This book marked Vandana Shiva as a force of nature for the defence of village India’s environmental survival. She combines expertise in agro-science, ecology, and the amazing complexity of local Indian farming traditions, which have been so sustainable over centuries that they earn the name of “permaculture.” She powerfully defends the wisdom of village farmers against the forces for industrialized maximized-extraction agriculture, that would destroy environment beneath the villagers’ feet.
In an age of rising alarm over environmental degradation, Shiva presents a blizzard of evidence to challenge our prevailing logic of “development” at its roots. She points out the warning signs that environmentally sustainable living could be eliminated just when it is needed most. At the 1992 UN Conference on the Environment in Rio de Janeiro, heavily industrialized nations argued that the laws of supply and demand will naturally balance the requirements of resource generation and extraction. Just as the global public grew convinced that exploitation of the environment must be somehow controlled, the very idea of social control over resources was virtually demolished. In India, Anil Agarwal protested that “As the growing stock of biomass goes down, the demand for biomass from the cash economy goes up ...” When demand begins to exceed supply, “pressure to exploit the remaining biomass increases dramatically.” In such a market, every villager knows that the quickest way to get rich is take several truckloads of wood from a forest and sell them in a city.
In the Garhwal Himalaya in the 1970s, many local farmers tried to modernize by growing cash crops. In most cases they switched from their traditional rotations of grains, to planting vegetables for the regional markets. This increased their monetary income, but also caused several side-effects. First, the old grain crops had produced a by-product of straw, and the village cows or goats got much of their food from that source. But the new vegetable crops produced no straw, and the animals had to eat something else. Naturally they ate more of the grass on the surrounding hills. The straw from crops had also been a source of fuel for cooking. With that gone, the villagers too had to find their fuel on the hillsides. The entire environmental culture began to unravel. With insufficient fodder, many of the animals had to be sold. This cut the supply of manure for the fields, which had been the main source of fertilizer. With grass stripped from the hill slopes, gullies snaked up the hillsides, sucking away the fields.
The villagers were eyewitnesses, not economists. In letting the market dictate what they would produce, they had abandoned their sensitivity to what that particular environment could produce. The famous Chipko movement grew in this region, not only as a movement to halt the clear-cutting of trees, but also to change destructive farming in the hills.
If the market always seemed to dictate the same acceleration of resource consumption, and neither big government nor big business could control this, perhaps only the local farmers could. Somehow, an economy was needed with biomass itself as the real measure of wealth. The lowly villagers, who were previously seen as tax mules or the ignorant objects of development efforts, began forming their own responses. They articulated the ecological implications of their religious beliefs. Starting in the 1970s, hundreds of local “anti-development movements,” such as Chipko, the Kerala Sastra Parishad or the Mitti Bachao Abhiyan, formed and spread.
Shiva argues that the traditional gardeners in many regions of India remain unconverted to plantation-style, industrialized agriculture. Especially the women in these areas continue their old ways of mixed gardening, animal husbandry and forestry, which can actually build the soil. Until the 1980s, outsiders almost invariably saw these traditional peasants as the greatest victims of backwardness. In development planning, these primitives were often displaced in favor of more profitable schemes. But Shiva claims, “It is from these remaining pockets of natural farming that the ecological struggles to protect nature are emerging.” This argument might seem based on romanticism about the past. And everyone who knows rural India knows its past was hardly paradise. But growing numbers of Indian farmers have confirmed Shiva’s view, returning to a more traditional gardening, after trying the industrialized “green revolution” approach.
The green revolution hybrids are gene-selected for maximum development of the seed-head. This growth comes partly at the expense of the leaves and stalks. Many kinds of “miracle rice” are therefore “dwarf” varieties, with smaller bodies and bigger heads. The underdeveloped stems sometimes fail to support the larger heads, so that these plants are more easily blown down in the fields. The hybrids are also more fragile in other ways, requiring more water and fertilizer than traditional breeds. They need more protection from local insects and plant diseases. Still, if the goal is to maximize production of grain for the mass market, the project makes sense. It is a case of increased risk for increased gain.
Probably a vast majority of Indian farmers tried growing the new miracle crops. In doing so they entered a mass market for standardized products, where efficiency in cost and scale of production were the main bases for any competitive advantage. Traditional Indian crops like ragi, jowar, or mandua were shunted aside, despite their proven durability under local conditions. Even the nutritional value of the old crops was usually superior to hybrid grain, but now their lower yield per hectare made them non-competitive.
Shiva reviews the case of HYV sorghum in south India—a typical head-heavy, leaf and stalk-poor hybrid, introduced to replace the local jowar. In Kurugund village, Dharwar District of Karnataka, use of this HYV took off as the wave of the future, going from 99.06 acres in 1970–71, to 835 acres in the early ‘80s, which was the entire area planted in sorghum. At first, the gains were impressive. With such production nationwide, India was able to stockpile vast reserves of grain. Some critics claimed that the surplus came partly from lack of purchasing power, and average nutrition had actually fallen. But at least the food was there for some price, and was usable for famine relief.
With irrigation, the productivity of hybrid crops was often spectacular. Those who could afford it sunk motorized pumps to irrigate their fields. With that dramatic rise in groundwater consumption, the villagers watched the water levels in their wells fall, often by several feet a year. By the 1980s, thousands of additional villages each year faced the strangely terrifying prospect of water famine in the dry season.
Larger heads of hybrid grain meant reduced straw. And as in the Garhwal Himalaya, this meant less fodder, less natural fertilizer and greater demand on the local grass or trees for fuel. The loss of trees as natural groundwater pumps allowed further decline in the water table. If the groundwater fell too far, almost all the trees would die.
Since hybrid crops were vulnerable to local pests, the farmers often tried to protect their investment with pesticides. Some pesticides also eliminated weeds in the fields. These weeds were formerly picked and eaten by field workers. Now, use of chemical poisons tended to eliminate both the weeding jobs, and the weeds as food. In that case the village women, who were earlier deprived of food from the forests, were now deprived of natural food in the cultivated fields as well.
The gains of the green revolution were well publicized. In Kurugund village, at first the HYV sorghum yielded seven to eight quintals per acre. But due to a complex environmental decline, this yield fell to an average of under four quintals by the early 1980s. In that case, the traditional breeds were again competitive in strictly quantitative terms. Villages across the country had similar results. Shiva warned that “It is precisely because ... essential links in the food chain have been ignored and destroyed by ‘developed’ and ‘scientific’ agriculture that the croplands ... are rapidly being turned into deserts.” But the “green revolution” was still officially seen as a cure rather than a cause of India’s problems. It was mainly the supposedly ignorant villagers who started to think otherwise. By the 1980s, the tide in the countryside began running back toward traditional kinds of gardening. The Kurugund villagers in 1986 planted only 460 acres in HYV sorghum, which was down by nearly half from several years before. The village culture was showing its balance, trying new things, but moving away from all that was not sustainable.
The traditional village ecology was a resilient partnership of local plants, animals and humans. Perhaps some measure of respect for that trans-species culture is now returning, so it is no longer seen as something to be brushed aside from the path of progress. Hopefully science can now be used, not to dismantle traditional ecosystems, but to fine-tune them for synergy and sustainability. To bring back green cover to the country, Anil Agarwal says, would be “the real green revolution.”