Between The Forest And The Fields

Chapter 5: Between the Forest and the Fields

As much as school meant to me, life at home demanded more. The weight of our family's survival was placed squarely on my shoulders, even at a young age. While I was still a child, my parents had no choice but to rely on every member of the family, no matter how small, to help keep the household running. My schoolwork, no matter how important it seemed to me, was secondary to the demands of the land and the household.

My mornings often began before the sun rose. The cool, early morning air would still linger, and the birds, still groggy from the night, would begin their chorus, announcing the start of the day. But there was no time for laziness. I would leave my bed and go straight to work, even before I thought about washing my face or having breakfast. My first task of the day was always to gather firewood, a job that was both physically demanding and time-consuming.

In our village, firewood was essential for cooking, and gathering it was no simple task. The forest surrounding our village was dense, with trees so tall their canopies seemed to touch the sky. As a child, I was often sent to find and chop down branches that had fallen to the ground or were small enough to carry back to the village. On some days, I would venture deep into the forest, searching for wood to fill the basket slung over my shoulder. The journey was long, and the weight of the wood pressed down on my small frame, but I had learned to endure. The forest was a place both comforting and intimidating. While it provided the sustenance we needed to cook our meals, it also hid dangers—snakes, wild animals, and the occasional threat of getting lost.

The heat of the day was no friend to my energy. By the time I had collected enough firewood, I was already drained, covered in sweat, and tired before the real work had even begun. The trip back to the village was always long and arduous, the weight of the firewood pulling me down with every step, but it was part of the routine. There was no avoiding it.

Once I returned home, I would help my mother prepare breakfast, if there was any food to prepare, or fetch water from the village well if needed. All of this took time—time that would have been spent in school if circumstances were different. By the time I finished these morning chores, it was already late, and the sun was high in the sky. I would then hurry to school, often arriving just in time for the first class. But my body was always weary, my mind sluggish, weighed down by the fatigue of the day's earlier work.

The afternoons were no better. After school, while the other children returned home to play or rest, I had to go straight to the fields with my father. Our farm was small but crucial to our survival. My father would often send me to the fields to help clear the weeds, plant the crops, or harvest what little had grown. The farm was hard work, demanding both strength and patience. I remember the ache in my back as I bent over to plant seeds, or the sting of the sun as it beat down on my exposed skin. There were no shortcuts in farming—only long hours under the sun, in fields that seemed endless. The land was both our livelihood and our burden, and no matter how hard we worked, it always seemed to ask for more.

While my friends were learning about the world in their classrooms, I was learning how to survive, how to work the land, how to help my family in ways that took priority over my education. There were days when the work in the fields would be so demanding that I couldn't make it to school at all. My parents, understanding the importance of education, would still encourage me to go, but there were times when the pressure to help was too great. These moments were always accompanied by a sense of guilt—a guilt I couldn't quite shake. I felt torn between two worlds: the world of books and classrooms that promised a better future, and the world of work and survival, where every minute away from the fields felt like a betrayal of my family's needs.

The toll of this life was clear. My schoolwork began to suffer. There were days when I couldn't finish my assignments, not because I didn't care, but because there simply wasn't enough time. I would often fall behind in class, my mind fogged with exhaustion, struggling to remember the lessons that had been taught earlier in the day. My teachers could see the change in me, the fatigue in my eyes, but there was little they could do to help. They, too, understood the reality of our lives—the way the needs of the family often came before the desires of the child.

I began to notice how my peers, who had fewer responsibilities at home, were excelling in their studies. They had time to do their homework, to study for exams, and to engage in the discussions that we had in class. They were able to go home after school, eat a meal, and rest. I, on the other hand, was always caught in the cycle of work, unable to break free to focus solely on my studies. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I began to fall further and further behind. I could see it happening, but there was little I could do to stop it.

Even as my education slipped through my fingers, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of pride for the work I was doing. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary. I saw how my family depended on me, and that sense of responsibility became a part of who I was. While I knew that my dreams of education were being delayed, I also knew that the work I did at home was shaping me in other ways. It taught me resilience, strength, and the value of hard work.

The daily rhythm of life between the forest and the fields became the backdrop of my childhood. The days were long, and the tasks were never-ending, but I didn't resent the work. Instead, I grew accustomed to it, understanding that it was a part of life. I learned that sometimes, dreams don't come easily. They must be earned, fought for, and sometimes even delayed. I knew that my path to education wasn't going to be easy. But I also knew that the sacrifices I made, the labor I put in, were not in vain. They were shaping me into someone who understood the value of effort, the importance of perseverance, and the strength of character that comes from hard work.

While my peers were dreaming of futures filled with promise, I was learning that the road to success was never straight, and often, it required a detour through the fields and forests. The toll that this took on my education was undeniable, but the lessons I learned along the way would become the foundation for everything I would later achieve. And so, I continued, between the forest and the fields, never giving up on the possibility of a better future, even when the present seemed too heavy to bear.