My father was born in Hwanghae province, North Korea, in 1945. Amidst the tumultuous backdrop of the Korean War, his family embarked on a daring escape to the South on a small boat. I often ponder the existence of relatives in North Korea, particularly my grandfather's siblings, whom I have never had the opportunity to meet.


A few years ago, I had a enlightening encounter with a dedicated farmer who was passionately cultivating a distinct variety of wild rice. This particular species traced its roots back to the efforts of a Japanese botanist during Korea's period under Japanese colonization. The botanist and their team diligently researched and categorized various strains of Korean rice with the aim of developing improved varieties in the future. However, due to limited resources, only a handful of species managed to thrive on the Korean peninsula, while other less productive types were regrettably neglected.


During my interaction with the farmer, I was fortunate enough to acquire some rice varieties from Hwanghae province. Some of them possessed unique characteristics, such as longer grains resembling strands of hair, which can be attributed to the colder climate of the region. Others had a distinctive black color, setting them apart from the rice I had been accustomed to consuming. Despite living in different countries and regions, we all essentially consume the same rice due to market forces. Rice has become a commoditized product, devoid of the rich cultural and geographical diversity it once embodied.


This realization led me to question the prevailing notion by incorporating and savoring rice from specific regions. Could it be that certain types of rice are unable to thrive in the South, or perhaps we can still find joy in our separate lives while enjoying the diversity of our food? The world is becoming increasingly fragmented, with people no longer willing to blend or engage with one another. We find ourselves separated by our beliefs, cultures, and countless other factors. Is this the path towards our collective future?


In 1966, my father became involved in the Vietnam War as a signaller, fortunately avoiding direct engagement in armed conflict. Nevertheless, he confessed to witnessing countless horrifying scenes during that period, as his camp was situated atop a hill overlooking Quy Nohn beach. As we toiled together in the rice fields, he would often reflect on his experiences in Vietnam, expressing remorse for those tumultuous times. This sparked an idea within me and my friends in Hue: what if we cultivated rice together? Can art, even amidst the complexities and convolutions of history, still shape our cultural narrative?