The Water Carrier
"In villages with intermittent water supply, Abu Nidal delivers life by donkey cart—until aid worker Lina realizes he carries more than just gallons."
The Water Carrier
The donkey cart creaked up the hill, plastic jugs sloshing with precious water. Abu Nidal—his real name was Jamal—had been making this trip for thirty years, since the wells went dry.
"You're the new NGO girl."
Lina looked up from her clipboard. "How did you know?"
"Clean shoes. City Arabic. The look of someone who thinks she can fix things." His smile softened the words. "I'm Jamal. People call me Abu Nidal."
"Can I interview you? About water access?"
"You can walk with me." He clicked at the donkey. "Learn more that way."
The walk became routine. Lina accompanied Jamal through villages the map didn't show, meeting families who'd been rationing water for generations.
"This is insane," she said one evening, watching him divide a barrel among five households. "The settlement next door has swimming pools."
"The insane can be normal if it lasts long enough." He hefted an empty jug. "I've learned to carry what I can. Not what I wish."
"That's depressing."
"That's survival." His eyes met hers. "But you're right—it shouldn't be normal. That's why you're here, isn't it? To remember it isn't."
She stayed longer than her assignment required. Wrote reports that went nowhere, made calls that changed nothing. But she couldn't leave the village. Couldn't leave Jamal.
"You're different," he observed one evening, sharing tea in his small home.
"From other NGO workers?"
"From everyone." He set down his cup. "Most come, see, leave. You stayed. Why?"
"I don't know." The lie tasted wrong. "I do know. But it's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"Complicated like I'm falling for a water carrier twice my age in a place with no future."
Silence.
"That is complicated," Jamal finally said. "But not, I think, impossible."
They came together that night, water jugs empty around them, the taste of scarcity making everything more precious.
"Ya Allah," Jamal breathed, his body over hers. "I thought this part of me was finished."
"It's not." Lina pulled him closer. "Show me."
He did—with hands that had carried water for thirty years, that knew the weight of necessity and the lightness of joy. They moved together in rhythms ancient as the wells.
"Helwa," he groaned. "Inti nab'a." You're a spring. "Life in dry land."
She came with his name on her lips, and he followed, and afterward they lay tangled in sheets that had seen only solitude for a decade.
"Stay," Jamal said. "Not for the NGO. For me. For this."
"I can do more good in offices—"
"Can you?" His eyes were gentle. "Or can you do more good here? Learning what life actually looks like. Telling true stories instead of writing reports no one reads?"
"What are you offering?"
"A donkey cart. A water route. Someone who sees you." He kissed her forehead. "It's not much."
"It's everything." Lina pulled him close. "Na'am. I'll stay."
Outside, the dry hills waited for rain that rarely came. But inside, something was flowing—connection, purpose, love.
Sometimes that was the only water that mattered.