Why Ladakh’s organic mission needs a reality check

Farmers say the push to go chemical-free has exposed fragile soils, high costs, and gaps in support systems.Leh, Ladakh: In the early 1970s, after the Indian Army was stationed in Ladakh, farmers were encouraged to use fertilisers to grow bigger, shinier potatoes for cantonment supplies. “Aloo jitna bada hota tha, utna acha hota tha [The bigger the potato, the better],” recalled one farmer. The higher yields generated more income, and chemical inputs quickly became the standard.Over time, though, the shift eroded the natural fertility of Ladakh’s soil. What had been organically farmed land became dependent on fertilisers and pesticidesNow, under the Mission Organic Development Initiative (MODI) launched in 2020, the Union Territory administration has set an ambitious target: convert all 666 villages in Ladakh into certified organic hubs by 2025. Backed by a Rs 500-crore budget, the scheme promises seed distribution, bio-fertiliser units, greenhouses, and marketing support. Of this, Rs 50 crore is earmarked for value-chain development and Rs 125.54 crore for protected cultivation, including subsidised greenhouses. The Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council (LAHDC) in Leh has also rolled out subsidies to promote sustainable practices.Yet for many farmers, the journey back to “organic” is less a homecoming than a struggle with new dilemmas: between tradition and regulation, old crops and lucrative markets, mere survival and true sustainability.Display of organic vegetables waiting for customers in Leh market (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Soil’s crisisFarmers across Ladakh say their soil has “lost its strength.” Decades of chemical use have left fields less fertile, yields lower, and the future uncertain. “Zameen ka takat kam ho gaya hai [The land has lost its strength],” said a farmer from Spituk. “We grow potatoes, cauliflowers, turnips and cabbages but the government gives no guarantee to buy organic produce. Fertiliser-grown vegetables still flood the market.”One of the biggest hurdles is manure. Traditional sources — livestock dung and compost from dry toilets — have dwindled as households abandoned those practices. The natural cycle that once sustained Ladakh’s fields has been broken.To bridge the gap, the government imports organic manure from Haryana. Farmers say it is costly, insufficient, and unsustainable in the long run. “The government gives us imported manure from Haryana, which is not enough. And we don’t have enough dry toilets to follow our traditional method,” said Poro, a farmer in Leh.Environmentalists agree. “Importing manure cannot be a permanent solution,” cautioned Tsewang Namgyal of the Snow Leopard Conservatory. But others see it as a necessary compromise. “Many farmers stopped keeping animals or maintaining dry toilets. Until local systems are rebuilt, outside manure is the only way to manage this transition,” said Dr Tsering Stobdan, senior scientist at the Defence Institute of High-Altitude Research (DIHAR).Ladakhi's staple diet has shifted from barley and millets to a mix of outside grains like rice with local greens (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Lost cropsThough the organic mission urges farmers to revive traditional crops, the ground reality is harsher. Soil fertility has declined, yields are lower, and without cold storage or assured procurement, even staples like potatoes often sell at a loss. “Earlier, we supplied potatoes to the army. Now yields are low, size doesn’t meet market expectations, and soil health is poor,” said Skarma Gurmet Poro of Julley Ladakh.Some crops, like buckwheat, disappeared not because of climate change but because people stopped eating them. Only recently, with rising consumer demand, has cultivation picked up again. Farmers still grow barley, wheat, mustard, peas, carrots, and cabbage for their kitchens, but market incentives point elsewhere. Barley, central to Ladakh’s food culture as the base for tsampa, competes with cash crops promoted under MODI, such as apricots and pomegranates, which are geared toward outside markets rather than local diets.“Simply depending on traditional crops is not sufficient. If you ask people to grow only those, the day is not far when they’ll stop farming altogether,” said Dr Tsering Stobdan.For farmers, this tension plays out daily. “We’re caught between two worlds,” said organic agriculturist Urgain Gya of Gya village. “The government wants us to be organic, but the market wants higher yields and perfect-looking vegetables. Chemicals still feel like the only way to meet those demands.”Gya explained that even when farmers did grow organic produce, they could not sell it widely. “Because of the inputs, we price higher. This puts us at a disadvantage against mandi sellers who use chemicals. And there’s no cold storage or larger market access — produce like tomatoes spoil in a week,” he said.While traditional crops are climate-resilient and nutrient-rich, farmers find them unprofitable without consumer demand, procurement support, or storage infrastructure. “If the land doesn’t give enough in return, people stop growing these crops, even if they are important to our culture and health,” Gya added.The initiative’s push for productivity also raises ecological risks. “Pushing for higher yields in our water-scarce region could lead to overexploitation of our limited resources,” Gya warned. “We need an approach that prioritises sustainability over market-driven growth.”Ladakhis still grow some varieties of barley for personal consumption (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)The certification conundrum“Ladakh was always organic,” said Skarma Gurmet Poro of Julley Ladakh. “Now we’re being told to become something we already were, but in a way that doesn’t fit our reality.”Farmers argue that the push for certification overlooks Ladakh’s unique ecology and traditions, from crop rotation and natural pest control to using glacial silt as fertiliser. Instead, they must now comply with India’s National Programme for Organic Production (NPOP): three years of transition without chemicals, annual inspections, strict record-keeping, and verification of every input, from compost to seeds. For many smallholders, this is an overwhelming process.Gya pointed out that the scheme focuses on certification and markets but ignores more pressing challenges: water scarcity, labour shortages, and the survival of indigenous crops. For example, drip irrigation is promoted, but it works best on larger holdings, not Ladakh’s small, fragmented plots.Water, in particular, is a growing constraint. Most irrigation still relies on glacial and snowmelt-fed streams, diverted to fields through traditional canals. With glaciers retreating and snowmelt patterns shifting, farmers face acute shortages during critical sowing months.“The pressure to be ‘officially’ organic is immense,” said Rinchen Dolma, a farmer from Saboo. “Support is delayed, water is uncertain, officers don’t always show up. Sometimes it feels easier to quietly use chemicals than to risk crop failure.”The reality, according to Skarma Gurmet Poro, is more complex. “The government gave us chemical fertilisers and subsidies on outside commodities during the Green Revolution. People followed. Now we’re told to reverse it all, but with rules that don’t match Ladakh’s reality.”Display of organic vegetables waiting for customers in Leh market (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Shrinking villagesThis is happening while Ladakh's villages keep emptying out, warns historian Nawang Tsering Shakspo. With rural depopulation, farming is left to ever-fewer, often women, as men pursue jobs in urban Leh or tourism. Traditional composting, crop planning, and indigenous practices fade as the pool of experienced cultivators shrinks. “How can we implement organic farming when there are fewer farmers each year?” Shakspo said. With many fields left fallow and dry toilets gone, knowledge that once kept Ladakh’s agriculture resilient faces slow extinction. “This ‘one-size-fits-all’ organic model does not address these demographic shifts,” said critics. The risk: more pressure on a dwindling number of committed farmers, and a loss of the cultural systems that once allowed Ladakhi farming to thrive, organically, and on its own terms.This story was produced as part of the NCNF Media Fellowship on Agroecology.Cover photo - A woman selling organic produce in Leh market (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)

Tourism brings money to Ladakh but leaves agriculture and farming traditions behind

Ladakhi farmers — those who haven't given up on agriculture altogether — are moving away from crops like barley, prioritising market needs over local staples, ecological health and food security. Spituk, Ladakh: In 1820, British explorer William Moorcroft traversed the windswept landscapes of Ladakh, documenting a region that seemed frozen in time. In his seminal work Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Punjab, he described Ladakh, where fields were rich with barley and villagers practised communal farming systems like the Langde, a method that relied on neighbours sharing labour for planting and harvesting. He noted 12 varieties of barley, including mendokh nas, thrived in the cold desert climate. Two centuries later, much of what Moorcroft observed is either forgotten or replaced as the region sees an unprecedented increase in tourism and tourism-related activities. Even mendokh nas is unknown to most Ladakhis today.  “We do not even know what that is,” says Skarma Gurmet Poro, the founder of eco-tourism NGO Julley Ladakh. “It is not just the crop that we have lost — it is the knowledge and identity tied to it.” Over the last 15 years, the region has seen exponential growth in tourism, with a footfall of nearly 2.5 lakh tourists in just two summer months of June and July in 2022; another 2 lakh tourists would visit that year. To cater to this wide number of tourists, a lot has changed on the ground — from farmlands turning into residential and commercial complexes to changes in cropping patterns to cater to the dietary needs of tourists. Barley dominated Ladakhi agriculture, covering over half the cropped area. This is slowly decreasing, replaced by vegetables in the fields and imported rice and wheat in the Public Distribution System (PDS). Researchers note that “subsidised rice supplied through PDS is increasingly replacing locally grown barley as the main staple diet”, whereas barley harvests now often go unused.Urgain Gya travels frequently from his village to meet officials in Leh to present local concerns about eroding agriculture (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)A crop, tradition and knowledge lost to tourismIn Leh, the Lakrook family’s land once hosted barley fields that tied them to their ancestors and community. Their land grew barley, wheat, buckwheat and staples such as greens, potatoes and turnips. “Barley was never about money — it was about life,” says Tsering Lakrook, 46 years old. “But now, tourists ask for something different, so we had to adapt.” Tourists from the mainland who do not have barley in their diet want rice, curries with tomatoes, pizzas, burgers, and other food that Ladakh never had as a part of its identity. So, the same land now grows tomatoes and watermelons, catering to the demands of tourists and markets. This situation persists in most parts of Leh Ladakh. Tomato yields doubled with the use of black plastic mulch to warm the soil​ , and total vegetable production in Ladakh shot up from 250 tonnes at the beginning of the 70s to 17,572 tonnes in 2022. Watermelon cultivation, once unimaginable in Ladakh’s harsh climate, has become a success story, thanks to greenhouse farming and mulching techniques introduced by the Defence Institute of High Altitude Research (DIHAR). “I used to earn Rs 20,000 from barley,” says farmer Tsering Angmo. “With watermelons, I make triple that.” However, the shift came with additional labour and costs. “It’s not easy,” Angmo admits. “The market fluctuates, and there is no guarantee we will sell everything. We used to eat barley and buckwheat that we grew. Now, we depend on the market for rice and wheat.”  The area under cultivation has reduced as private agricultural lands owned by Ladakhis are being converted into residential and commercial plots. The outskirts of Leh are now dotted with hotels and guesthouses. “The returns from farming are low, but tourism offers quick money,” says Rinchen Angmo, a journalist who has extensively covered Leh’s urban sprawl. Tourism flourishes through adventure sports such as river rafting, rock climbing, hiking, trekking and mountaineering. Locals are also becoming tour guides or taxi drivers, or are opening cafes, souvenir shops and running guesthouses.Family is an important part of Ladakhi identity (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Tsering Angmo’s brother, Tsering Sonam, in his early 50s, points to a neighbouring plot where a guesthouse now stands. “This was a farmland five years ago,” he says. “They built a hotel here because tourists needed places to stay. Farming could not compete.” The conversion of farmland to infrastructure is not unique to Spituk. Across Leh and its surrounding villages, agricultural land is being lost to development. A study focusing on Leh town revealed that from 1990 to 2022, agricultural areas decreased by approximately 33.65%, while built-up areas increased by 232.41% during the same period. This shift is largely attributed to the conversion of farmland into residential areas, hotels, and other commercial establishments to accommodate the growing tourism industry.  This shift impacts not only food production but also the traditional Langde system. “Langde is not practised anymore,” says Poro. “Families now rely on migrant labourers. The communal spirit that defined Ladakhi farming is disappearing.” For many Ladakhis, the decline of traditional farming practices represents a loss of identity. Barley was not just a crop; it was a cultural cornerstone. Festivals like Dosmochey and Spituk Gustor featured barley prominently in rituals and offerings. “Barley connected us to our ancestors,” says Angmo. “It is a part of our Ladakhiyat. Growing watermelons feels like a betrayal, even if it pays more.”A glimpse of Shey village (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Intensifying resource stressAgriculture, already strained by shifting cropping patterns, is further impacted by dwindling water availability. Farmers report that irrigation cycles have become shorter and more frequent. “Earlier, we watered our fields once every 20 days. Now, it is every 10 days,” says Dolma Lakrook, a farmer in Leh. “But with less snowfall, we have seen that we are running out of water for the past seven years.” Tourism compounds these challenges. The influx of visitors has led to increased water consumption, with tourists using up to 40 litres of water per day per traveller compared to a local average of 15 litres, according to Poro. “Borewells have proliferated to meet the demand,” says Poro, “but they are draining our groundwater reserves. If this continues, South Leh’s agriculture could collapse in five to seven years.” High consumption coupled with less snowfall is presenting Ladakh with acute water problems. The ecological footprint of tourism extends beyond water usage. “Hotels and guesthouses, built to cater to growing tourist numbers, often encroach on agricultural land, reducing the space available for farming,” says Poro. The combined pressures of climate change and tourism are eroding Ladakh’s traditional systems of resilience. Practices like Churpon, the community-led management of water resources, are becoming less effective as water sources dwindle and individual borewells replace communal irrigation systems. “Barley was sustainable because it required less water and was adapted to our climate,” says Tsewang Namgyal from Snow Leopard Conservatory. “Cash crops are not only less suited to our environment but also make us more reliant on external inputs and markets,” he added. Indus River, a major source of irrigation for surrounding villages (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)In addition, chemical use is also creeping in. Traditional barley and buckwheat were grown organically, said Tsering Stobdan, Senior Scientist at DIHAR. “Ladakh was always organic... People used glacial silt, compost, dry toilets, no chemicals.” But for new crops like tomato and watermelon, farmers say they’d rather use chemicals than risk crop failure. Vegetables are “heavy feeders”. Farmers load their kitchen gardens with large amounts of manure or compost, and sometimes urea or DAP, to support vegetable growth on Ladakh’s nutrient-poor soil. Data from one village showed potato crops receiving 5,340 kg/ha of manure, versus only 200 kg/ha for barley​. If sufficient farmyard manure is unavailable, farmers turn to chemical fertilisers to meet the demand.  With cash crops also requiring greenhouse structures, more prone to insect and disease outbreaks, requiring frequent maintenance like deweeding, managing them is laden with risk and increased effort in terms of inputs, knowledge and labour. Ladakhi kids show an equal, sometimes even more inclination towards mainstream indian food like pani puri (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)Abandoning agriculture: A way of life left behindFor some Ladakhis, these challenges have led to a more drastic decision: abandoning agriculture altogether. “Even with cash crops like watermelons and tomatoes, the profits are not enough to sustain a family,” says Angmo. “Farming is hard work, and the income does not compare to what you can earn in tourism or government jobs.” The younger generation, in particular, is moving away from the fields. In villages like Spituk and Phey, many young people now work in Leh’s hospitality sector or seek government employment. “Why would anyone want to farm when they can earn more as a tour guide or hotel worker,” he asks. “The loss of agriculture is a loss of community,” says Poro. “When families stop farming, they lose their connection to the land, to each other, and to their heritage.” Public Distribution System (PDS) have also shifted dietary habits. Subsidised rice and wheat from outside Ladakh have replaced locally grown staples like barley. A 2012 analysis calculated that local grain production met only 39.8% of the population’s requirement, with about 60% of food grains having to be imported that year.  “Why grow what you can buy cheaper,” Dolma asks. “The younger generation sees farming as a poor man’s job. They prefer working in hotels or moving to cities.” The labour-intensive nature of farming and the lack of consistent markets further discourage farmers. “A watermelon harvest fetches Rs 60,000 in a good season,” Dolma explains. “But what happens when there is a glut, or when transport costs to Leh eat into profits? Tourism offers quicker and steadier returns.” The replacement of traditional agricultural practices with market-oriented methods has also led to a loss of cultural knowledge, especially as reliance on migrant labour grows. With younger Ladakhis moving to Leh for tourism jobs, families increasingly hire workers from Bihar, Nepal, and other regions to tend their fields. While efficient, these labourers often lack an understanding of Ladakh’s unique farming rhythms. “In the past, we sang specific songs while planting and harvesting,” recalls Angmo. “These songs were not just for morale — they carried instructions, passed down over generations, about how to work with the land and the seasons. Migrant labourers do not know these traditions.” Traditional practices like preparing the soil after the snowmelt or knowing precisely when to water crops based on the season’s first thaw are being lost. “Moist soil after snow carries natural nutrients,” explains Namgyal, “but if you water too early or too late, you disrupt the cycle. This is not something you can teach in a single day. It is lived experience.” The absence of this knowledge contributes to a less sustainable approach to farming. Labourers unfamiliar with Ladakhi ecosystems may over-irrigate, unaware of the region’s water scarcity, or fail to account for the role of microbes in maintaining soil health. “You cannot compete with the income from a guesthouse or a government job,” says Rinchen Dorje (50), a former farmer in Saboo. “I grew potatoes and barley, but there is no profit in it. I sold my land and opened a homestay. It is easier, and it pays more.” This trend is visible across Ladakh, where agricultural land is being converted into commercial properties. Fields that once fed families are now hotels and guesthouses. “Agriculture feels like a relic,” Dorje adds. “The younger generation doesn’t want to farm. They want jobs in Leh or Delhi.” The exodus from farming raises questions about Ladakh’s food security. With fewer farmers growing staples and an increasing reliance on imported grains, the region risks losing its agricultural independence. “What happens if the roads close?” Dorje asks. “Will we eat money?”This story was produced as part of the NCNF Media Fellowship on Agroecology.Cover Photo - Women selling dried apricots in Leh market, a popular takeaway item for tourists (Photo - Nimisha Agarwal, 101Reporters)