Story and Photos by Devin Santikarma.
I fumble with my fingers, trying to loosen the lever, wincing in anticipation of the spigot-like shower head raining down on me and washing away the sweat and dirt from my skin. The hum of mechanical plumbing churns behind the wall, but nothing happens. I sigh. Looks like today I'll be playing in the rice fields to cleanse myself.
From the moment I first opened my eyes in the Balinese bathtub where my mother gave birth to me, water has been the current of my environmental journey. But over the following years that current has slowed, as massive hotels diverted our public utilities. Now, no showers can be taken from morning to night.
Where the island of Bali, Indonesia, bottlenecks south toward the airport, the capital city of Denpasar, and the tourist spots of Nusa Penida, Kuta, and Sanur, the water table has become dangerously low. From an early age, I learned that some people had more access to this basic human right than others.
I bathed in rivers and played in the irrigation canals of the rice fields in my backyard, catching eels and snails that have since disappeared. We prayed to the gods of water. I drank holy water during ancestral ceremonies, where water became our lifeline — connecting the living to the dead.
When the U.S.-backed military genocide claimed the lives of my grandparents and a million others in 1965, rivers and beaches became mass graves — the only places where we could lay offerings in their memory.
I was born in water, and according to Balinese Hindu tradition, my ashes will return to the sea to ensure my reincarnation. My connection to the world around me has, at every turn, been filtered through the lens of water.
But now, water — a symbol of life itself for the Balinese — has come under siege, threatened by the endangered state of the subak traditional irrigation system. The subak system, one of the oldest and most complex irrigation systems in the world, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the lifeblood of Bali’s traditional rice farming.
Beyond its agricultural use, the subak is recognized by UNESCO as a self-sustaining system that distributes water from the high volcanoes to the low coastal villages, creating a sustainable, communally managed network. With water playing a crucial role in Balinese Hinduism and spiritual rituals dedicated to the gods, subak connects the seen world, or sekala, to the unseen world, or niskala, making it a religious and cultural crown jewel. There is no better representation of Tri Hita Karana — the unique Balinese philosophy of harmony between humans and nature — than subak.
Tri is “three.” Hita, “prosperity” and Karana “cause.” Thus, in English this is “three causes of prosperity.” To achieve this, Hindus draw on the three elements or pillars of wisdom – Parahyangan, Palemahan and Pawongan. Each section of this photo essay will highlight one of these three pillars of wisdom.
Palemahan: The relationship between man and nature
The subak system refers to the entire network of collectives — which each consist of village leaders, farmers and priests — that manage water from the fertile volcanic foothills of Mount Batur to the black sand beaches of Padang Galak. The individual subak collectives are located in their respective districts or regions.
These individual subaks communicate with one another to ensure equal water distribution between upstream and downstream areas, redirecting channels as needed to allow other subaks to “borrow” water. Most subaks support their own ecosystems, providing a habitat for humans as well as wildlife such as fish, water snakes, snails, and frogs that call the irrigation canals home.
However, rapid tourism development, climate change, and inadequate government protection have pushed this centuries-old tradition to the brink. As water is increasingly diverted from fields to tourist resorts, farmers are struggling to maintain their livelihoods. Without urgent action, the lush terraced waterways that define Bali’s landscape — and its way of life — could soon fade into history.
Although there were once thousands of regional and sub-regional subaks, overdevelopment has drastically reduced their numbers. To meet the demands of tourism — which accounts for 80 percent of Bali's economy — thousands of years of democratic water distribution have been irreversibly disrupted. An astonishing 65 percent of Bali’s groundwater is used for tourism, and NGOs estimate that 56 percent of it is directed to hotels.
While subak is a foundational element of Balinese society, designed to ensure the sustainable distribution of water, the current reality is far from sustainable. The over-extraction of aquifers has caused water tables to drop by as much as 50 meters in just 10 years in some areas. Indonesia’s own Environmental Protection Agency has reported that 260 of Bali’s 400 rivers — the source of the subak system — have run dry. As one farmer put it, “The modern need is beyond the limits of what nature can supply."
Komang Adi owns a café in central Bali, located within one of the few remaining subaks on the island.
“My parents were farmers in a subak system, and even then, it was hard to turn a profit. My best friends were the cows that pulled the plows in the rice paddies. I loved the harvest days. After our ceremonies, it was a feast. I swear, you could taste the hard work in the food. All the families in the neighborhood would come together to cook. With subak almost gone, you don’t see that anymore."
“The water level is much lower than before,” one subak member explains to me. Although the picturesque rice-terraced hills are an iconic fixture of the physical landscape, farmers plant more than just rice — especially when the water to support their crops just isn’t there.
A member of a subak close to the tourist hotspot Sanur tells me that since their subak is located downstream, the subak head, or pekaseh, “has the hardest job to do” when the water level is low.
“Subak is a system designed to be sustainable and flexible by definition,” says one farmer. “With subak here, we have to share the water. Every subak has its own turn. When it's our turn, we plant rice paddies. Next year, another subak has water and rice paddies, so we have to plant palawija in the meantime." Palawija are secondary crops. So, "plants that don’t require much water, like chilies, vegetables, melons, or cantaloupes," he says.
The subak system also maintains sustainability by generating its own fertilizer through a process called melasah. After repetitive plowing of the soil, the topsoil and dead crops are turned over and buried beneath new seeds, acting as fertilizer.
Although flexibility is a core tenet of the subak system’s sustainability, the fluctuating water levels have reached unsustainable and extreme levels. “The rainy season used to bring a slight rise in water, and in the dry season, the water would go down a little bit,” says one farmer. “Now, the rainy season brings floods, and the dry season brings droughts. I’ve never seen that in my life.”
One farmer says that in the past, villages constructed their own water reservoirs to prevent overflow and flooding. Nowadays, he says, “I see so little water in the reservoir. The water mostly goes directly to the sea, so it’s wasted. The drainage canals on the side of the road are smaller, but the roads are larger.”
According to a retired worker from one of the government's regional Clean Drinking Water Department (Perusahaan Daerah Air Minum Tirta Sewakadarma, PDAM) offices, new dams and reservoirs are currently being constructed to prevent floods and store water during periods of drought. In Tabanan, the location of the famous rice paddy Jatiluwih, and Denpasar, new dams were just completed this year.
Abuse of well water is another problem, a report from Canada's National Observer cites a Bali business owner who claims that some hotels underreport the number of wells they use. Komang Adi, who grew up as a farmer, says, “Something important to remember about the water crisis is that even the government doesn’t have information about all of the unregulated wells.”
"It's very clear we’re going to run out of water," says the former PDAM employee. “Even now, we don’t have enough to supply — can you imagine the future?”
Many farmers report feeling anxious about the future when developers come knocking on their doors. One farmer described how they are seen by some as “second-class citizens,” so it makes sense that farmers would say yes to foreign investors and local elites when offered a sum of money that feels huge to them — yet is small compared to the profits developers will make from their water-intensive luxury resorts and villas.
Pawongan: The relationship between man and community
In 2024, Bali hosted the 10th World Water Forum, marking the first time the conference had been held in Southeast Asia. The event was a platform for global discussions about the world’s water crisis and during the forum, the Indonesian government unveiled a joint agreement with UNESCO to preserve Bali’s iconic subak irrigation system.
“We have to reflect on how humans relate to water and how we have consumed and processed it,” says Xing Qu, a representative from UNESCO, in an interview with The Bali Sun. “One of [the partnership’s] efforts is to advocate for the protection of cultural heritage related to water in order to address the challenges of water issues in the 21st century, all of which are closely tied to the subak context.”
While the agreement to preserve subak aims to protect cultural heritage and address water issues, concerns about Bali’s dwindling water resources are more pressing than ever.
During the World Water Forum, world leaders were accommodated in Nusa Dua, a tourist hotspot in the deep south of the island. However, this area is one of the most severely impacted by the water shortage. In fact, water levels have dropped the lowest in South Bali, and it is here where the subak system has increasingly faded from sight.
“We can’t dig wells anymore,” explains the former PDAM worker, referring to the state-run water supply service. “Their water comes from Denpasar, and we supply it through underground pipes. Some hotels even have their own desalination plants.”
As water grows scarcer and tourism continues to dominate the economy, some wonder whether subak can adapt and sustain its existence not only as an agricultural system but as a cultural and aesthetic experience marketed to visitors. While traditionally built on spiritual and communal principles, subak is increasingly valued for its visual appeal rather than its function.
“In many cases, subak for tourism is just an act, a performance — pretending to be subak,” another farmer says.
Komang Adi adds, “Yeah, that’s not really subak anymore. When there are tourists, we focus on making it look neat and orderly instead of just letting it exist as it is.”
This shift from a working agricultural system to a curated tourist attraction is already taking shape. In Ubud, for example, rice paddies double as backdrops for Instagram photos, and trekking tours weave through perfectly maintained terraces, designed as much for aesthetics as for harvest. Yet, behind these picturesque landscapes, farmers make quiet concessions to tourism.
“I see a lot of dirty fields close to the villas. I’ll clean them up a bit. I don’t want to appease tourism, but it’s not as nice to see something messy. It’s my own initiative,” one of the farmers I interviewed says.
This tension between the traditional values of subak and its evolving role as a tourism commodity raises fundamental questions about its future. Some farmers believe the system can be adapted, but only if tourism is managed sustainably. Others worry that the damage has already been done.
“As a concept, subak is really good,” Komang says. “But when you try to translate the subak of the past into reality, it’s hard because things have changed. We’ve cut all the trees. We’ve sold the land for tourism. To apply the concept of subak today is very difficult. The modern need is beyond the limits of what nature can supply. As an example — one drop of something can ruin the whole ecosystem. Can you imagine if you put ten drops? Or a hundred?”
Despite these challenges, some local efforts aim to protect subak without turning it into mere spectacle. The Subak Spirit Festival, for example, is an initiative designed not for tourists but for the local community.
“The local people are very enthusiastic,” says one of the festival’s organizers. “The festival is not for tourism but for local people. Because it’s located in Jatiluwih, tourists will come no matter what. Since Jatiluwih was recognized by UNESCO, a lot of people have bought land there.”
Pak Made, a community activist, believes the key to preserving subak is through education. This education shouldn't just be from locals to tourists, but from tourists to locals as well. “We teach the history of subak rituals through cultural activities and games, such as ploughing with cows.”
Pak Made, pictured behind his self-made subak museum, is a community activist, civic educator, and founder of a local organization called TeBA, or Tempat Belajar Alam (Space for Learning about Nature).
Located at the last subak before the water supply reaches the ocean, he has dedicated this space to education and awareness — connecting Balinese students of all ages and tourists to experience fun workshops incorporating the subak system.
Standing behind a wall decorated with agricultural technology organized by each step of the cultivation process, he emphasized that the main goal of this space is “to preserve subak.” He underscores the importance not just of teaching visitors, but also empowering farmers. “Our hope is that if farmers learn more about tourism and interact with it, they might be more inclined to hold on to their rice paddies instead of selling them.”
If subak is to survive in any form, some think it may need to embrace its aesthetic and cultural value while finding ways to preserve its original purpose. Some local organizations, like TeBA, are exploring sustainable tourism models where visitors contribute to the upkeep of subak rather than just consuming it as a picturesque attraction. Others suggest government intervention, ensuring that tourism profits help sustain the farmers who maintain these landscapes.
Parhyangan: The relationship between man and spirit
While immersing myself in the world of subak for this photo essay, I was honored to gain insights that have completely altered my perception of the place I have called home — and the natural resource through which I entered the world.
One afternoon, while eating rice with my aunt, the spiritual leader of our family, she casually shared a piece of information that transformed the frame of my entire project.
“Gung Made,” she said, calling me by my Balinese name, “I know who you are, finally.” I looked up, puzzled, and she continued.
“You are my great-grandfather. You never met him, but that’s your reincarnation. It came to me now. He used to always drag me out to the field to help with ploughing. He was the head of our subak.”
I swallowed my rice, processing this revelation and the wave of emotion that followed. Even when the protectors of these lands can return to us, the resources they once guarded may never be replenished.
In the midst of Bali’s growing water crisis and the pressures of tourism, some lament that the younger generation is losing its connection to subak. The world moves faster and the past feels more distant. The rituals, the deep knowledge of the land, the respect for water — all of it seems to be slipping through their fingers.
Through this experience, I’ve come to feel a deeper connection to my great-grandfather, and through him, to the subak system that once nourished his village. Perhaps, in ways beyond what we can explain, our ancestors are always with us, guiding us in ways we don't always see. The connection to subak — to the land, the water, and the spirit — is not lost, but rather, it is reborn. In that rebirth, it is not only the older generations who carry the wisdom, but the younger ones too, who can reimagine what it means to protect this heritage for future generations.
In the heart of Bali, where the terraced hills meet the sky, subak lives on — not just in the land, but in the spirit of those who, like me, have found their way back to it. And perhaps that is the real message: Subak is not just a system of irrigation, but a system of connection, and it is this connection, rooted in both the seen and the unseen, that will ensure its survival.