Claude Thompson

Farming is the process of growing food or raising animals for meat, milk and eggs. It involves a lot of work and a great deal of skill.

It requires land, equipment, and infrastructure. It also requires financing, a business plan and experience in agriculture.

In the parking lot behind a grocery store in Portland, Ore., last September, several hundred tomato aficionados gathered on a sunny, breezy day for Tomato Fest. While many attendees devoured slices of tomato quiche and admired garlands of tomatoes with curiously pointed ends, I beelined to a yellow-tented booth hosted by Oregon State University. Agricultural researcher Matt Davis was handing out samples of experimental tomatoes.

I took four small plastic bags, each labeled with a cryptic set of letters and numbers and containing a thick slice of a yellow tomato. Scanning a QR code with my phone led me to an online survey with questions about each tomato’s balance of acidity and sweetness, texture and overall flavor. As I chewed on the slice from the bag marked “d86,” I noted the firm, almost meaty texture. Lacking the wateriness of a typical supermarket tomato, it would hold up beautifully in a salad or on a burger, I thought. And most importantly, it was tasty.

I learned later that this tomato had been dry-farmed, a form of agriculture that doesn’t require irrigation. Dry farming has roots stretching back millennia. But in the western United States, the practice largely fell out of widespread use in the 20th century.

Today, however, farmers in the West are once again experimenting with dry farming as they grapple with water shortages, which are being exacerbated by rising temperatures and more frequent and intense droughts linked to climate change.

Finding a more sustainable way to grow food in a thirsty state like California, for example, where agriculture accounts for roughly 80 percent of water usage and where a third of U.S. vegetables are grown, is a top priority. Dry farming won’t solve all of agriculture’s woes, but it offers a way forward, particularly for smaller-scale producers, while drawing less on a scarce natural resource. And even though the practice isn’t without limitations — dry-farmed produce tends to be physically smaller, and harvests are less bountiful overall — its benefits extend beyond water savings: Dry farming can also yield longer-lasting and better-tasting produce.

How does dry farming work?

It’s a common misconception that dry farming means growing plants without water. “Nothing grows without water,” says Amy Garrett, president of the nonprofit Dry Farming Institute in Corvallis, Ore. Instead, dry-farmed plants take up moisture stored in the ground rather than sprinkled from above.

Dry farming is possible in states throughout the West. What’s needed is a wet rainy season, when rainwater infiltrates the soil, followed by a dry growing season, when plant roots pull in that moisture as needed. A wide variety of fruits and vegetables — including tomatoes, potatoes, squash, corn and even watermelons — can be dry-farmed. Dry farming is distinct from rain-fed agriculture, when crops grow during a wet season without the aid of irrigation.

For dry farming to work, a couple elements are essential. “You need to be in a place where there’s sufficient rainfall to create moisture in the soil,” says David Runsten, water policy director at the Community Alliance with Family Farmers in Davis, Calif. Sites must generally receive more than 50 centimeters of annual precipitation — in 2022, that was true in 26 of California’s 58 counties, for example — and the soil must be composed of fine grains that help retain that water over time.

Beyond that, farmers employ a range of techniques to help crops get all the moisture they need. Those methods include planting earlier in the season than usual to take advantage of soil moisture stored up from winter rains and spacing plants more widely to give roots more room to search for water. Farmers can also plant young seedlings in furrows to minimize the drying effects of the wind and lay down an insulating layer of mulch — often leaves, wood chips or straw — on top of the soil.

Dry farming is standard practice in many places around the world, from olive groves in the Mediterranean to melon fields in Botswana to vineyards in Chile. In the American West, dry farming has a long history stretching back thousands of years among Indigenous peoples.

“Dry farming is just farming — it’s our way of life,” says Michael Kotutwa Johnson, an Indigenous resiliency specialist at the University of Arizona in Tucson. He’s also a member of the Hopi Tribe and dry-farms corn, lima beans and other crops. He learned the practice from his grandfather.

The intimate knowledge of the natural world that dry farming requires aligns with the Hopi community’s values and spiritual beliefs, he says. “You get to really learn what the environment gives you, and you learn to reciprocate.” A relationship develops between the cropping system and the farmer, he says. “It’s a beautiful thing, and it’s something that needs to be cherished.”

As non-Indigenous people started arriving in the West, they too began to dry-farm. But by the 20th century, many commercial farmers started relying on irrigation to capture growing markets. Having water on demand gave farmers more control and allowed them to boost production, says Jay Lund, vice director of the Center for Watershed Sciences at the University of California, Davis. “They could have a lot more reliable crop yields, and much higher crop yields.”

But today, irrigation water in many parts of the West is in short supply. In places like California’s San Joaquin Valley — the state’s largest agricultural region — water is pumped up from deep aquifers and often transported through canals and pipes before being deposited on crops. Researchers estimate that more than a quarter of irrigation water can be lost during transport due to evaporation and leaks. An even bigger problem in this region is that water is being extracted from the ground at a faster rate than it’s being replenished. “There just isn’t sufficient water for the amount of farmland that’s been planted,” Runsten says.

And access to irrigation is already being curtailed. Farmers in California and other states in the West are experiencing water shortages and have at times been entirely cut off from irrigation (SN: 9/25/21, p. 16).

That’s not likely to change in the future, Runsten says. To meet the goals of California’s 2014 Sustainable Groundwater Management Act, for instance, more than 200,000 hectares of irrigated farmland in the San Joaquin Valley — roughly 10 percent — will need to be taken out of irrigated production by 2040. Dry-farming speciality crops like agave or jujube, an Asian fruit similar to a date, could be an economically attractive alternative for the land, according to a 2022 report by the nonprofit Public Policy Institute of California.

Dry farming has pros and cons

Catherine Nguyen, who farms on a little less than half a hectare of leased land outside of Portland, Ore., in the Willamette Valley, has been dry-farming for two years. Nguyen — whose customers include farmers market shoppers, members of her community supported agriculture, or CSA, program and small restaurants — was drawn to the practice in part out of curiosity. “I love experimentation and with the changing climate and cost of water, it seemed like something to learn more about,” she says. A portion of her property also lacks access to irrigation, so dry farming made it possible to use land that would otherwise remain fallow.

Potatoes were the first crop Nguyen dry-farmed. Beyond saving roughly 7,500 liters of water, Nguyen and her small crew discovered other benefits. There was no need for sprinklers, drip tape, hosing or any other irrigation equipment. That meant Nguyen’s farm could cut down on a lot of plastic equipment intended to last for just one or two growing seasons. “Not only is our water usage down, but so is our plastic usage,” Nguyen says. That lighter environmental touch is important to Nguyen, who uses farming methods that promote healthy soil ecosystems, including minimal tillage and cover cropping, which involves growing plants specifically to improve the soil rather than for a harvest (SN Online: 4/12/22).

Last year, Nguyen dry-farmed delicata squash, corn, tomatoes, potatoes and beans. Nguyen noticed that her dry-farmed plots contained only about a fifth of the weeds that grow in her irrigated plots. That’s another known advantage of dry farming, Garrett says. Irrigation creates conditions for weed growth: Dispensing water through above­ground sprinklers causes moisture to pool near the surface, precisely where weeds wait for water, she says. “There is a weed seed bank in the top few inches of soil.”

Not having to pull up as many weeds or apply herbicides can translate into labor savings. Coupled with not having to manage irrigation infrastructure, dry farming can streamline a growing operation, Garrett says. “There’s a lot less to do.” Labor accounts for more than a quarter of total production costs for U.S. fruit and vegetable farmers.

Another benefit is that the produce contains less water and therefore tends to store better. In 2016 and 2017, Alex Stone, a horticulturist at Oregon State University, and her student Jennifer Wetzel grew different varieties of winter squash at the university’s research farm in Corvallis. The pair irrigated some vegetable plots and dry-farmed others. After harvesting the squash and leaving them in storage for four months, Stone and Wetzel found that about 1,000 of the roughly 1,250 dry-farmed winter squash, or about 80 percent, were still marketable. But only about 600 of the roughly 1,150 irrigated winter squash, or about 50 percent, were marketable.

Longer-lasting produce is a boon for small-scale fruit and vegetable growers, Garrett says. Winter is often a slow time sales-wise because there’s not much ripening. Selling stored crops in winter is one way that these farmers can earn an income during that lull. “If winter squash is storing months longer, that makes a huge impact for our local growers,” she says. Produce that lasts longer also means less food waste, both in farmers’ storage bins and in shoppers’ refrigerators and pantries.

Dry farming does have its downsides, however. The practice tends to produce smaller fruits and vegetables. That’s a natural outcome of withholding irrigation, Lund says. “The plant has less water to feed the growth of the fruit.” And growers, to say nothing of shoppers, can be wary of diminutively sized produce. That’s true among farmers in Oregon, Stone says. “They want a big, red tomato.”

Overall yields also tend to be lower. Not only does a dry-farmed plant produce fewer fruits or vegetables, but it also needs more space than its irrigated brethren so that its root system can spread out in search of water. Dry-farmed tomatoes, for instance, are typically planted almost two meters apart in rows separated by about two meters. Irrigated tomatoes can grow much closer together, about 60 centimeters apart, with rows separated by a meter or so.

Stone and Wetzel found that yields of irrigated winter squash at Oregon State’s research farm averaged 35.7 metric tons per hectare in 2016 and 32.2 metric tons in 2017. Dry-farmed squash yields were only 37 to 76 percent as much.

Diminished harvests can be a challenge. “With land access already being one of the biggest obstacles to farming, sometimes it’s hard for me to justify dry farming,” Nguyen says. Last year, she dry-farmed on only about a tenth of her property. “I do have to consider yield per square foot when deciding how much land to dry-farm,” she says.

Smaller harvests can translate to more expensive produce. “You don’t have the economies of scale,” Lund says. “Your costs are much higher per unit of production.” Dry-farmed tomatoes, for instance, typically sell for $4–$6 per pound and are primarily found at farmers markets and specialty grocery stores. That’s compared with $2–$3 per pound for traditional supermarket tomatoes grown with irrigation.

Dry-farmed produce may never become truly mainstream, Johnson says. “I don’t see us moving in that direction as long as we still have a market system that’s based on efficiency and quantity.” But many dry farming experts argue that paying more for dry-farmed produce is an investment in the future. And, they point out, dry-farmed produce tastes better.

How does dry farming affect flavor?

In California’s Napa Valley, there’s nary an irrigation hose snaking through Dominus Estate’s roughly 55-hectare Napanook Vineyard. Every last one of the more than 100,000 cabernet sauvignon, cabernet franc and petit verdot grapevines planted there is dry-farmed.

The water savings are tremendous, says Tod Mostero, Dominus Estate’s director of viticulture and winemaking. A single irrigated grapevine is typically irrigated with nearly 40 liters of water several times or more over the growing season, he says. For a vineyard the size of Napanook, that translates to nearly 4 million liters, or about a million gallons, for just one watering, Mostero says. In drought-prone California, that’s not sustainable, he says. “Pumping millions of gallons of water out of the soil is not something that we can continue to do.”

Beyond the water savings, there’s another reason Napanook Vineyard is dry-farmed, Mostero says. The practice produces the best wines, he contends. When grapevines are dry-farmed, the unique flavors of a wine associated with a place, and even a vintage, often shine through. Grapevines can send roots up to six meters deep in search of moisture. As those roots pass through layers of soil and rock, they absorb a complex set of minerals unique to that location, Mostero says. “You really find the terroir, the subtle differences between different areas.” For that very reason, some wine-growing regions, in parts of Europe for example, forbid vineyards from irrigating wine grapes.

Oenophiles aren’t the only ones swearing by the superior flavors of dry-farmed fruits and vegetables. Laurence Jossel, the chef-owner of Nopa, a restaurant in San Francisco that specializes in wood-fired cuisine, sources dry-farmed tomatoes from local farms. Tomatoes that are bloated with water taste “boring,” Jossel maintains. “The acid is gone, and the sweetness is gone.” He uses dry-farmed tomatoes in everything from soups to flatbreads. Sometimes they’re the star ingredient: A salad of chopped tomatoes topped with a bit of feta or mozzarella is one of Nopa’s summer offerings. “The tomato itself is just amazing,” he says.

What’s the future of dry farming?

Despite the environmental benefits of dry farming, some farmers remain wary. Stone has found that growers in Oregon are often cautious about the practice, even when it comes to cultivating varieties that sell well elsewhere. A case in point is Early Girl tomatoes, which are extensively dry-farmed in California and available at both California supermarkets and farmers markets.

“They just see them as elite, expensive, small tomatoes,” Stone says.

To explore the economic viability of dry farming, Stone is leading farming trials of dry-farmed crops to determine which varieties are most suited to commercial production. In recent years, she and colleagues have focused on tomatoes, which, after potatoes, are the most commonly consumed vegetable in the United States. (Technically a fruit, tomatoes are considered a vegetable for nutritional and culinary purposes by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.)

Stone’s team at Oregon State has grown hundreds of types of tomatoes. By recording yields, susceptibility to common diseases like blossom-end rot, and the size, firmness and flavor of the tomatoes, the researchers have started to home in on varieties that thrive — and taste good — when the irrigation is turned off. The first yellow tomato I sampled at Tomato Fest is one of the researchers’ leading contenders.

Dry farming offers one way forward as water resources become more unpredictable in the future. But it’s not a one-size-fits-all panacea for climate change, researchers admit. In some cases, crops that once thrived without irrigation may no longer do well at some point in the future.

“As summers become hotter and drier, crops will require even more water as they will lose more water [through evapotranspiration], making dry farming riskier,” Stone says.

Some farmers may have to swap one type of crop for another that’s more suited to even drier conditions. Fruit trees with particularly long, deep roots are good bets, Garrett says, as are species like melons that originally evolved in arid locales.

Whatever the future holds, being adaptable will be key. Farmers must be prepared to respond to changing conditions, Johnson says, but must also allow nature to lead. After all, that’s worked for his community for thousands of years.

“We raise corn to fit the environment,” he says. “We do not manipulate the environment to fit the corn.”

Source: sciencenews.org

Getting started with farming requires a lot of work, time and resources. It can be frustrating and difficult but it is all worth it in the end.

Farming is a great way to make money and to do something you love. You need to have passion for what you do, otherwise you will not have the motivation to continue.

Johan Vollenbroek is accustomed to threats on his life. On a cold January day, as he was opening his mail at his home in the Dutch city of Nijmegen, a fine powder spilled from an envelope.

With the calmness of a trained chemist, Vollenbroek closed the package, washed his hands and dialed the police contact number he’s been told to use to report death threats. The police arrived in full protective gear. It turned out to be silicate, a benign chemical sent with malign intent, but it was not the first time the 73-year-old had received a menacing letter.

Vollenbroek is both a green campaigner and a wellspring of mayhem — the progenitor of a series of legal battles that has upended the country by forcing the government to enforce its environmental commitments. Vollenbroek has made the Netherlands cap the number of flights arriving at major airports, reconsider housing projects and cut the speed limits on its highways. But it’s his showdown with Dutch farmers over nitrogen pollution that has drawn the most attention and spilled the greatest quantities of bad blood.

With thousands of farmers facing uncertain futures because of his efforts, the conflict has turned bitter, violent and arguably deadly — but Vollenbroek has no intention of slowing down. Indeed, he believes what’s happening in the Netherlands is just the beginning. “It is clear that farmers all over Europe will have to go through a transition,” he said.

Spider-thin, with long legs and hang-low arms, Vollenbroek chuckles in disbelief as he recounts the scale of his legal victories. On his mantelpiece, he keeps a yellow scroll bound with red and green ribbon, stood on its end like a trophy. In hundreds of lawsuits across more than two decades, Vollenbroek’s tiny NGO and consultancy Mobilisation for the Environment has brought polluters large and small to heel for their impact on nature. But it was this 2019 court ruling that was his coup de grâce. 

The decision by the Netherlands’ highest court jettisoned the country’s permitting system for nitrogen pollution. No longer could construction companies, factories or farms obtain permission for polluting beyond the legal limits with a promise to make up for it later. That has left thousands of businesses now effectively operating illegally and the government scrambling to come up with solutions.

The stikstofcrisis — or nitrogen crisis — ripped across Dutch industry but it fell hardest on the farmers. Specifically, it has affected those living close to Natura 2000 zones, areas the Netherlands agreed to conserve under European Union law. Crucially for Vollenbroek, the country’s more than 160 protected sites cover 10 percent of its area. Stretching like a latticework across its territory, they often sit cheek-by-jowl with intensive agriculture, the country’s largest producer of nitrogen through animal waste and fertilizer. Next month, the government is due to publish a list of 3,000 of the most polluting farms, which are to be forcibly closed this year and provided with compensation from a €24 billion fund.

Vollenbroek doesn’t know who sent him the threatening letter. But there are plenty of landowners who might want to scare him. Or worse. He has been told by police to take note of strange cars. Two years ago, the mayor of Nijmegen stopped a group of farmers from entering the city with a plan to stage a protest at his home. “We are quite relaxed about it,” he shrugged.

Death threats aside, he seemed to be having the time of his life, fussing around the house preparing tea — there were at least a dozen kinds on offer. His manner was warm and open.

Because of Vollenbroek, the Netherlands is the first country being forced to reconcile its environmental ambitions with its economic reality in such a dramatic fashion. The hammer is falling there first, and it’s falling hard. As countries try to align their societies with the limits of nature, including cutting back carbon dioxide emissions to stop climate change, the hammer is going to fall elsewhere.

In the Netherlands, the nitrogen crisis has featured riots and intimidation of government ministers. On Saturday, a farmers’ protest ahead of provincial elections on March 15, is being promoted as a “revolt” by figures from the far right. It has also spread to next-door Belgium, where Flemish farmers blockaded central Brussels last week with 2,700 tractors in protest of a regional plan to limit emissions. In the self-governing region of Flanders, Environment Minister Zuhal Demir has been placed under police protection after a farmer turned up to an event where she was speaking with a life-sized doll hung from gallows on the front of a tractor.

Across Europe, the pressure is set to grow. The EU has proposed a cluster of new laws that, if they are adopted, would push farmers to do far more to protect nature, potentially offering campaigners new legal weapons. And so — as the collateral damage, measured in wrecked lives and political upheaval in the Netherlands, accrues — what is happening there raises uncomfortable questions about the change needed for societies to live within their earthly means. Does saving nature necessarily mean ripping society apart? And if so, will this green transformation happen at all?

1. ‘A typically Dutch problem’

Vollenbroek was raised on a farm. Today, we’d call his parents biodynamic farmers. Pesticides and fertilizers were expensive and rare. The pigs lived in the garden, snaffling the fallen fruit of the apple trees. His dad had a bad back, so Johan helped with the work. But his mother was the real farmer in the family. She had an intuition with the animals and a special bond. When a cow went to the slaughterhouse, she mourned for it.   

Dutch farmers are quite literally a national treasure. Ever since the mid-19^th century, their ability to produce greater yields per acre than their German or French neighbors meant vast wealth was able to be made by selling produce to the rest of Europe. In the spring of 1886, the French embassy in Amsterdam invited Claude Monet to paint the tulip fields on the outskirts of The Hague. The sights left the great master nursing his limitations. Holland’s empire of dirt was “impossible to convey with our poor colors,” he wrote to a friend.

To capitalize on their competitive edge, the Dutch created a system of agricultural colleges; hotbeds of research aimed at one goal: eking more from the land. After World War II destroyed much of Europe’s agricultural capacity, the Dutch established themselves as not only the Continent’s predominant agricultural exporter but — in terms of the value of the trade and including re-exports — second only to the United States in all the world. With one-eighth of the land area, the Netherlands grows more than Poland.

But there’s a downside to the Dutch miracle. Dutch farmers pushed the land harder and reached for chemical advantage. When Vollenbroek was 8 or 9 years old, he saw a vision that would never leave his mind. Looking into the cab of an approaching tractor, he saw the driver, his clothes and skin stained an ungodly yellow. With horror, Vollenbroek realized the man was coated in the residue of the pesticide spray he had been dousing to kill crop-nibbling mice.

Around the same time, Vollenbroek saw his first giant stables, a common feature in Dutch industrialized farming where hundreds of animals are kept inside for much of their lives. More than six decades later he described them as “dark places” that filled his mind with scenes of animals fighting for space, clogging his memory with the reek of ammonia from their piss and shit that made the floor slimy. “I found it disgusting,” he said. “I felt that this is madness.”

Vollenbroek’s parents had ridden the Dutch agricultural wave. They bought their farm in 1945 and raised cows, pigs and chickens. The money was good. For a while, their few hundred animals earned them around the same as a senator in the Dutch parliament. But Vollenbroek’s dad disliked the modern methods and the farm struggled; eventually, it was abandoned.

Meanwhile, the young Vollenbroek was questioning everything. He started fighting with his father. Usually, the topic was religion. Vollenbroek was raised a strict Catholic but fought against both the religion and his parents’ expectations of church attendance. He left home at 16, seeking an independent life. He studied chemistry, served in the military and eventually joined an engineering consultancy, advising governments across the world.

When he started Mobilisation for the Environment (MOB) in the 1990s, the idea was simple. When the government fails to adhere to the law, MOB sues. At first, the targets were coal plants and oil refineries. In 2008, Vollenbroek was made a knight of the Order of Orange-Nassau in recognition of his services to nature.

It was perhaps inevitable that Vollenbroek would eventually train his sights on the country’s farms. The Netherlands is awash with ammonia, the nitrogen-rich gas released by animal manure. In satellite imagery that detects the airborne chemical, the country sits under an angry red splodge. Since the 1970s, Dutch governments have nibbled at the problem without opting for real solutions. In 1993, the U.N.’s Economic Commission for Europe called the vast quantities of farm waste “a typically Dutch problem.” Technical fixes, like adding air filters to barns, have helped a bit. But the amount of nitrogen dumped onto every acre of farmed land remains three times the EU average, second only to Cyprus in the 27-country bloc.

While nitrogen is an essential building block of life, in large quantities it becomes a toxic killer. Some fast-growing plants thrive on it and turn into monstrous ecosystem overlords. Smaller, rarer species, like herbs, lichens and mosses, are driven out. Across the Netherlands, but especially in sensitive grasslands and marshes, the soil is turning increasingly acidic. In waterways, nitrogen spurs algal growth, sucking oxygen from the water. Fish suffocate.

Vollenbroek likes to jog in the forests around Nijmegen, where, he said, the undergrowth has been replaced by a snarl of nitrogen-loving nettles. “Where are we heading to?” he asked. “It seems like the ‘Silent Spring’ for Rachel Carson is coming back again” — a reference to the 1962 book that launched the environmental movement.

For Vollenbroek, nitrogen is just the easiest target. Combined with Dutch and EU law, it provides the leverage he needs to force the government to act. But if he succeeds in slashing the number of animals the Dutch farm, he’ll also be tackling a far bigger problem. Agriculture, mainly meat and dairy production, is the source of 12 percent of the EU’s greenhouse gas emissions, which the bloc aims to zero out overall by 2050.

Vollenbroek’s ambition, in other words, is to change Dutch, and perhaps European, agriculture forever.

“It’s a revolution,” he said.

2. ‘How do you stay happy?’

Spend any time at all with dairy farmers and it becomes clear one thing above all defines them: motion. Each day is filled with unmissable appointments: milking, feeding, cleaning, tending to the fields. Some farmers believe the Dutch police have deliberately slowed down their protests, knowing they will eventually be forced to go home to relieve their cows’ hyperactive udders.

That relentless energy was on full display as Nanda van den Pol showed me around her family farm, around 45 kilometers southeast of Amsterdam. Her husband Harry came bounding through their 100-odd cows, grabbing my hand and pumping it up and down, chatting in effusive Dutch. Their 2-year-old son Jelte charged around the stables on a balance bike, occasionally slamming himself into the dirt. “My husband is really spicy. Someone with a lot of passion,” Van den Pol said. “When he has something in his mind, he should go all the way for it. And I really recognize that in our son. I love it about him.”

Walking with us was Vollenbroek’s shadow, threatening to bring all that activity to a halt. Their farm, which sits about 15 kilometers from a Natura 2000 area, could be in what the Dutch government has designated as “a nitrogen buffer zone” — the Van den Pols don’t know yet where the government will draw the line. That uncertainty means they can no longer get loans from the bank. In April, when the government releases its list of farms to be shut down, three generations of work and investment could immediately sink into the ground. “But right now, nobody knows,” she said. “It’s really scary.”

Later, around the table for a meal of tinned hotdogs, bread rolls and tall glasses of that morning’s milk, Van den Pol discussed their options. Some farmers in the Netherlands have switched to farming insect larvae, a protein source for pets and farm animals. But the question isn’t just about how you stay on the farm, she said, “but also how do you stay happy? And if I see the passion that Harry has for his cows, I really question if he will be so happy with insects.”

Van den Pol’s concern for her husband’s mental health isn’t casual. Dutch farmers don’t talk about their feelings, she said. (This was also the main finding in a psychological study published last year.) Faced with failure, they work harder, dialing up their perpetual motion. For some, it appears, this pace, the pressure, the solitude, the shame has been more than they were able to bear.

Farmers in the area have taken their lives, said Van den Pol. None left a letter, so no one knows if the nitrogen crisis was a factor, but there are more such deaths now than before, she said. The stories “piled up and this touched everyone in our neighborhood right in the heart.” Last summer, in Stroe, the village where her parents live, farmers gathered for a solemn ceremony, laying wreathes in a field for those who had died.

It’s difficult to obtain data on farmer suicides. The government statistics bureau said it does not keep specific records. A report for the main farming lobby, Land- en Tuinbouworganisatie (LTO Nederland), found the suicide rate in farmers was 37 percent higher in 2020 — the most recent year for which data was available — than the average of the previous seven years. Josephine Stellingwerf, a spokesperson for the LTO, said the organization did not have evidence to attribute those deaths to the nitrogen crisis and did “not want to speculate.” But the group is running outreach campaigns to better support farmers who are struggling.

Before I left, the Van den Pols prayed for my safety on the road.

3. ‘I will fight for my farm’

Eddie van Marum has personally lifted three farmers “from the rope.”

In Dutch funeral rites, the body lies in an open casket, or even in their own bed, for five working days before the funeral. When the bodies are damaged, usually due to a devastating car accident, it’s Van Marum’s job to perform repairs. When the dead person has hanged themselves, Van Marum draws down the bunched skin around the neck and does his best to disguise the bruising to make the family’s final farewell less harrowing.

In his house outside the tiny rural hamlet of Niekerk in the northeastern province of Groningen, surrounded by books on local birdlife and other creatures, Van Marum smoked a filterless cigarette. Outside, his station wagon was filled with animal traps. The walls of the hallway were marked, as if something heavy had been dragged in, or an exhausted mud-covered man had leaned as he walked.

In addition to his work for a nearby funeral home, Van Marum is the local expert on environmental regulation; he helps farmers obtain EU subsidies; he traps and kills the foxes, feral cats and martens that prey on the migratory birds farmers get grants to protect; he helps farmers file insurance claims; and, when the nitrogen crisis hit, he became their vocal advocate. He’s now running in the provincial election as a candidate for the BoerBurgerBeweging (BBB) — the FarmerCitizenMovement — a political party founded just three years ago in response to the crisis, which is now running third nationally, according to POLITICO’s Poll of Polls.

Van Marum claimed to know of ten farmers who died during the crisis and said their deaths often coincided with a new announcement from the courts or the government that went against them. In the Netherlands, where farms are passed down through families, sometimes for centuries, the weight of ancestral responsibility is an “underestimated” factor, said Van Marum. “Every time a farm is given to the son … it’s a kind of trust that the family puts into you that you can maintain this farm,” he said. He could not understand why, faced with this level of despair, Vollenbroek and MOB kept dialing up the pressure. “This organization is going over dead bodies,” he said. “It’s morally despicable.”

Van Marum drove me to introduce an old school friend of his, Omgo Nieweg, who is trying to pass his nearby dairy farm on to his 20-year-old son Willem. Nieweg outlined the dilemma faced by thousands of farmers. For decades, all the economic incentives were aimed at intensifying their farming. Under pressure from the bank to expand his production, he bought the neighboring farm in 2022 to grow his herd from 180 cows to 240. He’s deeply in debt, farming without a license, and if he’s shut down, he’ll lose everything.

Vollenbroek says he doesn’t target individual farmers. But in January 2022, MOB won an appeal against a government decision to redact the addresses of 3,500 farms that were operating without a nitrogen permit since the system was suspended. Nieweg’s dairy is on that list. Since then, MOB has launched batches of court actions, targeting 50 farms at a time, to try to force the provinces to enforce the law by shutting them down (or introduce new policies that would allow them to keep operating). So far, the provinces have been unwilling to close anyone’s farm.

Willem shrugs. If they lose the farm, they’ll go to Romania, or Germany, or Texas. But his dad is taking it harder. “Our farm is our life,” he said over coffee in his living room, surrounded by family photos and doodads dedicated to the rural idyll. “It’s not only at the barn. It lives at this table.”

He stood up and reached for a picture frame on a high shelf. Inside it is a photograph of Nieweg straight-backed against a bottle green door, crimson blood from a head wound running like a red delta down one side of his face. He’s standing still among a sprawl of men. The composition of the shot has the circular motion of a Renaissance painting. Nieweg is staring at something outside the frame with an expression that, if he turned it on you, would make you want to run away. Fast.

The image was taken during a protest in 2019, just after a tractor had forced open the door of the building housing the Groningen provincial government and Nieweg and others had been repelled by baton-wielding cops. After the photo was picked up by newspapers and television across the country, Nieweg became briefly famous. Other farmers looked to him as a leader.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said, pointing at the photo. “I’m not that man.” But after the incident, he became increasingly involved in the Farmers Defence Force (FDF), one of the more radical rural groups, organizing protests nationwide.

The years since Vollenbroek’s 2019 victory have been a blur of frustration for the Netherlands’ farmers, as the farmers’ campaign of tractor blockades and burning haystacks hasn’t resulted in a satisfying settlement with the government. As he took part in the protests, Nieweg traveled constantly. And “when I was at home,” he said, “it was in my head.” He became irritable, withdrawn. Eventually, Margriet, the mother of his four children, left him.

“I’m not an activist, I don’t want to be it,” he added. “But I will fight for my farm,” he said.

4. ‘Opposing the climate tyranny’

That fight has at times turned vicious.

Crowds of farmers surrounded the house of Christianne van der Wal, the minister for nature and nitrogen policy, three times last summer. During one protest, police lost control of the crowd. A police car was wrecked, and a truckload of manure was sprayed across the street in front of Van der Wal’s home. The minister was an hour and a half’s drive away in The Hague as her family was terrorized. “It was terrible. You can’t do anything,” she said. On another occasion in February, a mob carrying torches confronted Deputy Prime Minister Sigrid Kaag during a campaign stop. “The values ​​that unite us are under pressure,” she said later.

This anger has spurred the creation of new political forces, like Van Marum’s BBB party and Nieweg’s FDF farmers’ lobby. But it’s also created openings for familiar faces, both from the Netherlands and further abroad, who have sought to find common cause with the farmers or co-opt them into a greater, civilizational confrontation. “The Dutch farmers’ fight is our fight,” Steve Bannon, a prominent right-wing agitator and former U.S. President Donald Trump’s former adviser, said on his War Room podcast in July last year.

In a YouTube post last month, FDF Chairman Mark van den Oever announced that the national farmer protests scheduled for March 11 would be attended by the leaders of two right-wing, anti-immigration parties: Geert Wilders, the leader of the Party for Freedom who has been convicted of insulting people of Moroccan descent, and Wybren van Haga, head of Netherlands’ Interest, a spin-off of Wilders’ party. Both will speak at a rally in The Hague.

Nieweg said he planned to vote for Van Haga’s Netherlands’ Interest at the provincial elections next week, and not for Van Marum’s BBB. At this admission, the wannabe parliamentarian stormed jokingly from the room, yelling that their friendship was over. Frankly, Nieweg said, when Van Marum was gone, the BBB is not right-wing enough for his taste.

His friend’s politics notwithstanding, Van Marum has a reasonable expectation of becoming a member of the provincial parliament. The BBB has surged from nowhere to running a close third nationally behind Wilders’ Party for Freedom in second and the ruling People’s Party for Freedom and Democracy of Prime Minister Mark Rutte. The provinces affect the makeup of the national senate, meaning a big win for the BBB will give them greater power to fight the government’s nitrogen policies. Van Marum vowed to stop it from cutting herd sizes or closing farms.

Van Marum thinks the farmers are making a strategic misstep by allowing the far right to join their cause. “I don’t want to have anything to do with it,” he said. Nieweg disagreed. The alliance has attracted the kind of international spotlight the farmers could never achieve on their own. The French far-right leader Marine Le Pen has voiced her support. In a speech in Florida last summer, Trump said that “farmers in the Netherlands, of all places, are courageously opposing the climate tyranny of the Dutch government.”

Also attending on Saturday will be Eva Vlaardingerbroek. An anti-vax commentator and former member of another far-right party Forum for Democracy, she has promoted the lie that the nitrogen crisis is a front for a covert land grab, organized by the World Economic Forum, to build a 40-million-person super city stretched across the Netherlands, Belgium and western Germany. Last year, Vlaardingerbroek told Tucker Carlson’s Fox News program in the U.S. that the Dutch “government is not doing this because of a nitrogen crisis. They are doing this because they want these farmers’ land, and they want it to house new immigrants.”

Most Dutch farmers remain unconvinced by the specifics of these wild theories. But many have started to believe there might be some kernel of truth to them. Nieweg said he agreed with “a lot of things” far-right groups have to say. “But I’m afraid to be connected with it.”

Van Marum too, when we were speaking privately in his living room, allowed he was full of doubt. He sees how rural life around the world is being eroded and he’s been searching for answers in dark corners of the internet. The way farmers are being targeted by the government through the nitrogen crisis appears so extreme, he added, it’s hard not to wonder whether there is some larger agenda at play.

“You lay it together, making a puzzle,” he said. “It sometimes doesn’t fit. And that’s what makes me scared.”

5. ‘The system is going to react’

Back in his kitchen in Nijmegen, Vollenbroek is baffled by farmers who don’t see the world in his terms. “We do not want you to get out of business, but you have to change,” he tells farmers when he meets them. “We have neglected the climate and we have neglected our natural reserves all over the world.”

Vollenbroek’s efforts in the Netherlands, however, raise serious questions about how goals like his will be achieved, if what’s happening in the country is what’s required to try to reach them. Dreams frozen, marriages and lives ruined, death threats, radicalization and a country divided — this is hardly a recipe for lasting, positive change.

CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article misstated when the Van den Pols took over the farm from Harry’s father. It was shortly before the beginning of the nitrogen crisis.

Source: politico.eu