Latest news with #nomadic
The National
2 days ago
- Business
- The National
Gulf Connections: When water is more precious than oil
Earlier this summer the UAE began to export the technology required to extract one of the essential commodities in the world we live in today. Not oil or gas but water. In May it was announced that the country would send 14 mobile desalination plants, which make seawater potable, to Cyprus, currently facing a water crisis exacerbated by a prolonged drought. It might seem strange, even contradictory, for a desert country, arid for much of the year, to come to the rescue of another entirely surrounded by water. But few people understand the value of water for life like those in the Emirates. Searching for water was a daily task until the 1960s. Desert wells were essential for nomadic life, while in the town of Abu Dhabi, water was obtained by digging 'scrapes' in the sand to a depth where the salinity was reduced to permit drinking. Rulers recognised the importance of water above almost everything. Sheikh Shakhbout, Ruler of Abu Dhabi from 1928 to 1966, regarded the search for clean water as equal if not important as finding oil. In the later 1950s, just as oil was being discovered in the Emirate, Sheikh Shakhbout even resorted to employing two English colonels who claimed to be water diviners, promising them generous rewards if successful. Unfortunately they were not. Technology proved a better bet. In 1961, the Ruler ordered one of the earliest examples of an industrial desalination plant from the British engineering company Richardson & Westgarth of West Hartlepool. After teething problems caused by the heat, by the following year the plant was producing 50,000 litres of clean water a day, distributed across Abu Dhabi in cans carried by donkeys. At a price of around one dirham a gallon (4.55 litres) it was more expensive than the market price of crude oil. Later a pipeline was laid to carry water from wells in Al Ain over 130 kilometres to Abu Dhabi, held in a huge water tank in Khalidiya. It can still be seen to this day. Today the UAE has about 70 desalination plants producing over 40 per cent of the country's drinking water using a process known as reverse osmosis. Abu Dhabi's Taweelah plant, operated by Emirates Water and Electricity (Ewec) is the largest of its type in the world, producing over 800,000 cubic metres a day. The expertise the UAE enjoys in water technology is now shared with the rest of the world. UAE Water Aid (Suqia UAE) was established in 2015 in Dubai to provide clean water in 10 countries including Afghanistan, Pakistan, India and Iraq. Funded by donations, in the first year alone over Dh180 million was raised across the Emirates. The annual Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum Global Water Award supports initiatives to support global water security with US$1 million in prize money. In the words of Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid, Vice President and Ruler of Dubai 'In our country, water is a great blessing. Our ancestors had been deprived of water, thus they knew its value.'
Russia Today
31-07-2025
- General
- Russia Today
Meet fierce Northern warriors who fought Russia for a century and learned a valuable lesson
In the late 17th and early 18th centuries, on the frozen edge of Eurasia, the Chukchi watched strangers approach across the tundra. Tall, bearded, clad in breastplates and iron helmets, the men seemed like figures torn from legend. 'They had whiskers like walruses, iron eyes, and spears so wide they could block out the sun,' Chukchi elders would later recall. These were Russian Cossacks – pioneers sent by the tsar to collect tribute and push the empire's borders ever further east. For decades, they had swept across Siberia with little resistance, subduing one indigenous group after another. They believed they were unstoppable. But on the Chukchi Peninsula, they met a people who would not yield. Nomadic, fiercely independent, and hardened by a landscape where survival itself was a daily battle, the Chukchi refused to be conquered. The collision of these two worlds would ignite one of the longest and bloodiest conflicts in the history of Russia's eastward expansion. The Chukchi were few in number – perhaps no more than 15,000 at the time – but their way of life had made them nearly impossible to subdue. For millennia they had roamed the windswept Chukchi Peninsula, a world of brutal winters, short summers, and endless tundra. Temperatures could plunge to -40°C, and in summer, swarms of mosquitoes turned every journey into torment. Survival in such a place was a daily act of endurance. They lived in small, highly mobile camps, moving with their reindeer herds twice a year. Each settlement had its own leader, known as an umilik, and there was no central authority – no single chief who could negotiate, surrender, or be coerced. This political fragmentation made it nearly impossible for outsiders to strike lasting agreements with them. Chukchi society revolved around two things: The herds that sustained them and the sea that bordered their lands. Inland clans were reindeer herders; coastal groups, dubbed 'foot Chukchi' by Russians, hunted whales and fished in Arctic waters. Their dwellings reflected this dual life: Semi-subterranean huts reinforced with walrus bones in winter, and collapsible, cone-shaped yarangas for summer migrations. But life in the tundra was not simply about endurance – it was about strength and dominance. The Chukchi had a reputation for launching sudden raids on neighboring peoples, including the Koryaks, Yukaghirs, and even Eskimo groups across the Bering Strait. These raids were not mere skirmishes: Several camps could band together, attack without warning, and vanish into the tundra with stolen reindeer and supplies. These campaigns were central to their survival and prestige. From childhood, Chukchi boys and girls were trained for hardship. Running long distances with heavy loads, learning to go hungry for days, and sleeping little were all part of their upbringing. They became expert archers, spearmen, and hand-to-hand fighters. Armor was fashioned from bone, horn, or leather, and they perfected tactics of surprise – striking at night or when enemy men were away, then disappearing into the wilderness before reinforcements could arrive. To the Chukchi, capture was unthinkable. Warriors, women, even children would rather take their own lives than be enslaved. The elderly and the gravely ill were expected to choose death rather than burden the camp. This unforgiving code of survival, combined with their mobility, warrior culture, and intimate knowledge of the land, made the Chukchi extraordinarily resilient opponents. And yet, on the horizon, a new kind of adversary was drawing closer – one unlike any they had ever faced. The Russian Empire was pushing relentlessly eastward, driven by the lure of fur and the promise of new lands. When its Cossack detachments finally reached the Chukchi Peninsula, a clash was inevitable. By the late 17th century, Russia was driving deeper and deeper into Siberia. The motivation was clear: furs. Sable pelts in particular were so valuable in Europe and Asia that they were called 'soft gold'. Detachments of Cossacks – semi-autonomous warrior-settlers – moved ever farther east, following rivers through dense forests and across endless plains in search of new lands and new sources of tribute. The model was simple. When the Cossacks reached a new territory, they would build a small fortified outpost, declare the local tribes subjects of the tsar, and demand yasak – an annual tax in furs. Resistance was met with violence. Most of the indigenous groups they encountered were fragmented, lightly armed, and poorly equipped to fight organized Russian units. This rapid advance gave the Cossacks a sense of inevitability. They had pushed across Siberia in a matter of decades, subduing one people after another, and now only the tundra of the Far Northeast remained. Rumors whispered that beyond the Chukchi Peninsula lay even richer lands, perhaps even a route to America. But as the Cossacks crossed the Kolyma River and approached Chukchi territory, they were entering a world unlike any they had faced before. Here the distances were immense, the climate unforgiving, and the people both armed and ready. The Chukchi would not be intimidated by shows of force, nor would they be persuaded by gifts or treaties. What followed was not the swift conquest the Russians had come to expect, but a drawn-out war in the tundra – one that would test both sides to their limits. The first Russian expeditions into Chukchi territory began cautiously. In 1642, the Cossack Dmitry Zyryan encountered a group of Chukchi while traveling with their neighbors, the Yukaghirs. The meeting ended in blood. The Cossacks, armed with iron weapons and coveted goods, were ambushed. Several Russians were badly wounded, and a number of Chukchi were killed. It was a small skirmish, but it set the tone: this would not be an easy land to tame. In 1648, seven small sailing ships known as koches pushed off from the mouth of the Kolyma River, led by the merchant Fedot Popov and the legendary Cossack Semen Dezhnev. The journey was catastrophic. Storms scattered the flotilla; two vessels were wrecked on the rocks, two others vanished at sea, and only a handful of survivors made it ashore. Dezhnev, against all odds, reached the mouth of the Anadyr River by land, built a makeshift fort, and declared the surrounding peoples subjects of the tsar. But Russian footholds in the region remained fragile. When the officer Kurbat Ivanov replaced Dezhnev, the Chukchi began attacking Cossack hunters and patrols near Anadyr. Their arrows and sling stones turned daily tasks such as fishing into life-or-death gambles. Through the late 17th century, expedition after expedition met the same fate. Small Cossack detachments would march into the tundra to collect yasak or punish raiders, only to be picked off and disappear. The Chukchi had no forts to besiege, no villages to burn, and no central leader to capture. They fought on their own terms – striking quickly, vanishing into the vast emptiness, and forcing the Russians to spread themselves thin. Even hostages yielded little leverage. Over time, a grim system of exchanges developed: if the Chukchi captured Russians, they would trade them for their own kin, but rarely for anything else. And while they began acquiring captured firearms, they never relied on them; muskets were scarce and ammunition hard to come by. By the early 18th century, frustration in St. Petersburg was mounting. The Chukchi were not only resisting imperial control, but also terrorizing Russia's tributary tribes – the Koryaks and the Yukaghirs – seizing reindeer and land in a cycle of raids and counter-raids. Afanasiy Shestakov, head of the Yakut Cossacks, petitioned the imperial Senate for a major campaign to 'pacify the unruly Chukchi.' In 1730, Shestakov personally led a small mixed force of Cossacks, Koryaks, and Tungus deep into Chukchi territory. Outnumbered by hundreds of Chukchi warriors, his detachment was overwhelmed; Shestakov was struck by an arrow and speared as he tried to flee by sled. Only half of his men survived. Shestakov's death galvanized the empire, and soon a new figure arrived who would change the course of the war: Captain Dmitry Pavlutskiy of the Tobolsk regiment. Unlike most who had served on the frontier, Pavlutskiy was a regular army officer – trained, disciplined, and ambitious. He quickly became a near-mythical figure. To the Koryaks and Yukaghirs, long harassed by Chukchi raids, Pavlutskiy was a savior. Songs celebrated him as a northern Sir Lancelot, a fearless protector who avenged decades of violence. To the Chukchi, he was something entirely different. They whispered about him as a demon in human form – relentless, cunning, and merciless. Entire camps fled at the rumor of his approach; others chose suicide over capture, unwilling to face the shame and suffering they believed would follow. Pavlutskiy understood the scale of the challenge and brought unprecedented force: more than 500 Russians and allied tribesmen, supported by 700 reindeer sleds laden with supplies. He drove his men deep into the tundra, covering distances of nearly 2,000km. His campaign was devastating. In the first ten months alone, he killed more than 1,500 Chukchi – over 10% of their entire population – and took another 150 captive. But even Pavlutskiy could not secure a decisive victory. The Chukchi melted away into the wilderness, resurfacing to strike at isolated settlements and tributary tribes. Pavlutskiy's columns could annihilate Chukchi bands they managed to corner, but they could not occupy the land or break the people's will. In 1747, Pavlutskiy made what would be his final march. Pursuing a Chukchi raiding party with just 100 men, he suddenly found himself outnumbered by 500 warriors. One of his aides urged him to build a defensive ring of sleds, but Pavlutskiy refused, choosing open battle instead. The Chukchi defied their usual tactics of harassing from a distance and charged head-on. Pavlutskiy fought like a berserker, cutting down attackers with sword and musket, until lassos dragged him from his horse and spears pierced his armor. His death sent shockwaves through both sides. St. Petersburg mourned a commander who had become the embodiment of Russia's struggle in the Far Northeast. The Koryaks and Yukaghirs grieved the loss of a protector. The Chukchi, by contrast, celebrated. Legends sprouted almost immediately: Some said Pavlutskiy was roasted after his death; others claimed he fought to the last breath, 'like a tiger cornered in the snow.' Whatever the version, all agreed on one point: He had been their fiercest adversary. The war had ground into stalemate. Maintaining remote garrisons drained imperial coffers, and every expedition consumed lives and resources. The tundra devoured armies as surely as the cold devoured the unprepared. By the 1750s, the Russian Empire was exhausted by the Chukchi war. Expedition after expedition had drained the treasury, and garrisons in the remote Anadyr fortress were costly to maintain and constantly under threat. The Senate in St. Petersburg began to rethink its approach. If the Chukchi could not be subdued by force, perhaps they could be persuaded by profit. The Anadyr fortress was dismantled in 1764, its church bells hauled away to other settlements. But this withdrawal was not a surrender. Imperial officials, encouraged by Catherine the Great, began pursuing a new policy: negotiating directly with Chukchi leaders and offering trade as an incentive for peace. By this point, the Chukchi themselves had changed. Years of warfare and the constant need to guard their herds had created a clearer hierarchy among umiliks, the camp chiefs. Weaker leaders had perished, and the survivors understood that raiding could no longer secure their status or wealth. Trade offered an Russians organized fairs at small fortified posts along the Anuy River. There, merchants exchanged tea, tobacco, metal tools, and textiles for fox and sable pelts, beaver skins, and walrus ivory. These goods were precious in the tundra, and commerce flourished. What Cossack muskets and imperial decrees could not achieve, merchants accomplished quietly. The Chukchi acknowledged the sovereignty of the Russian Empire, not as a conquered people but as partners in trade. In return, they gained access to valuable goods and the right to live as they always had – on their own terms, without the threat of military campaigns hanging over them. Chukchi mythology even adapted to this new reality. In their stories, there were only two true peoples in the world: themselves and the Russians. Everyone else was little more than useful fauna, like reindeer or walruses. Russians, they said, existed for a specific purpose: to produce tea, tobacco, sugar, salt, and metal items, and to trade them with the Chukchi. By the late 18th century, open warfare on the Chukchi Peninsula had ended. Russians and Chukchi had moved beyond raids and punitive campaigns, forging a relationship built on trade and mutual respect. This understanding laid the foundation for something far more lasting: a shared life in one country. Over the centuries that followed, the Chukchi became part of the Russian Empire, then the Soviet Union, and now the Russian Federation. Yet they have retained their traditions, language, and way of life in one of the harshest environments on Earth. Reindeer herding, fishing, and seasonal migrations remain central to Chukchi culture, and their spiritual beliefs and legends are still passed down from generation to generation. Today, the Chukchi enjoy their own federal subject – Chukotka Autonomous Okrug – a reflection of the unique place they hold within Russia. Regional and federal authorities support the preservation of Chukchi culture, ensuring that the nomadic camps, ancient rituals, and language of this small Arctic nation are not lost to time. What began centuries ago as one of the most protracted and difficult conflicts in Russia's eastward expansion ultimately gave way to coexistence. The Chukchi and the Russians, once bitter adversaries, now share not just a land but a future. Their story is a reminder that even in the most inhospitable of places, people can find a way to live side by side – without losing who they are.
Daily Mail
15-07-2025
- Daily Mail
EXCLUSIVE Woman who sold her home and all her possessions to travel the world shares brutal realities of her lifestyle
A woman who sold her business, home and all her possessions to travel the world full-time has lifted a lid on the harsh realities of her nomadic lifestyle. Shelly Peterson, 55, originally from Phoenix, Arizona, and her husband, Shayne Peterson, 58, spent decades running successful businesses while raising their four daughters. But after their youngest child headed to college and they had an empty nest, they found themselves 'craving more life and less routine.' 'Travel had always been on our hearts, but like a lot of people, we kept waiting for the "right time,"' Shelly explained during an exclusive chat with the Daily Mail. When her mother passed away from cancer right before she was set to retire, it opened Shelly's eyes to how short and 'fragile' life can be. 'She had worked hard her entire life and never got to enjoy the freedom she'd dreamed about. That loss really stuck with me,' she continued. Soon after, she endured a harrowing health scare of her own - 'thankfully, everything turned out fine' - and it was the push they finally needed. She dished, 'One day, my husband and I looked at each other and said, "If not now, when?" 'We sold everything - our house, our cars, even our furniture, and booked a one-way ticket to Bali. That was the start of this wild new chapter.' Getting rid of practically all of their stuff was 'emotional,' but in the end, Shelly said realizing 'how little they truly needed to feel content' was incredibly 'freeing.' 'Now, we love our minimalist lifestyle,' she explained. 'We don't miss the stuff, we just want more sunsets, more passport stamps, and more time together. 'The shift in our mindset has been one of the most liberating parts of this journey.' Since leaving the US in September 2023, they have lived in a whopping 15 different countries, spending anywhere from a few weeks to a few months in each one. They usually stay in Airbnbs or vacation rentals and they rarely ever have a plan, which makes things incredibly exciting. 'We tend to follow weather, visa limits, and flight deals. It keeps things exciting and flexible,' she explained. 'We've learned that slow travel is our sweet spot. It helps us avoid burnout and allows us to really sink into the rhythm of local life.' And while their lifestyle comes with a slew of benefits - like having immense freedom, constant sunshine, and getting to explore all different parts of the world - there are also some drawbacks. She said that while social media often glamorizes living on the road, it's not always as it seems online. 'Constant change can be exhausting. Learning new transportation systems, adapting to time zones, and figuring out where to get groceries in a new place every few weeks takes effort,' Shelly admitted. 'We [also] miss our kids and especially our grandkids. That's the hardest part, hands down. 'While Instagram makes it all look like a dream, the reality is there are slow Wi-Fi days, visa stress, minor illnesses, travel fatigue, and moments when we really miss home.' Along the way, she confessed that they've made some costly mistakes. They once arrived in Vietnam without realizing their visa was expired and 'had to pay a fine and leave the country quickly.' They also once booked a 'beautiful rental' in the wrong location. In addition, they battled 'travel burnout' early on and had to come to grips with feeling 'isolated' all the time. '[At first] we tried to do and see everything and quickly realized slow travel is better travel,' she said. 'But despite the occasional challenges, the rewards like personal growth, unforgettable experiences, and total freedom far outweigh the hard parts.' As for the positives, Shelly gushed that 'every day is different,' which makes it quite the adventure. 'We've swum in cenotes in Mexico, danced in the streets of Spain, explored temples in Thailand, and surfed in Australia,' dished the mom-of-four. 'We can chase sunshine, avoid winter, and decide on a whim where we want to go next. 'We also feel healthier and more alive than we did back in the US. We walk a lot more, eat fresh, local food, and prioritize our well-being in a way we never did when we were caught up in the grind. 'And most importantly, we feel deeply connected to each other, to the world, and to a sense of purpose. It's a lifestyle that constantly inspires growth and gratitude.' Shelly said they spend roughly $3,000 per month, and have uncovered a slew of money-saving hacks to cut down the costs of their travels. 'We've gotten really good at finding ways to stretch our money without feeling like we're sacrificing comfort,' she said. They pay attention to flight deals and let those determine their next destination, try to always rent places that have a kitchen so they can cook meals at home rather than eating out, and use credit card points and miles for flights and hotels when possible. They also know how to avoid tourist traps by now and walk a lot to avoid public transportation or taxis. 'It's not about living on the cheapest possible budget, it's about being smart and intentional with how we spend,' the former Arizona-native added. They now run a travel blog called where they share stories and travel tips, and try to inspire others who want to 'explore the world, especially on a budget.' They make money through the blog and also run a 'flight deal membership that helps people find mistake fares and cheap international flights.' 'I also freelance for travel outlets... and from time to time we partner with tourism boards and brands to create content about destinations, products, and experiences we genuinely love,' she added of how they make an income. In the end, Shelly explained that you do not have to be 'rich' to travel the world, and vowed that their lifestyle is attainable for anyone who sets their mind to it. 'With some flexibility, curiosity, and a bit of planning, this lifestyle is more accessible than people think,' she concluded. 'It's not about being a digital nomad with a trust fund, it's about being intentional. You can live a life of freedom and adventure without being a millionaire. If we can do it, so can others.'
Arab News
12-07-2025
- Politics
- Arab News
Afghan cattle farmers fear for future and flock as Pakistan deportation threat looms
ISLAMABAD: Saeed Khan tapped his wooden staff rhythmically as he guided over two dozen cattle and sheep into a livestock enclosure bound by mud and fencing fashioned out of thorny branches. The soft sound of hooves over the dusty ground could be heard as Khan went about his work, with the occasional sound of bleats filling the air. Khan, 48, is a member of the nomadic Kuchi tribe that traces its origins to Afghanistan. The Kuchis depend on animals for their livelihood and their movements historically were determined by the weather and the availability of good pastures. Khan, whose ancestors used to come to Pakistan only during the winters and would return to the high-altitude pastures of Afghanistan during summers, made Pakistan his permanent home in the '80s, but he now fears for the future, with Islamabad's June 30 deadline for Afghan Proof of Registration (PoR) card holders to leave the country over by almost two weeks. 'At first, there wasn't any card issue,' Khan told Arab News, minding his flock in Islamabad. 'Our people didn't know much about it. It's only now that the problem has come up, that we've realized.' The problem Khan referred to is a controversial deportation drive that Pakistan launched in 2023 against what it described as 'illegal foreigners,' mostly Afghans, in the country. Islamabad this year said it wanted 3 million Afghans to leave the country, including 1.4 million people with PoR cards and some 800,000 with Afghan Citizen Cards (ACC). According to data from the UN refugee agency (UNHCR), more than 900,000 Afghans have left Pakistan since the expulsion drive began. While Pakistan deported thousands of ACC holders, the government said those with PoR cards could stay until June 30. The Pakistan government cites economic stress and security concerns as reasons to push ahead with the expulsion drive, while human rights advocates say the move threatens people who have lived in Pakistan for decades and contributed significantly to its informal economy and urban infrastructure. The Kuchi nomads would spend the winters in the Indus Valley region or parts of southern Afghanistan and Balochistan before heading for the Hindu Kush mountains in the summer each year, according to Professor Thomas Barfield, president of the American Institute of Afghanistan Studies and a leading anthropologist on Afghan culture at Boston University. Presently, they number around a million in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Khan, after settling in Pakistan, has raised animals not only to sell them for the Eid Al-Adha sacrifice, when cattle are in high demand, but also for exports. 'I do both cattle and sheep [farming],' Khan explained. 'Especially Turkish sheep for sacrifice. [But] most of our animals go to factories, one in Raiwind Lahore, one in Kasur, one in Kamoke, then they're exported abroad.' There are many mud shelters near Khan's home along the Qur'ang river in Islamabad that now lie abandoned. They were once inhabited by Kuchi families who had ACCs but were expelled by Pakistani authorities. The empty shelters serve as a stark reminder for Khan and other PoR card-holders such as his nephew, Mohammad Ullah, of what the future may bring. 'This place where they used to live, they left it as they were,' Ullah told Arab News, pointing to the empty huts. Some ACC holders remain, concealing their identity out of fear of deportation, but the majority of Kuchis here holds PoR cards. Some of the Kuchis were left out when they were being registered as they were away herding animals in remote areas. A Kuchi person, who spoke to Arab News on condition of anonymity, said his entire family had PoR cards except for him. 'The thing is, we have six children here. If I go to Afghanistan, my children will stay here, right?' he asked. 'So, what will I do there, and what will they do here?' Khan also worries about his livestock and says he would have to sell them all if Pakistani authorities forced him to leave. 'Because they won't let us take it across the border [to Afghanistan],' he said, bearing a tensed look on his face.
Arab News
12-07-2025
- Arab News
Shaddad: Traditional invention reflecting human ingenuity in conquering the desert
RAFHA: The 'shaddad' stands as one of the oldest artisanal innovations in the Arabian Peninsula, serving as an essential tool in Bedouin life, SPA reports. Used for riding camels and transporting supplies across deserts, it embodies the deep heritage and ingenuity of early communities in adapting to the harsh desert environment. Crafted from curved wood and fixed to the front and rear of a camel's back, the shaddad is supported by a cushion placed between the wooden arcs, ensuring balance and comfort during long journeys. It served as a vital companion during nomadic travel, trade expeditions and the transportation of passengers and goods over vast, rugged terrain. Its design varies based on function, with one type designated for riding and another for carrying heavy loads — underscoring the bond between humans and camels, the indispensable icons of desert life. Despite the evolution of modern transportation, the shaddad remains a fixture in cultural and heritage displays, often featured as a decorative piece in guest areas and traditional markets. It serves as a symbol of authenticity and a tangible link to ancestral roots, SPA reports. This artisanal innovation reflects the resourcefulness of ancient communities in using local materials to create practical tools that reflect sustainability, innovation and a cultural identity centered on the camel as a symbol of endurance, strength and adaptability. Today, the shaddad endures as a distinctive heritage icon, carrying a powerful message about the importance of preserving folklore and honoring its symbols in cultural forums, reinforcing values of self-reliance and harmony with nature, SPA reports.
