Watching *Snow Leopard* as an Eco-Farmer: Who Should I Empathise With?

II. A Film That Captures Only the Tip of the Iceberg

III. Who Is Really Encroaching on Whose Life?

IV. As a Smallholder, Whom Do I Empathise With?

After “graduating” from the Foodthink’s first ecological agriculture internship programme, I moved to Weihai to run a small ecological orchard on my own. The orchard is perched halfway up a hillside. Just across a road to the north lies a mountain nature reserve, while a stand of mixed woodland stretches to the south. Shallow ravines border the east and west, beyond which lie other people’s orchards.

Since taking over the orchard last spring, I have begun practising ecological farming: no pesticides, no synthetic fertilisers, brewing fermented plant juice and compost, leaving the ground cover to grow, diversifying crops, and boosting biodiversity. After implementing all of this, and without the miracle boost of agrochemicals, the first year’s yield was, as expected, pitifully low.

Perched on the edge of a forest, the orchard is now frequented by wild animals. Magpies, pheasants, wild rabbits, and the like are constant visitors.

The birds love to dig up freshly sown seeds to eat, or perch on the branches to peck at the largest, ripest fruits. The wild rabbits are even more fastidious; they turn their noses up at ordinary weeds but have a distinct preference for legumes and brassicas. Whether I sow soybeans and peanuts or radishes and leafy greens, they strip everything to the ground the moment the seedlings emerge.

Yet the vegetables grown by the older farmers in the neighbouring orchard thrive, while mine bear the brunt of it. A quick chat revealed why the birds rarely trouble their crops: they treat the seeds with pesticide, which deters both soil-dwelling insects from nibbling them and birds from digging them up. As for why the wild rabbits only visit my orchard, a side-by-side comparison of the two sites makes it plain. In the neighbouring orchard, the ground is weeded bare. In mine, I only cut the grass when it reaches knee-height. Rabbits would be far too exposed in their manicured plots, whereas my overgrown orchard offers them cover at every turn.

Much like the herders in the film, I initially took my frustration over the orchard’s losses out on these wild animals. After all, my original motivation for adopting ecological farming was to protect the environment. Yet now that the orchard’s ecology has improved and begun drawing in these little creatures, I find myself resenting them.

After some reflection, I began actively exploring ways to deter rabbits and birds without harming wildlife. I tried putting up a fence around the vegetable patch, but not only were the birds unfazed, my makeshift fencing stood no chance against Weihai’s frequent force 7 or 8 winds and was blown down in short order. I also experimented with scent-based and acoustic repellents to keep wild rabbits at bay, but they proved useless. Finally, on a fellow farmer’s advice, I constructed small low tunnels covered with insect netting to block out birds and rabbits. I can now finally grow beans and vegetables on a small scale.

Compared to the orchard next door, where a quick pesticide application settles the matter, I have certainly gone through a great deal of trouble. But having chosen the path of ecological farming, I was fully prepared for the extra effort and hassle, so I do not consider it a hardship.

While I empathise with the herders in the film over the troubles wildlife brings to farming and pastoralism, our circumstances are ultimately different. I chose to walk away from a polished corporate career in the city (the modern equivalent of a big-tech office drone) to embrace ecological agriculture because I believe its core purpose extends far beyond merely producing safe food; it is about cultivating a harmonious, sustainable relationship between farming and the environment. Having come to grips with the urgency and severity of climate change, I consciously chose to cede a portion of my own financial interest as a farmer to nature.

Yet for the herders living in remote plateau pastoral zones—largely rendered “invisible” by modern society—the bitter consequences of ecological degradation are borne almost entirely passively. In our relentless pursuit of rapid GDP growth, we have long been accustomed to rallying behind the banner of “at any cost,” rarely pausing to consider whether those truly footing the bill for “development” have any say in the matter. Only when environmental crises emerged as critical global challenges did public discourse finally turn to wildlife conservation. Throughout this shift, we have witnessed governmental resolve and the tireless work of scientists, yet we seldom hear the stories of the marginalised farmers and herders whose livelihoods are financially devastated by wildlife.

This is precisely why I have long admired director Pema Tseden. Rather than exoticising Tibetan life, he approaches it with a profound respect for human dignity, using his lens to examine the intricate dynamics between ordinary individuals and their broader context—the times they live in, society, and the natural world.

Snow Leopard acts as a prism refracting a multitude of social issues, inviting us to grapple with the philosophical proposition of how humanity might coexist with the natural world. As I tend to the land in the mountains of Weihai, I feel a deep sense of gratitude towards Pema Tseden. His film allowed me, sitting in a small-town cinema thousands of miles away, to truly witness the herders’ reality. Stepping out of that cinema, I am more determined than ever to continue my work in ecological agriculture, seeking a harmonious balance between people and nature through everyday practice.