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regenerative agriculture
Soil, Not Oil
Petrochemical fertilizers built modern agriculture. The Iran War may be what finally breaks it—and opens the door to something better.
May 05, 2026
As the US-Israel war in Iran drags on, here at home, the billions spent on the war and the spiking gas prices drive the political conversation. The impacts on world food supplies could be far more consequential, though, raising questions about our dependence on globally traded chemical fertilizers—and about the alternatives.
Depending on Industrial Agriculture
The global food system relies on massive applications of petrochemicals, and up to 30% of fertilizer trade comes through the Strait of Hormuz. With the exception of pre-industrial and organic or regenerative practices, the world’s agriculture relies on these chemicals, making them vulnerable to price shocks and supply constraints.
Nitrogen fertilizer prices have climbed by 30% since the initial attack on Iran on February 28; urea prices have increased by 47%. Seventy percent of farmers responding to an American Farm Bureau survey say they are unable to afford all the fertilizer they need. Meanwhile, farm diesel prices have increased 46% since the end of February.
The effects of these price shocks take time to ripple through the planting and harvesting season, but they will likely show up as higher prices, along with empty store shelves, and—especially in impoverished regions—hungry children. Farmers are already making tough choices about what, and if, to plant given the colliding impacts of tariffs, extreme weather related to climate change, and the ongoing blockade of the Strait of Hormuz.
The Iran war’s fertilizer choke hold is just one reason regenerative agriculture deserves our active support.
“Every fossil fuel crisis reminds us how vulnerable conventional agriculture is,” says Gabrielle Taus, managing director of the nonprofit group Commonland. "Farmers tied to synthetic fertilisers are exposed to price shocks they cannot control.”
Converging Shocks
These price spikes come just at a time when farmers are also being squeezed by President Donald Trump’s tariffs and by a chaotic climate. Much of the West and Southeast US is under drought emergency conditions. The Midwest has been hit by storms and extreme temperature fluctuations. The journal Nature Climate Change estimates that human-caused climate change has already reduced agricultural productivity by 20%.
These converging shocks are adding to interest in regenerative agriculture. While the definition of this form of agriculture varies—and the term can sometimes be used for greenwashing—regenerative agriculture relies on the resources at hand (or under foot) to nourish the soil, instead of purchasing fertilizer from global petrochemical corporations. By combining age-old techniques of cover crops and crop rotation, compost, and animal husbandry, the soil is nourished, not depleted, and it is better able to retain moisture. Unlike corporate farming, this form of agriculture offers a buffer from global conflicts and trade wars and the impacts of climate change. And the farmers who adopt this approach develop an understanding of how to best manage farms that can thrive in a particular place. And their practices could contribute to revitalizing not only fresh water sources and ecosystems but also the vitality of hollowed-out rural communities.
A Different Relationship to the Land
Many experts question whether regenerative agriculture can actually take the place of industrial agriculture. A decades-long study by the Rodale Institute, which advocates for organic methods, suggests that with skill and persistence, these techniques work. Their side-by-side plots in Kutztown, Pennsylvania compared regenerative practices, including cover cropping, crop rotation, and composting, with conventional agriculture. The result was yields up to 30% higher for sustainable methods during extreme weather, profits that were 3-6 times higher overall, the use of 45% less energy—and 40% lower carbon emissions.
The work of the farmers also shifts, from using massive machinery and one-size-fits-all industrial farming methods, to the sort of deep knowledge that comes from knowing the microclimate, soil conditions, and water supplies of a particular place.
Regenerative farms become a productive and integrated part of not only the natural ecosystem but the social system.
Among young farmers, regenerative practices are already taking hold. According to the National Young Farmers Coalition's 2022 survey of more than 10,000 farmers age 40 and younger, 86% already describe their practices as regenerative. With the average age of today’s farmers at 58 years old, a new generation of farmers will have a major say in how tomorrow’s crops are raised.
Matt Turino, who manages the Sustainable Farm at the University of Illinois campus in Champaign Urbana, works with students who are learning the skills of sustainable and regenerative farming. “They talk a lot about growing food in their communities, resilient food production, changing the food systems so they’re not relying on international markets and big international disruptions like the Strait of Hormuz situation,” he said. They want a more ecologically minded food system, he added, that is healthy for their families and for the environment.
These practices could offer the next generation a livelihood that artificial intelligence cannot replace and that distant wars and blockades cannot upend.
The Alternative Already Underway
Soil health is key to any farming. Regenerative practices enhance the microorganisms, organic content, and nutrients that comprise a healthy soil ecosystem. These practices not only result in higher yields, crops that are better able to resist disease and pests, and better water retention—they also enable soil to pull carbon out of the air and form it into a healthy part of the soil ecosystem.
Agriculture is responsible for about a third of all human-caused greenhouse gas emissions. Addition of nitrogen fertilizer to croplands is a powerful source of climate pollution, but regenerative approaches can actually store carbon deep in the soil, reducing the amount of carbon in the atmosphere. And these approaches avoid the fish-killing algae blooms and cancer clusters suspected to be caused by nitrogen fertilizer runoff.
At a time when fresh water is becoming scarce as a result of overuse and drought, regenerative approaches increase the capacity of soils to hold water and to prevent the erosion and flooding that results from compacted soils. For every 1% increase in soil organic matter, soil is able to hold 20,000 gallons more per acre, according to the US Department of Agriculture.
Many regenerative farmers raise animals along with crops. Rotational grazing and the use of manure helps build soil health. This is a marked contrast to today’s giant animal factory farms, where workers are poorly paid and at risk of injury, and animals are penned up inhumane conditions, while overflows of manure threaten fresh water supplies.
Regenerative farms become a productive and integrated part of not only the natural ecosystem but the social system.
Knowledge Is the Foundation
Regenerative farming offers the intriguing possibility of ecosystem recovery and the recovery of rural communities.
For decades, the growth of industrial farming has pushed out small and medium-sized farms. Especially hard hit are farms owned by African American and Latino families. As a few giant landowners manage farms that once provided livelihoods to many smaller farm families, rural communities across the United States have been hollowed out. As farms are sold off, the local farm supply stores, mechanics, veterinarians, insurance brokers, schools, and restaurants that once served farm families closed up.
The competitive advantage of a regenerative farmer is their deep knowledge—not the adoption of one-size-fits-all chemical regimes and expensive technology. They learn the sorts of skills and wisdom our farming ancestors had. Regenerative practices require an understanding of particular microclimates, water availability, and soil conditions. The farmer must learn to choose seed varieties and to implement practices that optimize for human and ecological health as well as for economics.
If anything positive emerges from the war in Iran, it could be the expanded awareness that we do have choices about the future of agriculture.
“The particular knowledge of particular places is beyond the competence of any centralized power or authority,” writes Kentucky farmer and poet Wendell Berry in his book, What Are People For? (Counterpoint Press 1990) “Farmers must tend farms that they know and love… using tools and methods that they know and love, in the company of neighbors that they know and love.”
“We uplift the honor and dignity of labor,” say the creators of Soulfire Farm, an Afro-Indigenous community farm and training center located in upstate New York. “We center the sharing of practical, tangible, land-based skills that contribute to community self-provisioning and self-determination. With wise effort, our work is our love made visible.”
The Iran war’s fertilizer choke hold is just one reason regenerative agriculture deserves our active support. Regenerative farming can prevent the pollution of increasingly scarce fresh water resources, rebuild depleted soil, and slow climate change. These practices are more resilient and able to adapt to weather shocks, and they provide a source of stable employment at a time when jobs of all sorts are being displaced by AI. And with permanent farm employment come the opportunities for families to once again inhabit and rebuild hollowed-out rural communities.
It is hard work, and unlikely to make anyone rich. But regenerative farmers and ranchers say “their notion of ‘success’ goes beyond yield and farm size,” according to Lara Bryant, at the Natural Resources Defense Council, an environmental group. “It includes things like joy and happiness, the number of families they feed, watching how the land regenerates and flourishes, the money saved from not purchasing chemical inputs, the debt avoided by repurposing old equipment, and the relationships built with community members.”
If anything positive emerges from the war in Iran, it could be the expanded awareness that we do have choices about the future of agriculture.
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Trust, Land, and Community Under the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act
Farmers in California's San Joaquin Valley need enough support to turn a forced transition into a livable one, where they can afford to retire acres while still keeping a foothold in agriculture and in their communities.
Apr 14, 2026
Until three years ago, AW, who requested that only his initials be used for identification purposes, was an almond farmer. Now, he’s a grass farmer. AW farms in Tulare County, California, the heart of the San Joaquin Valley and California’s most productive agricultural region, the source of more than half of the produce the nation consumes. Five years ago, he was growing almonds across his 300 acres, a profitable crop that sold at a high value on the market. Now, he’s growing cover crop, a mix of various grasses intended to keep the soil on his land healthy, but that doesn’t bring in income anywhere close to what AW was making when he was growing almonds.
Why did AW make this switch? Not out of choice, but out of necessity. California agriculture is tied to the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act (SGMA), a bill passed in 2014 with the goal of reducing groundwater overdraft throughout the state, an agriculture-driven environmental hazard that is depleting aquifers and causing subsidence. The main tension behind SGMA is that the act is expected to cause between 500,000 to 1 million acres of San Joaquin Valley agricultural land to come out of production before 2040, and the act does not come with a built-in support system to help farmers figure out what to do with their land when agriculture is no longer an option. Neither SGMA nor the Valley farmers who it’s hurting the most are at fault—farmers are simply employing decades old agricultural practices to meet national food demand and SGMA is simply trying to preserve the state’s water resources.
AW is one of the first farmers to feel the impacts of SGMA fully realized on his land. SGMA, although passed more than a decade ago, is just now taking hold across the state, and farmers are now faced with the difficult choice of farming under restrictions and the potential of facing fines, or not farming at all. The state’s agricultural economy is at a major influx point—how farmers, communities, organizations, and the government react to the challenges that are about to descend onto this region will influence how the agricultural industry survives and takes shape for the coming decades.
In the media and in public conversation, farmers are often portrayed as anti-environmental, shortsighted, and profit driven. But through interviews I conducted with over 30 San Joaquin Valley farmers about their experiences with SGMA, I found something different: people confronting extreme change, often alone, trying to make difficult decisions for the good of their families, their business, land, and their futures. Almost every farmer I spoke to described feelings of isolation as neighbors compete for water and limited state funding, and as collaboration and trust erode. Outside of a handful of small pools of money and technical assistance that have been rolled out by the California state government, there has been lacking wide-scale institutional support for farmers seeking to change land uses.
If we give people like AW the tools and backing to make this shift, the San Joaquin Valley can move from a story of loss to a blueprint for how rural communities across the country can adapt to a hotter, drier future.
To fill this void, California requires the scaling up of solutions that will help farmers remain in the agricultural industry while taking advantage of this wide-scale shift in the agricultural landscape to increase sustainability and prioritize the environment in their decisions and actions. Organizations based in the region, such as The Nature Conservancy, River Partners, and Sequoia Riverlands Trust, are working on a small scale to do just that.
These organizations aim to protect and preserve both habitat and agriculture in the San Joaquin Valley region while helping farmers navigate the landscape of SGMA. They work on habitat restoration projects, assisting farmers with conservation easements, and are constantly innovating on how to make certain solutions more economically viable for farmers. Alongside academic research partners, these research organizations are also exploring how to make certain aspects of agriculture more viable, such as an expansion of regenerative agriculture in the region, which would offer a path forward that ties farmers’ livelihoods to rebuilding soil, recharging groundwater, and restoring habitat and turning today’s crisis into a long-term investment in a healthier, more resilient food system. This work serves as a model of the support systems that need to be wheeled out at a much larger scale in order for farmers, the economy, and the environment to thrive under this set of new regulations. Its spirit of collective undertaking is exactly what the San Joaquin Valley needs now as it navigates the upheaval of SGMA.
What AW needs to help him navigate his transition from farming almonds is what the Valley needs: enough support to turn a forced transition into a livable one, where farmers can afford to retire acres while still keeping a foothold in agriculture and in their communities. That will require sustained investment in on-the-ground organizations, dedicated funding for land transition and habitat restoration, and policies that treat farmers not as villains, but as partners in reshaping one of America’s most important food-producing regions. If we give people like AW the tools and backing to make this shift, the San Joaquin Valley can move from a story of loss to a blueprint for how rural communities across the country can adapt to a hotter, drier future, bringing with them the promise of sustainability.
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Bad Bunny Turned the Super Bowl Into a Call for Land Sovereignty
Bad Bunny didn’t just choose a lush set design. He intentionally made history visible, reminding millions of viewers that colonial power doesn’t only claim territory, it reorganizes our whole environment.
Mar 09, 2026
On the world’s biggest stage, amid fireworks and spectacle, there stood the crop that enriched empires while eroding Puerto Rico’s land, labor, and sovereignty.
When Bad Bunny opened his halftime performance walking through what looked like a living sugarcane field, millions simply saw a striking stage design. But those of us involved in agricultural communities saw a protest.
The Link Between Land, Culture, and Self-Determination
Sugarcane once powered Puerto Rico’s economy. Under Spanish rule and later as a territory of the United States, vast plantations consumed the island’s most fertile lands. Once diverse farming systems created by Taíno Indigenous communities gave way to monocultures designed for export. As with all colonial systems, wealth made in Puerto Rico has long flowed outward while the ecological and social costs remain for local people to have to bear.
Across colonized lands, colonial agriculture prioritized single crops for distant markets at the expense of ecological and social prosperity and resilience—a historical legacy that today ripples through communities and commodity markets. In Puerto Rico, as in other Latin American and Caribbean countries—including my own home country, Mexico—forests were cleared and watersheds were destabilized to power the colonial economic machine. Soil health declined. Local communities' cultural ties to land were fractured, and, without power over local resources anymore, they could no longer steward landscapes as they once did. In Puerto Rico, US policies favoring industrialization over agriculture from the early 20th century onward were the final straw. Although Puerto Rico once produced most of its own food on the island, it now imports over 80%.
The image of sugarcane at the Super Bowl reminds us that land is political. It carries memories of exploitation, resilience, and identity.
What appear today as “degraded land” and disempowered communities are the ecological and social residue of economic models designed for extraction. So, in a very real sense, Bad Bunny didn’t just choose a lush set design. He intentionally made history visible, reminding millions of viewers that colonial power doesn’t only claim territory, it reorganizes our whole environment and, in doing so, reshapes culture, labor, and identity itself.
For many Puerto Ricans, the performance summoned the figure of the jíbaro—the smallholder farmer of the island’s mountainous interior, living from and with the land during colonial rule. More than a rural archetype, the jíbaro is a cultural touchstone, carried through generations in music, poetry, and oral tradition. They represent resilience and dignity, and an enduring bond between people and place—a vision of land not as commodity, but as home, heritage, and self-determination. Framed within Bad Bunny’s creative vision, land is not an asset class: It is identity and community.
Restoring Nature-Positive Farming Traditions Isn’t a Luxury—It’s Basic Risk-Management
Modern agricultural practices, many rooted in colonialism, have long degraded land by plundering natural ecosystems and extracting their value, often concentrating ownership in a few powerful hands. This has left us in a dire situation: At least 40% of the world’s land is now degraded, driving increasing food and water insecurity, contributing to climate change, and fueling climate migration.
To ensure our future on the planet, we must urgently prioritize land restoration and transitioning to regenerative agricultural practices. But for restoration to work, the governance model colonialism installed must be inverted. Landscapes cannot be regenerated without local decision-making power. Ecological repair and political agency go hand in hand.
As climate pressures intensify and public budgets shrink, we are seeing governments and businesses alike continue to act like ecological and social resilience is a luxury, an add-on after economic profit has been achieved. But safeguarding agricultural and ecological heritage, and placing power in the hands of local communities to be able to do this on their own terms, is a scientifically sound investment in economic resilience.
If we are serious about healing degraded landscapes—in Puerto Rico, in Mexico, across Latin America and the Caribbean, and beyond—we must ensure that the finance being used to restore does not become a new form of enclosure.
Research shows us that when communities have ownership and governance over local resources, restoration lasts. Yes, this demands real upfront investment—in soil, water, agroforestry, local enterprise, and strong community institutions. But the returns are massive: Every dollar invested in restoration can generate up to $30 in benefits.
If finance continues to channel value outward while communities carry the risk, we simply repackage (neo)colonialism in a greener language. Restoration funding must, therefore, anchor ownership and governance locally, positioning communities as architects of change, not passive recipients. And there are models already demonstrating what this can look like.
In Mexico’s Sierra Gorda, the Grupo Ecológico Sierra Gorda (GESG) has built a system where conservation and livelihoods are inseparable. Working alongside the state government, GESG has designed and implemented a public policy within the Sierra Gorda Biosphere Reserve where "forest owners" are compensated to steward forests, manage grazing responsibly, and protect biodiversity.
In simple terms, communities receive compensation for maintaining ecosystems that provide measurable public benefits—carbon sequestration, clean water, biodiversity conservation. Instead of extracting value from the land, value is generated by caring for it.
In the Sierra Gorda Biosphere Reserve, more than 300 people directly benefit from a PES (payment for ecosystem services) program covering over 14,000 hectares. GESG operates through a co-management model between civil society and the federal government, grounded in strong local participation and recognition. The goal is not short-term subsidy, but long-term institutional self-sufficiency through sub-national public policy—creating funding streams that sustain conservation while advancing community-led development.
It is a powerful example of conservation that reinforces, rather than erodes, local sovereignty. But PES alone cannot finance restoration at landscape scale; this requires a different kind of financial architecture. Regenerative blended finance offers one pathway. By combining public funds, philanthropic capital, and private investment, it can reduce risk and unlock larger flows of capital for landscape recovery. When designed well, blended finance mechanisms can accelerate ecological restoration while (and by) giving communities control.
A regeneratively-designed blended finance model treats communities as owners and co-investors, not beneficiaries. It embeds social and ecological returns alongside financial ones. It builds local financial capacity, enabling communities to negotiate, manage, and reinvest capital themselves, and strengthens local institutions so landscapes can ultimately generate their own sustainable revenue.
The image of sugarcane at the Super Bowl reminds us that land is political. It carries memories of exploitation, resilience, and identity. If we are serious about healing degraded landscapes—in Puerto Rico, in Mexico, across Latin America and the Caribbean, and beyond—we must ensure that the finance being used to restore does not become a new form of enclosure. Only then will restoration break from the patterns of the past.Keep ReadingShow Less
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