ELISA ODDONE
Photojournalist
“When I was a child, the Dead Sea used to wash the coast a few yards from our field. Now it lies far—over a mile away”
Abdul Alhay Alhwemen, 50, is a Jordanian farmer, just like his father, grandfather, and great grandfather used to be. His family’s humble plot sits along Jordan’s shores of the Dead Sea, the landlocked salt lake that stretches across more than 60 miles of Jordan, Israel, and the West Bank.
Walking through perfectly aligned rows of ripe, juicy tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers just days from being sold on produce stands in Amman, the capital, Alhwemen stops and scans the horizon. He points to a distant thin line of silver sea in the blinding midday light. “Look,” he says. “When I was a child, the Dead Sea used to wash the coast a few yards from our field. Now it lies far—over a mile away.”
Raising both hands to shield his eyes, Alhwemen shakes his head. “In 20 years, no one will know there was something called the Dead Sea here. We will be forced to leave our fields because of the erosion of the coast and the danger caused by the mile-wide sinkholes emerging where the water used to be.”
