At dawn, battle-hardened soldiers crouched over steaming compost, their calloused hands – once steady on triggers – now turning compost with the same military precision. This is a scene you might see in any of the military bases in northern Sri Lanka, where just a decade back one might have witnessed a civil war between the Sri Lankan state and Tamils drawing to a brutal finale after 26 years.
This wasn’t simply an unusual military redeployment; it was a revealing case study in authoritarian environmentalism. When President Gotabaya Rajapaksa decreed an overnight transition to 100 percent organic agriculture in 2021, he didn’t merely announce a policy shift – he commandeered the nation’s food security and placed it under military supervision. The Sri Lankan Army, an institution forged in violent conflict, became the unlikely vanguard of a supposedly sustainable revolution.
The consequences exposed a dangerous paradox: environmental ideals, when implemented through military force rather than democratic consensus, can devastate the very communities they claim to protect. As rice yields plummeted and tea exports collapsed, this experiment revealed the fundamental incompatibility between coercive power and genuine sustainability. Sri Lanka’s “green revolution” demonstrated how even the most progressive environmental goals, when divorced from farmer autonomy and imposed through hierarchical control, inevitably harvest a crop of inequality, economic devastation, and democratic decay.
The Organic Decree
In April 2021, Rajapaksa – himself a former military officer – announced an immediate ban on chemical fertilizers in Sri Lanka. Overnight, a nation where 28 percent of citizens depend on agriculture for their livelihood was thrust into an experiment unprecedented in scale and speed. There was no transition period, no infrastructure preparation, and no safety net.
Within weeks, the Sri Lankan Army received a startling new assignment: produce compost. On May 16, 2021, the 5th Volunteer Sri Lanka Army Women’s Corps in Welikanda launched a project to produce 176 tons of organic fertilizer – an attempt to close the massive gap left by the ban. Soldiers typically trained for combat were abruptly redeployed to master the nuances of compost ratios, moisture levels, and bacterial cultures.
The orders came from the highest levels of military command. Then-Chief of Defense Staff and Commander of the Army Gen. Shavendra Silva directed units in the north and east to assist the government’s “green agriculture” drive. By June 2022, the Army had established a Green Agriculture Steering Committee (GASC) under Commander Lt. Gen. Vikum Liyanage, with plans to cultivate over 1,500 acres of barren state land.
The environmental rationale wasn’t entirely hollow. Overuse of chemical fertilizers has been linked – albeit controversially – to chronic kidney disease among farmers. Yet that concern quickly morphed into a justification for repression. Troops replaced civilian extension officers, and farmers lost a crucial measure of autonomy. “The Army will enlighten farmers on applying organic fertilizer,” Rajapaksa proclaimed, as though spreading compost were an extension of combat strategy.
Despite the army’s zeal – like the 663 Brigade of Kilinochchi, which aimed to produce 30 tons of compost each month – the reality was staggering. Sri Lanka had imported 1.26 million metric tons of chemical fertilizers annually before the ban. Because compost is far less nutrient-dense, experts estimated the country would need up to 15 million metric tons of organic material to match previous yields. Even the most valiant efforts from the newly anointed Green Brigades couldn’t bridge that chasm.
But what happens when the institution designed to defeat enemies becomes responsible for nurturing growth?
The Authoritarian Garden
This sudden conscription of the military into agricultural service wasn’t born in a vacuum. Since defeating Tamil separatists in 2009, Sri Lanka’s military has methodically colonized civilian domains – tourism, construction, urban development, pandemic response. In the Tamil-majority Northern Province, the ratio approaches one soldier for every two civilians in some districts, making it among the most militarized regions on earth.
The organic mandate provided perfect cover for further expansion. Under the banner of “food security,” the military seized an additional 1,500 acres of “barren or abandoned” land – often property whose Tamil or Muslim owners had been displaced during the war. At army farms in Palaly, Jaffna, where civilians once cultivated rice and vegetables, soldiers now grow chilies on occupied land and distribute the harvest to markets.
The transformation wasn’t just about fertilizer – it was a radical redefinition of civil-military relations. In Weli Oya, soldiers became agricultural overseers, roaming through fields to ensure farmers complied with the ban. “If we don’t watch over these people, the first thing they do is leave,” a senior officer admitted. It’s a telling statement: the Army wasn’t merely seizing land; it was ensuring that farmers remained on site, under strict surveillance. Uprooting entire communities might consolidate territory, but it would also deprive the military of a captive labor force that keeps local economies running. By keeping people in place – yet beholden to the Army for seeds, fertilizer, and permission to harvest – soldiers wove themselves into the fabric of daily life.
In practice, this amounted to cultivation at gunpoint. A Tamil woman farmer summed it up starkly: “Everyone knows everyone’s business here. If you let off a fart in your house, they’ll hear it in the next one.” What officials called “farm education” quickly became a pretext for constant patrolling. The paradox is striking: farmland – traditionally a space of growth and sustenance – turned into an instrument of power, a means to enforce dependence on military resources and authority. Rather than driving everyone out, the army kept farmers close, tightening its grip on both the soil and the people who work it. In doing so, the state’s “organic revolution” veered dangerously close to an act of repression – where intimidation trumped innovation.
The Harvest of Desperation
The results? Yields plummeted 30-40 percent across rice paddies and tea plantations. Food prices soared. Rural incomes collapsed. By 2022, the policy had helped catalyze Sri Lanka’s worst economic crisis since independence, propelling millions into poverty and eventually driving Rajapaksa from office.
Most devastatingly, the military-led transition deepened existing inequalities. Tamil and Muslim farmers are significantly more dependent on rainfed agriculture than their Sinhalese counterparts, making them disproportionately vulnerable to yield reductions without chemical inputs. When those same farmers sought assistance, they encountered soldiers – not agronomists – manning the distribution centers for organic fertilizer.
Command-and-Control Ecology
As climate chaos intensifies globally, Sri Lanka’s experiment offers a chilling preview of how governments might respond to environmental emergencies. Will ecological imperatives become the latest justification for expanded military control over civilian domains? Are we willing to sacrifice democratic oversight to achieve “green” or “organic” goals?
The allure of military efficiency in crisis is seductive. Armies mobilize rapidly, command vast resources, and ensure compliance through force if necessary. But when warriors become environmental stewards, what happens to local knowledge, farmer consent, and community ownership?
The fundamental contradiction in Sri Lanka’s approach wasn’t its organic aspiration, but its martial implementation. Sustainability cannot emerge from command structures designed for combat. Ecological regeneration requires collaboration, not compliance; adaptation, not adherence to orders.
As governments worldwide confront climate catastrophe, the temptation to deploy uniforms instead of democratic processes will grow stronger. Sri Lanka’s failed experiment stands as a warning: we cannot shoot our way to sustainability.
True ecological transformation, like farming itself, requires patience, dialogue, and above all, the humility to acknowledge that those closest to the land – not those carrying weapons – hold the wisdom we need to survive.