‘No work’: India’s Alang, the world’s largest graveyard of ships, is dying | Shipping News

Alang, India – Standing on the windswept coastline of the Arabian Sea in the western Indian state of Gujarat, Ramakant Singh looks towards the empty, endless horizon.

“In the olden days, ships lined up at this yard like buffaloes before a storm,” says the 47-year-old. “Now, we count the arrivals on our fingers.”

Ramakant works at Alang — the world’s largest ship-breaking yard, located in Bhavnagar district of Gujarat, Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s home state. For two decades, Ramakant has cut apart vessels as large as oil tankers and cargo carriers that sailed in from Europe and other Asian countries for his livelihood.

With its unique tidal pattern and gently sloping beach, Alang in the 1980s became the backbone of India’s ship recycling industry, where ships could be beached and dismantled at a minimal cost.

Over the decades, more than 8,600 vessels — collectively weighing roughly 68 million tonnes of light displacement tonnage (LDT), which is the actual weight of a ship without fuel, crew and cargo — have been taken apart here, accounting for nearly 98 percent of India’s total and about a third of the global ship recycling volume.

Across the world’s oceans, an ageing fleet of cargo ships, cruise liners, and oil tankers is nearing the end of its life. Of the roughly 109,000 vessels still in service, nearly half are more than 15 years old — rusting giants that will soon be retired.

Each year, close to 1,800 ships are declared unfit to sail and sold for recycling. Their owners pass them on to international middlemen, known as cash buyers — operating out of global shipping hubs such as Dubai, Singapore, and Hong Kong. These brokers, in turn, resell the vessels to dismantling yards in South Asia, where the final act of a ship’s life unfolds.

In Alang, ships are driven ashore at high tide — a process called beaching. Once grounded, hundreds of workers cut them apart piece by piece, salvaging steel, pipes, and machinery. Almost everything — from cables to cupboards — is resold for use by construction and manufacturing industries.

However, over the past decade, the number of ships arriving on Alang’s coast has dwindled. Once a skyline of giant hulls that looked like high-rise buildings against the town’s asbestos roofs, only a few cruise ships and cargo carriers dot the horizon today.

“Earlier, there was plenty of work for everyone,” Chintan Kalthia, who runs one of the few yards still open, tells Al Jazeera. “Now, most of the workers have left. Only when a new ship beaches do a few come back to Alang. My own business is down to barely 30-40 percent of what it used to be.”

According to data from India’s Ship Recycling Industries Association, 2011-12 marked Alang’s busiest financial year since it began operations in 1983, with a record 415 ships dismantled. Since then, the yard has faced a steep decline — of the 153 plots developed along the 10km (6-mile) coastline, only about 20 remain functional, and even they are operating at barely 25 percent capacity.

“But what’s going wrong in Alang has multiple reasons,” says Haresh Parmar, secretary of the Ship Recycling Industries Association (India). “The biggest is that globally, shipowners are not retiring their old vessels. Post-COVID, a surge in demand led to record profits in shipping. With freight rates soaring, owners are pushing ships beyond their usual operational life instead of sending them for dismantling.”

A key factor behind the surge in freight rates is global disruptions. Israel’s genocidal war in Gaza has had a ripple effect on global trade routes, with Yemen’s Houthi rebels repeatedly attacking commercial vessels in the Red Sea in solidarity with the Palestinians. The resulting security crisis has forced ships to bypass the Suez Canal and instead take the longer Cape of Good Hope route, sending freight rates soaring and delaying cargo worldwide.

Similarly, an analysis by the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) conducted in June 2022 found that the Russia-Ukraine war and other Middle East tensions had pushed up marine fuel costs by more than 60 percent, adding to operational expenses and shipping delays.

Together, these factors have sharply reduced the supply of end-of-life ships heading to Alang. “When owners are earning well, they don’t scrap their vessels,” says Parmar. “That’s why our yards are standing empty.”

Compliance raising costs

But that is not the only reason why Alang is struggling.

India’s ship recycling industry has undergone a significant transformation since the country acceded to the Hong Kong International Convention for the Safe and Environmentally Sound Recycling of Ships (HKC) in November 2019, becoming one of the first top ship-breaking nations to do so. Under the HKC and the 2019 Recycling of Ships Act, yards at Alang upgraded their infrastructure, installed pollution control systems, lined hazardous waste storage pits, trained workers, and maintained detailed inventories of toxic materials used in vessels.

These measures made Alang-Sosiya Ship Recycling Yards (ASSRY) one of the most compliant ship-recycling clusters in the developing world, with 106 of ASSRY yards having received HKC Statements of Compliance (SoC). Sosiya is a village located right next to Alang on the Gulf of Khambhat coast in Gujarat. Together, Alang and Sosiya form the entire stretch of beach where ship-breaking plots operate.

But achieving these standards came at a high cost: each yard had to invest between $0.56m and $1.2m to meet compliance norms, raising operational costs at a time when competition from neighbouring countries remains fierce.

“Think of it like a roadside eatery versus a global burger chain — the chain has shinier rules, cleaner kitchens, and safer gear, but you pay extra for the sparkle. The Hong Kong Convention works the same way,” said Kalthia, whose company, RL Kalthia Ship Breaking Private Limited, became the first ship recycling facility in India to receive HKC compliance certification from ClassNK in 2015, as their website shows. ClassNK is a leading Japanese ship classification society that audits and certifies international maritime safety and environmental standards.

“Compliance makes things safer and brings us up to international standards — it gives us an edge only on paper,” says Chetan Patel, a yard owner at Alang. “But it has also raised costs significantly.”

That, in turn, has made it hard for Alang’s ship-breakers to offer prices comparable to those of competitors.

“When neighbouring markets can pay more, shipowners go there,” Patel said.

Competing ship-recycling yards are thriving. In Bangladesh’s Chattogram port and Pakistan’s Gadani yard, shipowners are being offered $540-550 per LDT and $525-530 per LDT, respectively, compared with $500-510 per LDT at Alang.

“We can’t match the rates offered by Bangladesh and Pakistan,” says Parmar. “If we tried, we’d be running at a loss.”

This is reflected clearly in the data: the number of ships decommissioned in India dropped from 166 in 2023 to 124 in 2024. In contrast, Turkiye’s figures nearly doubled to 94 from 50, and Pakistan’s rose from 15 to 24 during the same period.

Supporting industries struggle

Alang is not just a ship-breaking yard, but a vast recycling ecosystem that sustains the surrounding region’s economy.

From the coastal town of Trapaj — the last big settlement before Alang — an 11km (7-mile) stretch of road is lined with sprawling, makeshift shops selling remnants of decommissioned ships. Everything that used to be part of life at sea eventually finds its way here: rusted chains, rescue boats, refrigerators, ceramic crockery, martini glasses, treadmills from shipboard gyms, air conditioners from cabins, and chandeliers from officers’ quarters.

“Whatever is there on the ship, we own it,” says Parmar. “Before the cutting begins, all valuable items are auctioned and reach these stores.”

Ram Vilas, who runs a ceramic shop selling salvaged crockery by the kilo, says most of his customers used to come from commercial establishments across Gujarat. “Now, business has gone dead,” he tells Al Jazeera. “This stretch you see doesn’t even have one-tenth of the crowd it used to. With fewer ships coming in, we don’t have enough stock to fill our shops.”

The ripple effects of Alang’s decline extend to other industries as well. Waste is handled by specialised facilities, while reusable steel is supplied to more than 60 induction furnaces and 80 rerolling mills, some 50km (30 miles) away in Bhavnagar, converting it into TMT bars – reinforced steel rods – and other construction materials.

But with fewer ships arriving, the supply of scrap steel has dropped sharply, disrupting operations of furnaces, mills, and hundreds of small businesses that depend on ship-derived goods. More than 200 retail and wholesale shops that once bustled with activity now face dwindling sales.

“Gas plants, rolling mills, furnace units, transporters, drivers — everyone connected to this chain has lost their livelihood,” says Parmar.

In Bhavnagar, 29-year-old Jigar Patel, who runs a flange manufacturing unit, says his business has suffered.

“I opened my unit in 2017, seeing the opportunity with steel sheets easily available from Alang,” he says. “But in the past two years, the slowdown has hit hard. Now, I have to buy sheets from Jharkhand. It’s not just expensive, but the raw steel is harder to cut and process. The Alang sheets were more malleable and ductile — they were made for work and of international standard.”

Workers at Alang, most of them migrants from poorer Indian states in the north and east, including Jharkhand, Bihar, Odisha and Uttar Pradesh, have also begun to leave. “They only show up when ships arrive at the docks,” Vidyadhar Rane, president of the Alang-Sosiya Ship Recycling and General Workers’ Association, tells Al Jazeera.

“Yard owners call them when there is work. The rest of the time, they find other jobs in nearby towns,” he says.

At its peak, Alang employed more than 60,000 workers. Today, that number has shrunk to fewer than 15,000, according to the union.

Ramakant, who first arrived in Alang at the age of 35, recalls working for seven straight years before the slowdown began. “Now, I only return when my employer calls,” he says, adding that he spends the rest of his time working in the industrial town of Surat.

The work at the yard, he admits, has become far safer than it once was. “This was once the deadliest job — we would see workers dying every other day. Now there’s training, safety gear, and order,” Ramakant says, looking towards the silent coast.

“But what’s the point of safety when there’s no work? Everything now depends on whether the next [ship] arrives at the yard or not.”