On November 29, 2025, the Amir Kabir Dam—one of Iran’s largest hydroelectric facilities and a symbol of the nation’s mid-20th-century modernization—was disconnected from the national power grid. According to the semi-official Tasnim news agency, the dam’s reservoir fell below usable capacity after months of relentless drought, forcing an indefinite shutdown. Even if rainfall returns in the coming months, officials say the dam is unlikely to be brought back online anytime soon.
This development is more than just a technical hiccup. It’s the latest, and perhaps most dramatic, sign of a deepening water crisis that’s gripping Iran. The effects are cascading through the country’s economy, public health, and daily life. Authorities in Tehran have already ordered schools, universities, and religious institutions to close their doors, citing a toxic mix of dry conditions and airborne dust that’s turned the capital’s air into a choking haze. Government ministries in the city have shifted two-thirds of their workforce to remote work, a move officials describe as only the first step in confronting a rapidly deteriorating situation. If conditions don’t improve, even more drastic measures may be on the horizon.
But how did Iran, a nation once seen as a regional powerhouse in infrastructure and agriculture, end up here? The answer, as a review of decades of data and policy reveals, is both complex and sobering. According to Rokna, a detailed examination of 56 years of rainfall statistics shows that Iran has always been a low-rainfall country. Its annual precipitation has fluctuated between 120 and 375 millimeters since the 1960s—a fact that should have prompted caution and careful planning. Instead, the story is one of repeated missteps and missed opportunities.
In the 1960s, Iran’s rainfall was consistently below normal, yet the country embarked on a rapid campaign of agricultural development and dam construction. This was done, Rokna notes, "without evaluating the natural capacity of the ecosystem." There was a widespread misconception of “abundant water” and virtually no attempt to balance or monitor groundwater use. As a result, the seeds of today’s crisis were sown early, with policies that ignored the country’s natural limits.
The 1970s brought some of the wettest years on record, with rainfall in several years exceeding 300 millimeters. It might have been a chance to replenish aquifers and build up reserves, but instead, the government issued permits for thousands of deep wells and encouraged the cultivation of water-intensive crops. According to Rokna, "Iran had water but lacked management." The country consumed its bounty instead of storing it, setting the stage for more severe shortages down the line.
The 1980s were a decade of ups and downs: some years were wet, others bone-dry. But the government’s relentless push for food security after the Iran-Iraq War led to excessive groundwater extraction, which went largely unmonitored. Sinkholes and declining water tables appeared, but without a data-driven system, these warning signs were missed or ignored. As Rokna describes it, "managerial errors of the 1980s included excessive extraction from aquifers to ensure food security and the replacement of illegal withdrawals with formal permits."
By the 1990s, matters were further complicated by a population surge—15 million new mouths to feed—as well as a policy shift toward wheat self-sufficiency. The country’s agricultural sector moved from rain-fed to pump-based systems, and urban sprawl drove up drinking water consumption. Wet years were misinterpreted as a sign of stability, and the government failed to recognize that the underlying crisis was only deepening.
The 2000s, contrary to popular belief, weren’t especially dry. Most years saw rainfall around or above 200 millimeters, except for 2007. Yet this was the decade when Iran’s water crisis truly accelerated. The number of legal and illegal wells exploded—jumping from 300,000 to 650,000, according to official government statistics. Massive dam projects were launched, and the country became even more dependent on aquifers. Rokna sums it up bluntly: "Rainfall was normal, but management was abnormal." The government’s reliance on aquifers as the main water source, combined with intensive industrial and agricultural use, meant that even periods of normal rainfall couldn’t prevent the depletion of reserves.
The 2010s brought the physical manifestations of the crisis to the surface—literally. Sinkholes and land subsidence appeared in Isfahan, Kerman, Fars, Tehran, and Hamedan, with ground sinking by as much as 20 to 30 centimeters per year. Even two extremely wet years, 2018 and 2019, failed to restore depleted aquifers. The agricultural sector continued to grow water-intensive crops like watermelon and rice (outside of the water-rich northern regions), and industrial water use soared in arid areas. Scientific warnings went unheeded, and the decade became known as the “alarm decade.”
Now, in the 2020s, the crisis has reached a tipping point. Three of the past four years—2021, 2022, and 2024—were below normal in rainfall. Unlike in earlier decades, Iran’s aquifers are now so depleted and subsided that they can no longer compensate during dry spells. Even a year of normal rainfall, like 2023, is no longer enough to bring meaningful recovery. The country’s natural storage capacity is gone, its dams are empty, and its aquifers are described as “dead.”
Despite all this, agriculture continues to consume a staggering 89% of Iran’s water. The crisis, which accelerated in the 2000s and became evident in the 2010s, has now stabilized at a level many experts warn may be irreversible. The annual rainfall data, meticulously compiled over 56 years, tells the story in stark numbers: Iran’s water woes are not the result of unpredictable weather or climate change, but of decades of flawed policymaking. Wet years, which could have been used to build resilience, instead encouraged more consumption and expansion. "The crisis does not blame nature; it blames policy," Rokna’s correspondent concludes.
As the Amir Kabir Dam remains offline and Tehran’s daily routines are upended by closures and remote work, the government faces a stark choice: continue down the current path, or finally heed the lessons written in the nation’s rainfall records. The coming months will test not just Iran’s resilience, but its willingness to confront the real roots of its water crisis.
