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Travellers passing through Central Asia once agreed on one thing: its great rivers – the Oxus and the Jaxartes, today’s Amu Darya and Syr Darya – were vast, powerful, and essential to life in an otherwise unforgiving landscape.
Whether Greek, Persian, Chinese, or Arab, travellers described the two rivers’ shifting, unpredictable waters, difficult to cross, and the rich oases along the Silk Road.
In The Anabasis of Alexander, the Greek historian Arrian wrote that the Oxus river was the largest one that Alexander the Great had seen in Asia.
This is now history. With its campaign of turning Central Asia into a cotton hub, the Russian Empire and then the Soviet Union left the region drained. The mighty Aral Sea, the lake where the two rivers met, lost 90 per cent of its volume, while the Amu Darya and Syr Darya turned into shadows of their former selves.
But water scarcity is a global problem. According to experts, what we’re facing is no longer a water crisis — it’s a global water bankruptcy, an era where water systems deplete faster than nature can replenish them.
Today, most of Central Asia’s water originates in the glaciers of Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan, which make up the region’s two water towers. But glaciers have been in decline.
Faced with the looming catastrophe, Tajikistan has helped put water on the global agenda. Thanks to its initiative, the United Nations declared the years 2018–2028 the Water Action Decade. It also launched the Dushanbe Process — a platform for dialogue and action on preserving water across the globe.
In late May, as carpet-like swathes of multicoloured roses covered Dushanbe’s arteries, the capital hosted its fourth Water Conference. Along Rudaki Avenue, behind a tall wall adorned with stones, the Kokhi Somon Palace gathered 2,500 guests: water and climate policymakers, experts, and media from around the world to discuss solutions to one of the globe’s most pressing issues.
The conference has surely helped to raise Tajikistan’s profile. But can Dushanbe fix Central Asia’s water crisis?
The pioneers
Dilorom Kayumova was 38 years old when she climbed a glacier for the first time. She could not say no. In 2018, her father, Abdulhamid Kayumov, a celebrated glaciologist, scientist, and the first Tajik to reach Antarctica, was given an ambitious task: to create the Glacier Research Centre at Tajikistan’s National Academy of Sciences.
That year marked the beginning of the Water Action Decade, and Tajikistan had to deliver on its promises. The Glacier Research Centre had to be a success, and for that Kayumov needed his daughter: a medical doctor and climate change researcher.
“The first person he brought in was me. He told me, ‘You have to support me. If not you, then who?,’” Kayumova recalls.
At the time, her father was 67 but still in good enough shape to climb Tajikistan’s glaciers with his new team, including his daughter. But as Dilorom explains, the beginnings were not easy.
“In 2018, we didn’t have all the necessary equipment. We took four or five pairs of sneakers, which we used for climbing,” she tells Turan Tales sitting in a corridor of the Kokhi Somon palace during the Water Conference. “When our Swiss colleagues arrived, they had special clothing and could climb easily. Since we didn’t have proper gear, we carried four jackets each.”
Dilorom is a 45-year-old energetic woman with a wide smile. She is part of the Association of Women Studying Glaciers. They have chosen the Edelweiss flower as their symbol, as it survives in the harsh mountain climate. It survives the impossible.
“During our first expedition, we barely made it up because our shoes were torn and our feet were soaking wet for ten to 15 days. We were there specifically to climb the glacier. There’s a rocky section where you climb, and your feet end up covered in blisters,” she said.
“These difficulties were especially severe in the early years of our Glacier Research Centre. This year, at the behest of our esteemed president, the centre was transformed into an institute, and our capabilities have expanded. We now have proper equipment and all the opportunities to continue our work.”
Dilorom studies how water quality affects people’s health. She collects meltwater from the glacier and all the way down to where it reaches consumers. She joins expeditions every year.
“I think the hardest part is just mentally adjusting to the fact that for 15 days you’re in a variety of climatic conditions. So while everyone else has sunshine and warmth, when you’re doing expedition work, there is hail, snow, and rain — you experience all the climatic facets of nature firsthand,” Dilorom says.
“It’s like in life. You think: ‘Today I’m going to give birth, and I won’t have another child,’ and then you go into labour again. When I come back from an expedition all sunburnt, my immunity drops, and it takes a week or two to recover. Your entire system gets knocked down, but once you’ve adapted, you crave it again, and you think: ‘I have to try it again this year.’”
Over the last few years, the Glacier Research Centre has expanded. It now hosts 60 scientists working on different areas of water research, 14 of them women. It also has a modern laboratory — something local scientists could only dream of at its inception. Previously, water samples were sent abroad for testing.
Water towers
Studying glaciers is key to Central Asia’s water future. Roughly 70–80 per cent of the Amu Darya and Syr Darya’s water originates from snow and glacier melt in Tajikistan’s Pamir and Kyrgyzstan’s Tien Shan mountains.
Over the past century, Central Asia has lost over a thousand glaciers. The year 2025 was the worst on record; the glaciers lost 30 cubic km of ice, roughly 30 per cent of the ice cover of the Alps.
Lander Van Tricht, a postdoctoral scientist at ETH Zurich, started his work on glacier modelling in Central Asia in 2018, the same year as Dilorom’s father opened his institute. He develops glacier simulations for the region to predict how much water will end up in downstream communities.
He organises expeditions, mainly in Kyrgyzstan, to measure ice thickness and glacier mass, and supports his work with remote sensing.
“The oldest glaciological measurements date back to the 1950s. The Soviet Union started many glacial monitoring programmes in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan. But then in the 1990s, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, all these measurement programmes were stopped, except for two. And then we had 15—20 years without any measurements,” Van Tricht says.
“If you want to model how much ice will remain by the end of the century, you need to have an idea of how much ice there is today. We cannot measure all 20,000 glaciers, so you pick a couple of them, learn from local patterns, and then scale it up to get regional estimates.”
According to Lander’s predictions, even under optimistic scenarios where temperatures rise by 2.5–3°C, Central Asian glaciers will lose between 80–85 per cent of their ice volume by the end of the century.
“We were a bit surprised by this high number. We didn’t expect such a strong loss,” he says. “But when we started scaling it up to model all glaciers in the region, these numbers were confirmed. The results are pretty dramatic.”
The main reason for glacier decline is climate change.
“Glaciers in Central Asia are extra vulnerable to climate change because the melt season, which runs from June to September, partially overlaps with the accumulation season, from roughly April to June. So in winter it is very dry. In summer it is more wet, at least in the mountains. And you also have melt in the same period,” Lander explains.
“That’s different from many other mountain ranges, where you have snow accumulation in winter and melting in summer. In Central Asia it overlaps. This makes glaciers extra vulnerable because rising summer temperatures increase melt, while more precipitation falls as rain instead of snow.”
Stopping glaciers from melting is difficult, if not impossible, Lander says. On a small scale, one way is to cover the ice with geotextiles or a thick layer of rocks, but such approaches are costly. They have been used in wealthy regions of Switzerland, where Alpine resorts for the super-rich make such investments viable. The revenue generated by tourism can offset the cost.
But in the mountains of Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan, where it often takes days on horseback to reach remote peaks, such solutions may be ineffective, if not a fantasy.
To save glaciers, Lander says, the key is to limit global warming and reduce greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere. This can be done by shifting to green energy sources, something regional governments have been investing in. Glaciers would eventually respond, and with lower temperatures, they might even begin to grow again.
Another approach is investing in reservoirs. In time, they could gradually replace the melting glaciers.
“We typically see glaciers as natural water reservoirs. In winter, you get a lot of snow. This snow accumulates on the glacier, and eventually transforms into ice. And later in the year, when it is drier and warmer, the glaciers melt and provide water for downstream communities,” Lander says.
“We are now showing that glaciers will provide less water, mainly in summer. This can be anticipated, for example, by building reservoirs where you can store water in spring, and then use it later in summer.”
According to Lander, building dams — water reservoirs that generate hydropower — is a way to produce clean energy while also storing water. But such a solution is not without its problems.
“It’s always a bit of a trade-off because you are also blocking natural rivers. So in some sense, you gain power over water. We are already seeing the potential for water conflicts, because upstream countries with dams can regulate downstream water availability. This is already leading to some tensions,” he explains.
“It requires a lot of regulation between countries, between upstream and downstream regions. Building dams and reservoirs can be a good solution, but it needs to happen at a regional scale, with extensive negotiation.”
The selfish world
For years, building dams in Central Asia was a contentious issue. After the collapse of the USSR, the centralised water system established by the Soviets became obsolete. Newly independent states focused on nation-building and economic transformation, and nationalist sentiments resurfaced. Any changes in river flows began to be viewed with suspicion as potential sources of conflict.
“[During the Soviet times], the role of Central Asia was to produce cotton, mainly for Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. Kyrgyzstan focused more on livestock, while Kazakhstan was the wheat basket, so to speak. But the entire water management system in Central Asia was designed to maximise cotton production,” says Jenniver Sehring, head of the Water Governance Department at IHE Delft Institute for Water Education in the Netherlands, and an associate professor of water governance and diplomacy, who has worked on Central Asia for 25 years.
“Canal systems were built, as well as dams and reservoirs in the mountains of Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, such as the Toktogul reservoir and the Nurek reservoir. These were designed to store water so it could be released at the exact time needed for the agricultural season downstream,” she explains.
“The water sector was a powerful and prestigious sector in the Soviet Union. It had access to decision-making and funding, and strong research institutions, mainly in Tashkent, which served as a regional centre for planning. There was a strong water bureaucracy built on the assumption that nature is primarily a resource to be exploited for human benefit, with little consideration for environmental needs.”
After the Soviet Union’s collapse, Central Asian states agreed to maintain quotas for water use. They established the Interstate Commission for Water Coordination, which still functions today, where officials meet regularly to discuss shared water resources. They also funded the International Fund for Saving the Aral Sea. However, this did not resolve the underlying issues.
“One major shortcoming of the existing mechanism with water-sharing quotas is that they define how much water each country receives, but not the timing of water releases from upstream reservoirs. During Soviet times, water was released in spring and summer when it was needed for irrigation. But after the collapse of the Soviet Union, this water-energy system broke apart because the countries became independent and the energy sector was partly privatised. Downstream countries could no longer supply upstream countries with subsidised fossil fuels,” Jenniver says.
“As a result, upstream countries like Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan began using their hydropower potential in winter to supply energy to their populations. This led to severe energy crises in the late 1990s, for example. But releasing water in winter meant it was no longer available in summer, when it was needed for irrigation.”
Consequently, Jenniver explains, the system became skewed towards downstream agricultural interests, which had been the focus during the Soviet era. Upstream countries increasingly felt that existing institutions and agreements did not reflect their needs or provide room for adjustment.
This was one of the reasons why in 2016, Kyrgyzstan suspended its participation in the International Fund for Saving the Aral Sea.
The disagreements over water quotas led to further tensions. In order to store water and produce hydropower, upstream countries needed more dams and reservoirs.
One such project was first planned in Soviet times, in 1976. The Rogun Dam was meant to solve Tajikistan’s energy crisis and store water for downstream communities. But in 1993, following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the project was discontinued. Shortly after, the Tajik civil war froze all infrastructure projects for many years.
When Tajikistan decided to restart construction, Uzbekistan opposed it.
“This was largely due to the poor relations between Karimov and Rahmon, the presidents of the two countries, and the generally tense political climate. Uzbekistan resisted the idea of Tajikistan building the dam, as it would give it greater control over the flow of the Amu Darya,” Jenniver explains.
“A dam would not necessarily have a major long-term impact on total annual water flow, but it would affect the timing of flows, especially during the reservoir filling period. It takes several years to fill the reservoir to operational levels, and during that time less water flows downstream. Once operational, however, water continues to be released — rivers cannot simply be stopped.”
The dam also faced financial challenges. For years, the Tajik government struggled to secure funding to complete construction. At one point, Rogun was seen as a white whale — a project pursued but with slim chances of completion.
The stalemate began to ease with the change of leadership in Uzbekistan. Shavkat Mirziyoyev, who replaced Karimov in 2016, adopted a new approach. He improved relations with Uzbekistan’s neighbours and gradually positioned himself as a more cooperative regional leader.
In time, relations between all Central Asian countries improved. With Tajikistan’s initiative for the Water Action Decade, downstream states — Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan — and upstream countries — Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan — began to collaborate more closely, exchange data, and increasingly treat water resources as part of a shared, interconnected system. They also began shifting towards drip irrigation to reduce water use.
For water has no nationality. If one element in the system fails, everyone will pay the price.
The great new dam
Eventually, following feasibility studies, Uzbekistan withdrew its objections to the construction of Tajikistan’s Rogun dam. Work resumed in 2016, and two years later the first turbines were put into operation.
In 2024, the World Bank began providing direct financing for the project with a $350 million grant. Additional funding followed from a coalition of development banks and Arab funds, alongside contributions from the Tajik state budget.
Today, Rogun is Tajikistan’s flagship project. Located 110 km from Dushanbe, the dam has 335 metres. It is a symbol of the Tajik government’s ambitions, its pride, and a potential source of revenue for the impoverished nation.
Throughout the construction site, as in Dushanbe and along rural roads, Rogun is marked by photographs of President Emomali Rahmon. His portrait is glued to the window of a minibus that takes us through tunnels carved into the Pamirs and across the project. A gallery of his images lines the walls of the power plant, and a massive portrait crowns the dam’s main entrance.
Rahmon has reportedly visited the site dozens of times. It is his political monument of megalomaniac proportions, and one of the most closely overseen infrastructure projects in Central Asia. Once fully operational, it is expected to supply electricity domestically and export power abroad.
The local head of security at Rogun, who accompanied our group, had no doubt it is an undertaking of great international importance.
“The reservoir that will be created by the Rogun Dam will have a capacity of 13 billion cubic metres of water. Of course, we’ll save Central Asia. We’ll also save the Nurek dam, where the reservoir is, from flooding. There will be more clean water. Life will continue in Nurek for a few more years,” he says with optimism.
When I ask him how the Pamir makes him feel, the man takes a moment to respond.
“Inspired, perhaps? I can’t put it into words, but there is such a pleasant feeling, a sense of freedom, freshness, energy, and empowerment,” he says.
The views of the Pamir are spectacular: the Vakhsh River runs turquoise blue against a dramatic backdrop of rugged mountains. The works are in full force. The Italian Webuild group, responsible for construction, has brought to Tajikistan workers from Europe and beyond.
It is a huge project, employing 19,000 people, who operate over 1,000 trucks, and who work nearly three million hours combined each month. It is also a complex engineering endeavour and the project is under pressure to meet deadlines: the dam is expected to be completed in the early 2030s.
An Italian employee, Andrés Recalde, a health and safety manager, explains how to behave on site. Injuries are not unheard of. In the end, the massive workforce is building a powerful dam, a project of truly monumental scale.
“Each turbine will have a little over 600 megawatts. So in total it will be more than 3,600 megawatts, which is a major electricity output. With this project, Tajikistan will achieve energy independence. We will not need to buy energy from other countries, and we will have enough energy to export. We are very proud to work on such a project,” Recalde says.
“Naturally, when you are closing the gates a little, you are negotiating with the flow. At the beginning of summer, you have more water due to snowmelt. Now we are at the end of the rainy season. The rainy season also brings a lot of water.”
Once completed, the dam will provide electricity to other Central Asian countries, Afghanistan, and possibly even Pakistan. It will also function as a reservoir for meltwater, replacing the role of disappearing glaciers, as Lander described.
But the dam alone is unlikely to solve Central Asia’s water challenges. Not everything depends on the good will of regional states. One problem will soon be caused by Afghanistan and its construction of the Qosh Tepa Canal, which is expected to divert between 15 and 20 per cent of the total flow of the Amu Darya River. The canal is intended to irrigate more than 550,000 hectares in northern Afghanistan as part of a massive agricultural initiative.
The Qosh Tepa Canal will primarily affect Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, which rely heavily on the Amu Darya for agriculture and drinking water. However, it will also have wider regional implications, as all countries in the region are part of one interconnected ecosystem.
Central Asian states recognise Afghanistan’s right to use its water resources for its own needs. But Afghanistan’s absence from regional water cooperation mechanisms, such as the Interstate Commission for Water Coordination, further complicates the situation. Moreover, as Lander explains, Afghanistan’s glaciers are largely inaccessible for research, making it difficult to assess the full scale of the crisis we may be facing.
What is clear is that a region-wide water catastrophe is already here. Central Asia, with its ageing Soviet-era canals and imperfect water infrastructure, can only mitigate its effects. This is best done by facing the crisis together as a region—and this is what Central Asian states have been increasingly trying to do.
“They have seen and understood that there is a problem, and they are clearly on a good path to addressing it. Whether it will be enough, I’m not sure, because climate change in the region is happening very fast,” Lander says.
Jenniver Sehring agrees.
“Water management has improved significantly in recent decades. Both international donors and governments have invested heavily in it. There are two main approaches: technical improvements such as drip irrigation and canal lining, which reduce water losses,” she says.
“In irrigation, countries like Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan have made significant progress in improving water efficiency. Uzbekistan has also changed crop patterns, reducing cotton and shifting to less water-intensive crops.”
Dilorom Kayumova says that in terms of research and knowledge sharing, Central Asia is also improving its record.
“We are at a point where, in addition to creating the laboratory, we have reached a new level where we are beginning to cooperate with other Central Asian countries and conduct joint research,” she says.
“When we started, we had fragmented work, for example in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, but now we are combining our efforts to develop a common methodology. We are moving towards a unified approach.”
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