I am writing this on February 24th, 2025. Three years of war in Ukraine. I spent my childhood summers there, a place I once knew for its sunlight, mussels, and silent but effortless play with children whose language I didn’t speak. Now, children there, in Russia, Gaza, Lebanon, Myanmar learn to use rifles. War has made its way into their hands.
The absurdity is overwhelming. Trumping any sense, Trump wants to turn Gaza into a resort, rubble and bodies swept aside to build hotels. He treats Ukraine’s minerals as bargaining chips in negotiations so jarring in their cruelty that they feel fictitious. Greenland is tossed around in assertions of ownership, people are moved around across borders in chains. I saw it on TikTok, ASMR.
The world-ruling oligarchy, grotesque in its excess, would be laughable if it weren’t so very real. The machinery of war and wealth grinds on, fed by division, swallowed by an unrelenting us versus them. Human lives are reduced to collateral.
I try to work through the haze of disbelief, waking each morning to a world that makes less and less sense. Yet, this week, something did make sense: sweet potatoes, leeks, chicory, and salsify. Let me explain.
These vegetables are not commodities; they are reminders of patience and interdependence, of effort and reward
I get my vegetables from Tuinderij Eikemaheert in Loppersum, where Roby Lalkens and Charlie Jansen have been growing produce since spring 2024. Their farm operates on the principles of community-supported agriculture, a model where farmers and citizens share both investment and harvest.
Roby and Charlie, both from the arts and culture sector, found a new kind of resistance in small-scale farming. At Eikemaheert, they blend agriculture with storytelling, seeing food as a medium for connection. Participants in their harvest program pay upfront, ensuring farmers can work with respect for people, animals, soil, and the environment. It is a model that defies the ruthless logic of war and extraction—it is about care, continuity, and community.
There is something profoundly reassuring about this rhythm—planting, tending, harvesting, sharing. It is a simple cycle, one that resists the acceleration of a world driven by conflict and profit. These vegetables are not commodities; they are reminders of patience and interdependence, of effort and reward.
In a world that feels incomprehensible, there is something deeply grounding about fresh, local vegetables. They are tangible proof of another way of living—one based on mutual reliance, stewardship, and sustenance rather than destruction. This week, amidst the unrelenting noise of global upheaval, the clarity of a sweet potato has been my refuge.
VALERIA CERNEI