Canadian farmers are an essential part of the global food supply

Host:
The wind swept across the vast expanse of prairie farmland, carrying with it the smell of soil, diesel, and the faint sweetness of harvest dust. The sun hung low on the horizon, bleeding gold into amber fields of wheat that rippled like a quiet ocean. It was late evening — that brief hour when work paused but never truly ended.

A tractor engine idled in the distance, its hum steady, like the pulse of the land itself. The barn doors stood open, light spilling out in a wide rectangle across the dirt. Inside, Jack was wiping the grease from his hands, his face streaked with sweat and grit, but calm — the calm that comes from labor that means something.

Across from him, leaning against a stack of hay bales, was Jeeny, her notebook half-filled with notes and questions. The faint sound of the radio from the truck outside murmured political talk, punctuated by static.

Jeeny: softly “Leslyn Lewis once said — ‘Canadian farmers are an essential part of the global food supply chain, and they should have been exempt from the carbon tax in order to assist with global food security.’”

Jack: letting out a breath, setting down the rag “She’s right about one thing — we are part of the global food supply chain. But people forget that means we’re also at the mercy of it.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And the carbon tax hits hardest where the margins are thinnest — in the dirt, not the boardroom.”

Host:
The light flickered through the gaps in the old wooden slats, painting stripes across the floor. The air smelled of grain and diesel, and the sound of distant geese migrating south echoed like time itself moving on schedule.

Jack poured water from a jug, his voice thoughtful, low.

Jack: quietly “You know, people love to talk about sustainability — until it costs them something. For farmers, that word’s not a buzzword; it’s survival. We’ve been practicing it for generations. Rotating crops, conserving soil, feeding people — that’s sustainability in action.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet, you’re taxed for the very work that sustains the world.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. They call it progress, but it feels more like punishment. When the carbon tax hits our fuel, our transport, our fertilizer — it doesn’t just hit us. It hits the price of food everywhere. The world eats what farmers grow. And we can’t grow on empty pockets.”

Host:
The tractor engine outside sputtered and stopped, leaving behind the deep quiet of open land. The kind of silence that feels like a living thing — immense, breathing, infinite.

Jeeny looked out the barn door, her eyes tracing the horizon, where the wheat field glowed faintly under the setting sun.

Jeeny: quietly “Lewis talked about global food security — but most people don’t realize how fragile that really is. It only takes one bad season, one policy too far removed from reality, to break the chain.”

Jack: softly, shaking his head “And when the chain breaks, it doesn’t break in Ottawa. It breaks here. On this dirt. In calloused hands.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Farmers are asked to feed the world and save the planet — and yet they’re treated like they’re the problem.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. It’s funny, isn’t it? We talk about emissions like they’re sins — but out here, we call it breath. The land breathes. The machines breathe. Even the crops breathe. Everything gives, everything takes. Balance isn’t built by taxing breath.”

Host:
The wind picked up, rattling the loose metal of the roof. The last of the sunlight slipped below the horizon, leaving the world soaked in blue twilight.

Jeeny: gently “Do you think people have forgotten what food really means?”

Jack: nodding slowly “They think it’s just a product. But food’s not just a thing — it’s a covenant. Between the land, the grower, and the people who eat it. Every loaf of bread, every bowl of rice — it’s built on someone’s faith that the world still needs them.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet, that faith is tested every season.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Every season. Drought, flood, frost, policy — doesn’t matter. You plant anyway. You pray anyway. Because if you stop, the world goes hungry.”

Host:
The radio crackled again — a newscaster’s voice cutting through the static: “…rising costs continue to impact farmers nationwide…” before fading back into white noise.

Jeeny looked at Jack, her voice tender, but edged with urgency.

Jeeny: quietly “Lewis wasn’t just talking about fairness. She was warning us. If we burden the hands that feed us, we’re setting ourselves up for scarcity.”

Jack: nodding “She’s right. You can’t build sustainability on the backs of people you’re breaking.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet, the farmers keep working.”

Jack: quietly, with a weary smile “Because hunger doesn’t wait for politics.”

Host:
The camera would move slowly now — following the two of them as they stepped outside the barn. The vast field stretched before them, endless rows of wheat swaying in the night wind. The stars began to pierce through the indigo sky, and the land seemed to hum — old, patient, alive.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what I think, Jack? Maybe every farmer’s work is an act of forgiveness. They keep giving, even when the world forgets to thank them.”

Jack: softly “That’s what the land teaches. You plant kindness, even in hard soil.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And harvest hope.”

Jack: nodding “Always hope.”

Host:
The camera panned up — the endless field shimmering under the stars, the barn light a faint glow in the distance, a small beacon against the darkness. The quiet voice of Leslyn Lewis would echo over the wind — part conviction, part warning, all truth:

“Canadian farmers are an essential part of the global food supply chain, and they should have been exempt from the carbon tax in order to assist with global food security.”

Because the world’s stability
rests in the hands of those
who plant what they will never fully reap.

They wake before dawn,
labor under policy and sky alike,
and yet — they give.

Their work is not just economy —
it is inheritance.

And if the world forgets their worth,
it forgets its own hunger.

For every harvest that fills a table
begins in the faith of a single seed —
planted by hands
that ask for nothing
but fairness,
weather,
and a little grace from the world
they feed.