Water security in India

While there is a great history and culture surrounding water in India, the country’s water security situation is extremely challenging (Sharma et al, 2017). India is home to approximately 18 per cent of the world’s population (over 1.3 billion) with only 4 per cent of the world’s freshwater resources (World Bank, 2023). According to the World Resources Institute, water stress (a characteristic of the ratio of water withdrawal to available supplies) across much of India is ‘extremely high’ (WRI, 2023). Moreover, approximately 88 million people lack access to safe water (Water.org, 2023).

In part, these difficulties reflect India’s seasonal and geographical context, when and where rains occur, and the country’s reliance on groundwater. Groundwater – the water stored in aquifers that has filtered through rocks and soil – accounts for 85 per cent of India’s drinking resources (Kumar, 2019). In Rajasthan, approximately 90 per cent of the state’s potable water comes from groundwater (Rathore, 2005). Rainwaters are critical to groundwater recharge and India’s water security, the vast majority of which falls during the monsoon rains between June and September. The seasonal nature of rainfall means that there can be too much water (and hence flooding) at some parts of the year and not enough (with drought conditions) during other times. Further, total annual rainfall varies across the country, from 300mm in Western Rajasthan to over three metres in coastal Karavali (Centre for Science & Environment, nd). This geographic variation often means that at one moment there may be a surplus of water in some areas and a scarcity situation in others (Jain, 2019). Put simply, water is not always available where it is needed or when it is needed. Further, climate change is contributing to a more complicated and worsening water security picture due to variability and uncertainty of precipitation (including both more intense rainfall and decreased number of rain events), saline intrusion into aquifers from rising sea levels, and the melting of Himalayan glaciers, among other factors (Cronin et al, 2014).

As such, water security is a significant issue across India. For example, in Mumbai, the city struggles to provide water to all residents, particularly the approximately 60 per cent of Mumbaikars who live in informal settlements. Even for the wealthy, water is supplied for only a few hours a day which is then stored in tanks and often supplemented by other sources such as private tankers (Button, 2017). For the poorer areas of the city, residents often access water via taps shared across several households. Yet, these are known to be unreliable and are commonly supplemented through a range of alternative, often illegal, water suppliers (Graham et al, 2013; Gandy, 2014; Björkman, 2015). In 2019, the city of Chennai made the international news for a water crisis brought on by lower than expected rainfall and monsoon variability (Nigam et al, 2021). As the city’s reservoirs ran dry, water was brought in trucks and trains with residents often waiting hours to collect their water rations (Srinivasan et al, 2013; Yeung et al, 2019; Xiong et al, 2020). India’s water security challenges are not limited to its large cities. Drinking water supply is a major challenge in the country’s rural areas where development and technological changes have led to pollution, over-extraction, and decreasing water quality and availability (Rout, 2014; Bandyopadhyay, 2016; Hutchings et al, 2016).

Recognizing the difficult water security picture in much of India, many activists and communities have begun to reintroduce and reinvigorate ancient water conservation traditions, practices and infrastructures. Much of the knowledge and practice around traditional water management fell into disuse in the 20th century as India pursued a centralized framework based on mega-projects and large-scale water redistribution (Sharma et al, 2018). An exemplification of this modern approach is the Indira Gandhi Nagar canal, which runs for almost 650km, irrigating the Thar Desert in Rajasthan with waters from the Sutlej and Beas rivers. Sometimes called the ‘Lifeline of Rajasthan’, the canal is credited with transforming vast areas of the state from desert to fertile, agricultural production while providing drinking water for several districts in western Rajasthan (Government of India, 2020). The Indira Gandhi Nagar canal is an example of the modern vision of India put forward and developed in the post-independence period (Gupta, 2011: 349) and is often recognized as a great success for water security in the desert. Yet, the canal has not been without its critics who view it as contributing to the deterioration of the desert ecosystem and biodiversity (Idris et al, 2009). Researchers have noted a series of environmental impacts, including ‘water logging, deterioration in quality, soil salinity, siltation of canal by sand, water born diseases’ (Tembhurne et al, 2020: 178) which have come about as a result of construction of the canal.

Another significant impact on water security for Rajasthan has been the introduction of electric powered tube wells. In Rajasthan, tube wells began to proliferate in 1970s, leading to significant increases in irrigated areas (Birkenholtz, 2009). However, growth in their use also contributed to groundwater overdraft and decline in the quality of water in many areas of the state. Research from the Centre for Environment and Development Studies, Jaipur noted how Rajasthan’s water resources today are under significant pressure due to ‘population growth, economic expansion, decline in groundwater recharge and over-abstraction caused by the rapid increase in the number of wells and tube wells and the progress in pumping technology’ (Rathore, 2005: 4). It seems that the growth in tube-well construction has, in some ways, improved the lives of farmers and rural people. However, a consequence and cost of their use has been a decline in groundwater levels and water quality (Choubisa, 2018).

Further, some have argued that the technological changes associated with tube wells and modern water systems ‘lead to individualism and breaking down of community ties or sociality, with an overall negative impact on small farmers’ (Gupta, 2011: 350–351). The individualism associated with tube-well construction and use is sometimes contrasted to the collective forms of management often associated with traditional water conservation practices. Often these arguments are coupled with critiques of the modern vision of water distribution, which are typically represented by the mega-hydro projects which have not fully delivered water security to India. Future, changes to the region’s climate are likely to exacerbate these trends and challenges.

Yet, while India, like many other parts of the world, has significant water challenges, the country is home to a great deal of experience in sustainable water management and conservation, and has a rich cultural frame and reverence for water. This context is one that is based in spirituality and care. I now turn to a closer discussion of the water contexts and practices in Rajasthan. This includes a short review of trends in water systems and a focus on a small village project where we studied the reintroduction of traditional water conservation practices.

The death and life of rainwater harvesting at the desert’s edge

The Indian state of Rajasthan covers over 300,000 square kilometres and is home to almost 70 million people. The central geographic features are the Thar Desert and the Aravalli mountain range. The Aravalli range runs northeast–southwest and bisects Rajasthan into two distinct water environments. East of the range, there is more precipitation, humidity, rivers and a high level of agriculture and land productivity. The western part of Rajasthan is arid and semi-arid, consisting of sand and sparse vegetation and includes the vast Thar Desert. Annual rainfall in this part of the state can be as low as 10cm. The main river in this area – the Luni – carries water only for a few weeks of the year during the monsoon (GoI, 2019; 2020). Through its history, such limited water resources have contributed to low-density, rural lifestyles based on water conservation and careful water management. In this context, rainfall plays a particularly important role in the survival and livelihood of people living in this arid region. Indeed, rainwater has been harvested and stored in Rajasthan and other parts of India for thousands of years. Essentially, rainwater harvesting structures capture and store rainfall runoff. They can be extremely simple, as in the percolation ponds and contour trenches generally used for groundwater recharge. However, even these modest technologies can be effective ways of ensuring water security during extended dry periods. Critically, these water management approaches are specific to local conditions and reflect intimate knowledge of local environments based on practical, hands-on lived experience (Sharma et al, 2018). Commonly, they are also embedded in community-oriented management systems that ensure fair and equitable access and maintenance protocols across local beneficiaries.

The historical importance of water is also reflected in the architecture and design in the state’s main cities. For example, Jaipur – the pink city – includes the picturesque Jal Mahal or water palace. Built in the 1700s as a royal hunting retreat, the palace sits within the Man Sagar Lake, an artificially constructed lake that historically had provided drinking water to the area. After almost two centuries of neglect, the palace and lake have been the focus of extensive renovation and remediation efforts that are bringing the site back to its former glory and status. The desert city of Jodhpur – known as the blue city – incudes many water harvesting structures including stepwells and artificial lakes dating back several hundred years (Thilak, 2019).

Through the centuries, people in Rajasthan have developed robust water management tools and mechanisms and resilience to live in the dry environment. Anyone who has visited this part of the world will recognize the monumental stepwells as some of the most notable architectural features of Rajasthan. These structures are found in many parts of the state but are particularly common along the Aravalli range. Stepwells are deep structures – sometimes nine stories deep – lined with stone and steps that provide access to water. One of the most famous of these – the Chand Baori – dates back to the 8th century and was constructed both as a site to conserve water as well as for social gathering and assembly. Many, such as the Queen’s Stepwell (or Raniji ki Baori) in Bundi, include ornamental sculptures and engravings of Hindu gods (Chabra, nd). Stepwells were tremendously important spaces that brought together sociality, faith, architecture, art and water conservation. Yet, in Rajasthan, as in much of India, most of these fell into disuse during the period of British colonialism. Moreover, after independence in 1947, much of the ancient wisdom and knowledge of water conservation in India fell out of favour in the context of the country’s modernization programme that focused on large distribution networks, dams and other hydro projects. Today, while some stepwells have been rehabilitated as tourist sites and spaces of contemplation, they are rarely used for water conservation. During my visits to Rajasthan, we often came upon these sites. None of the stepwells we saw were active. Yet, they still provide a physical connection – a mnemonic– that is quite magical. They provide clues about different ways of life and different ways of living with the environment.

Care played an important role in the maintenance and upkeep of these local infrastructures. For example, beneficiaries of water reservoirs would organize a community-wide clean-up of the catchment area before the monsoon season. This community-oriented management of resources and infrastructure is a common thread across many traditional water systems. It highlights how intimate connections to water infrastructure can be forged when the role these technologies play is clearly visible. The visibility of infrastructure draws our attention to it. Most often in the global north, visible infrastructure is broken infrastructure. In other words, we only truly see it when it malfunctions. In many parts of India, infrastructure is almost always visible. The traditional water systems are not visible because they are broken. Rather, they are celebrated and decorated. The stepwells were grand public works projects that brought communities together. They made up part of the system of local health and wellbeing, providing clean and secure water for the local population. The stepwells of Rajasthan show the reciprocity of care needed around water security. In this way, people care for the ‘thing’ through maintenance and careful practices (for example, removing shoes) and, in return, clean water is provided for drinking and agriculture. Water infrastructures are thus a part of life and part of a narrative that positions people within their built and natural environments.

Following a long period of decline, since the 1990s there has been renewed interest in traditional and small-scale water management technologies. Indeed, there is a powerful narrative of lost knowledge and traditions associated with rainwater harvesting. This includes not only the ability to carefully manage limited water resources, but also the associated small-scale and collectivist cultures and lifestyles. Books such as Man in the Desert (Bharara, 1999) and Dying Wisdom: Rise, Fall and Potential of India’s Traditional Water Harvesting Systems (Anil and Narain, 1997) describe the ancient ways of India’s rainwater harvesting history and culture and argued for the return to these systems. One of the key figures of this movement is Rajendra Singh, commonly known as the ‘water man of India’ due to his extensive work supporting water conservation and revitalization of rainwater harvesting infrastructure and practices (Das, 2015). As leader of Tarun Bharat Sangh, Mr Singh has supported water security in rural villages across Rajasthan and other parts of India through advocacy (for example, for local river catchment management and protection) and the construction of rainwater harvesting infrastructure such as johads – earthen dams that contribute to groundwater recharge (Sebastian, 2001). Across Rajasthan and India, rainwater harvesting has become an important part of addressing water insecurity, with many non-government organizations (NGOs) and communities actively involved in rebuilding the knowledge and infrastructures of traditional water conservation. In the next section I reflect on the experiences of a village in rural Rajasthan where rainwater harvesting, after years of neglect, has returned as a significant component of local water security.

Jal: cultures of water

Not too long ago, I was able to see these practices first-hand. In 2018, I took part in a project investigating the role of rainwater conservation practices and infrastructures in Rajasthan. In this section, I draw on material from this research project funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council in the United Kingdom and a paper we published in Water Alternatives (Buser et al, 2020a). The research was interdisciplinary and community focused. Our team was a collaboration of United Kingdom and India-based academics, rural development experts, artists, historians and NGO representatives involved in rural water management. Our lead partner, the Centre for Environment and Development Studies (based in Jaipur), had worked for several years on water issues with communities across Rajasthan and organized a series of outreach efforts for the team. We collaborated with Ramkrishan Jaidayal Dalmia Seva Sansthan, an NGO that had conducted extensive water conservation advocacy and implementation in the Shekhawati region of the state. We centred our activities and study in the village of Jhakhoda in the Jhunjhunu district. In this village, the public supply of water was deteriorating both in terms of quality and quantity. Each year, the water table in this area is falling, making groundwater extraction more difficult. Further, Ramkrishan Jaidayal Dalmia Seva Sansthan indicated that the lower water table was making the water more likely to be polluted with high levels of fluoride. Excessive fluoride in drinking water can contribute to dental fluorosis (which was clearly visible in residents), arthritis and other human health challenges (Solanki et al, 2022).

The objectives of our work in Jhakhoda were to learn more about water conservation in the area and to explore the role of art and creative practices to support the wellbeing of people in the village. Working with Indian artists, we developed two small projects through which we could investigate water conservation and contribute to the local narratives around water security and conservation. The first project was called Jal: Telling It Together and involved mural painting in the local vernacular. It was led Indian artist and storyteller, Nina Sabnani. Project artists combined the Shekhawati and Phad painting styles to produce a 10' by 22' mural on a school building in the village centre. The mural (and an associated canvas scroll called a phad) provide a history of water use in Jhakhoda through the last 100 years, covering its traditional methods, the modernization period (and loss of this wisdom), their reintroduction in recent years, and a flourishing future of environmental and social sustainability. The four panels of the mural tell a common story. The story starts with a traditional way of life where people lived simply and were in balance with nature. Modernization and development challenges these ideals and brings about development, speed, mobility, and social and cultural change. The environmental impacts are tragic. The village can only be rescued by returning to a sensitive and reciprocal care-oriented understanding of its position in the environment. I have found versions of this story across much of my research where people argue that we must find ways to recapture what we knew regarding our place in the natural world before modernism and western-style development took hold.

The second village project element was called Water Detectives and brought school children and their families together through puppetry to explore and tell the stories of water. This component was led by Anurupa Roy, a puppeteer and founder of Katkatha Puppet Arts Trust, an applied puppetry collective that explores critical social issues through performance. The Water Detectives engaged around 30 children from Grades 6, 7, 8, 9 and 11, encouraging them to examine their relationship with water through songs, folklore and rituals. The children also worked as detectives and gathered stories from village elders about village life before modernization and public water. One of the stories, called ‘worshiping the well’, became the focus point of the puppetry performance. In this story, the goddess of the well brings good luck and wellbeing to a disparaged sister who prays and shows respect to the well, water and the deity. People today continue to ‘worship the well’ yet few remembered the story the elder told and that made its way into the children’s performance.

The arts projects in Jhakhoda provide some interesting points of departure for understanding water security in modern times. For example, we found that through storytelling and by drawing on local social and cultural resources, people can begin to see more clearly how water management is part of their lives and, most critically, how they can participate in changing practices. Our stories brought out the technological and the mystical in a challenge to the modern form of rationality that tends to dominate water security discussions. People in these stories draw on their sense of environmental belonging and the intimate connections between water and human beings. This kind of framing suggests that people are in a reciprocal relationship with water – more like caretakers than users or consumers. My experience in Rajasthan suggests that people can rebuild the traditional forms of living that bring them in close proximity to their water resources. Further, this does not have to be at the expense of modern ‘luxuries’. Rather, it suggests a form of hybridity that respects alternative, non-linear framings of how we live in the world.

The shrinking of Flint

Flint is a shrinking city. Its population is less than half of what it was in 1960. Today, it is also a majority non-White city. In 1960, Flint’s White population was well over 160,000. The figure today is closer to 35,000, while Black residents make up almost 60 per cent of the city’s population (US Census, 2022). Flint is a poor city with almost 40 per cent of its population estimated to be in poverty. These trends are embedded in a dynamic, structural process of (post)industrialization that both ‘made’ Flint into an automobile manufacturing powerhouse in the mid-20th century and today’s shrinking city of declining revenue, low employment, abandonment and austerity.

The concept of shrinking cities generally refers to those places that are experiencing both population and economic decline. The causes of this decline are varied but generally are attributed to shifts in global economic processes (for example, deindustrialization), regional development patterns such as suburban growth, and demographics – particularly lower birth rates and the ageing of society (Buffell et al, 2012; Döringer et al, 2020). Research on shrinking cities emerged in the 1980s in East Germany where many cities were experiencing decline in the post-reunification period. Today, other parts of Europe are experiencing similar issues. In fact, you can buy entire Italian villages on some property websites. In the United States, population growth, while still increasing, is slowing. More and more of this growth is coming from immigration, as birth rates slow and society ages. In some parts of the United States (for example, Florida, Texas and North Carolina), cities are still growing quite fast. However, many American regions, cities and towns – including those in the so-called ‘rust belt’ – are experiencing significant population and economic decline.

One of the central challenges facing shrinking cities involves infrastructure. These cities often have extensive infrastructural systems, designed for peak population growth during times of expansion. Traditional infrastructural services such as water and sewage systems, transport and communications are commonly designed to facilitate future growth and the potential for increased demand. As such, they are often constructed with excess capacity. For example, Flint’s water distribution system was expanded regularly during the city’s heyday with the expectation that population growth would continue far into the future (Pauli, 2019). Further, large infrastructure systems are often inflexible and can be difficult to adapt to the changing circumstances associated with shrinking cities. As a result, costs per resident or household can rise significantly. In part, this is because the costs of maintaining the system generally remain the same even when the number of users is reduced. The costs of running infrastructure, in other words, are generally fixed, even if fewer people are using the service. Further, in American cities, declining populations mean reduced tax income to the city – the number of households and businesses paying for public services such as water. The reduced tax base places further pressure on the city to raise rates, cut costs where possible (for example, jobs) and reduce service, all of which can further exacerbate depopulation trends as people and businesses look for more affordable and competitive places to live and work.

Flint is a prime example of a post-industrial shrinking city. Since the 1960s, the city has experienced continual decline in terms of unemployment, depopulation, reduced tax base and other ill-effects of deindustrialization. This decline is commonly attributed to the downsizing of GM in Flint and regional development and migration patterns away from urban centres (Pallagst et al, 2017). The Flint Water Crisis is situated within this dynamic context of deindustrialization, depopulation, White flight and decline of the city. By the 2010s, Flint was in financial trouble as debts and costs regularly exceeded income. According to Michigan state law, in these circumstances, the governor is allowed to appoint an Emergency Manager who then replaces local officials in public service management activities and decisions. Notably, most Emergency Managers in Michigan have been appointed in majority Black cities, raising concerns that it is a racially influenced and unequal form of city governance (Pauli, 2020). In Flint, Emergency Managers controlled city finances roughly from 2011 to 2015. As public finance managers responsible to the state of Michigan (rather than the local population of Flint), the managers oversaw an austerity programme of cost-cutting and service reduction to reduce the city’s financial debt (Nickels et al, 2020). Examples of austerity measures included eliminating (firing) staff, reducing salaries and pensions, and raising the fees for water services. All of this was done to address and improve the city’s financial troubles (Fasenfest, 2019).

One of these cost-saving efforts was to end the city’s reliance on the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department (DWSD), which used water from Lake Huron. On 25 April 2014, the city switched to the Flint River as its water source in the hopes of saving approximately US$5 million (Roy and Edwards, 2019a). The plan was that this change would be temporary until a new pipeline was constructed to Lake Huron (the pipeline was not built and Flint was eventually forced to return to the DWSD). However, not long after the switch to the river, it was clear that something was wrong with Flint’s water. Residents began complaining about the changes they saw, smelt and tasted in the water coming from their taps. There are many accounts of residents experiencing rashes, hair loss, bone and muscle pain, lethargy, tooth decay and more (Pauli, 2019).

By the summer of that year, resident activist groups were protesting and calling for a return to the DWSD, blaming the city’s switch to the Flint River water for a variety of health symptoms. Meanwhile, city and government officials argued that the water was safe to drink. Nevertheless, many residents began using bottled water for drinking, cleaning, cooking and showering. Through much of 2014, residents continued to push the city to recognize and address the water crisis, although with very little progress. Eventually, residents found support for their cause in the form of individuals who would help draw national attention to the crisis. One key figure in this regard was Dr Mona Hanna-Attisha, a paediatrician who became concerned about the quality of Flint’s water after identifying unusual health symptoms in her patients. Dr Hanna-Attisha went on to investigate and document increased levels of lead in young children living in Flint and has gone on to testify to US Congress as well as present and publish her experiences and research on water quality and water injustices in Flint (Hanna-Attisha, 2019).

Another central figure in uncovering the extent of the water contamination was Professor Marc Edwards from Virginia Tech (Roy and Edwards, 2019b; Flint Water Study, 2023). Edwards had previously uncovered extensive water contamination in Washington, DC where residents were exposed to high levels of lead for several years. Professor Edwards and his colleagues conducted testing on Flint’s water and found that it exceeded national and international standards for potable water. The Virginia Tech team got involved after an invitation by Flint resident LeeAnne Walters. Ms Waters and her family had been experiencing hair loss, rashes and other unexplained symptoms, such as lethargy, since the switch to the Flint River. After months of research and testing, the Virginia Tech research produced evidence that the water was contaminated with lead.

Lead is harmful to humans and has been shown to negatively impact brain development and central nervous symptoms. Tragically, the developmental effects of lead on children – such as reduced IQ and behaviour disorders – are understood to be irreversible. In this way, the harm done from the water crisis was not only to the immediate health of individuals, but to the prospects and future potential of children across the city. In the United States, lead is present in many older water infrastructure systems. This includes water service lines, pipes, components and even fixtures such as faucets in the home (Roy and Edwards, 2019a). There are literally millions of miles of lead service lines still in use in the United States, servicing millions of people (Cornwell et al, 2016).

Many of the service lines that bring water to homes in Flint were constructed with lead. Previously, this had not led to increased lead as the DWSD had the appropriate corrosion controls in place for the water from Lake Huron. However, when the city switched to the Flint River, officials did not account for the corrosive impacts this would have on the city’s lead pipes. Corrosion control is required by the US government to limit exposure to lead in water systems. In some cases, this is accomplished by adding orthophosphate to water distribution systems. Orthophosphate is a chemical corrosion inhibitor that is added to water in cities across the United States to prevent lead from leaching into the system. It provides a type of protective coating that ensures lead does not escape into drinking water sources as it is delivered to homes, businesses, families and children. Without this protective ingredient, the Flint River began eroding the pipes and releasing lead into the water supply. Unfortunately, the corrosion also enabled the growth of bacteria, which contributed to an outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease that resulted in the deaths of at least 12 people. The failures of corrosion control have been identified as perhaps the most critical technical fault of the switch to the Flint River that led to contamination and the local health impacts.

The research from Virginia Tech, along with Dr Hanna-Attisha’s investigation, was instrumental in pressuring and persuading officials to declare a health emergency and begin addressing the problem (Donelly, 2019). In December 2015, the city finally recognized the extent of lead contamination and advised residents not to drink the city’s water. Bottled water distribution centres for residents were set up across the city. The Flint Water Crisis is part of an ongoing tragedy. While lead pipes are being replaced in Flint (Fonger, 2021), they remain part of the water distribution network for many cities in the United States and elsewhere. Further, the political, historic and structural challenges that contributed to the crisis have not gone away. Of course, the lead contamination will go on to impact the families of those who experienced tragic deaths and the children whose long-term development was affected.

Reflections on care in the Flint Water Crisis

In this section, I want to draw out some of the ways the Flint Water Crisis reflects interconnected notions of care and fragility in modern societies. Account after account from newspaper reports, documentaries and blogs as well as academic articles and books on the Flint Water Crisis call attention to the impact contamination had on families and, in particular, on children. In his book on the crisis, Benjamin Pauli highlights the ‘intimate character of the harms caused by contaminated water’ (2019: 218). He points out that the water contamination in Flint was essentially a domestic crisis and, as such, mothers became central activists leading the charge for clean water. If you watch almost any television news story or documentary on the crisis you will likely see parents (most often mothers) talking about their children’s symptoms, often from the kitchen or other domestic spaces. You will also likely see mothers facing off with government officials at public events demanding their right to clean, safe water. For Flint residents, as the crisis went on, the rhythm of daily life changed dramatically. No longer could something like cooking, brushing teeth, showering or bathing an infant child be taken for granted. These were now hazards and even possibly life-threatening activities. With tap water unsafe, residents were forced to obtain bottled water from distribution sites around the city. The trek across the city to access clean water for families became part of a new daily routine and a new hardship that landed largely on mothers.

While there has been an increase in the percentage of men participating in daily care routines, women remain the principal carers in the home. Across the world, it is estimated that women account for some 75 per cent of unpaid domestic care work (Power, 2020). As such, women often take on most of the responsibility related to managing the household impacts of water contamination events (Pauli, 2019). In Flint, it was women and mothers who were the most directly impacted in terms of their responsibility as carers and care givers. Domestic work has long been understood and described as a care practice. The work of looking after families, cleaning and managing a household takes effort.

If one examines the media surrounding Flint, in addition to narrating the tragedy unfolding, one strong message was how residents were providing a healthy existence for loved ones. In the media, residents – mostly women – were pictured making special trips to acquire clean water, bathing children in bottled water and, of course, protesting and advocating for change. The Flint Water Crisis shows the gendered nature of (domestic) care practices, and the intersection between the care for loved ones and resilience. This is a critical lesson related to water security – resilience around water security is largely a gendered and domestic practice. Environmental change associated with global warming is likely to put more burdens on women and further exacerbate gender inequalities.

As discussed earlier, the city of Flint has experienced decades of population and economic decline. Among other challenges, it is one of the poorest cities in the United States, with high unemployment and crime, an inadequate public education system and limited prospects for healthy eating. Morckel (2017) noted that, at the time of the crisis, there was not even a major supermarket within the city. Yet, concern for Flint only emerged in a significant way once the lead poisoning crisis was exposed. One might ask, why is it acceptable for places like this to exist in these conditions? Flint is not alone as a declining city. Rather, the type of splintering, exclusions and geographic divisions are sadly commonplace. The crisis in Flint was situated in a very local failure. Yet, it is also framed by numerous structural processes – globalization, deindustrialization, regional sprawl, racism, and so on. The lack of care for places like this and the lack of a shared (global) responsibility points to a failure to see our place as co-inhabitants on Earth.

From an exclusively technical perspective, the Flint Water Crisis was the outcome of poor maintenance and management of the city’s water distribution system. Reports and studies about the crisis note that people involved lacked the maintenance and repair expertise needed and made avoidable errors. Eliminating the disastrous decision to switch water sources, all infrastructure requires regular maintenance and upkeep. This is meticulous and often boring work that involves inspections, cleaning, repair and renewal of the things that keep cities running. There is a growing body of research that sees the work of maintenance and repair as a care practice. In my research, I argued that people doing this kind of activity (often working underground and out of sight) are taking care of things that have impact on people’s lives (Buser and Boyer, 2021). Clearly, there was a deficiency and breakdown in the system of care. In part, this reflects what happens to care under austerity – care in public services needs to be compensated. Healthcare professionals do not work for free. And, if they are underpaid, overworked and stressed, mistakes are more likely to happen and the quality of care may diminish. The same goes for those who care for infrastructural systems. As with my discussion of Rajasthan, water systems are fragile and require regular and systemic care.

However, there is another way to look at infrastructural care. While people must care for infrastructure through regular maintenance and upkeep, these ‘things’ also provide critical care services. I found the story of orthophosphates to be particularly revealing of the role of non-human things in care assemblages. It shows how human lives are entangled with the qualities and capacities of so many ‘things’ like pipes and pumps but also chemicals. These things do not have emotional capacities but have an affective capacity. This framing draws on recent geographical engagement with the notion of affect and authors who have explored the non-cognitive make up of interactions (Thien, 2005; Anderson, 2006). Often inspired by the philosophy of Gilles Deleuze, contemporary geographical takes stress affect’s capacity – its potential – that works in relation to other bodies (Pile, 2010; McCormack, 2014). Affect has also been described as a way of understanding what bodies do, how they interact (Schaefer, 2019) or simply ‘an ability to affect or be affected’ (Shouse, 2005: np). The chemicals in Flint’s water supply clearly do not have an emotional component. Yet, there is something strongly affective here. Orthophosphate has an affinity for the surface of metal pipes (a particular way of relating to/affecting metal). In Flint, without the orthophosphate in the water supply, lead was released from the pipes and exposed people to contamination (Roy et al, 2019). The example shows quite clearly how things are critical components in caring systems and have important roles to play in keeping us safe.

Of course, conversely, it could be argued that the authorities and individuals in Flint, who switched the water supply, lacked attention to care. Their concern was for budgets and fiscal policy – which trumped the potential impacts on the wellbeing of people who were likely to drink the water. The situation was made worse when officials denied the severity of the situation (which resulted in criminal prosecutions). Water managers and policy makers in Flint had a duty of care – that they ignored. I suggest that the lack of visibility and attention to the interdependencies that make up water security provides a buffer, almost a disavowal or negation of care. Failure in Flint, in other words, is often presented as a technical or managerial failure. However, I argue that it is a failure of care. It is a failure to signpost the caring practice of providing clean drinking water. It is also a failure to recognize that there are fragilities all along the way. Those of us interested in and involved in water security must see the emotional and life-sustaining components in water distribution. These should be central to our understanding and to the practice of water management. Thus, water management is reframed as a care practice and not as the more commonly presented western framing as commodity and technical-managerial, rational, transaction.