Food sovereignty is an affirmation of who we are as indigenous

Host: The evening sun lay low across the horizon, burning amber and red, spilling over the edges of the fields like molten memory. The land breathed — quiet, steady — the way only land that has known both pain and patience can breathe. The air smelled of earth and smoke, the sweet musk of soil turned by generations of hands that remembered how to listen.

At the edge of the field, an old wooden table stood beneath a cottonwood tree. On it were baskets of corn, squash, and beans, each glowing in the last light of the day — the sacred triad of sustenance. A small fire crackled nearby, smoke curling upward, joining the twilight.

Jack sat with his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the horizon, a look of quiet contemplation beneath his furrowed brow. Across from him, Jeeny crouched over the fire, stirring something in an old cast-iron pot — her hands moving with a rhythm older than thought.

Jeeny: (softly, without looking up) “Winona LaDuke once said, ‘Food sovereignty is an affirmation of who we are as indigenous peoples and a way, one of the most surefooted ways, to restore our relationship with the world around us.’”

Jack: (leans back, watching the sun dip lower) “That’s heavy — but beautiful. You can almost feel the weight of history in it.”

Jeeny: “It’s not history, Jack. It’s continuity. History ends. Relationship endures.”

Jack: “You mean the land remembers?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The land has always remembered. It’s us who forgot how to listen.”

Host: The wind moved through the tall grass, carrying with it the whisper of old languages — syllables lost to paper, but alive in sound and breath. The last of the sun touched Jeeny’s hair, turning it to copper flame. The smell of the stew mingled with the scent of the river that wound nearby, unseen but present — like memory itself.

Jack: “So food isn’t just survival.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s ceremony. It’s language. It’s identity made edible.”

Jack: “Then what’s food sovereignty?”

Jeeny: (pauses, then looks up) “It’s reclamation. It’s saying — we decide what nourishes us, not what’s sold to us.”

Jack: “You mean independence.”

Jeeny: “Deeper than that. It’s interdependence — with the earth, with community, with spirit. It’s the opposite of exploitation.”

Jack: “You’re saying the act of eating can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “Always has been. Every meal is a conversation with creation. The question is — do we listen, or do we consume?”

Host: The fire snapped, scattering small sparks into the darkening sky. Each spark flickered and disappeared, like the brief lives of forgotten crops — seeds once abundant, now stored in corporate vaults far from the soil that birthed them.

Jeeny ladled stew into two wooden bowls and handed one to Jack. The steam rose between them, shimmering like the breath of the earth itself.

Jack: (smelling the bowl) “This smells like... truth. Simple, honest.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because it comes from the ground that knows our names.”

Jack: “You really believe the land has memory?”

Jeeny: “It’s written in its hunger and its healing. When you poison it, it mourns. When you tend it, it forgives.”

Jack: “That sounds like faith.”

Jeeny: “It’s relationship. Faith is abstract — relationship is rooted.”

Jack: “And food is the ritual that keeps that relationship alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every seed planted in gratitude is a prayer answered through nourishment.”

Host: A hawk cried overhead as it glided across the dying light. The fire popped again, louder now, punctuating their words. The world felt small — not in limitation, but in intimacy, as if the boundaries between human and land had thinned into understanding.

Jack: “You know, I grew up thinking food came from stores, not soil. My mother used to say, ‘We don’t farm, we buy.’ That was her definition of progress.”

Jeeny: “That’s not progress, Jack. That’s amnesia.”

Jack: “And what’s sovereignty, then? Memory restored?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Memory and agency. To grow your own food is to write your own story again. To eat what your ancestors ate is to remember who you are.”

Jack: “And when people lose that?”

Jeeny: “They stop belonging anywhere. They become consumers instead of participants.”

Jack: “You make it sound like hunger is more than just physical.”

Jeeny: “It always is. The soul hungers for connection just as the body hungers for sustenance. Food sovereignty heals both.”

Host: The moon began to rise, pale and deliberate, turning the fields silver. The wind carried the scent of rain from far away — the promise of renewal. Jack took a slow sip of the stew, the warmth spreading through him, grounding him in the moment, anchoring him to something vast and quiet.

Jack: “You think we can ever go back? To living in rhythm with the land?”

Jeeny: “Not back. Forward — but with remembrance. Progress that forgets its roots isn’t progress, it’s decay.”

Jack: “So, modern technology and ancient wisdom — they don’t have to fight?”

Jeeny: “They have to reconcile. A seed and a circuit are both forms of intelligence. The question is — can we make them dance without one devouring the other?”

Jack: “That’s a tall order.”

Jeeny: “It’s the order of survival.”

Host: A soft rain began to fall, thin and silver, hissing as it touched the fire. The steam rose higher now, mixing with the scent of herbs and earth. Jeeny held out her hand to catch the drops, then pressed her wet palm against the soil beside her.

Her voice softened — almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “The land doesn’t ask for worship, Jack. It asks for reciprocity. It gives, and it waits to be given back to.”

Jack: “You mean — not ownership, but kinship.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food sovereignty isn’t a right to exploit — it’s a responsibility to restore.”

Jack: “You make it sound like we’ve been talking to the world in the wrong language.”

Jeeny: “We have. We’ve shouted in profit when we should’ve spoken in gratitude.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now we relearn the dialect of dirt.”

Host: The rain fell harder, but neither moved. The fire dimmed but did not die. Each breath they took mingled with the rhythm of the storm — the oldest dialogue there is: sky feeding soil, soil feeding life, life remembering itself.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, when LaDuke talks about food sovereignty as an affirmation of who we are… I think she’s saying the world recognizes us by how we feed it back.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Our identity isn’t carved in flags or borders — it’s planted. The way a people tends the earth reveals the soul of their culture.”

Jack: “And when the tending stops, the soul starves.”

Jeeny: “Until someone remembers. That’s why this matters.”

Jack: (softly) “So this meal… this isn’t just dinner.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s belonging.”

Host: The storm began to pass, leaving the world glistening, alive, renewed. The fire hissed its last, reduced to soft embers that pulsed like the heartbeat of the ground itself. The moon broke through the clouds, lighting the field in silver and forgiveness.

Jack: “You know, I think freedom might look like this — two people eating from the same pot, no walls, no hunger for more than what’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Freedom’s always been the taste of enough.”

Jack: “And dignity?”

Jeeny: “The grace of giving back.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the figures small now against the vastness of the living land — two human silhouettes, framed by the slow curl of smoke, the shimmer of rain, and the echo of an ancient truth made new again.

The river below reflected the moonlight — moving, whispering, remembering.

And as the scene faded, Winona LaDuke’s words remained — soft, steady, eternal:

that food sovereignty is not just about what we eat,
but about who we are when we eat it;

that it is an act of return,
a rejoining of the human spirit with the rhythms of the earth;

that in every seed planted with intention,
in every harvest shared in gratitude,
we reclaim our identity,
our balance,
and our place within the great conversation of life;

a reminder that to feed the world rightly
is to remember that the world,
in turn,
feeds us back.