The dire water crisis has intensified tensions across the US-Mexico border. As drought continues to choke northern Mexico, the residents of San Francisco de Conchos in Chihuahua have turned to divine intervention. For the thirtieth consecutive month without rain, locals gathered along the parched shores of Lake Toronto—the reservoir behind the critical La Boquilla dam—to pray for relief. Once submerged under shimmering waters, the now-cracked, dusty lakebed hosted a procession of farmers on horseback, led in prayer by a local priest.
Among those praying was Rafael Betance, who has monitored La Boquilla voluntarily for the state water authority for 35 years. Pointing to the exposed white rocks, he lamented, “This should all be underwater.” According to Betance, the last time the dam overflowed, even slightly, was in 2017. Since then, levels have plummeted consistently. Today, the reservoir sits at just 14% of its capacity, standing 26.52 metres below the high-water mark.
The dire water crisis has intensified tensions across the US-Mexico border. The Trump administration, responding to pressure from Republican lawmakers in Texas, has accused Mexico of failing to meet its obligations under an 81-year-old water treaty. In April, President Donald Trump threatened tariffs and sanctions on Mexico via his Truth Social account, accusing the country of “stealing” water from Texas. Although Mexico has since transferred 75 million cubic metres of water to the US through the Amistad dam, that figure falls far short of the estimated 1.5 billion cubic metres owed.
Water-sharing disputes have previously turned deadly. In 2020, two Mexicans were killed during protests at La Boquilla’s sluice gates as farmers resisted water being diverted to the US. Now, amid worsening drought, many in Chihuahua argue that they simply don’t have enough water to share. Betance captures the local sentiment: “You can’t take from what isn’t there.”
But Texan farmers remain frustrated. Brian Jones, a fourth-generation grower in the Rio Grande Valley, says the shortage has forced him to farm just half his land over the past three years. He accuses Mexican farmers of hoarding water to grow export crops that compete directly with US agriculture. In particular, he believes Chihuahua received sufficient rainfall in 2022 but failed to release any water to the US, calling the practice unfair.
Farmers in Chihuahua see things differently. They argue that the treaty mandates water deliveries only when domestic needs are met—a condition impossible under such extreme drought. Their critics also point to inefficient farming practices, like the widespread flooding of fields for thirsty crops like walnuts and alfalfa. While some, like former mayor Jaime Ramirez, have adopted water-saving sprinkler systems, others lack the financial resources to modernize.
Ramirez insists that the issue isn’t just about inefficiency but survival. “If the rain doesn’t come again this year, there simply won’t be any agriculture left,” he warns. “All available water will need to be conserved for drinking.”
He and many others believe the 1944 treaty no longer reflects modern realities. With climate change and population growth transforming water availability, Ramirez argues the agreement must be updated. On the other hand, Jones remains firm that the treaty has withstood the test of time. “It’s been honored through generations of my family. Now, Mexico isn’t complying—and that’s devastating for us.”
Meanwhile, the environmental impact in Chihuahua worsens amid US-Mexico crisis. As water levels drop, the remaining reservoir heats rapidly, threatening aquatic life and crippling a once-thriving local tourism industry. For Rafael Betance, the once dependable cycles of rainfall and replenishment seem like a distant memory. “Praying for rain is all we have left,” he says, as the sun beats down on the cracked earth that was once a lake.
