Since the 1980s, government programmes aimed at alleviating population pressure on the Nile Valley have encouraged Egyptian families to relocate to the desert. Existing oasis communities have grown while new ones have sprung up around deep wells.

One of these settlements, Abu Minqar, was founded in 1987 and now boasts over 4,000 residents. The isolated community only exists because of its 15 wells, which draw groundwater from depths of up to 1,200 metres.

“Water management in (places like) Abu Minqar must be sustainable,” says Tutwiler. “Because if the wells dry up, it’s game over.”

The number of wells in the Western Desert has increased immensely since the first appearance of percussion drilling machinery 150 years ago. Records show that in 1960 there were less than 30 deep wells in all the oases – today there are nearly 3,000.

In Dakhla Oasis, 550 kilometres southwest of Cairo, natural springs and 900 wells provide water for the 80,000 inhabitants of the oasis, as well as orchards that produce date palms, citrus fruits and mulberries. This was traditionally one of Egypt’s most fertile oases because of the proximity of the aquifer to the surface – less than 100 metres throughout the depression.

But here, as elsewhere, water sources that flowed freely less than a generation ago now only flow with the aid of mechanical pumps. Groundwater extraction has exceeded 500,000 cubic metres a day and the water table is dropping, in some places by nearly two metres a year.

“There are too many straws in the same glass of water,” remarks hydrologist Maghawry Diab

While Diab estimates the Nubian Sandstone Aquifer may hold enough water to last the next 100 years, Egypt’s desert communities could have a lot less time.

Over-pumping has created localised “dry pockets” in the aquifer, which behaves more like a layered damp sponge than a pool of water. Tightly-spaced deep wells are drawing down the water table, while their overlapping well cones intercept upward flowing groundwater before it can recharge the shallower wells.

“All the wells are tapping the same larger cone of depression,” Diab told IPS. “To gain years, we’ll have to find even deeper groundwater sources or (come to terms with) using saline water.”

In an effort to reduce pressure on groundwater resources, Egypt’s government has set restrictions on the drilling of new wells and reduced the discharge rates of certain high-productive ones.

At government wells, a formalised system of water sharing is in place. But farmers thirsty for more water have drilled their own wells, concealing them from authorities or bribing local officials to turn a blind eye.

“We have tried to control the drilling, but there is a lot of resistance from farmers,” says one former irrigation ministry official. “Every time we capped (an unlicensed) well, two more would appear.”

The destroyed Tabu neighbourhood at Gadarfai in southern Libya. Credit: Rebecca Murray/IPS.

By Rebecca Murray
KUFRA, southern Libya, Oct 20 2012 (IPS)

Safia’s six-year-old body is riddled with scars from the rocket that hit her home in February. With her immediate family all killed in the violent attack, this sole survivor smiles shyly as she visits the medics that fought to save her life.

Their makeshift clinic is in Kufra’s impoverished and war-torn Gadarfai neighbourhood, a segregated stretch of flimsy dwellings, piles of rubbish and scorched earth occupied by the indigenous Tabu tribe.

Spent ordnance and a gaping hole left by a mortar round in the clinic’s compound is a reminder of the recent brutal clashes between the Tabu and the town’s majority Arab tribe, the Zwai, over local power sharing and lucrative cross-border smuggling routes.

As fighting got under way, Tabu medical staff at Kufra’s downtown government hospital were threatened.

“I worked there for ten years as a nurse,” says Khadija Hamed Yousef. “The Zwai security guard and ambulance driver came in with Kalashnikovs and warned: ‘This is your last day or we will shoot you’.”

Since the July ceasefire, the Tabu clinics in Gadarfai and Shura are still overcrowded, and lack equipment and medicine. Two North Korean doctors recently assigned to the facilities by the Ministry of Health speak only their native language.

Fearful pregnant Tabu women bring Zwai acquaintances to Kufra’s hospital during childbirth to ensure their safety, and Tabu with serious injuries or illnesses now travel outside for care.

The small oasis town of Kufra lies hundreds of miles south of the Mediterranean, in Libya’s isolated Saharan corner bordering Egypt, Sudan and Chad.

While Kufra’s Zwai tribe benefited from Gaddafi’s favouritism, the semi-nomadic Tabu were deprived of citizenship and ID cards, accused of being ‘foreign’ despite generations born on Libyan soil. They faced state-sanctioned discrimination in jobs, education and housing.

Local roles during the revolution against the Gaddafi reflected this pecking order: the Zwai largely backed the status quo while the Tabu – whose networks stretch west to Sebha, and south into Chad, Niger and Sudan – joined the rebellion to fight for their rights.

Once the revolution was won, Kufra’s tribal-driven conflict over the spoils was ignited last November at a desert checkpoint.

A weak response from the Tripoli-based government and international community did little to quell a raging battle in February, which broke out again in April and June.

Almost 200 were killed, the majority Tabu, with hundreds more injured before the ceasefire took hold.

While the Tebu move freely across the area’s desert, the Zwai control Kufra’s local government, downtown commercial zone and the airport. During the clashes the Zwai held sway over who entered the town, including humanitarian aid.

The defence ministry’s decision in March to assign as peacekeepers the Shield of Libya – a loose-knit collection of ill-disciplined militias from the northeast – disastrously backfired.

Biased towards Zwai claims that Kufra was under attack from Tabu ‘outsiders’, the fighters soon aimed their weapons at the Tabu in besieged Gadarfai and Shura communities.

Halim Abdullah Mohammed, 26, was a core staff member working a 24-hour shift throughout the February clashes at the Gadarfai clinic, sandwiched between two Zwai checkpoints and often under direct fire.

They received over 200 patients then, half of whom are recorded as women and children.

She admits her first aid training was hopelessly inadequate for the patients they received. There was the 12-year old girl whose head was partially blown off by a mortar and died, and the 29-year-old man with a bullet in his head that they managed to save.

“We controlled bleeding with bandages, used local anesthetic and sutures,” Mohammed says.

With electricity cuts there was no water, no refrigeration, and little medication. They operated with flashlights, using dirty well water and direct blood transfusions.

Unable to bury the dead for fear of being shot themselves, the medical staff stacked bodies in the compound’s guardroom. They decomposed in the desert heat.

Across town, in Shura neighbourhood, Rajab Hamid Suri quietly sobs as he recounts the death of his 16-year old son Mohammed. Hit by a mortar targeting their home, he bled to death slowly at Shura’s makeshift clinic next door. “He was talking. We didn’t expect him to die,” he says.

Tabu medical staff underscore the lack of aid they received under siege, and describe how they were forced to ferry some seriously wounded across the desert hundreds of miles west to Murzuq for treatment.

They say they received no support from the local Red Crescent Society, and that the Tripoli-based International Committee for the Red Cross (ICRC) conducted medical evacuations only.

In April, Amnesty International released an urgent statement appealing for humanitarian access. “We also asked that individuals should not be denied health care based on their identity, and should be protected when seeking care in the Kufra hospital,” says Libya researcher Diana Eltahawy.

“In terms of the Red Crescent, there is some truth to what the Tabu are saying,” she explains. “However, when a member of the Red Crescent tried to deliver aid someone on the Tabu side attacked him and no one tried to intervene. So the picture is a bit mixed.”

Laurent Perrelet, an ICRC protection delegate, was in Kufra in June during an evacuation of wounded. “It was most dangerous transporting Tabu from the clinics to the airport in vehicles,” he describes.

“What was striking were the clinics. There were a lot of wounded and not enough space to accommodate them. They were outside the clinic – within the compounds, but outside.”

Perrelet believes training Tabu and Zwai Red Crescent volunteers should be a primary focus, as well as figuring out “how we can work together in Kufra, and with the Red Crescent.”

Halima Salah, an energetic 28-year old nurse, juggles her intensive schedule at the Shura clinic with caring for a son with cerebral palsy, and her civil society organisation that promotes dialogue between Tabu and Zwai.

“I still talk with one of my close Zwai friends,” she says. “During the clashes we couldn’t because it involved families. But now we do and we ask each other: ‘Why are you sending mortars instead of tomatoes?’”

The Tabu border guard in the Sahara in southern Libya. Credit: Rebecca Murray/IPS.

By Walter García and Rebecca Murray
ZWEILA, Southern Libya, Oct 11 2012 (IPS)

A group of Tabu fighters with mud-splattered trucks rest on the outskirts of Zweila, a small historic slave-trade stop in Libya’s southwest Sahara.

Far from their home base of Kufra, hundreds of miles to the east, these men belong to a desert border patrol loyal to charismatic Tabu commander Issa Abdel Majid Mansour.

They police the country’s vast and seemingly impenetrable southern frontier with Sudan, Chad and Niger – an arduous off-road trek over towering sand dunes, volcanic rock and scattered minefields – using smugglers’ markers and the stars as a guide.

The indigenous, semi-nomadic Tabu, marginalised by Muammar Gaddafi under his ‘Arabisation’ campaign, staked out a leading role during the 2011 revolution with a goal to secure their civil rights.

Combining their intimate knowledge of the Sahara with a tribal network spanning both sides of the borders, they forged a successful blockade against pro-regime reinforcements.

When the revolution was won, a grateful transitional government controversially awarded Mansour oversight over vital desert crossings to the detriment of Kufra’s majority Arab Zwai tribe.

The Zwai, whose ties stretch over oil-rich territory to Ajdabiya, 150km south of Benghazi, previously benefited from Gaddafi’s divide-and-rule tactics.

Besides securing national oilfields, Mansour says their priority is to prevent extremist militias, including Al Qaeda, from the lucrative business of smuggling subsidised fuel and food out of Libya, and ferrying weapons and drugs in.

“I worry about terrorists,” he says intently. “They are dangerous – we need to stop them getting more power in the desert.”

Security is a critical concern for the Libyan government, especially in the aftermath of the deadly attack on the U.S. consulate in Benghazi by a suspected Islamist militia last month.

Jolted into action by a subsequent outpouring of public outrage, the government now faces an uphill battle to integrate or disarm poorly trained armed groups loosely affiliated with the state security apparatus along Libya’s coastal belt.

But often overlooked is the volatile, less populous south, home to significant oil reserves, rare minerals, Gaddafi’s man-made river project which feeds water to the north, and the profitable cross-border smuggling of illicit goods.

The Tripoli-based government has failed to address tribal and economic grievances at the heart of this year’s deadly clashes between Tabu and Arab tribes in the southern trade hubs of Kufra and Sebha, now governed by fragile ceasefires.

On an international level, competing regional interests have reduced information-sharing between foreign embassies and a cohesive approach to government ministries.

The U.S. believes Islamic extremist groups, including Al Qaeda, are trying to forge supply lines through southern Libya to its neighbours. It appears poised to introduce a more robust role for the U.S. Africa military command, AFRICOM, in its expanding ‘war on terror’.

Meanwhile, the French strive to retain a monopoly on the mineral-rich region, which they traditionally regard as their post-colonial backyard.

Navigating east across the steep, Saharan sand dunes, a surreal concrete enclave looms in the distance. This is the remote Kufra oasis, once a welcome sight for tired desert travelers.

When Kufra’s violence ended in an uneasy ceasefire last June, the Zwai erected the barrier, encircling the bitterly divided town and its population of 44,000.

The Zwai are convinced that the town’s Tabu community is mostly foreign, and is seeking to carve out an autonomous homeland. Their other concern is control over the south’s most profitable livelihood, smuggling.

Victors in the revolution, Tabu smugglers eek out a subsistence living quite freely, crisscrossing the borders in small Toyota pickup trucks loaded with cheap fuel and migrants.

But the large commercial trucks owned by Zwai businessmen – who until recently made small fortunes from illicit border trade – currently stand idle.

“The Zwai, economically speaking, want to control the area from Kufra towards the Egyptian and Sudanese border because of smuggling. They call it trade, but it’s actually smuggling,” says Fathi Baja, professor of political science at Benghazi University.

“There are also Islamist groups that want to control borders,” he adds.

Tabu and Zwai residents now stick to their heavily guarded neighbourhoods in Kufra.

Small numbers of official army troops guard the town’s invisible borders, having replaced the Shield of Libya auxiliary forces initially dispatched as a neutral buffer after clashes in February.

“The Minister of Defence gave orders to Islamists to go down, control the borders and sort out the issue,” says Rami Al-Shahiebi, one of the few journalists who travelled to Kufra in February.

The undisciplined Shield soon turned their weapons on the Tabu, Al-Shahiebi says. Convinced by the more media-savvy Zwai and Libyan broadcasts from Tripoli that ‘foreigners’ were invading, fighters trekked from as far as the coastal town Misrata for battle.

After hundreds were killed and the Tripoli government was sufficiently embarrassed by the role of their appointed ‘peacekeepers’, a ceasefire was brokered between the Shield and Tabu in June.

Fawzia Idris, an outgoing 37-year-old Tabu nurse in Kufra’s Shura district, is part of a volunteer effort to plant one-foot-tall saplings amongst the piles of rubbish. “To make the neighbourhood beautiful,” she explains.

“Racism and control of the border are the big things,” Idris says. “We are Muslim, but maybe because we are black and not white they think we are not Libyan. The same people who are working with Gaddafi are still in charge. There is no change.”

The Tabu maintain close familial ties in Chad, Niger and Sudan. Although many don’t own Libyan citizenship papers, first issued under King Idriss in 1954, they can trace family ancestors back to the same Libyan tracts of land.

The Tabu bore the brunt of Gaddafi’s rage over the defeat of Libya’s war with Chad over the mineral-rich Ouzou Strip in 1996. Many were stripped of citizenship, deprived of education, health and work, and had their homes demolished.

An estimated 4,000 of Kufra’s Tabu residents are now hemmed into the impoverished ghettos of Gadarfa and Shura. Rotting piles of garbage surround shacks built with sticks, cardboard and jagged pieces of corrugated iron. Homes, schools and the makeshift clinics are pockmarked or blackened by mortar rounds from the recent fighting.

The Tabu talk with deep bitterness about what they see is the transitional government’s betrayal of promises to grant them equal rights after their revolutionary role, and the prognosis for a Libyan constitution inclusive of minority rights appears dim.

Hassan Mousa, a Tabu military spokesman from Kufra, is direct. “The stability of the south depends on Tabu rights. And Libya’s stability depends on the south’s stability,” he warns.