‘Swidden’: an old English term meaning burnt clearing[1]

‘Swidden agriculture’ = ‘shifting cultivation’

 

 

From 21-23 May 2019, I had the privilege of joining a research fieldtrip to evaluate the impacts of land use planning and management by the organisation, The Agro-Biodiversity Initiative (TABI), in three villages in Nam Bak district, Luangprabang province, Laos. This was part of a broader research to compare the impacts of prior land use planning and management projects by CHESH-Lao (Centre for Human Ecology Studies of the Highlands – Laos) and TABI. The fieldtrip was led by Chris Flint, organised by CHESH-Lao with field support from TABI. Land use planning is needed in rural Laos to define village boundaries, so that ownership is made known and disputes with external parties be prevented, and land use zones. An effect of this is that swidden agriculture, which is commonplace in the rural Lao highlands, is contained to rotational cycles within the village boundaries (i.e. rotational shifting cultivation instead of ‘expansion shifting cultivation’ where pristine forest is cleared).

 

Swidden agriculture and the swidden landscape

Swidden agriculture, also known as shifting cultivation or slash-and-burn agriculture, is one of the oldest forms of subsistence agriculture.[2] It involves cutting trees and shrubs on an area of land, burning the biomass using fire, and then sowing seeds (e.g. rice) on the land. Through burning the biomass, organic matter is returned to the topsoil, thereby making the soil more fertile for the seeds sown. After harvesting the rice (typically about 1 year), the land left to lie fallow and farmers move on to the next plot of land to repeat the cycle of slashing, burning and cultivation. Self-sown seeds from the trees and shrubs germinate during the cultivation period and continue to grow during the fallow period, regenerating into bush fallow or forest fallow. Under a rotational shifting cultivation regime, farmers will return to slash, burn and cultivate this plot of land after a period of several years, depending on land availability. This means that, unlike ‘expansion shifting cultivation’, the total amount of land used for swidden agriculture is capped at a maximum. Land use planning and management projects, such as those implemented by TABI and CHESH-Lao, help farmers to clarify the boundaries within which rotational shifting cultivation is to be performed.

During our visit to three villages in Nam Bak district, the swidden landscapes were more than simply a trio of burnt land, rice cultivation and regenerating fallow. Besides upland rice, the villagers depend on the swidden landscape for the non-timber forest products (NTFPs). For example, in Kan Theung village, the leftover burnt wood / charcoal can be sold to the domestic market as an alternative to firewood. Self-sown broom grass also starts growing, and it can be harvested and sold to the local market for making brooms[3].

After the land is left to lie fallow after one year of rice cultivation, galangal and cardamom grow as part of the regenerating bush fallow and can be harvested after 4-6 years.[4]

Styrax trees, whose scented benzoin resin is used for making perfumes, also naturally regenerate. The resin can be harvested when the trees are at least ~7 years, up to ~15 years old.[5] In Pha Thong village, we saw styrax forests of almost 15 years old. The productivity of the styrax tree is considered when farmers of Long Chok and Pha Thong villages decide when and where to slash and burn. It is a fascinating way of gaining value from the landscape, and I was reminded of Masanobu Fukuoka’s book ‘The One-Straw Revolution’.[6]

Despite the usefulness of bush/forest fallow NTFPs, the desire for higher productivity – to meet the needs of a growing population, to afford more modern luxuries, etc. – results in the shortening of the rotational swidden cycle. While a rotational cycle of at least 7 years is recommended for restoring soil fertility, farmers practise a 3-4 year cycle in Kan Theung village because land is limited given their increasing population (of about 180 households). Moreover, after cultivating rice during the first year, they use the same piece of land to grow Job’s tears, a cash crop, in the second year. This further reduces soil fertility.

Besides the shortening and intensification of the swidden cycle, other factors also affect soil fertility. A villager in Kan Theung village pointed out to us a type of weed that is particularly good at enriching the soil when burnt, and it would make sense to let it grow in the swidden landscape. Moreover, the presence of grazing cattle helps to encourage regrowth of the bush fallow. The cattle’s manure also fertilises the soil, while their hoofprints create depressions which retain water in the soil. But such benefits from cattle-raising are no longer available to Kan Theung village: according to the former village leader, the village was compelled to sell off their cattle. This was because their cattle kept entering the unfenced rubber plantation adjacent to the village’s agricultural land. In Pha Thong village, where a rotational cycle of at least 15 years is still practised, villagers have sold off most of their cattle so that they can send their children for higher education.

 

Collective or individual swiddening?

A common theme in land use planning and management is whether swiddening should be done collectively as a village, or on individually-owned plots of land. Collective swiddening means that a large land area is slashed and burnt. This was observed in Long Chok village and Pha Thong village, where we saw large expanses of burnt land which could also be detected on satellite imagery.  However, this does not equate to deforestation: it is important to remember that this is part of the rotational cycle of slashing, burning, cultivation and fallow regrowth, and that the land should technically be regarded as agricultural land and not forest land. A benefit of collective swiddening is that the entire the village can relocate their residential area according to where cultivation is taking place. My guess is that there are also other benefits to collective swiddening, such as ecological connectivity when the entirety of land is left to lie fallow. Animals that reside in one fallow forest can also relocate to another fallow forest when it is being cleared. In contrast, there could be higher incidences of human-wildlife conflict in individual swiddening.

However, I think collective swiddening requires strong local-level village leadership. This is because decisions need to be made about when and where to slash-and-burn, how to allocate the burnt land for each household’s agricultural cultivation. The entire village also needs to be mobilised. It remains to be seen if this can be maintained amidst a growing paradigm of individualisation of property rights.

 

Swidden farmers in transition

I understand that some villagers Kan Theung village have expressed that they want to abandon upland rice cultivation in favour of an economy completely dependent on cash crops. Market integration is preferred to subsistence agriculture for a relatively accessible village like Kan Theung village: when there were floods last year, the district imported rice from Vietnam. However, this preference entails some risk, because this puts the villagers’ subsistence at the mercy of the market. For example, the price of cardamom, long perceived as a highly-valued product, dropped from about 400,000kip per kg to about 150,000kip per kg this year. When such a situation happens, it is important that villagers can still feed themselves.

Diversification of income sources also helps to strengthen a household’s resilience to market fluctuations. Viengphet’s family in Kan Theung village sells pure honey for about 70,000kip per 600ml bottle. The beeswax can also be sold to the domestic market for making candles. However, for much less accessible villages like Long Chok village and Pha Thong village, it would be more difficult to diversify income sources. Ensuring that there is basic self-subsistence would be important. Chris Flint shared with me that the village leader of Long Lan village said (paraphrased): “We can try to plant such-and-such cash crops and sell them to the market, but at the end of the day, it is important that we have enough rice to eat.”

All this talk about farmers’ vulnerability to market forces made me wonder whether there was some kind of farmers’ union, farmers’ network or farmers’ cooperative operating in this part of Laos. We all know that the farmers are a strong lobby group in Europe! However, when I asked Siphanh and Viengphet, it seemed like such unions do not exist. Arrangements in which companies guarantee a long-term base price for farmers are also very rare. Is there potential for Lao farmers set up establishments or cooperatives for safeguarding their subsistence? Perhaps I will find out during my remaining time in Laos.

 

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I am grateful to Chris Flint for sharing with me his valuable insights during this trip. I also thank Viengphet and Siphanh for helping me to translate the discussions into English.

Any misrepresentations or errors in this article are solely my responsibility.

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[1] Erni, C. 2015. ‘Shifting cultivation, livelihood and food security: New and old challenges for indigenous peoples in Asia’, in Shifting cultivation, livelihood and food security: New and old challenges for indigenous peoples in Asia (ed. Erni, C.). Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations, International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs and Asia Indigenous Peoples Pact. Bangkok, Thailand.

[2] Cairns, M.F., 2015. Shifting Cultivation and Environmental Change: Indigenous People, Agriculture and Forest Conservation. Routledge. United Kingdom.

[3] For examples of broom grass and its uses, see: http://www.tabi.la/activity/ntfp/

[4] Cardamom sprouts naturally 2-3 years after burning but it needs to grow for about 3 years before its fruits can be harvested. Satoshi (2004) offers more information about the NTFPs of swidden landscapes in northern Laos (accessible: https://www.jstage.jst.go.jp/article/tak/42/2/42_KJ00000713600/_pdf/-char/ja)

[5] Satoshi (2004) offers more information about the NTFPs of swidden landscapes in northern Laos (accessible: https://www.jstage.jst.go.jp/article/tak/42/2/42_KJ00000713600/_pdf/-char/ja)

[6] In his book, Fukuoka advocated the system of natural farming that he had developed, which involved chemical inputs, no ploughing, nor any prepared fertilisers (see: https://onestrawrevolution.net/). In my opinion, the key to his system is clever observation of nature.

=== a short fictional piece set in Singapore based on a very plausible future===

 

“Ahma, why did the polar bears go extinct?”, asks Juni, my 6-year old granddaughter.

 

The year is 2060, and the Earth’s average temperature is now 2 degrees Celsius above the pre-industrial average. The headline announcement about the definite extinction of polar bears on the radio news has evidently caught Juni’s attention as she strolls into our bedroom.  Turning to her, I turn off the radio with some reluctance: there is going to be radio story about a long-term research study finds that most immigrants in Singapore migrated in the past 20 years because they wanted to escape the increasing numbers of unpredictable, extreme weather events in temperate regions. Yet, while equatorial Singapore does not experience typhoons and extreme cold weather events, even the residents of this island-state cannot deny that it is intolerably hot outdoors. More than 85% of the population now live in climate-buffered, centrally-airconditioned shoebox apartments within complexes that have a school, a supermarket, and essential services – simply because it is too warm to go outside.

 

“Climate change, my dear,” I replied Juni.

 

“What’s climate change, Ahma?”

 

I cringed. I should not have replied so carelessly. Now, I have to explain to her about humanity’s greatest folly since the Second World War. I try to explain it simply. “Well, climate change is when the Earth becomes warmer. So all the ice has melted, the polar bears have lost their home, and they all die.”

 

Looking astonished, she asked, “But why would the Earth become warmer? Did someone turn off the air-conditioning?”

 

I smile at her innocence, but it looks like I cannot escape going into the uncomfortable facts. “No, my dear. The Earth became warmer because we human beings have been releasing greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide, which is produced when we burn fossil fuels like coal and gas for energy. Or methane, produced by cows, which we raise for food. These greenhouse gases trap heat it the atmosphere, making the Earth warmer and warmer.”

 

“But the polar bears looked so cute and cuddly! Why didn’t we stop? And… do you mean that I also caused the polar bears to die?” Disbelief and shock grows on her face.

 

“Well, not you,” I say, wanting to console her. “You haven’t contributed so much to the release of greenhouse gases. But the older people have.”

 

“Do you mean all the uncles and aunties killed the polar bears? Even you, Ahma?” The anxiety on her face suddenly turns to anger. I think I probably said the wrong thing.

 

“In a way, yes.” I sigh. “Everyone is responsible for causing climate change.”

 

She starts to sob. “But I love you, Ahma! How can you cause climate change?!” More sobbing. “Will more animals lose their homes and die, Ahma? Can we please stop it? Why didn’t you and the uncles and aunties stop it?”

 

I draw in a sharp breath. How do I explain to her that, according to climate scientists, the planet has officially entered a period of runaway climate change two years ago? Even more so, how do I explain to her that, a generation ago, humanity had a chance to mitigate climate change by reducing their greenhouse gas emissions, but failed? My granddaughter is a smart one, but at this moment, I wish that she could wait until she goes to school, so that her Primary school teacher will be the one delivering the bad news. In any case, since she has asked me, I need to try. “We can’t anymore, my dear. We could have, but we have gone beyond that point. The Earth is just going to get warmer and warmer, and more unpredictable.”

 

Her eyes widen, as if in sudden realisation. “Human beings are animals too, right? Does that mean that I am going to lose my home?”

 

“Well, we have technology to protect our apartments from getting too –“

 

“Ahma, why? Why? If I will have no home, why did Mommy and Daddy want to have me? Don’t they love me?” It is almost a wail.

 

My stomach feels like it is being punched. Lisha, her mother – my daughter – never wanted to have children, because she did not believe that there was a future for the planet. After she graduated, she became a school teacher and, inevitably, one of those who explains climate change to schoolchildren. Often, she came home emotionally exhausted from their difficult question. How does one continually portray hope to the young and innocent, when the facts just no longer add up? But it seems like society, with its rush to do things in the fashion it always has, does not empathise with the teachers’ plight. And so, when Lisha got married, society also pressured Lisha to have children. Her in-laws, my husband and I, her aunts and uncles – we kept asking her and her husband: “When will we hear good news? Singapore needs to increase its fertility rates, you know! Having grandchildren is the best way to spend our golden years, you know? It’s part of being filial. And a family is not complete without children.” Lisha died of heatstroke during a school trip to China last December, when a heatwave unexpectedly occurred. It is so ironic that Lisha succumbed to something that she often told her students to feel optimistic about. It is like a bitter, sarcastic reminder that I should not have pressured her to act against her beliefs.

 

“Ahma? Ahma? Are you ok?”

 

I break off my train of thought. I realise that tears have welled up in my eyes. “We all love you, my little granddaughter. Of course we love you. We love you so much. But…” I begin to repeat the points that Lisha used to argue with me several years ago, ”…there isn’t really anything much we can do about the climate, because it’s too late. Children like you will just have to be strong and resilient. How you’re going to learn that, I don’t really know. Your life is going to be difficult.”

 

My granddaughter hugs me. She obviously senses that I need some comforting.

 

“But remember: we love you,” I continue. “And from this love, grow stronger to face the difficulties ahead.” I hug her back tightly. I need to be comforted from the guilt that is washing over me. How easily, with just a few words, have I passed on the burden to her, a child. If we really love our grandchildren, we should have mustered the strength to mitigate climate change when there was still an opportunity, before it became too late.

 

That night, I dream about myself forty years ago, in 2020. But I am very different from the person I used to be: a career-minded conformist who was aware about climate change’s challenges but had neither the courage nor the time to tackle it. In my dream, I have quit my well-paying job. I actively talk to all my former associates about the importance of mitigating climate change. When the Open Electricity Market was introduced, I encourage my peers to choose clean electricity retailers. I tell all my friends to consume less meat and to choose sustainably-sourced paper and wood products. Domestically, I write in regularly to my Member of Parliament to request for higher carbon taxes, and I do undercover reporting to expose Singapore-listed companies that have poor environmental performance. On the global platform, I advise governments about climate change mitigation and am part of a network that puts sustainability and climate change on the agenda of high-level meetings. My friends initially shun me, thinking that I am a radical greenie: “Why do so much when we have housing and basic needs to worry about?” But I persevere, and I educate them, and gradually they also start to see the urgency of mitigating climate change. I do all these because climate scientists are saying that there is only 10 more years before it is too late.

 

It is an uphill battle but I choose to fight on. I want to have a clean conscience when I say to my future children and grandchildren, “I love you.”

 

This essay was submitted to the CDL E-generation Challenge 2019

Foremost on my parents’ Netherlands holiday agenda was buying cheese. It seemed quite natural, given that that places in Netherlands, such as Gouda and Edam, actually have types of cheese named after them. Milk and other dairy products are exceedingly delicious too – coming from Singapore where almost all our food is imported, there was an incomparable freshness in the dairy products we tasted during our Dutch holiday in May 2019.

I had assumed that diary was an integral part of Dutch identity, that when I saw advertisement posters in Rotterdam, Utrecht and Amsterdam saying “Ditch Milk”, I thought they must have been advertisements for a certain brand of dairy milk called ‘Ditch’, a brand name which I thought the company probably chose due to its similarity to the word ‘Dutch’. An interesting way to call on draw on national identity to market one’s products! Or perhaps it was a piece of government-led campaign to tease the Dutch into asking themselves what would happen in dairy was no longer part of their culture, therefore reinforcing national identity? However, on closer inspection of the advertisements, I realised that the mastermind of these advertisements was Oatly, a Swedish company that produces oat milk (https://www.oatly.com/nl/the-oatly-way). A very clever piece of marketing in the Netherlands!

It takes two hands to clap, and Oatly’s advertising prominence in the large Dutch cities is also in part supported by Dutch receptivity to non-dairy milk. The reasons? One is probably health: a Dutch friend prefers giving her daughter oat milk as she thinks dairy products could cause immune-sensitive responses. The other, and probably more dominant reason, is the environment. Compared to dairy milk and other non-dairy milk, oat milk has one of the lowest environmental impacts. According to Poore and Nemecek (2018) and an April 2019 article in the New York Times (https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/04/30/dining/climate-change-food-eating-habits.html?smtyp=cur&smid=tw-nytclimate&fbclid=IwAR0doAg3nrPIhDSyCQUMOcKVif2zqUD9qvrLkkeSNjUF4DqvoZ_YbxRoR68), producing one litre of oat milk generates 0.9kg of CO₂ emissions, requires 0.8m² of land and uses 48 litres of water. In contrast, milk from cows generates 3.2kg of CO₂ emissions, requires 9m² of land and uses 628 litres of water. Compared to oat milk, that’s more than triple the CO₂ emissions, more than 10 times of land requirement, and 13 times the water usage!

While dairy milk has been traditionally integral to Dutch identity for centuries, I salute Dutch progressiveness in re-evaluating their identity in response to environmental needs. Based on my observations from my 8-day trip, I find that they are firm about implementing environmental actions. For example, airports typically want to create all sorts of conveniences for travellers, but the Amsterdam Schipol airport explains clearly to customers that plastic bags are chargeable. Kudos! Dutch society seems very dynamic and their innovativeness, and in today’s age of environmental grief, it is encouraging to see these qualities being applied to address environmental problems.