In the city, grabbing a bottle of water to quench our thirst is an utterly mundane part of urban life. We often associate it with convenience, a touch of lifestyle, or health consciousness. Yet, travel to the southern and south-western coasts of Bangladesh, and the picture shifts drastically. Down there, buying daily drinking water isn't a luxury or a lifestyle choice. It is a harsh, relentless struggle just to survive. The people are surrounded by a vast expanse of river and sea, yet lack a single drop of safe, sweet water to drink. This grim reality is starkly visible if you visit the sprawling marginalized communities of Satkhira, Khulna, Bagerhat, or Patuakhali. Sitting in a land woven with rivers, the sheer desperation for a glass of safe drinking water feels surreal. But for millions of coastal residents, this is an undeniable, everyday fate.
There was a time when almost every household in this region had its own pond. The locals were well-versed in the ancient, effective art of rainwater harvesting. On one hand, climate change struck directly, raising sea levels. Then came a relentless parade of devastating cyclones like Sidr, Aila, Amphan and Remalpermanently rewriting the coastal landscape. Close on the heels of nature's wrath came a terrifying, man-made disaster. Embankments were recklessly cut open to flood lands with saltwater for unplanned shrimp farming. Now, with the toxic influx of extreme salinity and arsenic, the agonizing cry for drinking water has taken a permanent hold over vast tracts of land. Caught in the crossfire of nature's fury and human greed, the sweet water of the coast is nothing more than a golden memory.
For the people of these endangered settlements, every morning begins with the exact same quest: finding a pitcher of water. Not too long ago, women walking for miles with earthen or plastic pitchers was a common, everyday sight. A massive chunk of their day was swallowed up just fetching a single vessel of water under scorching suns or torrential downpours. Today, that scene has shifted slightly. Along the winding, muddy village paths, motorized vans are a regular fixture, hawking drinking water in large plastic jars. The supply comes from locally set up reverse osmosis (RO) plants, with van drivers shouting through the neighborhoods to sell their daily stock.
Buying this filtered water has firmly established itself as the new normal on the coast. It is an inseparable part of their daily routine. The moment they wake up, the math begins: how many jars are needed today, and how will they pay for them? But we need to take a step back and ask ourselves just how deeply abnormal this normalcy actually is. When the most primitive, fundamental element of survival has to be bought at a premium, it is only natural to question the welfare character of the state.
The media frequently reports on the severe drinking water crisis in the coastal belt. What usually stays hidden, however, is the massive economic hemorrhage bleeding the ordinary people dry. Think about a day laborer, a fisherman, or a marginal farmer who earns a meager sum after a backbreaking day of work. A massive portion of that tiny income goes straight into buying water for the family. A 30-liter jar costs anywhere from 30 to 50 taka. When the dry season hits and water becomes even scarcer, prices skyrocket.
Because of this forced extra expense, they have no choice but to slash their food budget, cutting out basic nutrition. They struggle to scrape together school fees for their kids. They can't afford emergency healthcare. Consequently, they are trapped in an endless cycle of poverty. This "thirst trade" is crippling them economically, perhaps permanently.
What's even more alarming is the actual quality of this expensive water. The local water treatment plants popping up everywhere rarely care about rules or regulations. Water is sold year after year in the same dirty, unhygienic plastic jars. There is zero government oversight or minimum quality control. As a result, villagers are spending their hard-earned money only to expose themselves to severe health risks. It's a tragic situationlike being forced to drink poison out of sheer desperation. Nobody is monitoring what they are actually swallowing under the guise of safe water.
Beyond drinking, the forced use of saltwater for other household chores is triggering a massive health crisis. Lacking fresh water, coastal residents are suffering from a myriad of complex waterborne diseases. The toll is most devastating on women's reproductive health. Forced to bathe and wash clothes in saltwater every day, they are suffering from chronic skin diseases and severe uterine infections. In many cases, the complications become so extreme that women are forced to undergo hysterectomies at a very young age. It is an unspeakable humanitarian disaster, and it is unfolding in total silence.
The writer is a student at Begum Rokeya University
