The global boom in avocado consumption has transformed the mountainous region of Michoacán, in southwestern Mexico, into a production hub that supplies 75% of the avocados consumed in the United States. A global success that has, however, brought devastating consequences at the local level: deforestation and illegal logging, exploitation of communal lands, and increased cartel activity. This situation has led some local communities to rebel, choosing to arm themselves against the narcos and, in some cases, opting to grow avocados only through agroforestry systems. This allows them to continue benefiting economically, but without placing the full burden on the environment.
This exemplary story is told in a report by Agustín del Castillo and Fred Pearce on YaleEnvironment360, and it's worth knowing to understand how a balance can be found between the opportunities offered by trade and the absolute and non-negotiable need to preserve the environment—placing local communities at the center.
In the past 25 years, U.S. consumption of avocados has increased fivefold, creating relentless demand in the fruit’s country of origin: Mexico. Today, this Central American country holds the title of the world's leading producer, with cultivated areas nearly tripling in the past decade to about 400,000 acres in the state of Michoacán alone.
But this has come at a huge social and environmental cost:
Many new plantations have been established on communal forest lands (ejidos) without any legal authorization since the 1990s.
Around a quarter of avocado production in Michoacán comes from illegally deforested land.
Intensive avocado farming requires massive amounts of water. In Michoacán, as much as 75,000 gallons of water per acre are consumed, drying up springs and rivers.
But most of all, where profit arrives, so do the cartels: armed groups infiltrate the trade with extortion, robberies, and demands for protection money. According to Climate Rights International, in many areas, those who resist face death threats.
In Cherán, a Purépecha community in the heart of the Purépecha Plateau, violence triggered a local revolution in 2011. Women rang the morning bells, signaling a blockade of cartel trucks. The men of the village slashed tires and threatened drivers never to return. The community responded by blocking access to loggers, expelling corrupt police and officials, and declaring administrative autonomy. A radical decision, backed by the threat of armed resistance.
Today, Cherán bans all commercial avocado plantations (no more than 10 trees per household are allowed) and stands as a “green island” compared to the surrounding lands, now dominated by avocado monocultures. Cherán’s volunteers patrol the forests armed, seize chainsaws, establish roadblocks, and firmly oppose any new attempts to take over the forest.
According to the Associated Press, the result is tangible, with a sharp line between Cherán’s intact forest and the surrounding illegal plantations. This is the fruit of over a decade of community self-management, direct democracy, and environmental commitment.
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In the eastern part of the region, in places like Nuevo San Juan Parangaricutiro, indigenous communities are testing a mixed model: avocado cultivation integrated with oak and pine forests, certified by the Forest Stewardship Council and honored with the UN’s Equator Prize. Here, cartel pressure is lower, allowing for solutions that don’t rely on force.
The core principle is agroforestry: productive forests (like the Mexican kuojtakiloyan system) where diverse plant species coexist, reducing pressure on biodiversity and improving climate resilience. According to researchers from UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico), collective land management creates real bioeconomies capable of combining profit with conservation.
These systems help restore soil quality, preserve vital habitats (like those of monarch butterflies), and maintain access to water—while also bringing direct economic benefits to local communities.
Despite these examples of alternative paths, tensions remain high. Activists like Alfredo Cisneros, who denounced deforestation and pressure for avocado farming, have been murdered—proof that cartels still maintain a violent interest in the avocado business.
On the institutional front, the state of Michoacán has introduced an official certification to identify “deforestation-free” avocados: the label is granted only to authorized plantations untouched since 2018, monitored via satellite imagery and legal inspections.
However, many believe this system is too weak, relying mostly on the goodwill of producers, while thousands of illegal plantations remain off the official radar.
Both the YaleE360 report and other sources highlight a deep fracture quietly emerging in Mexico—one that could potentially extend beyond its borders. The uncontrolled expansion of the avocado market has unleashed a vicious cycle of deforestation, water depletion, violence, corruption, and exploitation.
But the same story reveals alternative solutions: strengthening Indigenous communities, local self-governance, sustainable cultivation, agroforestry certification, and protecting the land as a common good. Models like Cherán’s are radical—and undoubtedly controversial—but have proven effective so far. San Juan shows that listening to local communities can save forests and support inclusive, green economies.
Treedom is a Benefit Corporation founded in Italy in 2010 that directly supports agroforestry projects in collaboration with farmers and local communities across Latin America, Africa, and Asia. Every tree planted is geolocated, photographed, and monitored over time, offering transparency and tangible results.
Treedom provides training, technical support, and income opportunities: farmers are involved in tree care—often within associations or cooperatives—and benefit from the fruits, resin, or timber produced.
The connection to what’s happening in Michoacán? P’urhépecha communities are also growing a sustainable future based on a green, collective economy. Planting trees with Treedom means supporting projects aligned with the principles of conservation, autonomy, and local development described in this article.
👉 If you believe a global economy that respects Indigenous communities, land, and the environment is possible, choose to plant an avocado—or another tree—with Treedom.
Beyond fighting desertification and CO₂ emissions, you’ll be directly helping strengthen development models like the ones in this story—where communities like Cherán decide to care for their land, rather than let others destroy it.