‘Agriculture is the most healthful, most useful, and most noble employment of man.’
– George Washington (1732-1799). He was an American political leader, military general, statesman, and Founding Father who served as the first President of the United States from 1789 to 1797.
If you ’call the city home — someone who perhaps has never paused to wonder where your food truly begins — then allow me to share with you a story. It’s not just any story, but one that unfolds among the golden stalks of maize. Or corn, as you might call it. Either way, this tale might offer you a glimpse into a world far removed from the hum of urban life.
But if you come from a farming family, if your roots are tangled deep in the soil, or if you’ve ever walked a field with the sun on your back and the earth beneath your feet, this story will feel familiar. Like a returning old friend, it will speak to something you already know in your bones.
I grew up where the land was alive, a lush wetland cradled by emerald-green paddy fields that rippled like liquid jade under the sky. In those days, the rhythm of our lives beat in time with the cycles of planting and harvest. The seasons were our timekeeper; the soil was our canvas. Every meal, every celebration, every quiet moment of gratitude was tied to those fields. They were more than a source of sustenance — they were our lifeblood.
For as long as memory stretched, my people trusted rice. It was the foundation of our meals, the backbone of our traditions, the very sustenance that sustained our existence. Paddy was king, and its dominion was absolute. Yet, in its shadow, another crop quietly thrived. Maize — sturdy, unassuming, and unglamorous — was always there. It was the unsung hero of our fields, the humble backbone that never sought the spotlight but carried a burden.
Maize wasn’t just a crop. It was resilience woven into our lives. And so, whether you are new to the whispers of the fields or well-versed in their secrets, let me take you there — to the land where maize tells its quiet tale.
My father knew the wetland where our farm lay as intimately as he knew the lines of his palms. He had roamed its soft, waterlogged expanse since he was a boy, every bend of the stream, every patch of reeds, and every stubborn tree etched into his memory. The land wasn’t his first choice — far from it — but it was the only patch left unclaimed by his elder siblings. And so, he took it, not begrudgingly, but with a quiet resolve, as though the wetland had chosen him as much as he had chosen it.
In all the years he worked on that stubborn, soggy earth, there was one thing we were never without: maize. No matter the season, no matter the weather’s whims, maize was always with reach. To us, it was more than a crop; it was a lifeline. Rice, of course, reigned supreme in our household, the undisputed king of the pantry, but maize came in a close second, its golden kernels a dependable constant in our lives. After maize came cassava and taro — simple, rugged crops that filled our bellies and, when needed, fed the animals. But maize held a special reverence in our home, a quiet pride beyond mere sustenance.
Mother often remarked that Father’s devotion to maize was one of his peculiarities, a trait as enduring as the soil he tilled.
“Even from the first year of our marriage,” she would say with a wry smile, “he would plant maize before anyone else had started sowing rice.”
It was his ritual, his statement of faith in a crop that many people dismissed as a mere sideshow to the main act. Many of the neighbours never understood.
“Why waste your energy on maize?” they’d ask, their incredulity impossible to mask. “Rice is our lifeblood. Maize is a snack, something to roast by the fire on lazy evenings.”
They couldn’t fathom why anyone would prioritise it. To them, maize was frivolous, a crop for indulgence, not survival.
But they didn’t know what Father knew. They hadn’t heard the stories passed down through our family, the stories his elders told with a voice heavy with remembrance. Father could still recall how his grandaunt’s face would darken as she spoke, her eyes clouded with the weight of old fears.
“There was a time,” she would murmur, “when the rice fields failed us. The rains didn’t come, or they came too late. The paddies dried up, and famine swept through the village like a wildfire. People thought it was the end.” She would pause, her voice trembling like the leaves of a tree in a storm. “But maize saved us. It was the one crop that stood firm, the one crop that refused to let us starve. It was our shield against hunger.”
Those words had taken root in my father’s heart, growing alongside his love for the land. To him, maize wasn’t just a crop. It was a guardian, a protector, a quiet hero who had stood between his people and despair. And so, year after year, as sure as the sun rose and fell, he planted it — not because it was easy, not because it was profitable, but because it was necessary. Because to him, the golden kernels were not just food for the body; they were a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit, a tribute to those who had come before and endured.
As the seasons changed, the rice paddies flourished under Father’s care. Yet, he never neglected his little maizefield, nurturing it with equal devotion. The tall stalks stood proud, their golden kernels hidden beneath layers of husk, a treasure waiting to be revealed.
One year, the monsoon rains came late and left too early. The rice paddies, so reliant on consistent water, began to wither under the unrelenting sun. My parents, as were our neighbours, watched in despair as their rice crop struggled, the green stalks turning yellow and brittle. The community held its breath, prayers for rain on every lip, but the skies remained cruelly clear.
It was a brief drought, but it was bad enough to damage the crop. When harvest time arrived, the yield was devastatingly poor. The once-bountiful paddies now offered only a fraction of their usual bounty. Fear gripped the hearts of the farmers, and whispers of hunger spread through the community.
Amid this crisis, our cornfield stood resilient. The maize, less thirsty than rice, had thrived despite the dry spell. With a heavy heart but a determined spirit, we began to harvest our corn. We knew it was time to share the lifeline our grandmother and grandaunts had spoken of.
“This will sustain us,” Mother said. “Maize is not just a snack. It is our safeguard.”
Gathering some of our close cousins, uncles, and cousins, we shared the golden ears of maize. Sceptical at first, these relatives soon found solace in the maize. They ground it into flour for bread, boiled it into porridge, and roasted it over open flames. To make the maize go a long way, they mixed it with other foods such as yam, cassava, and even pumpkins and bananas. The golden kernels filled their stomachs, staving off the gnawing hunger that had threatened their peace.
Through the long, dry months, our corn, cassava, yams, and bananas continued to provide. Our relatives and neighbours began to see maize in a new light. No longer was it merely a secondary crop; it was a vital part of their survival strategy.
When the rains finally returned and the rice paddies once again turned green with promise, the rice farmers had learned a valuable lesson. They began to allocate small plots of their land to grow maize, ensuring they would always have a backup in times of need.
Walking among the corn stalks is an immersive experience that engages all the senses. As you step into the field, the first thing you notice is the sheer height of the towering stalks, which can reach well above your head. The dense rows create a feeling of enclosure, almost like walking through a green, natural corridor.
The ground beneath your feet is firm yet soft, the soil giving slightly with each step. The air is warm and carries the sweet, earthy scent of ripening corn, mingling with hints of fresh vegetation. As you move deeper into the field, the sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that dance on the ground.
Reaching out, you can run your fingers along the rough texture of the stalks, feeling their strength and resilience. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, creating a soothing sound that envelops you, while the occasional flutter of a butterfly or the distant call of a bird adds to the vibrant atmosphere.
The experience is both grounding and uplifting. You may feel a sense of wonder at the life surrounding you and the growth that has taken place, a reminder of nature’s cycles. With each step, you become more attuned to your surroundings, the simple beauty of the field wrapping around you like a warm embrace. It’s a moment of connection to the earth, the plants, and the bounty they offer.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
