A seed just beginning to sprout
As one stands on the grassland, it's the wind that breaks the silence, blowing in from the northwest, carrying a dry breath, brushing over sparse grass and stirring a soft rustle. In that very moment, a visitor can understand how for the herders the sky above is the most authoritative variable on the steppe. But what they truly need, perhaps, is no longer just something to look up to, but something solid to hold in their hands.
In the spring of 2026, our research team first traveled to Otog Front Banner and Otog Banner in Ordos, Inner Mongolia autonomous region. Sitting in several herders' homes, we sipped hot milk tea and listened to them. They spoke cautiously at first, but opened up once the conversation turned to grassland disasters.
Herders who have lived on the prairie their entire lives know the temperament of nature inside out, yet they are often powerless against it. Drought reduces pasture yields, forcing them to buy fodder at high prices to sustain their core herds. This fragility is the collective plight of traditional grassland animal husbandry.
Change began with a breakthrough in mindset. In 2021, Inner Mongolia took the lead nationally in launching a pilot policy-based grassland insurance program, the first phase of which covered eight leagues and 13 banners, with a pilot area of 37.97 million mu (approximately 2.53 million hectares), encompassing three major grassland types: temperate meadow steppe, temperate typical steppe and temperate desert steppe.
The insurance covered four perils — drought, fire, pests and rodent damage, and sandstorms — with insured amounts differentiated by grassland type: 40 yuan ($5.9) per mu for meadow steppe, 30 yuan per mu for typical steppe and 20 yuan per mu for desert steppe. The premium rate was uniformly set at 5 percent, with herders contributing 20 percent and fiscal subsidies covering 80 percent.
In 2025, the second phase expanded coverage to 10 leagues and 18 banners, increasing the area to approximately 61.72 million mu. The newly added regions included front-line zones of the Three-North Shelterbelt Forest Program, an afforestation initiative launched in 1978 to curb desertification and improve the ecological environment in northern China. With its significantly higher proportion of grazing-ban areas and desertified grasslands, the insurance mechanism has shifted further toward ecologically fragile zones.
This marks a fundamental shift: grassland disasters are no longer seen merely as natural calamities to be passively endured, but as quantifiable and manageable risks. It is a transformation in thinking, from enduring uncertainty to calculating probabilities, from resigning to fate to preparing for the future. The very purpose of this policy is to place a safety lock on grassland ecological conservation and to move beyond the old system that relied solely on fiscal relief.
In many ways, the progress of human civilization is a continuous process of turning uncertainty into certainty. Today, on the grasslands of Inner Mongolia, this ancient battle against the unknown is being waged in an unprecedented form. Its weapon is neither sword nor machine, but a thin insurance paper. The paper is light, but embedded within its rate tables and claims standards is a quiet scientific revolution.
The vitality of any policy lies in its implementation. In April 2026, we visited Siziwang Banner in Ulanqab where in Ubul Us Gacha of Hongger Sumu we traced the life cycle of an insurance paper up close.
A large-scale herder managing over 15,000 mu of grassland (including 9,000 mu leased) shared his experience. From 2021 to 2024, he continuously insured 6,000 mu of grassland. In the first year, drought triggered a claim, with a payout of 0.8 yuan per mu, totaling over 4,800 yuan.
He used every penny to purchase fodder, relieving the pressure on feed supply and allowing his pasture to recover. "It is good, very good," he said, with the plainest affirmation. The problem arose with regard to the 9,000 mu of leased grassland.
Because of the complexity of the leasing arrangement, since the land belonged to others, the compensation could not be paid directly into his account. He worried about "whose name the money goes to" and a host of other things. Such as, where does the premium come from? Where does it go? How claims are settled in the event of a disaster and how the payout should be used. These questions may appear as simple procedural flows in official documents, but at the grassroots level, they become a complex process of repeated communication and trust-building.
A village official candidly admitted that what herders care about most is simply, "If disaster strikes, will I really get paid?" That plain question captures the core test of the entire system—trust. Policy communication and understanding, along with information sharing and coordination among government departments, are the "last mile" that determine whether insurance can truly deliver.
During our interviews in Siziwang Banner, another practical challenge came into focus: in 2026, the grassland insurance policy underwent a change. Compensation would no longer be paid directly into herders' personal accounts, but would instead be channeled to the collective village account, to be used for ecological restoration or bulk fodder purchases.
This prompted visible unease among herders. "If you pay cash upfront and then get back fodder instead of money, of course you will not do it," one herder stated bluntly. A local official admitted that even though in-kind compensation holds greater economic value, herders prefer cash, because they value the sense of security that comes with money in hand. In his view, "it took so long to build this foundation" and changing the payout method could easily undermine the trust that has only just been established.
Thus, the exploration of grassland insurance has long transcended the policy itself. It is a strategic opening move in the broader game of ecological civilization. It applies actuarial logic to confront nature's unpredictability and uses market efficiency to safeguard public welfare values. It acknowledges the existence of risk and does not shy away from the possibility of loss, but it also offers a new way of response: not to fight nature, but to reach a calculable, predictable coexistence with it.
For millennia, the people of the steppe have sought ways to live with nature. They moved with water and grass, not to conquer the land, but to follow its rhythms. They devised remarkably sophisticated systems of pasture rotation, knowing when to stay and when to move on. This ancient wisdom shares a common purpose with modern actuarial science.
Today, that wisdom is merging with an entirely new institutional form. Insurance is not charity, nor is it relief. It is a contract, a shared investment in the future. Its successful implementation could offer a valuable Chinese model for other ecologically fragile regions, demonstrating how institutional innovation can transform the apparent tension between development and conservation into a harmonious, mutually reinforcing symphony.
In March, the setting sun bathes the Otog grassland in gold. In the distance, where grazing is banned, pastures are quietly recovering their strength. In April, the wind blows in from Siziwang Banner, carrying the lingering chill of winter but also the faint promise of spring. What the people of this land are safeguarding is not merely the green before their eyes, but a conviction: that through wisdom and cooperation, they can secure a steadfast peace for their ecological homeland and for the future.
Venturing deep into the grassland, the pulse of our time is to be found in the cycles of green and yellow, in the moment each policy is signed, and in the steady breath of herders who can finally sleep soundly at night. It is not a monument erected overnight, but a seed just beginning to sprout. The seed is small, but the spring is long.
The author is an associate researcher at the Institute of Economics of the Inner Mongolia Academy of Social Sciences.
The views don't necessarily reflect those of China Daily.
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