The last tears of Frankincense, the sacred resin of Somaliland, faces collapse due to over-harvesting, climate change, and market instability. Discover how harvesters and innovators are working to save this ancient commodity
DAYAH, Somaliland — The morning sun casts a pale glow over the jagged cliffs of Somaliland’s Sanaag region. From a distance, the land looks sparse and unyielding, but up close, it is alive with the gnarled trunks of Boswellia trees.
Here, Salaban Salad Muse begins his daily ritual, moving carefully from tree to tree, scraping sand from seedlings and inspecting the bark for pests. Each incision he makes is deliberate, a balance between extracting the resin that sustains his family and preserving the trees that have been his inheritance for generations.
“I’ve worked these lands since I was a boy,” Salad Muse says, his hands scarred from decades of tapping. “The trees are my life, my livelihood, my history. If they die, we die with them.”
Salad Muse is not alone. Across Somaliland, Somalia, Ethiopia, and Sudan, tens of thousands of harvesters depend on the resin known globally as frankincense — the fragrant substance once carried by the Magi to Bethlehem, now a cornerstone of the $5.6 trillion wellness industry. Yet this ancient commodity, prized for meditation, incense, and traditional medicine, is under siege. Over-harvesting, climate change, pests, and unstable markets threaten to wipe out populations of Boswellia trees within decades.
A Sacred Commodity, Under Threat
According to the BBC report, Frankincense has a storied past. It has perfumed temples, soothed the sick, and inspired trade networks that stretch back thousands of years. Today, it is harvested through a process called tapping: incisions in the bark allow the resin to ooze, hardening into “tears” that are later scraped off and sold. Traditionally, harvesters tap carefully, sparingly, and in rotation.
But economic pressures have pushed many harvesters to exploit the trees beyond their capacity to recover. A 2022 report found that Boswellia trees can take 10 years or more to heal from excessive tapping. In Ethiopia and Sudan, populations of B. papyrifera — the primary source of frankincense — are collapsing, with natural regeneration absent for decades.
“Frankincense is surely threatened,” says Anjanette DeCarlo, founder of the Save The Frankincense project. “It depends on local threats — from grazing camels to extreme weather events. Planting more trees at scale could give the species a real chance of survival.”
Yet planting is no easy solution. “Increased cultivation can also spark conflict over land and water,” she warns.
The Human Cost
In Dayah, the work is grueling. Harvesters like Salad Muse live for months in caves or temporary shelters, enduring scorching days and freezing nights. Women often spend twelve-hour days sorting the resin, removing impurities, and preparing it for shipment.
“The people who do this work matter as much as the trees,” DeCarlo says. “Without them, there is no frankincense. Their labor is invisible, yet critical.”
Economic instability compounds the risks. Harvesters frequently operate under spot contracts mediated by multiple middlemen, exposing them to delayed payments and volatile pricing. “By the time the resin reaches Western suppliers, it can sell for $60 to $100 per kilogram,” says Andy Thornton, managing partner at Silvan Ingredient Ecosystem. “Harvesters often get $2 to $5 — just a fraction of the final value.”
Innovation in the Desert
Some are trying to change the system. Since 2023, Stephen Johnson, director of the Dayaxa Frankincense Export Company (DFEC), has introduced mobile apps that track resin from tree to buyer, monitor tree health, and provide harvesters with direct payment.
“Even remote harvesters can now be paid via mobile wallets,” Johnson says. “We map each tree, take GPS-stamped photos, and record ecological data. It’s a way to ensure traceability and sustainability.”
Pilot programs have reached over 8,000 harvesters, registered more than 3,000 trees, and purchased seven tons of resin directly from local communities. Site visits allow agents to measure tree health, document incisions, and monitor regeneration every six months.
“This data empowers harvesters and de-risks the supply chain for buyers,” DeCarlo says. “It shows that ethical, traceable frankincense is possible.”
Frans Bongers, a forest ecologist at Wageningen University, notes the significance. “For the first time, we can monitor tree populations and health over the long term. It’s a major step forward — though it comes at a cost.”
The Global Stakes
The market for frankincense is projected to almost double in value by 2032, yet the supply of wild trees is dwindling. Somaliland’s prized Boswellia frereana — dubbed “the king of frankincense” — fuels a global trade worth hundreds of millions of dollars annually, yet harvesters remain some of the most marginalized participants.
“The market lacks oversight and certification,” says Johnson. “If buyers cared about traceability and sustainability, harvesters could earn far more, and the trees could survive.”
DeCarlo believes influential institutions could help reshape the market. “The Catholic Church accounts for only 5% of global trade, but its moral authority is immense. A statement or initiative could have ripple effects that protect the trees and the people who depend on them.”
A Fragile Future
For harvesters like Salad Muse, the challenge is immediate and personal. “We work with the trees because we must. But if the trees die, the community dies with them,” he says. “We are the guardians of this ancient treasure, and we cannot fail.”
The story of frankincense is both timeless and urgent — a reminder that some of the world’s oldest trades are now among its most vulnerable, and that the fate of a sacred resin is intertwined with the lives of those who sustain it.
