GREEN GOLD: MAKING MONEY AND FIGHTING DEFORESTATION WITH YERBA MATE

GREEN GOLD

MAKING MONEY AND FIGHTING DEFORESTATION WITH YERBA MATE

Kendrick Foster Senior Solicits Editor

Oscar Brun shares his “mate” drink, made from yerba mate leaves, with a work colleague. Buenos Aires, Argentina. March 2020.

The Misiones province in Argentina has a bit of a problem. As several local newspapers have reported, thefts of the province’s main agricultural commodity, often referred to simply as “the green leaf” or “green gold,” have risen, and authorities, despite making several arrests, are at a loss.

Misiones is not a hotbed of the coca trade, but rather a center of production for one of Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay’s most beloved commodities: yerba mate, the leaves used to prepare a herbal infusion called mate. As a Paraguayan villager told Harvard’s ReVista, drinking mate “is such an intrinsic part of us that you really don’t think about it until somebody else points it out.” However, unlike other caffeinated drinks like Italian coffees and Chinese teas, mate has not largely made it past the Southern Cone and into the United States’ globalized drink palate, likely because it is an acquired taste: one self-described “reluctant” mate drinker described it as a mix of “green tea and coffee, with hints of tobacco and oak.”

Yet mate’s global popularity has finally started to increase in the last decade or so. Entrepreneurs have started to tap into the growing American market for alternative teas—and into Gen Z’s preference for more ecologically and socially conscious products—with shade-grown yerba mate. Since mate production provides an economic incentive to reforest the Atlantic rainforest in Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay, these emerging companies demonstrate how ecological restoration and profit can go hand in hand.

Ecology of Mate Production

Yerba mate has been around a long time. Sixteenth-century Spanish colonizers in Paraguay marvelled at how the indigenous Guaraní people who imbibed the infusion could work longer and harder than them. After the Guaraní ignored a 1616 ban of the green leaf, Jesuit missionaries noticed its value to their indigenous laborers and planted it alongside other agricultural commodities at their missions; it soon became a valuable export commodity for the missionaries, who could claim a tax exemption to the chagrin of profit-seeking Paraguayan merchants. After Spanish monarch Carlos III, who wanted to reduce the church’s influence in the Spanish realms, expelled the Jesuits, they abandoned their plantations, although Paraguayans still harvested the natural stands that grew in the Atlantic rainforest.

Large-scale plantation agriculture did not return until the 1890s, when a massive influx of European immigrants—German, Ukrainian, Polish, and others—arrived in Argentina and Brazil’s yerba mate belt. German colonists in the area astutely noticed that they would have to adopt crops already adapted to the soil and climatic conditions in order to survive, and mate fit the bill perfectly. By 1915, the plantation system had become widespread in Misiones, and Argentina overtook Brazil and Paraguay as the largest producer of mate. After all, plantation agriculture had double the yields of solely exploiting the native forests.

While plantation agriculture increases production, it also has an ecological cost. As with other deforested ecosystems, yerba mate plantations are more exposed to soil erosion and degradation, which poor soil management practices exacerbate. Unsurprisingly, abandoned mate plantations have lower levels of nitrogen and phosphorus than the virgin ecosystem.

Such an extractive model, though, is unsustainable. As a result, yerba mate planters have gradually started adopting an agroforestry model, which involves growing other trees alongside the mate trees. While this model decreases the productivity of plantations when viewed alone, the ecosystem as a whole benefits because the other trees provide shade for the mate trees that helps the leaves to retain more nutrients and flavor, additional organic material which improve soil moisture, and another root system to prevent erosion. Intercropping with Paraná pine, for instance, reduced soil erosion and moisture loss while improving soil fertility. When managed sustainably, such intercropping can also help farmers diversify their plots with another source of income— primarily timber and fruit—and contribute to the reforestation of the Atlantic rainforest.

Putting Trees in “Paper Parks” That rainforest, largely coexistent with the mate belt, has seen better days: across Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay, it has lost more than 93 percent of its land cover. While mate planta tions have certainly contrib

uted to deforestation, other culprits have emerged in the past ten years: soybean production and cattle ranching. Argentina and Paraguay both rank within the top five soybean exporters by value, and rising demand for both products has driven rapid expansion into the Atlantic rainforest. In Paraguay alone, soybeans and beef exports comprise 90 percent of combined exports, meaning that the country is dependent on just a few commodities—commodities that also drive deforestation.

To combat this deforestation, international NGOs have seized upon agroforestry as a sustainable and income-generating solution, and shade-grown yerba mate is a primary example. For instance, the World Wildlife Fund started a program in 2001 to create forest corridors that linked previously fragmented forest areas by using yerba mate to secure the buy-in of local communities and funding local female-owned cooperatives such as La Hoja Completa. Around the same time, local cooperative Titrayju sprung up to benefit the indigenous community with organic and eco-friendly production practices. Guyra Paraguay, meanwhile, bought 7,000 hectares of land within San Rafael National Park, regarded as a “paper park” within the country, to develop shade-grown mate agriculture alongside several indigenous communities. Finally, Fundación Moisés Bertoni seeded 856 hectares with around 1.3 million mate seedlings as part of a broader World Bank project to reforest the Paraná rainforest.

These programs have largely succeeded in preserving existing forest habitat because they reduce the economic incentives for deforestation; destroying a forest that already has an income-generating activity makes little economic sense. At the same time, agroforestry projects that plant trees can slowly yet surely reforest areas that were once exclusively yerba mate plantations and add new habitat for local wildlife. Whether farmers plant mate plants in previously existing forests or new trees to augment previous mate plantations, both options create new carbon sinks as well, since mate and shade trees both take carbon out of the atmosphere. And of course, the projects generated income for the local community, especially women and indigenous people.

A New Way to Caffeinate

Even while yerba mate is increasingly becoming the solution to an ecological crisis in the mate belt, its demand abroad has started to increase. That ecological role, in turn, plays a central role in an increasingly savvy marketing campaign by companies espousing principles of “market-driven regeneration.” Profit is definitely on these companies’ minds, but ultimately, the story of mate shows how profit and environmentalism are not mutually incompatible.

In 1996, a group of five Californian friends founded Guayaki, widely recognized as the pioneer of this model. Having founded the company right out of college, Guayaki’s founders seized on college students, with their insatiable desire for caffeine, as a key market by using the tried-and-true technique of collegiate brand ambassadors. Beyond marketing its triple bottom line of social, environmental, and financial performance, the company touts mate’s benefits, especially when compared to coffee or other energy drinks: a more balanced stimulant effect with more natural antioxidants than coffee and fewer artificial chemicals than energy drinks. It also helps that its products are not straight yerba mate, but sparkling beverages with mate as a key ingredient instead.

That marketing campaign has paid off, especially as the markets for organic products, healthy beverages, and “exotic” flavors have started to expand. Campus papers at the University of California-San Diego and Occidental College reported that mate had become a staple at dining halls and off-campus convenience stores. As one Occidental student said, “Every day I will see someone in class with a drink.” Guayaki now makes more than US$40 million a year in sales, and the company reported that it had sold 390,000 cans across 171 universities in 2017 and 2018.

The company’s two other bottom lines have prospered as well. It has stewarded more than 81,000 acres of rainforest, planted 8,800 native trees, and created 670 jobs that paid a living wage of around 2.3 million guaranís (US$357) per month since organic, shade-grown mate can fetch two to three times the yield per pound than plantation-grown mate. These increased wages are critical in a region where the average farmer makes far less than that.

Paola Garcia walks past herbal “mate” mugs at the shop where she works in Buenos Aires, Argentina. March 2020.

Other companies have emulated Guayaki’s sustainable business model and have started to compete with it. Mi Mate, founded by students at UCSD, follows it almost to the letter, purchasing its mate from an independent farm that pays its workers a living wage and has contributed to the construction of local schools. Eco Teas also specializes in organic mate, and Clean Cause uses 50 percent of its profits to support teens recovering from drug addiction. Others have seized upon the product but not necessarily the mission: teaRIOT has incorporated a mate flavor into one of its drinks, German brand ClubMate has developed a matebased soft drink, and even Pepsi has its own mate brand. Yerba mate is “green gold” for more than just Argentines.

That status has attracted some criticism, which highlights the neoliberalism inherent in “exotic” marketing and the dubious ethics of white men profiting off an indigenous commodity. These arguments certainly make a valid point, given the long history of U.S. companies profiting off Latin American commodities. However, they also ignore the lengths companies like Guayaki and Mi Mate have gone to consult the indigenous communities involved, fund projects of actual interest to the community, and pay far more than market price for mate. Indeed, both Argentine and indigenous growers alike appreciate the company’s focus on environmental consciousness and the extra income the mate provides.

The Future of Yerba Mate

With international companies getting on the mate bandwagon, yerba mate looks destined for a future more oriented towards the Global North than the Global South. Overall, it seems that this commodity—previously limited by its small geographic range only in the Southern Cone—will become yet another local taste adapted for a global audience. Two trends will likely continue as mate continues its path of globalization. First, young people will lead the craze as they search for new and exciting beverages that still have social and environmental benefits. Second, straight yerba mate will not be the bestseller; rather, mixed beverages with mate as a component will succeed, since consumers generally dislike its otherwise strong taste.

This increasing global demand for mate will have local benefits, but only if more companies adopt the agroforestry model that Guayakí has adopted and pay attention to local and indigenous concerns. It will be a slow battle—after all, neither shade trees nor mate trees spring up overnight. But with the Atlantic rainforest and local livelihoods at stake, it is a battle worth fighting. H

Sudanese psychologist Sulima Ishaq Sharif listens during an interview with a victim of rape. Khartoum, Sudan. January 2020.

THE WOMEN’S REVOLUTION

FEMALE ACTIVISM IN SUDAN Sydney Young Staff Writer

After 30 years of military rule under an oppressive dictatorship, Sudan finally overthrew its President, Omar al-Bashir, in April 2019. Throughout his rule, al-Bashir was responsible for widespread rights abuses. He sent child soldiers along with militias to fight the war in Yemen. In the Darfur region of Sudan, he killed between 200,000 to 400,000 people in his ethnic cleansing campaign against the non-Arab population and allowed the military to rape the civilian population. He also allowed the military to bomb villages during his anti-insurgent campaign in South Sudan.

Women, in particular, had to endure years of injustice under al-Bashir’s rule. In 1996, alBashir passed the Public Order laws that prohibited women from violating certain dress codes and standards of behavior. For example, women could be whipped for choosing to wear pants or not covering their hair, and they were not allowed to spend time with any non-relative man. Additionally, Sudan has one of the highest rates of female genital mutilation (FGM) in the world, and Sudanese

law allows fathers to force their daughters to marry as young as age 10.

The end of al-Bashir’s rule is a significant step in combating these widespread rights abuses. Notably, this victory would not have been possible without opposition activists, especially women, who constituted 70 percent of the protestors.

A 2016 report from Human Rights Watch titled “‘Good Girls Don’t Protest’: Repression and Abuse of Women Human Rights Defenders, Activists, and Protestors in Sudan” indicated that Sudanese authorities have historically silenced women activists with libel and rape threats. In light of these attempts to silence women activists and render them invisible to the public eye, it is critical to document and share their stories. Doing so ensures that women are not solely portrayed as the passive victims of oppressive regimes, but as individuals who actively drive change.

A Timeline of Resistance

The protests in recent years were not the only time that alBashir saw political unrest since the beginning of his rule in 1989. It is helpful to place these attempts at resistance in the context of a broader historical timeline. After al-Bashir assumed power, he instituted Sharia law in Sudan. This decision ultimately created a source of tension between Sudan’s northern Muslim population and its southern Christian population. When non-Arabs started to rise up against al-Bashir’s dictatorial rule in 2003, he launched a campaign of ethnic cleansing.

In response to these longstanding tensions, South Sudan seceded in July 2011, taking ownership of the majority of Sudan’s oil fields. As a result of rising commodity prices, more protests broke out in January 2018. When these protests evolved into resistance against al-Bashir himself, the government cracked down on the opposition, marking the beginning of Sudan’s Third Revolution.

When protestors gathered in front of the military headquarters in Khartoum, the capital of Sudan, the government responded violently, cutting off access to social media and killing many protestors. The army finally arrested and overthrew al-Bashir in a coup on April 11, 2019. Afterward, the Transitional Military Council (TMC) took control of the government and was met with further resistance from protestors who wanted to establish democracy in the country. Just as al-Bashir had responded violently to protests, so did the TMC, which sent troops to attack the opposition. It was not until July 5 that the TMC announced that civilians and the military would share power over the next few years. They signed this power sharing agreement in August 2019 and formed the sovereign council, a new ruling body. This political transition, made possible by many women protestors, has been referred to as the “Women’s Revolution.”

The Stories of Sudan’s Female Activists

Women played an instrumental role in the protests leading up to the overthrow of al-Bashir on April 11. These female activists hoped to overturn the many discriminatory laws against women and promote gender equality in Sudan. These efforts should not be misread as attempts to criticize Islam. Rather, women were criticizing how the government used religion to oppress its citizens. “They imprisoned us in the name of religion, burned us in the name of religion,” said one 22-year-old protestor, Alaa Salah. “But Islam is innocent. Islam tells us to speak up and fight against tyrants…the bullet doesn’t kill. What kills is the silence of the people.”

Women like Salah refused to remain silent in the face of state-sanctioned gender discrimination under al-Bashir, using protest as a way to challenge his regime. The government responded to their efforts with violence and targeted female activists. “Break the girls, because if you break the girls, you break the men,” said one official. According to protestor Rifga Abdelrahman, some women were “beaten up, their hair shaved off, insulted, treated in a way that no Sudanese girl should be treated.” One protestor, Wifaq Quraishi, recalled how soldiers forced her to undress and then photographed her, threatening to use the pictures as blackmail. However, the stories of women like Quraishi are not narratives of victimhood. Quraishi’s choice to share her story should be seen as a reclamation of agency—a way to assert her own personhood in the face of a government that attempted to silence her.

Despite the military’s violent response, many women have taken a similar path as Quraishi

and refused to be silenced. Another protestor, Lina Marwan, was at a protest when she was arrested, taken to jail, and beaten with sticks. Despite her experience at the hands of the military, she continued protesting, participating in the demonstrations in Khartoum. Marwan reflected on one of her memories from the protests, when one of her friends’ fathers—who had previously been opposed to his daughter’s participation in the protests—came to join them in the demonstrations: “at that moment, they were fighting for the same thing” and “they weren’t afraid anymore.” One woman, Khadija Saleh, had been abroad for six years, but she still returned in order to participate in the protests: “I came back from a safer place because I want a better future for this country.”

While women like Saleh and Marwan participated directly in the protests, other women found different ways to contribute. For example, one grandmother, Awadia Mahmoud Koko, persuaded a group of restaurants and tea vendors to donate food to the protests. She then oversaw a group of female volunteers who cooked food for the protests in Khartoum. Another woman, Khalda Saber, who worked at a primary school at the time of the revolution, contributed to the revolution by inspiring teachers to join the protests: “I was telling them that there is nothing to lose, compared with what we have already lost. I was telling them that we have to take to the streets, demonstrate and express our rejection to what’s happening,” she said. Even though she was arrested, detained, and beaten by security officers, eventually spending 40 days in detention, Saber still joined the protests at the military headquarters in Khartoum. It was the unrelenting dedication of women like Salah, Abdelrahman, Marwan, Saleh, Quraishi, Koko, and Sabar that gave Sudan’s Third Revolution its nickname: The Women’s Revolution. Sharing their stories is a way to pay respect to their efforts and challenge the notion that men are the primary drivers of revolutionary change.

The Transitional Government

In the wake of the revolution, the transitional government has repealed some of the discriminatory laws that were in place under al-Bashir. Since his overthrow, the government has repealed the Public Order laws that regulated how women can behave and dress in public. The government has also made FGM illegal, threatening anyone who conducts the operations with fines and three years in prison.

Although these legal changes represent significant milestones in the fight against gender discrimination, they are not enough to stop rights abuses that many women face. Perpetrators who conduct FGM operations do not always face prosecution because those who have seen or undergone the procedure are afraid to share their story. Furthermore, many think of FGM as a necessary prerequisite to marriage and are reluctant to challenge it. Now that al-Bashir is out of office, some degree of cultural change is necessary to challenge rights violations. For example, one young woman in Kenya, named Nice Leng’ete, has been convincing elders to replace FGM with a different tradition. “It’s just the cut that’s wrong,” said Leng’ete. “All the other things—the blessings, putting on the traditional clothes, dancing, all that—that’s beautiful. But whatever is harmful, whatever brings pain, whatever takes away the dreams of our girls—let’s just do away with that.”

Despite women’s participation in the protests prior to the power-sharing agreement, there is also still much progress to be made in ensuring women’s representation in the new government. During the negotiations leading up to the power-sharing agreement, men excluded women from critical meetings. The current Sovereign Council has 11 members, but only two women hold positions. Women are still fighting for greater representation while the transitional government develops its new legislative council and selects new governors.

Just like in the case of the Public Order laws and FGM, both women and men must commit to challenging the culture of male domination in order to increase female representation in government. Building upon the momentum of the Women’s Revolution is critical. Increasing female participation in government would aid further promotion of women’s rights as well as send a continuing signal that women can be part of Sudan’s new generation of leaders. There are significant cultural and legal barriers to overcome, but Sudanese women have shown they are ready for a fight. H