Bringing life back to Central Asia's desertified Aral Sea

When Maria Zadneprovskaya first saw the Aral Sea in 2021, she was overcome by a raw, deep sadness. "It felt like a real catastrophe," says the environmental expert, walking across the dried seabed, shells crunching underfoot. The water here was once almost 16 meters deep (52 feet) and full of big, mustachioed Eurasian carp.

Once the world's fourth-largest lake, much of the salty Aral had largely disappeared by the late 1970s, as the rivers feeding it were diverted for irrigation in the Soviet era to water cotton and rice fields.

By 2010, the surface area had shrunk by more than 50,000 square kilometers (19,000 square miles).

The impact on the environment has been devastating. Dramatically rising salinity levels have led to the disappearance of many of the more than 30 species of fish caught for commercial purposes.

Now marked by sparse vegetation, violent sandstorms, summer temperatures of up to 42.7 degrees Celsius (109 Fahrenheit), and a landscape scarred by white salt streaks, the area has become known as Aralkum. It's one of the world's youngest deserts, already covering an area of 62,000 square kilometers. And it's still growing. 

In her role as deputy manager of the Aral Sea Environmental Restoration Project in Central Asian Kazakhstan, Zadneprovskaya, has spent the past three years working to bring life back to the seabed. 

At first, the setting felt crushing and almost made her want to give up, she says. But then a seedling of something bigger, an urge to drive change, began to take root.

Holding back the desert

Zadneprovskaya and her team have been planting black saxaul trees on a 500-hectare (1,235-acre) plot of land in the North Aral Sea region to help hold back the desert and make the area more resilient to the impacts of climate change. 

Saxaul shrubs can stabilize the sand, helping to prevent soil degradation and reduce health impacts from inhaling potentially polluted dust. 

"These shrubs are unique. Their roots can hold up to 8,819 pounds (4,000 kilogramms) of sand," says Zadneprovskaya, as she runs her hands along the plant's spiny scales. 

The bush is native to Central Asia and is a psammophyte, meaning it thrives in sandy soils where other plants cannot survive. Its vegetation is like green camel's hair, rough and unruly, sprawling in all directions.

The Oasis project, as it's called, is in a remote area. The only way to make a call from the campsite is if someone turns up with a Starlink satellite kit — a rare but welcome occurrence for the team. 

And they're constantly battling the sand. 

From a thriving community to a ghost village 

"When a sandstorm hits, everything is foggy and opaque," says Zauresh Alimbetova, the head of the Aral Oasis public association. "Sand particles are like mist, completely impenetrable. But where there are saxaul trees, there is better visibility."

The shrubs block the path of the drifting sand.

Alimbetova, 58, is from Aralsk, a small city about 74 miles from base camp. She first saw the Aral when she was four. It splashed just behind the district hospital. Alimbetova would often run down to the beach for a swim and an ice cream with her siblings.

"There was a Lighthouse Club and a Fishmongers' Club. The local paper was called the Wave. Kids went to the Seagull Nursery," she says. A local factory supplied large quantities of fish to other Soviet republics. The town was alive with the honking of ships' horns. Sailors ran around in their maritime uniforms. Captains were busy on the docks.  

Like most communities in the area, Aralsk's economy was dependent on the water. Then, around 1975, rumors began to spread that the Aral was receding.

"My mother, who was a teacher, read in a science magazine that if the sea disappeared, there would be nothing but sand and sand alone. It was a terrifying prospect."

But that was what happened. The flow into the Aral fell from 43.3 cubic kilometers (10.4 cubic miles) in the 1960s to 16.7 cubic kilometers in the 1980s, leaving Aralsk high and dry. A local ship-repair yard was turned into a plant for fixing railway cars, and a fish factory that employed some 3,000 people shuttered.

The ghost village of Akespe, about 55 miles from Aralsk, is a striking example of a fishing village swallowed by the sand. About 20 houses stand abandoned, scattered along the two main roads. The dunes have eaten their way up to the windows. Some of them have gaping holes. Others are covered with crumpled old newspaper.

Almost all residents, save one or two, have moved to New Akespe, a village built less than a mile away.

Rooting for the cause

The town Aralsk, by contrast, survived the economic and social freefall of the post-Soviet period. By 2022, it had a stable population of around 36,793. The Kok-Aral dam, financed by the World Bank, raised the water level in the North Aral Sea to 42 meters, and parts of the waterfront made a comeback. 

But there are areas of the Large Aral Sea in southern Kazakhstan and neighboring Uzbekistan where the water will never return. In these places, there is a pressing need to create new ecosystems — such as at the Oasis project.  

There, long rows of saxaul shrubs stretch to the horizon in a patch planted in 2022. In the desolate vastness of the desert, the fruit-bearing shrubs look like fluffy clouds of pink and yellow floating above the ground. 

Keeping them alive in this hostile environment is difficult. Survival rates can vary, depending on soil conditions, nursery stock quality, and root protection.  

If the sandy soil is too saline, it can burn the roots. To protect this batch of shrubs, workers trapped sand and snow in the furrows that would later receive saplings. This created a cushion of less salty ground around the roots.  

"The seedlings were planted in March while they were still hibernating," says deputy manager Zadneprovskaya.

Changing the patterns

With cancer, kidney disease, and infant mortality among the region's worst health problems, creating "green belts" is an effective way to combat drift from salt and contiminated dust and improve public health. 

But saxaul alone won't do the job. It is essential to integrate planting practices into landscape planning. "We have to decide what to do with the land where the shrubs are planted," says Talgat Kerteshev of the Kazakh National Agrarian Research University. 

If the aim is to create pasture, the focus should be on fodder crops. And while saxaul can be used for grazing, it is not the main component of a dairy cow's diet. 

One of the approaches could be to pursue 'mixed planting.' This involves introducing several species of trees, shrubs, and herbs to grow together in a mutually beneficial way. Some of these can then be sold as herbal remedies. Others will make the soil less salty. "This is essential for the sustainable use of ecosystems," says Kerteshev.  

Another challenge is involving local communities in the planting process. According to Zadneprovskaya, eight of the 12 people engaged in the Oasis project are locals. But it's just a drop in the ocean for the entire Aral Sea area. Doing this on a larger scale could help push change.  

Aigul Solovyova, chairwoman of the Association of Environmental Organizations of Kazakhstan, has been conducting surveys for years.  

"In 2023, 7% of people in the Almaty region in  south-eastern  Kazakhstan were aware of climate change. This year the figure has risen to 30%," she says. Raising awareness of environmental issues, such as saxaul planting, is a gradual process that requires targeted interventions and regular calls for action.

Still, despite the challenges, things are looking up for the thin patch of saxaul shrubs at the Oasis outpost. Some are already bearing fruit. Dragonflies hum, while yellow ground squirrels scurry by. 

Where the Aral Sea once stood, a new ecosystem — fragile yet bold — is gradually taking root.   

Edited by: Jennifer Collins and Tamsin Walker

Research for this article was made possible with support from the Pulitzer Center.