Written by Boonkong Suwannapetch
Translated by Peera Songkünnatham
Illustrated by Supawich Weesapen

[อ่านต้นฉบับ “อุดมการเกษตรอินทรีย์ จิตรวิญญาณแห่งการพึ่งตนเองอย่างยั่งยืน” พร้อมเชิงอรรถและเสียงอ่านได้ตามลิงก์นี้]

Cruelty is human-made,
Not the work of karma but of someone.
Society a stratagem of strata:
The higher-ups conspire, spying
A multitude of rice farmers,
To climb their backs, sit on their necks
Elephant hook in hand, thread rope
Through their noses, drive them
Cane in hand hitting their haunches,
Box them in behind a barricade:
You peasants stay there birth to death,
Break through and you’ll meet the hammer,
I told you people Don’t fight it,
Bow down to me night and day,
Quit carrying sticks and guns, it’s a sin,
And go on, kowtow to my feet.

Sanam Ratsadon proudly presents an epic penned by a farmer and self-taught bladesmith from northeastern Thailand. Continuing with the theme King of the Countryside, this entry traces the transformation of the figure of the peasant from the subjugated “you people” (sū) to the sovereign “I” (kū). By freeing themselves and one another from disease, debt, and dependency derived from cash crop farming with pesticides, a community of farmers become masters of their own destiny—to hell with gods and kings’ audacity.

Circa 2009, a handwritten collection of writings by Boonkong Suwannapetch was published under the title Organic Farming Ideology: The Spirit of Sustainable Self-Reliance for distribution among fellow organic farmers in Yasothon Province. By way of explanation, a typed-up foreword broke from Boonkong’s handwriting on the cover and in the contents:

The document now in your hands is a humble collection of writings by a grassroots person, an enlightened rice farmer who wants to convey his thoughts for you all to read. He aims to reveal the dangers of chemical toxins and raise the awareness of people power among rice farmers who endeavored to rely on themselves against the backdrop of globalization by adhering to the principles of Sufficiency Economy Philosophy.

The writings include aphorisms, Isan verse, molam verse, and mini articles. They might use strong language and be written incorrectly according to Thai orthography, demanding the reader’s effort to parse and interpret. As the writer wrote it out from the heart to the hearts and minds of fellow farmers, we the publishing unit did not want to rewrite or type them up for the sake of convenience or correctness, and so opted to keep the handwriting and the original spelling, which are beautiful and charming aspects of the writings. Thank you, Paw Boonkong Suwannapetch, coiner of the catchword “Enlightened Rice Farmer/s” (Arhant Chao Na), a member of the Organic Farming Collective at Non Yang Village, Kam Maet Subdistrict, Kut Chum District, Yasothon Province, a village sage in literature who made the effort to think up and write out this work. Thank you Member for using your heart to read. May you enjoy this work and always keep in mind to depend on one another and rely on ourselves via organic farming in accordance with the path of sufficiency. We will meet again at next year’s merit-making festival on the third day of the third lunar month.

With Reverence,
Sustainable Agriculture Promotion Unit
Nature Conservation Club

For this occasion in 2026, the full 52-page Isan manuscript has been typed up, proofread, and annotated following the wishes of the author who wanted Thai readers to understand his work. (Download the original via the linked pdf.) The English translation below takes from the first 18 pages, where the farmers’ historical epic is. But note that things do get very interesting later on, especially in pages 22-34, when the author stages ongoing arguments between pro-organic and pro-chemical farmers as a molam duel—with no clear winner.

Organic farmer collectives in Thailand emerged in the 1980s, the age of NGOization of leftwing organizing after the defeat of the Communists in their guerrilla war against the Thai state. But it would be a mistake to dismiss the farmers as mere beneficiaries of the NGOs that came to adopt the language of King Bhumibol’s Sufficiency Economy Philosophy. A thread that runs through Boonkong Suwannapetch’s historical narrative is the ever-expanding cast of “consultants” in the farmers’ own quest for emancipation. Maw, which in standard Thai refers mainly to medical doctors, is a much more expansive word in Isan: it may denote someone with any kind of expertise or even a knack. So in one village meeting on page 4, you get the following experts:

Traditional doctors, spirit medium healers,
Herbalists, exorcists,
Midwives, soul retrievers,
Bodyworkers, soothsayers,
New experts teamed up with old ones.

[หมอโบราณหมอผีฟ้า หมอยาหมอธรรมแก่
หมอตำแงแม่บ้าน หมอส่อนสูดขวัาณ
หมอใหม่ร้วนหมอเก่าเสริมทิม
เทิงหมอเอ็นหมอมอซ่อยกันหาค้น]

While in another village meeting on page 13, you get:

Spirits enthusiasts, drug connoisseurs,
Cock handlers, Hi-Lo hosts, card dealers,
Lottery buyers, buffalo suppliers,
Field frog catchers, creek netters,
Garden lizard lassoers, kid talkers,

[มีหมอเหล่า หมอยา หมอไก่
หมอไฮโลโบกไพ่ หมอซื้อเลขหวย
หมอนายฮ้อยหาควายซื้อส่ง
หมอลงถ่งไล่เขียดโม้ หมอห่วยไล่มอง
หมอหาค้องกะปอมแดงอยู่นำเหล่า
หมอมักเว้าเด็กน้อยแห่งไว]

Throughout the narrative, you will see countryside consultants cross not only vocational lines, but also lines of gender and geography.

Importantly, the titular theme of self-reliance is intertwined with community: the sovereign I is not isolated. As Boonkong puts it in seven concise syllables, I alone lift up my friends (kū tawnan sōm suan mū kū). What’s rendered “my friends” may alternately read as “collective of I’s.” On page 13, the subjugating hammer from the opening passage reappears as a tool of resistance for just such a collectivity:

Hammer for a hammer, vowed the volunteers:
Firmness of purpose called ideology
Ranks above reason of any kind.
Wind-pelted in a thousand storms,
Still standing above the water is I.

[ค้อนท่อค้อนขันสู้สู่อัน
จิตมุ้งหมั้นเอิ้นว่าอุดมการณ์
เหนือเหตุผลสู่อันทั้งค้าย
สายลมต้องสายฝนแสนห่า
ยืนอยู่ใด้เหนือน้ำแม่นกู]

Without further ado, please welcome the epic Organic Farming Ideology: The Spirit of Sustainable Self-Reliance!

---

Reading Promotion Series
Nature Conservation Club
Organic Farming Ideology: The Spirit of Sustainable Self-Reliance
By Boonkong Suwannapetch
Organic Farming Member

Warning
Chemical Farmers Prohibited from Reading

Namo to the Buddha, our religion;
Namo to the Dhamma, in body and mind;
Namo to the Sangha, defilement-free;
The three, raised to the brow of your servant
Who aims to write verses of wisdom short and long:
May I not get stuck – may it flow like a river… Amen.

Well, this is the age of capitalism,
The heart’s desire of them capitalists.
The laws of karma won’t be seen again,
Only Let’s raze the temple to farm melons,
Only the angling for gain.
The next village sends no news;
Neighbors forget to drop by;
The Triple Gem goes unappreciated;
Each day people rise just to look for riches.

Why yes, growing bananas to turn a profit.
If you’re poor, good luck trying to make it.
You’ll be dragged down the stream, liquidated,
Bamboozled, fooled, the rug pulled.
Rice farmers will starve;
The grain you grow in the fields
Needs to be bought before you can eat.
Dead inside by the end of each year,
Selling labor to fill you up each day.
The books hang heavy around the neck,
And only growing heavier – no light day.

You consider taking a break, but
What about your friends getting ahead?
So, unwillingly the workhorse gallops.
O Flowerbuds, you fled to bloom away from home.
Drizzle on the land of diapers – where’s your fragrance?
The bees have fallen for paper blooms,
Tracing dreams in the sky, fancying clouds.
The leaves of jackfruit and star gooseberry wither,
Waiting to die, would die, if not for rainfall.

Cruelty is human-made,
Not the work of karma but of someone.
Society a stratagem of strata:
The higher-ups conspire, spying
A multitude of rice farmers,
To climb their backs, sit on their necks
Elephant hook in hand, thread rope
Through their noses, drive them
Cane in hand hitting their haunches,
Box them in behind a barricade:
You peasants stay there birth to death,
Break through and you’ll meet the hammer,
I told you people Don’t fight it,
Bow down to me night and day,
Quit carrying sticks and guns, it’s a sin,
And go on, kowtow to my feet.

The tree shade doesn’t just have lowly worms;
See ants, scorpions, king scorpions, centipedes.
To refuse to follow footsteps into the corner;
Gonna stand here till I’m a column of stone!

Now’s the part about dreams of country folk
Under the vault of sky, a variety of races.
In time, all are swimming in a flood,
No place to stay put, swept up in swirls,
No base to bolt down, at the mercy of the river
Carrying them to who knows what life or death,
As there’s no way to fight the gushing water.
If you perish, they’ll blame it on karma: yours.

Heck, not hick:
Hick, not jicama:
Like how cluster yam isn’t like water yam,
Prickly pods aren’t like prickly eggplants.
Tomorrow things will go from bad to worse.
You think of turning to the government,
But they’re so distant, as stars from humble earth.
Follow them and be dragged down the wrong path:
Tricked to jump in a pot of boiling belly stew,
Told to net shrimp on top of toddy palms,
Taught to dive for clams in the forest canopy,
Trained to fetch water to fill the water jar
And keep on filling once it overflows.

The soil’s hot:
Termites will make underwater hills –
Nowhere to go, so this’ll have to do.
Gonna pave the road, no matter who won’t use it;
That dogs don’t rip out your guts is blessing enough,
Don’t you think?

We searched for know-how, the thing called wisdom,
What was left of it in the community,
Seeking out knowledge from ancient times,
Sieving out nuggets more precious than gold:
We brought home medicinal plants,
And learned they helped heal from illnesses.
An owl’s hoot was heard in the north.
We looked for a crew to join the mission
To row across; us villagers and farmers
Gathered together with all the experts:
Traditional doctors, spirit medium healers,
Herbalists, exorcists,
Midwives, soul retrievers,
Bodyworkers, soothsayers,
New experts teamed up with old ones.
They got to the bottom of our want
And shared the findings for all to see –
One is the want of the body:
In survivable illnesses treatment is crucial,
But medicine’s so very hard to come by,
You might run to a store, but you’re broke,
So you take out a loan, get over the line,
Live on pennies waiting to recover,
While the hospitals take a dig at you
For being poor, and in such agony
They’re unconcerned, You don’t even have a hundred
But show up here for treatment, what a sick joke;
Each pill, each tablet is money, not a handout.

People wrung by poverty:
Barred from good meds so they died in droves.
City people with a hundred thousand purses:
In sickness doctors carried them to bed!

It thundered time and time again.
In ’83 a group came together,
Hearts clasped in unity, households and temple,
With great faith to brave the storm;
The community pitched in to create
A botanical garden of multiple rai,
Naming it the Herbal Garden:
Today more abundant than ever,
Open to any sightseer,
Is a school of good meds for villagers,
An epic legacy of the ancestors:
They created, these folks remade.

Cuz there was a restriction:
Money got you seen by the doctors,
Or else None of our business if you die.
Tenfold awareness counts for less than hands-on;
Unless poked in the eye, you won’t see how bad.
I’ve seen it: it brought my spirits down
How loudly they shunned those of little means.

That is why our group was formed:
Couldn’t count on the hospitals,
So we turned to one another.
Nobody helped with community funds,
The coins that each of us pitched in.
Cuz the government ignored village folk,
Save for the times they’d drop the hammer.
But it wasn’t terrible, with the venerable
Reverend Teacher Supajarawat’s support
Looking after villagers day and night.
Years passed, more good meds were sourced
And jointly brought to the garden.
Managed to treat neighbors with that – real handy.

After a couple cycles of seasons,
Community members volunteered
To continue paving the road,
Seeking the root cause of misfortune:
Where did our illnesses stem from?
They came up with where to look:
Our intestines, what do we put there?
Toxins? Cooling, heating foods?
The veggies, the noodles in every meal.
What does “eat well, live well” mean?
Let’s try to find out – try…

The gathered folks sat brows-furrowed in thought,
Silent as a sick clam.
None could penetrate the roots of things.
So the reverend said in the assembly,
What is eating well and living well?
Here’s my take for y’all to ponder – y’all…

Living well is all-encompassing:
The village being free from thieves,
Family not clashing over views,
Reverence given to those deserving,
Three Rattan Strands woven together:
The temple, the home, the school in every village
Weaving one common dream, O Springleaves;
That the house be kept clean,
Clothes scrubbed free of smells,
The ground under fruit trees swept clear,
Coconut shells and milk cans – no standing water,
To prevent unseemly happenings:
Before long mosquitoes lay eggs there,
The striped skeeters hatch, go to your house,
Bite the little children, spreading fever.
No heights of joy can rival peace;
Freedom from danger is the greatest blessing.

As for the question of eating well,
I’ll unravel it for you parishioners:
Eating refers to eating to live,
Not eating for leisure like a buffalo.
We suffer, lose our barking voice
Because we eat with abandon.
The belly skin so overstretched
It cracks, holding on for dear life;
In come stomach diseases torturing us.
What a shame, a great shame it is
To eat without appreciation
Of mattaññuta – moderation.
We didn’t think, and now we weep.
Even more of a mess are the drunks
Feeding poison down their gut;
Before long they cry: cirrhosis says Doc.
Trouble even for Reverend Grandfather
Doing rounds of house visits for blessing.
It’s drizzling, but I’m not done with food issues.
Fish and shellfish, never seen it steamed or boiled:
Y’all mix in a little something acidic
And call it laab and koy, with rice balled up
Each bite as big as a bael fruit.

Hanging out under the sun
Folks discuss one topic, How’s your luck with rice?
The other year I put in little fertilizer, no yield.
Last year I put in more, turned out better.
This year I poured several sacks of it,
Sprayed weed killers, caterpillar killers,
So stalks shoot up big and curved,
A green as bright as algae,
Prettier than all the neighbors’.
When stalks swell with future seeds,
I’ll scatter chemical pellets,
What’s called plant makeup,
So ears multiply as multi-layered
As plumes of wild sugarcane!

Come morning you’re met with offers
In exchange for cash in your pockets
Flying faster than you can count out.
Key ingredients for our breakfast and lunch:
Yellow eggplant, squash, cucumber,
Greens with stems so plump
Leaves so healthy no bugs ever neared,
Oh-so-pretty you’re amazed
So you buy ’em for every meal.
The producers grow them just for sale;
They don’t put their produce in their mouths
Cuz they fear the poison Furadan.
What’s unsold they throw to the pigs,
When fights break out, heard by the whole village:
The Furadan has yet to fade,
We just sprayed it four days back.
Are my pigs gonna survive, hm?

Think about it, folks –
All the foods have toxic substances;
Rethink what things are no-go.
Follow the stomach’s desire
And lose a buttload of money a day.
Follow the mouth’s desire, the eye’s desire
Without any restrictions
And you’ll be carried to the grave:
We’ll cry for you then as you depart.
Turn back and fix it while it’s early still.

Who’s gonna dare come save you
When you eat badly, pumping toxins
Full in your flesh for far too long?
It strikes when you’re weak. Feeling fatigued?
Three days later it’s your funeral.

Rice, for one, is full of toxins,
Veggies also, adding to the toll.
Every mouthful ingested is poisonous.
That we don’t die five-six times a day
Is already a blessing, don’t you think?
Quit putting substances in food, will ya?

Oh… oh… cries of enlightenment
Gained just now with the reverend as guide.
I had fallen in a hole, a cave unlit;
Made it out and saw the sky – how gorgeous!
The siphoned water flooding the paddies
Carried poison runoff; the fish were dying.
The leaf wraps and fish dip I’d been eating
Was super toxic – how I pitied myself!

Paddies, creeks, floodplains, rivers,
Horsetail reeds in marshes, knoll ponds,
Hefty rice ears filling the fist:
These had poison residues.
Better off were cluster yams, water yams:
Chemicals didn’t seep into the hills,
Drawn instead to my rice, dill, shallots.
Damn! I got tricked into using crazy stuff.
We’re past this, regressing isn’t right,
Gotta charge ahead, I don’t care
If they have counted to one hundred
If all of us in the group agree
To commit from now on, day one,
To not using chemicals
Whether at home or in the fields,
So that going forward
We will get to live well, eat well
The way Reverend Teacher said,
Nearer and nearer nirvana!

The assembly of villagers and farmers
Reached the agreement to cease using
Chemical fertilizers, weed and insect killers.

Fretting as the rain departed:
If we quit the chemicals,
Will the rice still grow abundant, sirs?
I’ve had good luck with it, sold lots and lots,
Still the debt keeps piling up;
What if doing this drains me of funds?
The fiercest tigers, they say, aren’t in a jungle,
But in a black sleeveless blouse.
Our full-throttle zeal isn’t shared
By the mother of my son.
If she’s not in, it’s not happening.
How to go about this? I’ve got no idea.
Tell me, Paw Mahn, Can we make this work?

Grandpa Mahn was still pondering
When Reverend Teacher Supa spoke
Pointing a way forward for all present,
The path to clear ought to be clear to all,
Don’t restrict the knowledge to the men,
Call her to come with when there’s a meeting
To observe what’s what:
With both in the know it’s smooth sailing.

Alrighty folks, let’s do it this way –
The way that goes smoothly, that freely flows,
No branch blocking the water canal,
To the fruition of our plans.

The quest for the cause and causal factors
Sent Grandpa Mahn on a wisdom hunt.
In a rocky mountain a million miles away
He found the sword to pierce through all the dangers.
Coming home he called a village meeting,
Bravely offering to be the first to try
Making fertilizers out of twigs, dry leaves.
He tried to talk people into it;
They said, You’re crazy, stop talking, gotta go.
’81 or so was that pioneer year.
Wanting to prove people wrong,
Grandpa Mahn obsessed over composting.
In his trial paddy the stalks grew tall and pretty.
But the people paid the old man no mind,
Said he’d scattered pellets on the sly.
Those open to talking formed a group:
Seven, eight guys in close-knit conversation.
When the government gave out plant food packets,
The seven-eight guys kicked them to the curb,
Hideous stuff – don’t let it seep into the paddies;
Them packets are but raging chemicals
Given to us as a lure:
Meant to mark you for a later kill.

Auspicious trees, sundry herbs:
How we used to grow them around here.
Sweet platitudes on the tongue,
Sweet fruits that leave the throat scratchy –
Goodbye, Wise Man Big Businessman’s silver tongue;
What can rival my own agency?

Broth so diluted you can’t find a chunk.
Hammer for a hammer, vowed the volunteers:
Firmness of purpose called ideology
Ranks above reason of any kind.
Wind-pelted in a thousand storms,
Still standing above the water is I.
The struggle dragged on and on;
Rain come and gone eight times over.
A bobtail cat lay watching a harvester ant mound;
Out came ’89 – eventful year:
Leaving home for a trip abroad
Arranged and paid for by leading NGOs;
Flown around in an airplane
To Manila over there, Pinoys’ home,
Down-sloping land of the Philippines.
What’s the soil color? none thought to ask.
People trailed around in groups,
Brought home knowledge heaped high as an anthill;
They pitched it atop the bamboo thorns:
No more fear in Yaso land and sky.

The ’90 agenda was even more hip:
Unyoking Farmers in the Community.
A meeting was called with all experts:
Spirits enthusiasts, drug connoisseurs,
Cock handlers, Hi-Lo hosts, card dealers,
Lottery buyers, buffalo suppliers,
Field frog catchers, creek netters,
Garden lizard lassoers, kid talkers,
Most importantly the county president
Venerable Teacher Supa, ne’er far from people,
Ne’er said no to community building work,
The Big Sib guiding us along the path.
The notice said, At three o’clock
We’ll assemble for a circle chat
So exhaustive you will shamble home.
Have something to say? Don’t hold back.
We’ll talk openly. Don’t knot your clothes
And conceal truth inside.
Say what’s on your mind; there’s no time limit.
It’s a forum for debate you’ll co-create.
What we’ll get: being loosed from snares,
Casting off the yoke from our shoulders.
Many say farmers are disadvantaged
Selling rice for sums as small as sesame seeds.

Aunties from shacks in forested fields,
Uncles with paddy plots in floodplains
Bitching about no money to meet debts;
Over this way, Uncle Sang from the wetlands;
On the koong log over there, rowdy youngsters;
Tons of people everywhere
Overflowed the gazebo into the street
Till there was no space, gotta bear the sun.
Those under the tamarind’s shade were all chill
Jibber-jabbering away,
What did Grandpa Mahn call us here for?

Brothers, sisters,
I’ve been meditating on the future.
With the rules dictating rice farmers
We’ve been prodded to play on their terms,
Trampled over countless times,
Gone on roads with twists, spiked pits,
Swept into fish traps year after year.
You invested, built up your business:
Half your rice barn sells for sesame seeds,
The going rate they get to set,
And you can’t not sell – collectors are calling.
Interest blooms in purple bills:
Who will help you pull the weeds?
Distress burns your heavy heart;
Your back hunches, traps bulge bearing ignorance.
A great harvest year drives down the price;
A rainless year, ain’t enough to eat;
Try again next year or the year after.
Seeing no way out – who dares do the math?
You who floundered ought to learn the lesson;
Don’t fall into the trap twice in a row.
Where’re the obstacles and ways through at?
Quit thinking about the higher powers.
Reality won’t match your nightly daydreams.
Detach yourselves, my people.
Hundred-story suffering is the farmer’s.
Asleep you sometimes dream of debts –
Did you see clarity in there?
Let us stand up and resist.
If we fail to band together,
Masked demons will chase us down
And eat us for lunch and dinner.

Let’s try living by principles.
No more wandering. Think far ahead.
See through their ruse to crush, kill and dump.
There are skies beyond the deluge of shrewd men:
If they can, what’s possible for us?
Let’s pitch in to build a rice mill
Of our own, paid for by farmers ourselves,
Two-three hundred baht from each to start,
Then we’ll share the proceeds from sales.
Buying prices will be judged by grade;
We ourselves will set the range.
Means we’ll buy, we’ll sell, we’ll ship;
Every step we’ll be in the know.
To take part, good morals are a must;
Sticky fingers will be kept away.
Anyone runs into a problem
Can ask others: knowledge will be shared.
There’s no rush; it’ll take a few years
To see front to back. We’ll start small
To save strength. Once the passage is clear
We’ll march double time. Those in the tree shade
Any questions? Don’t take your doubts home.
What I’ve laid out, you agree?
Ask, suggest – the floor is yours.

I’m Tid Joei, it’s a good idea,
But who’s gonna keep the ball rolling?
Each job is so tough it can’t be done alone.
Such vast skies, such slippery roads
May not be worth putting in time and effort:
Hard work up front stolen down the lane.

Well, about that, there is a saying:
Pioneering work is rough at first,
Smooth later. To trip and fall on a log
Is no big deal while paving the way.
A major project such as this
Needs bold, steady minds to steer it.
Shrewd and dependable folks in our ranks
We have over a hundred here, haven’t we?
Don’t lose heart, ladies and gentlemen,
You haven’t seen what we’re capable of.
Why don’t you test it out first?
Give in before going into the arena
And they’re gonna call you… Tiger
(As in Dog).

Long story short, as if an easy thing,
Many boarded the small boat
To row up against the current.
Seven seasons spent crossing the waves;
Heads held high they spotted the coast,
Happy. They’d escaped, survived the storm.
Mission accomplished, now phase two:
A warm gathering with numerous friends
All committed to defying fate,
Karma can be remade by our hands;
To hell with gods and kings’ audacity;
I alone lift up my friends.
Salvation was achieved according to plan.
Many paid off their debts, freed to fly.
News reached people near and far
Who came asking how we managed it.
Poor, rural villagers’ combined strength
Restrained an elephant to a complete stop!

Never underestimate your own strength.
No one’s truly superior to another.
One’s intelligence can grow with effort.
Busy yourself staring down a well
And your sky will be the size of a sieve!

Feet up on the couch, whistling,
The government saw, came, gave us money
To construct a big-ass mill
Worth a couple million in ’97.
They wanted to name it the Rice Mill
Of the Nature Conservation Club.
Today, we have funds to go around,
The paved road now perfectly flat.
Won’t you drop by when you’re in the area?