When I first discovered my connection with Aquarian energy, I thought it meant I should pursue the most "innovative" technologies. I remember feeling ashamed earlier this year for not understanding modeling and 3D technology. Determined, I pushed myself to learn, even purchasing a high-end computer for the task. However, I soon realized that I could not resonate with the illusions these technologies created—an imagined world rather than a perceived one.

In the latter half of the year, my studies in ethnobotany and astrology drew me toward indigenous worldviews. Unexpectedly, I found a connection between Aquarius and ancient wisdom/memory. This led me to reflect on Pluto's entrance into Aquarius and the layers of meaning that remain to be unearthed.

Aquarius is ruled by both Uranus and Saturn. Before writing this, I had simplistically viewed them as binary opposites—Uranus representing revolution, innovation, and upheaval, while Saturn symbolized rules, tradition, and authority. As an Aquarian dedicated to social change, I had always aligned myself with Uranian energy, regarding Saturn as an adversary. Yet, through this research and writing process, I began to realize my misunderstanding of these two celestial bodies. This article aims to provide a more nuanced vision of Aquarius.

Saturn governs the skin and bones—the structures that shape our bodies. Our bodies are the medium that builds, contains, divides, and connects us to the Earth. Without the framework provided by our bodies, we cannot perceive or act. Saturn grants us a container, defining our form and boundaries, allowing us to experience both the world and others.

Our bodies follow natural rhythms—they grow, decay, and eventually return to the earth. This reveals the essence of Saturn: a deep respect for natural order. To survive and dwell upon the land, we must understand and honor the cyclical rhythms of nature—the ebb and flow of tides, the dance of rivers and planets.

Saturn urges us to respect the inherent order of all things rather than forcibly intervene.

As the planet of time, Saturn imprints its domain with memory and forgetting. In The Rings of Saturn, W.G. Sebald recounts a journey through memory while bedridden, traversing ancient English estates, abandoned islands, and the ruins of civilizations. He weaves personal recollections with collective memory, crafting a vast museum where seemingly unrelated knowledge intertwines.

Saturn, like Jupiter, represents the transition from the personal to the collective. As the farthest planet visible to the naked eye, it governs Aquarius with the lesson of confronting history's shadows, the fractures of time, and the violence of boundaries.

"In Sebald’s work, history is a taboo (Saturn), difficult to approach directly, accessible only through infinite delay and detour."

—Single Reading review of The Rings of Saturn

In 1656, British traveler John Tradescant Jr. ventured into Southeast Asia and discovered the gutta-percha tree. Observing indigenous peoples' use of rubber, he brought samples back, leading merchants to envision its economic potential. Soon, rubber became indispensable for manufacturing tires, submarine cables, and essential infrastructure.

Yet, these merchants only saw how plants and land could be exploited for imagined prosperity, ignoring how this wealth was built upon the destruction of indigenous knowledge and emotional connections with the land. This prosperity was merely an illusion, masking deeper forms of scarcity.

This trade also relied on a massive influx of foreign labor. Beyond transatlantic slave ships carrying Caribbean peoples, European governments enacted the "Chinese Labour Ordinance" in 1899, drawing migrants from coastal Cantonese regions to British colonies in Southeast Asia. Seeking a better life, they instead found themselves trapped in indentured servitude—plantation laborers reduced to "coolies."

This journey of discovery and expansion was fueled by the erasure of others’ beliefs, knowledge, and bodily autonomy. If we analyze Jupiter’s archetypes—the explorer, scientist, and merchant—we see how their thirst for expansion often created long-lasting colonial violence. Their desires seized lands, displaced people, and forced labor upon the subjugated.

This history is not confined to the past. Are our modern industries, consumption habits, and tourism still based on ecological exploitation and human oppression, hidden beneath the facade of "commerce" and "prosperity"? Pluto in Aquarius compels us to confront the hidden depths of these realities—any development that ignores Saturn’s natural laws will ultimately face karmic consequences.

Saturn is not merely about oppression but about reverence for limits. Without limits, form cannot emerge, and life cannot be sustained. Saturn reminds us that all creation must respect natural boundaries and that every timeline is steeped in historical weight. In Aquarius, Saturn plays the role of "collective memory," ensuring that innovation does not become disconnection, and that progress stands upon a stable foundation.

Public interest and truth are not always aligned. Truth is not necessarily a prerequisite for societal organization. As Pluto enters Aquarius, this planet of destruction arrives with the intent to dismantle existing social structures—forcing us to confront the violence and trauma left behind in the name of "civilization." Through remembrance and stillness, Pluto catalyzes transformation.

Uranus is linked to the idea of "beginnings." It exists in the space between sky and earth, between perception and wisdom. As the first planet discovered by telescope, Uranus represents technological mediation—techne, the force that brings the unseen into manifestation.

In The Art of Stealing Fire, Liz Greene associates Uranus with Prometheus, who stole fire for humanity, introducing architecture, navigation, astrology, and cosmic knowledge. Fire, one of humanity’s most profound crafts, enabled survival—but also reshaped our relationship with nature.

In The Pyrocene, Stephen Pyne describes how humans have created an era where fire is ever-present. No longer bound by fuel, seasons, or climate, fire—through unchecked technological advances—grants us freedom yet threatens to consume us.

For instance, our digital world—search engines, streaming, cloud storage—seems intangible but relies on massive physical infrastructure. In 2021, Google's U.S. data centers alone consumed 4.6 billion liters of fresh water, exacerbating existing drought crises.

Similarly, AI's so-called "progress" conceals labor exploitation, particularly in the Global South. OpenAI's ChatGPT required hundreds of thousands of hours of data labeling. Kenyan workers, paid as little as $1–2 per hour, were tasked with filtering violent content to train AI systems.

If we equate progress solely with technology, we risk falling into Aquarius’ Uranian trap.

In The Ignorant Schoolmaster, the discussion of education and inequality reveals the paradox of Aquarius.

"Our world constantly repeats this notion of 'backwardness,' 'slowness,' and 'delay' in education. Global education is built on the assumption that students will always lag behind their teachers; that 'developing' nations will always lag behind 'enlightened' ones. Today’s widespread promotion of global 'democratization'—a contemporary symbol of institutionalization and progress—is merely a new name for inequality."

Where does this belief in "progress" originate? We rarely question it.

"The continuity of history is deliberately constructed, yet history is always fractured. It can only be examined from the present moment and through a political lens."

The last time Pluto entered Aquarius, it ignited the French Revolution and the Enlightenment—a historical milestone often viewed through a Eurocentric lens. Many consider the Enlightenment a liberation from ignorance into the light of reason. But a closer look reveals its contradictions.

For example, Immanuel Kant described indigenous peoples of the Americas and Africa as lacking reason or progress, portraying them as "childlike" or "savages." These ideas reinforced colonial policies, justifying the so-called "civilizing mission" of spreading European knowledge, Christianity, and economic development.

South African artist William Kentridge critiques the colonial nature of the Enlightenment: "Every act of enlightenment—every ambition to save souls, every impulse—carries the weight, shadow, and violence that follows. The colonial project, in its own words, was about bringing light to darkness—it was Plato’s cave enacted in its most terrifying form."

It is as if someone ignores your experiences, knowledge, and feelings, only to insist, "This is the right way. I am doing this for your own good."

In We Have Never Been Modern, Bruno Latour argues that we are products of modernity, nurtured and constructed by it. Our knowledge is confined to consumption, markets, work, homes, cars, and artificial objects. Unconsciously, our daily habits reinforce modernity, which is then passed on to the next generation.

Society does not encourage us to discover our own truths or the truths of the world. Instead, it seeks to educate and condition us to fit into labor markets and social structures. We have grown accustomed to the idea that humanity dominates the world through technology, while everything we perceive reinforces this belief.

"Radical revolution is the only solution modernity can conceive, yet modernity blinds us to the fact that things themselves carry complex histories and memories (Saturn)." —Bruno Latour

Aquarius challenges us: If our understanding of the past is fragmented and uncertain, should we continue rushing toward an imagined future? If the past is fading, how should we move forward?

Closing my eyes, I see an ancient ritual unfolding.

My Chiron is at 0° Aquarius in the ninth house, precisely where Pluto now transits. The Sabian symbol for Aquarius 0° is An Old Adobe Mission in California—a symbol of lasting connections, the creation of something enduring and transcendent.

At 27° Aquarius, the Sabian symbol is An Ancient Pottery Bowl Filled with Violets, representing tradition and continuity. It signifies the resilience of meaning and identity beyond fleeting material change.

Aquarius is not merely about progress; it is about the intersection of past, present, and future. It does not erase memory but renews it; it does not defy nature but harmonizes with it.

Aquarius asks us: What kind of future is, truly, worth pursuing?

References：

Greene, Liz. The Art of Stealing Fire: Uranus in the Horoscope.

Rancière, Jacques. The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation.

Sparkly Kat, Alice. Postcolonial Astrology: Reading the Planets through Capital, Power, and Labor.

Sebald, W. G. The Rings of Saturn.

Latour, Bruno. We Have Never Been Modern.

Pyne, Stephen J. The Pyrocene: How We Created an Age of Fire, and What Happens Next.

Regina

A curator and astrologer with a Sun-Pluto conjunction in the 7th house in Sagittarius and a Midheaven in Aquarius. Passionate about the interconnectedness of stars, plants, rivers, oceans, and humans, they believe in and seek knowledge of alternative ways of life.

This article is also published by New Moon Astrology Journal in Mandarin https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/U8gv09fhN2DkBQpa6Ie5WA

Foreword

The following reflections stem from my three-day stay in Hin Lad Nai Village, also known as "Lazy Man Village," nestled in Mae Wang District of northern Thailand. The village leader, Swae, generously shared many memories about his connection to the land, grounding my previous ideas about indigeneity into something real and tangible. We arrived at the end of December, during the dry season, just after the rice harvest. Had we visited during the rainy season, we certainly wouldn’t have experienced such leisurely days.

As a leader, Swae has actively shared the stories of Karen land across many platforms and is in constant fighting against the government, advocating for more rights for his people. He also manages his family and participates in various village activities.

But why do I still write this? Because I’ve experienced it, because I’ve participated, because the tears that welled up and the deep emotions I couldn’t suppress—besides telling the story, I have no other way.

To me, indigenous wisdom ultimately circles back to how we live and inhabit this world. All research, perspectives, and expressions distill into the daily rituals of tea and rice. Our first teachers in living are our families. Inheriting their lifestyles and habits—through imitation and observation—is almost unconscious, what we might call "familial karma."

But what if these inherited ways lack respect for Earth’s other inhabitants, or are built on exploitation? Do we comply, consoling ourselves as victims of circumstance? I refuse.

Someone once wrote in a field journal, 'Being adopted into a household, I gained another family.' I feel the same. Living with Swae and his family, I had the opportunity to learn a different way of life.

For me, I didn’t come to this land as part of a study or to use their lives as material to complete my knowledge. I came searching for a new home, a place where I could truly live. If living with them doesn’t change the trajectory of your life, what will?

If we all inevitably must live, or must choose how to live, then the spirit of indigenous peoples needs to be learned by more people. This has nothing to do with blindly chasing identity politics. Being ‘indigenous’ or belonging to a particular tribe doesn’t automatically mean anything. The spirit of indigeneity can only be revealed through daily life and practice. It is a way of thinking about home, something deeply relevant to all of us. We all need a home.

Indigenous spirituality isn’t about performative identity politics or bloodline claims. It’s a daily practice of relating to land, water, and stars—a responsibility network connecting humans, animals, and plants. These relationships exist between the body, the land, the waters, and the stars, rooted in specific languages, stories, and traditional teachings. These relationships place humans within a network of responsibilities shared with other animals and plants. They are both ancestral and newly born, rooted in specific territories and peoples. Because of their diversity, we might even more accurately refer to them as ‘Indigeneities.’

This diversity of relationships breathes life into particular knowledge systems, governance structures, and ritual practices. They are preserved in collective memory and open paths toward the future.

I hope my words can convey to you the strength I have gained—the strength of homeness.

The drive from Chiang Mai took an hour uphill. My mind still churned from last night’s argument with my friend, 'You can’t just be a researcher—you must live it.' As we ascended, the scent of roadside forest shifted. Nearing the village, smoke tinged the air—a funeral pyre.

Swae welcomed us at dusk, explaining the flames: a villager had taken his life that morning, his belongings now burning. The journey started with death first.

We crawled through the village in his truck, arriving at his wooden house straddling rice fields—windowless, expansively simple. Over dinner on thick floor mats, Swae traced each ingredient’s origin. When he asked if we are going to do a formal interview, I declined, opting for conversation. I confessed my friend's argument.

'I have a friend who was born in a village in Guangdong called Haijiao Village, the village closest to the sea, and it is very beautiful. His father is a captain and also a fisherman. My friend works in photography and writing, always documenting his homeland. Although the people depend on the sea, it often feels more like a reluctant necessity—a feeling of ‘I have no choice but to live by the sea’. Even though the family bonds are tight, from a young age, his parents would tell him, 'I hope you can go out, leave, go earn money, and make life better.' This might be the kind of confusion that young people in rural areas often face under the impact of modernization.'

Swae listened, then replied,

'His anger stems from childhood—being pushed away when he craved embrace.'

From Swae’s father’s generation onward, the Karen recognized the futility of "escaping." Now, they root their children’s spirits at home.

I shared with Swae the sense of deprivation I felt as a city child. In my memories of growing up, almost all of my knowledge was about human-made and cultivated things—how to use electronic devices, the television, the iPad. How to consume and buy what I need, the playgrounds in my neighborhood, and, of course, the rules of human society and the knowledge that came with it.

But I had almost no opportunity to connect with or learn how, as a human being, one of many species on Earth, I am intimately tied to other animals, plants, the land, the water, and the sky. How they influence one another. These environmental memories for me are almost a blank slate, or perhaps I should say, they existed only as objective facts in biology or environmental studies, without any emotional connection or practical experience.

Why do I always feel life is dull and limited? Why do I always feel lonely? Because I had neglected the many co-inhabitants with whom I share this world. Like a child forced to leave home, perhaps there are still traces of connections once tight in my memory. But in the day-to-day of city life, in the constant interaction only with people or human-made things, I fell into a loss of memory.

After dinner, we gathered around the crackling fire, strumming a Karen lute as Swae unraveled the secrets of trees.

For the Karen, trees are living threads woven into their cultural fabric. When a child is born, the father rises before dawn and ventures into the forest. He selects a spirit tree, ties a bamboo box containing the newborn’s freshly severed umbilical cord to its branches, and in that moment, the child and tree become kin. The cord stump, left to dry and darken, eventually falls off naturally. Only then does the father return to check if the bamboo box has also detached.

There’s a saying here: If the box falls freely, the child needs little guidance. If it clings, the father must shoot it down with a branch—using his non-dominant hand. Should he fail after many attempts, it signals the child will require patient nurturing. Swae chuckled, then grew solemn: 'This ritual isn’t about the child’s character, but the father’s lesson—to release his own frustrations, not project them onto the young. Children, like those bamboo boxes, absorb what we hang on them.'

'They’ll learn from more than just us,' he added. 'The sun, stars, and peers will teach them too. Care deeply, but loosen your grip.'

Once the box drops, villagers beat the tree’s trunk with sticks, petitioning it to bless the child’s spirit. Elders then tie ceremonial ropes to the bark. 'This is both cultural wisdom and science,' Swae insisted. 'Trees sense our breath, cycle it into air. They are our second mother, our oldest friend. When the bamboo box decays, insects return it to soil. We’re born of trees, fed by trees, and in death, we feed them. The circle closes.'

By the fire’s glow, Swae felt like my father recounting the ancestor's story.

As embers rose, I confessed a quiet sorrow, 'Cultures divorced from nature unsettle me. Even those born from environmental bonds can drift into abstraction. Knowing a plant’s name but not how it sustains you—that’s not kinship.'

'When I see a leaf,' he said, catching the flame’s dance, 'I will know it aids new mothers’ recovery. Our breath mingles with the trees’—a tangible bond, as real as science.'

The fire hissed. Somewhere, a bamboo box rustled in the dark, waiting to fall.

Humidity in the mountains at night curled the pages of my notebook. Swae tasked me with remembering that night’s dreams and tell his next morning.

Discussing "home" while moving between places feels paradoxical—yet here, environmental memory isn’t mere scenery, but intimate knowledge: the medicinal herb by your door, the creek’s song, the rice field’s cycles. Home is both physical and spiritual.

At dawn, mist and wind accompanied sunrise. I breathed deeply, exchanged glances with grazing buffalo, then returned to sleep. Mountain acoustics amplified the river’s voice, insects’ chatter—nothing like the silent urban waterways I knew.

When I fully woke up, Swae and his wife had already prepared breakfast and were waiting downstairs. He was playing the piano.

It was then that I noticed the half-barred section of the house had extendable seating wrapped around the wooden posts, allowing you to lean your whole body out. The bench felt both sturdy and flexible, grounding me in the space.

I sat across from Swae. He began asking about my dream from the night before, though I could barely remember it. I only recalled that after we spoke about it, he said, ‘I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time.’

I replied, ‘I feel the same.'

After breakfast, I stretched out on the broad wooden planks, their texture unlike the polished floors of my childhood home.

I often face a dilemma about whether to go outside or not. Staying inside, even with the window open, makes me feel cut off from the world. On the other hand, wandering outside and not returning home leaves me feeling tired and restless, unable to find any peace.

As the wind blows and I gaze at the forest across from me, I realize that the house is no longer an isolating barrier that causes me pain. Instead, it becomes a medium, connecting me to the surrounding environment.

The entire morning, while Swae attended a neighbor's funeral, we wandered around the area near the house. We are children waiting for our father to return. Without a guide, we are no different from the invisible and silent people in the fields. We lack the memories that should lead us, the language and knowledge to communicate with the land.

We are like newborns, babbling and stumbling as we begin to learn how to live.

At noon, we stepped into the kitchen to cook together. Swae’s kitchen is perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen—open, airy, and seamlessly connected to the outside world. Many things are scattered on the floor, yet everything has its own sense of order. Most of the chopping and preparation happen right there on the ground.

Moving through the kitchen feels like dancing.

Every meal tasted so divine it made you want to sway into dance! Each dish brimmed with herbs, spices, and foraged ingredients, yet required surprisingly little preparation. Had I spoken Thai, I would’ve lingered with Swae’s wife (whose name I regrettably forgot) to learn her stories.

In the Karen community, women are the matrilineal heirs. During marriage rites, the woman holds the decisive voice. A suitor may present himself to her family, but if she rejects him, all advances cease. Should she accept, the man must first live with her family for at least three years, assisting with household duties—tending rice terraces, mending roofs, proving his worth through labor.

"You have to learn how many fields, how may animals to care in her family.", "you are the new comer, you are the new labor, you are the new member."

The objects they have in the home are relational to them. Wooden wind chimes hung are for water buffaloes’ necks. When they wandered into distant forest clearings to graze, their crisp notes carried through wind—people would then know where they are.

Following our starlit conversation the previous night, Swae revealed a small ritual practiced in their fields: bamboo weavings shaped into symbols of stars, the moon, and the sun.

Within the lunar and stellar motifs, seven compartments marked the moon’s cyclical phases—the number 7 holding profound significance for both the Karen people and the natural order itself. These bamboo symbols served as constant reminders for farmers to honour cosmic rhythms governing water sources, plants, soil, and the insects vital to rice cultivation.

Agriculture is the culture of land itself. As Swae explained this, his child leaned against him, studying the weavings with quiet intensity. The boy’s small fingers traced the patterns as if deciphering ancestral code. In that moment, I sensed that his father’s expressions and the silent power of these objects—ephemeral yet eternal—would accompany him through adulthood like whispered lullabies of the land.

Had these bamboo weavings been displayed in Karen tourist villages we didn’t visit, they might have been entombed in glass cases as “intangible heritage,” reduced to untouchable artifacts or commodified as exotic handicrafts. But without crafting them oneself, without embedding their creation into the ritual rhythms of fieldwork, one cannot truly relate to these objects—no matter how intricate their patterns. Craft, here, is no mere production of goods. As Tim Ingold observes, “What culture varies is, first and foremost, the skills of the human hand.” It’s the mediation between environmental memory and daily acts, a dialogue with the world that weaves material and spirit into one breath.

Before venturing into the forest, Swae guided us through his homestead’s periphery. Every plant held purpose. He plucked a leaf, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger releasing a medicinal tang: “This one aids postpartum recovery.” Another, coarser to the touch: “For the pigs’ digestion.” A third, velvety and astringent: “Stanches bleeding, dulls pain.” In the backyard, I found my salvation—lemongrass stalks whose citrus-scented aura repelled mosquitoes.

The conservation area of the forest stretches across 1,000 hectares, with another 1,000 hectares designated for the Karen community’s farming, forestry, and communal lifeways. Our destination now lies deeper within—the forest’s spiritual area.

To the children, the forest is a boundless playground. They discover nature’s secrets through play—like the leaf that turns ghostly white when rubbed between palms, its surface magically bleaching into body paint for skin. Families guide them through this living classroom.

On this small patch of land alone, there are more than a dozen different leaf shapes. If we do not understand the rhythms, patterns, and interdependencies of forest plants, trees, and insects—if we fail to see their richness—we might recklessly clear what we perceive as ‘weeds’ and replace them with what we think belongs.

We can learn much from trees—about renewal and decay, about death and time.

Take, for example, the strangling of trees. When a bird drops a seed, the new tree begins to grow, sending its roots down toward the earth. From the outside, it appears as though the outer tree is devouring the inner one. But in reality, the outer tree cannot survive on its own—it lacks strong roots and depends on the original tree for support.

Once the two trees become tightly entwined, the inner tree eventually dies. And with it, the outer tree loses its foundation. When strong winds come, the outer tree—despite its broad branches and vast structure—can easily collapse without the inner tree holding it up.

Yet, in its fall, it opens up a spacious clearing, allowing sunlight to reach the younger generation of trees nearby. Otherwise, its vast structure and sprawling branches would have made it difficult for the saplings to grow.

Along the path, we encountered the river beside our home once more—it flows down from the mountains, and the villagers use pipes to draw water for irrigation. Along the way, thin threads connect each tree, guiding us as well into the sacred ceremonial ground of the forest.

Every tree here is tightly wrapped in yellow and red silk ribbons. He led us to the largest tree— the mother tree of this forest. Sturdy and powerful, she appeared ancient and wise, surrounded by younger, more delicate saplings. Swae explained that the trees are connected to one another.

Later, in Yogyakarta, I read a book about volcanoes that also discussed this connection. By linking trees of different ages nearby, the mother tree can actually promote the growth of plant seeds beneath the soil. As the seedlings grow, they become part of the network of older trees, benefiting from their immense ability to absorb resources. At crucial moments in their lives, the older trees provide the young ones with nutrients and water, truly aiding their survival and flourishing.

The trees also provide sanctuaries for countless other dwellers. By connecting with neighboring trees of varying ages, the Mother Tree fosters the growth of saplings through subterranean networks. As young trees mature, they integrate into this resource-sharing web, drawing sustenance from the elders’ vast reserves. In critical moments, the old ones channel nutrients and water to the vulnerable, ensuring their survival.

Swae had brought his children here to witness this covenant.

I am not someone who believes in religion or rituals. While others made their devout wishes, I stood aside, lost in thought—just as I did during every service in high school.

I don’t believe in the grand spectacles carefully crafted to evoke emotion—churches, temples, hymns, chants. I question the words in the Bible: if I cannot feel them, why should I believe? My experiences have shown me how religion has often been used as a tool for political and ideological control, the perfect justification for oppression during colonial times.

'All faiths must root themselves in the laws of nature,'

Swae said, his voice a gentle authority that dissolved my doubts.

I read from another article from Ritual Perspectives and Dimensions by Bell Catherine, "ritual is a form of cultural communication that transmits the cognitive categories and dispositions that provide people with important aspects of their sense of reality.”

We formed a circle around the Mother Tree, palms upturned and downturned, hovering millimeters above each other’s skin. Eyes closed, the forest’s breath became our liturgy: rustling leaves as choir, mycorrhizal whispers as scripture.

'listen to the sound of river, please forgive, reborn like the tree.'

After the ritual, we were guided back to the Mother Tree. The moment I touched her, I felt all the memories she had witnessed on this land—pain and blessings alike—flowing into me. That energy surged through my body, transforming into uncontrollable tears. I held onto her, unable to stop.

And so, I cried for half an hour.

In that moment, I understood why this land is called The Crying Place. Crying marks the beginning of new life—when we are born, we cry. When we are moved, when we connect, we cry.

Beyond the forest, Swae led us to his orchard—a wilderness indistinguishable from the jungle itself. Dozens of fruit trees and vegetables grew in anarchic harmony. 'I hardly do anything,' he shrugged. 'Eat a mango, toss the seed. Let chickens till the soil. Healthy land knows its own needs.'

His Arabica coffee trees bore the label Lazy Man Coffee—a jab at modernity’s obsession with busyness. Business, he noted, is the enemy of balance. Overcultivation fractures nature’s rhythms; true laziness means trusting those rhythms. He intervenes minimally, for we’re but transient participants in cycles older than calendars.

Throughout this piece, I don’t want to overemphasize the identity of the Karen people. Their connection to the forest and nature isn’t exclusive to a single ethnicity or identity—it is a daily practice. Swae said that every forest is alike. If we are willing, we too can form a deep bond with a piece of land.

The ritual mentioned earlier was actually a tradition proposed just twenty years ago. It is not something that must be bound to an inherited legacy of ‘blood and soil.’ Many times, I resent tradition because it so often becomes an excuse for avoidance and the perpetuation of harm. When I think of tradition, I think of the unconscious repetition of familial wounds, the fears of past generations, rigid belief systems imposed from above, and the reinforcement of power and control.

But the tradition Swae showed me felt different. It was more like a rhythm and structure one must learn and follow upon entering a land—one shaped collectively by all who inhabit it. You are in me, and I am in you. Like an old tree wrapped by new ones, change is inevitable. Renewal, regeneration—tradition is never static but always open to transformation.

"On the way to the forest, we happened to run into many young people—probably around our age. Swae said that nowadays, many young people in the village choose to stay, continuing to live with the forest and work the land. But even so, they still feel lost. In a globalized world where it seems like everyone is expected to ‘go out,’ Swae’s approach is to keep one foot firmly planted in the village’s soil while the other ventures outward—to share the story of the land.

‘Protection’ is also a strange thing. When the land where Swae and the villagers lived was designated as a ‘national protected park,’ authorities used the excuse of conservation to prohibit them from farming and entering the forest. Their connection to the land was abruptly severed, yet the land was not truly protected.

In their struggle against the government and the forestry department, Swae often turned to modern technology—using tools like GIS to prove that their community had always lived here, that they had the right to interpret and define their own land.

On the last night, the firelight flickered across his face, his eyes shining as he smiled and said, ‘Sometimes, technology is also a way to reveal the truth.’"

Preserving tradition has never been about rejecting the ‘new.’ Indigenous worldviews and modern technology are, at their core, both ways in which humans attempt to understand the world. They do not have to be in opposition—there is no need for a battle to the death.

Before I left, Swae borrowed me a book. From it, I learned a new way to describe a feeling—solastalgia. Unlike the familiar nostalgia, a somewhat romantic longing for home or the past, solastalgia is the grief for a lost homeland.

As Swae walked us down the mountain, he spoke of his father’s elephant. Their practice of rotational farming was inspired by studying the elephants' movements. But later, as his father had to stay and protect their land, he no longer had time to care for the elephant.

Elephants can sense vibrations in the ground through their trunks and communicate with companions over 10 kilometers away using infrasound. Their heightened sensitivity makes them easily disturbed, even enraged. When violence occurs—when the great trees are felled—the sounds they perceive are far more unbearable than anything we can hear. It is not only humans who mourn the loss of home; elephants do, too.

Their habitat is shaped by a conflict between their historical understanding of the land and its current reality. Cities and plantations have stripped them of the forests they once knew. Like refugees forced to adapt to harsh new conditions, they have learned to forage at night to avoid humans, searching for food in banana plantations. This is the rupture in their mental maps—a disorientation, a struggle to create new memories because the ones they relied on have been destroyed.

As we descended, we followed the river, weaving through the forest. In the car, I drifted between sleep and dreams, sleep and dreams. For the first time, I realized that dreaming and dizziness might be my subconscious way of escaping urban reality—my passive resistance against the present.

And my dreams will never end. Neither will my resistance.

I feel as though this piece of writing has no real conclusion. In just a few days, I could not fully absorb or understand everything. I also realize that I cannot, and do not need to, recount every memory.

When the next rainy season comes, I will return—to this homeland of memory.

To learn more stories:

Intertwined with air

Siwakorn Odochao details his people's way of perceiving trees and humans as intimately connected, and draws on the air as the element that weaves between them. Through the co-dependency of humans and trees to prepare the air for each other, he elaborates on the relationship between air, health and environment.

https://wellcomecollection.org

一路上反复地见到这株花，拍了很多照片。下山时取了一些它的果实闻嗅，扑鼻的香气，的确和小时候喝的止咳糖浆味道很像。线上的很多民族植物学研究也提到了他的止咳特性，还能治疗一些肝肾疾病和皮肤病。

这算是老朋友，上次在清迈附近的森林徒步时也碰到了ta，毛茸茸的。原来ta叫石松，在潮湿的地面就能生长起来，怎么还有个外号叫石刷子？不知道本地村民会怎么叫ta。能治愈很多不同的疾病，从肠胃消化到皮肤，《滇南本草》记载：下氣，消胸中痞滿橫格之氣，推胃中隔宿之食，去年久腹中之堅積，消水腫。

之前总是搞不懂为什么叶子上会有像这样白色的痕迹，一开始猜想的有可能是靠近水源的信号，阿鹏哥讲这是模仿鸟粪的记号，这些植物为了避免被动物吃掉，便模仿小鸟在上面拉了粪便。

在《How to Read Tree》这本书中读到过，你会发现树干上总是有很多“眼睛”在看着你，这些眼睛是树木刚刚选择主动折断树枝的痕迹，以求更好的阳光。

前言

以下写作来自于我住在泰国北部湄旺县的Hin Lad Nai Village，别名Lazy Man Village，三天两夜的经历。村落的领袖Swae和我们慷慨地分享了许多关于他与这片土地的记忆，让我此前对于本土性的想象，踏实地落在了地上。我们前往的时间为12月底，正是旱季，他们也已经完成了稻谷的收割。如果是在雨季，我们肯定无法这样悠闲。

作为一个领袖，Swae已经在很多平台积极地分享了很多克伦土地的故事，同时他还在不断和泰国政府保持沟通，以争取更多的权力，日常还要照顾家庭并参与村子的各种活动。

那为什么我还要写？

因为经历过，因为参与过，因为眼泪的涌出和心底的感动难以抑制，除了诉说，我别无他法。

在我看来，原住民的启示最终其实都会回归到，我们如何生活，如何栖息在这个世界上。所有的研究，所有的观点，所有的表达都会落实回到每天的一茶一饭当中。第一个让我们学到如何生活的人，是我们的家人。继承他们的生活方式、习惯可能都不是一件太难的事，通过模仿和观察可能可以轻易地习得，这也是我们常说的家庭的业力。它几乎是无意识的。

但如果我们家庭无意识践行的生活方式，生活信念，没有对其他地球栖息者的尊重，或是建立在一种资源的掠夺之上呢？我们遵守吗？并安慰自己，这只是一种出于无奈的迫不得已？我不想这样。

有人在田野日记里这样写道，“被收養在一戶人家中，我也因此多了另一個家庭。” 我的感受也如此。在Swae家中和他们一起生活，我也因此有了习得另一种生活知识的可能。对我来说，我已不是为了某种研究而进入这片土地，不是为了由他们的生活作为素材来完整我的学识，我在寻找新的家园，并在之后可以真的如此生活。如果跟他们一起生活都不足以改变你的生命轨迹？

如果我们每个人都不可避免的要生活，或者说要选择一种生活，那么原住民的精神就需要被更多人习得。它无关追逐一种盲目的身份政治正确，血缘上的“原住民“，“某某”族，已经无法自动说明任何东西，原住民精神只有在日常的生活和实践当中，才能流露出来。原住民精神是一种对于家园的思考，跟我们每个人都息息相关，我们每个人都需要一个家园，

原住民精神是关于跟一片土地产生关系的能力，

“这些关系存在于身体、土地、水域和星星之间，根植于特定的语言、故事和传统教义，这些关系将人类置于与其他动物和植物共同栖息的责任网络之中。

这些关系既是祖传的，也是新生的，扎根于特定的领土和特定的族群之中。由于其多样性，我们甚至可以更准确地称之为“本土性们”（Indigeneities）。这种多元化的关系赋予特定的知识体系、治理结构和仪式实践以生命力。它们被保存在集体记忆中，并开辟通向未来的道路。”

希望我的文字，能向你们传达出我收获的力量，家园的力量。

那天和雅雯从清迈出发，驾车一个多小时上山。之前刚刚和李宇潇分别，昨晚的争执还在我心中盘绕，他所说的话挥之不去，“你不能只是作为一个研究者，你要如此生活”。车行驶上山，一路上路旁植物的气味都在变化。即将靠近时，闻到了一些焚烧的味道，火焰，还不明缘由。

见到Swae后，我向他道歉晚到了一些，此时已经是傍晚后了。他带我们去到他的Lazy Man Coffee Village, 向我们解释了一旁火焰的缘由，今早村里的一个男人自杀了，正在烧掉他的东西。一切先从死亡开始。

很慢的开车穿过村庄，他带我们来到了他在米田上建的房子，木质结构，简单但却不断的延展，没有窗户，也不需要窗户。很快晚饭好了，铺着垫子坐在宽敞的厚厚的木地板上。Swae向我们介绍每部分食材的来源。他问我是否要做一个采访，我说不用，随便聊聊就好。很快我先问出盘旋的困惑，我向他讲述了我和潇的争论。

“我有一个朋友出生在广东的一个渔村，叫作海角村，那是离海最近的村子，很美。我的朋友做摄影和写作，总在记录自己的家园。虽然人们与海洋依存，但好像更多出于一种”我不得不傍海而生“的无奈。哪怕家人之间的纽带是如此紧密，从他小的时候，父母就会向他传达一种，我希望你可以出去，离开，去赚钱，让生活变得更好。这或许是在经历现代化冲击下的乡村年轻人都会面临的迷失。

当他听到我想要寻找一种“原住民精神”，想要重新回到村子里生活时，他说有一种被侮辱的感受，他不明白他们费了如此多的力气要走出去，而我们这种人又为什么想要抛弃掉一切想要进去。”

“他的愤怒来自于他小时候的记忆。他觉得自己小时候总是在被家人推出去，但他想要被拥抱。”

Swae看着我，回答道。

恰好，从Swae父亲的那一代开始，他们觉察到向外的寻找近乎是一种绝望，不再希望孩子出去，而是希望他们的精神可以立足于家中。

我向Swae讲述作为一个城市孩子的匮乏。在我的成长记忆里，我的知识几乎全部关于人为创造和种植的部分，如何使用电子设备，电视，ipad。如何消费和购买所需的东西，小区里的游乐设施，当然也包括人类社会的运行规则和知识。但我几乎没有任何契机接触和学习我作为一个人类，地球上众多的物种之一，如何与其他动物，植物，土地，水体，与天空紧紧相连，他们之间又如何互相影响。这些环境记忆对我来说几乎是空白状态，或者说，没有亲密和实践的部分，只作为在生物课/环境课上不带任何感情的客观事实存在。

为何我总感到生活的无趣和有限？为什么总感觉孤独？因为曾经我的感知忽略了和我共存的那么多栖居者，像是一个被迫离开家的孩子，或许记忆里还藏匿着一些曾经紧紧相连的证据，但在日复一日的城市生活中，在日复一日不断地只能和人或人造物打交道的生活中，我陷入了一种漫长的失忆。

晚饭后，我们在篝火面前弹奏克伦的一种独特的弦乐。他给我讲述了一些树的秘密，

树和实践克伦族文化的人来说有着重要的联结。新生儿刚从母亲的肚子里出来之时，父亲需要起的非常早，进入森林，选择一颗Spirit Tree 神圣之树，将装着新生儿刚刚剪断的脐带的竹盒系在树上，此时这棵树便和新生儿相连接了。宝宝的脐带剪断后，脐带通常会有残留端，残留的脐带会逐渐变黄再变黑，然后整段自由脱落。当整段脱落后，父亲需要再次进入森林，观察竹盒是否也从树上脱落了。

他们有这样的一种说法，如果竹盒已经脱落，这说明孩子不需要太多的指导。如果竹盒依旧和树捆绑在一起，那么父亲就需要寻找一根树枝把竹盒给射下来，必须要用不熟悉的那只手。要是投射了很多次都没有把竹盒给击落的话，就说明孩子需要很多教导才可以明事理哈哈哈哈。但对Swae来说，这其实是一种对父亲的启示，你需要对孩子保持冷静和耐心，而不是将本不属于他们的情绪带到他们身上。他们就像待在树上的竹盒一样，而无法击落的情绪都来自于养育者的投射。

孩子也并不会从父母那里学到所有的东西，你的指导是有限的，他们也会从太阳、星星、同伴身上学到很多。关心孩子，但放开控制。

“竹子落地后，我们要用棍棒敲打树木，恭敬地请求树木保佑我们的孩子精神强健。之后我们走回孩子们身边，再让村落里的长老把绳子系在树上祈福。

这既是一种文化精神，也是非常科学的。一个人需要一棵树的支持。当你呼吸时，树会察觉到你的呼吸，并将其循环成新鲜空气。我们的第二个母亲是树，第二个朋友也是树。

当装有脐带的竹盒掉落时，微生物和昆虫慢慢的将其腐化，它回归到了土壤中。这是生命循环的一部分，你出生，你由一棵树养活，然后当你死后，你回到土壤，成为树的肥料。”

此刻Swae非常像是我的父亲，我仿佛在听着自己出生时的故事一样。

篝火冉冉，我说道，“有时候让我感到沮丧的是，当一种文化与自然没有联系时，我有时会觉得这种文化与周围的事物没有关系。即使文化的出现或诞生首先与环境有关，但慢慢的它就完全和产生它的自然环境分离开了。如果你只知道植物的名字，却不知道你的日常生活如何依赖于它，可以如何和它互动，那你就并未和它产生联系。“

“当我看着一棵树的时候，我就知道这片叶子是新生儿妈妈用来帮助身体代谢的。” Swae笑着对我们说，我们和树同时在呼吸，这种连接是有形的，科学的。

晚上的湿度太大，书已经卷起了边。没有在火堆边的话，感觉很冷。睡前Swae叫我记住今晚做的梦，明早讲给他听。

在不断移动的过程中谈论家园可能是有点奇怪的，毕竟有着具体的环境记忆与文化记忆作为支撑，人很难感觉到自己是悬浮的。

这里的环境记忆并不只是一个粗浅的，对于景观的印象，而是更关于这里具体的知识，情景知识。当你每天经过家附近生长的植物，你理解他们的香气和故事，药用或者做饭方式，理解尊重他们的丰富。家既关于物理空间也关于精神空间，

很早醒来，窗外伴随着日出是雾气和风，深呼吸一口，下楼和牛牛们相望了一会儿，上了个厕所又倒回去睡了个回笼觉。住在山上时，一切声音都变的如此清晰，河流流水声，风声，昆虫，不像城市里的河流总是静悄悄的。

彻底醒来后，Swae和妻子已经做好了早饭在楼下等我们，他在弹琴。我这时发现原来房屋的半栏处环绕着可以延伸的坐凳，搂着木柱，你可以将整个身子都探出去。坐凳让整个人都很感到坚实，又灵活。我坐在Swae对面。他开始问起我昨晚的梦，梦是什么我有些记不清了，只记得在我们讲完之后，他对我说：我感觉我们像是认识了很久的朋友了。我说，我也这么觉得。

我和雅雯躺在大大的木地板上，质感和小时候家里的地板很不一样。我经常面临一种是否出门的困境，待在家中，哪怕打开窗户，也感到被破和世界隔离开来。而在外面晃荡迟迟不回家又感觉疲惫，得不到休息。风吹过，望向对面的森林，我感到房屋此时不再是一个让我感到痛苦的隔离物，而是一个媒介，连接了我和周围的环境。

整个早晨，因为Swae前去参加邻人的葬礼，我们便在家附近到处溜达。我们是等待父亲归家的孩子，如果没有一个引导者，我们在田野里和看不见也听不见的人没什么区别，我们缺少能够带领我们的记忆，缺少和这片土地沟通的语言与知识。我们是新生儿，咿呀学语，踉跄的开始学习生活。

中午，我们一起踏入厨房做饭。Swae家的厨房大概是我见过最美的厨房了，通透，敞开，很多东西都有序地散落在地上，大部分切菜和其他准备工作都在地上完成。身体在厨房中移动就好像在跳舞一样。虽然

每顿饭都好吃的想让人翩翩起舞！每道菜会加入很多食材、草药和香料，但是准备的时间也花不了多久。如果我会泰语，我真想跟Swae的妻子（我忘记了她的名字）多聊聊，我好奇她的经验和感受，但可惜，这次只能用英语有限的交流。

克伦族家族的继承人是女性。在组建家庭的仪式方面，女方是决定是否结婚的人。男方可以向女方家介绍自己，但如果女方不喜欢，就无法接近她。在结婚时，男方需要先去女方家生活至少3年，生活的期间，需要帮助女方解决家里的各种事物，比如农活或修建房屋的工作。

“你要了解在女方家里需要照顾多少田地、多少动物。对家族来说，男方是新来的成员，也是新来的劳动者。”Swae笑着说道。

环顾四周，家里的一切物品都跟他们有着紧密的联系。挂在木壁上会发出清脆声音的木头风铃，是他们挂在水牛身上的，当他们和水牛一起进入森林时，即使水牛在远处吃草，人们依旧可以听到风铃声，便能知道水牛在哪里。

因为昨晚讨论了星星，Swae向我展示了他们在农田中的一个小仪式 —— 星、月、日竹编。

在月亮和星星的竹编符号里，有7个格子，对应着月亮的转变周期。7也是对克伦族，或者大自然来说很重要的数字。这些由竹子做成的符号，最后也会回归土壤。

在田地当中放置这些竹编，是不断提醒在田上劳作的人们尊重日月星的流转，那些跟播种仪式的竹编提醒人们尊重与星空对应的水源、植物、土地与稻谷间的昆虫。 归根结底，农业和农耕是一种有关土地的文化。 在Swae讲这些的时候，他的孩子在旁边，倚着他，认真的看着他，也会拿起这些竹编，研究一番。我想，他父亲的神情，与这些物件的力量，会在他的成长记忆中静静的陪着他。

如果是在那些我们没有去的克伦旅游景区，这些竹编会不会作为“非遗”文化被放置在玻璃橱柜里，无法触摸，或者简单被当作某种手工艺品，还未讲清楚它的记忆之前，便被售卖出去。但如果没有真正制作这些竹编，没有在田间劳作中使用他们作为仪式的记忆，将其转换成为自己的实践知识，是无法真正和手中之物发生关系的，哪怕是再精美，或巧妙的器皿。工艺品不单是可供欣赏的物品，也是人们环境记忆和日常活动之间的中介。根据Tim Ingold的说法，“不同文化之间的差异首先包括其工艺技能的差异。”在制作和手工的过程中，我们借由手中之物与世界建立了一种深刻的联系。

在出发去森林之前，Swae先带我们转了下家的附近。家附近的植物他都了解，摘下一片叶子，手指摩挲，闻着是清新的草药味，这片叶子可以给怀孕后的女性吃，这片叶子是给家猪吃的，这片叶子可以止血止痛，我也在后院发现了我十分依赖的柠檬草，蚊子惧怕柠檬草的香气，只要摘下来拿在手边，香气缠绕，就不会有蚊子接近。

森林的保护区面积大约有1000公顷，另外1000公顷则属于克族族的农业、森林和社会活动。而我们现在要去的地方是森林的神圣仪式之地。

森林对于孩子们来说就是游乐场，他们会通过玩乐发现某一些植物和叶子的特殊作用，比如摩擦后叶面会变白可以涂在皮肤上玩。家人们也会不断地带着他们前往森林，讲述从植物、树木、河流当中的学习。

小小的一块儿土地，就有十多种不同植物的叶子形态。如果我们不理解森林的植物类别、树木、昆虫有着自己的节奏、规律与和彼此的依赖，当我们无法看到他们的丰富，我们可能会粗暴的清理掉这些“杂草”，并种植上我们认为这片土地适合的东西。

我们也会从树上学到许多，比如新和旧的更替，死亡与时间。关于树之间的绞杀，当鸟儿把种子撒了下来，然后树试图把根长到地上，我们总是只看到外面的树看上去吞噬了整颗树。但实际上，如果没有原来留在里面的那棵树，外面的树是无法单独生存的。外面的树没有强壮的根，它们需要原来的树来支撑。当它们两棵树裹的足够紧时，原来的树死了，外面的树也就失去了它的支撑。当风来的时候，外面的树很容易倒下，即便它们看上去有茂盛、宽广的树枝和结构，但是没有内部的支撑就不牢固。它们的离开会打开一个很宽敞的空间，为旁边其他年轻的、新一代的树木提供成长所需的阳光。否则，它们庞大的结构和伸展的树枝很难让旁边的幼树生长。

途中我们又见到了那条家旁边的河流，它一直从山上顺流而下，村民们也会用水管引水用作浇灌。一路上都有细细的线牵引着每棵树，也牵引我们进入来到森林的仪式之地。

这里的每棵树身上都紧紧的缠着黄红色的绸带，他带我们走到那颗最大的树之下，那是这片森林的母亲树，粗壮有力，看上去十分年长智慧，围绕在她身边的是更加稚嫩的小树，Swae解释道，树彼此连接着。后来我在日惹读到的那本关于火山的书也讲述了这份链接，通过连接附近不同年龄的树木，母树实际上可以促进土壤下植物种子的生长。随着幼苗的生长，它们将被连接到老树网络中，并从这种资源的巨大吸收能力中受益。老树也会在它们生命的关键时刻为幼苗提供营养和水，这真的有助于它们生存和茁壮成长。

树也为许多其他的栖居者提供了庇护所，通过连接附近不同年龄的树木，母树实际上可以促进土壤下植物种子的生长。随着幼苗的生长，它们将被连接到老树网络中，并从这种资源的巨大吸收能力中受益。老树也会在它们生命的关键时刻为幼苗提供营养和水，这真的有助于它们生存和茁壮成长。

他说他已经带着他的孩子们来到了这里。

我不是一个相信宗教和仪式的人。当众人虔诚许愿时我在一旁出神，高中在每次礼拜时都是如此。我不相信他们费尽心思创造的感动奇观，这包括教堂、寺庙、歌唱、诵经。我质疑圣经里的说辞，如果我都无法感知到，我为什么要相信？我的经验里全是关于宗教如何成为政治和思想控制的工具，殖民时期用来给予压迫正当性的最佳借口。

“所有的宗教都需要以自然规律作为基础。” 随着Swae柔和的声音，我的疑惑一扫而空。

仪式本是一种文化交流的通道，它将现实中某种重要的面向传递给人们。正因为我们感受现实的方式是有限的，那些眼睛和耳朵会错过的，日常的观察抓捕不了的，通过仪式才能使其暴露，流露出来。

Swae让我们围成一个圈站在母亲树旁边，一只手朝上，一只手朝下，轻轻地悬置在彼此的手上。闭眼。

他具体说了什么已经不再记得了，回响在耳边的声音是：

listen to the sound of river, please forgive, reborn like the tree.

倾听河流的声音，请原谅那些令你惶恐的、愤怒的，像一棵树那样重生。

仪式结束后，便被带到我们重新走向母亲树，在触碰到的那一瞬间，我感觉她在这片土地上见证的所有的记忆，包括伤痛与祝福，都流向了我，那股能量涌进我的身体，转换成了眼泪涕淌下来。拥抱她，止不住。

就这样哭了半小时，也明白了为什么这片土地叫作The Crying Place 哭泣的地方。哭是人类新生的开始，出生时，我们啼哭。我们动情时，连接时，哭泣。

离开森林后，Swae又带我们去到了他的果园里，和一片丛林没有任何区别。我们在里面可以找到几十种瓜果蔬菜。他说他几乎不会做什么，只是吃完水果把种子丢到土地里，剩下的都交给鸡来播撒种子，健康的土地自有打算。

对Swae来说，business（在英文中同时指忙碌和商业/生意） is the opposite of laziness（懒）, 过度的商业化或者过度的忙碌会打破自然的平衡，有时候懒、随缘一些，是一种重新相信自然力量、保持平衡的过程。将他的咖啡豆生意命名成Lazy man coffee就是他的态度，他的确需要经济收入，但不是全部。在种植上，他并不会大量的力气去规划每一寸土地。他的实践主张不需要施展过多的干预，因为我们终会发现自己只是某种循环的一部分，不去控制，而是感受和跟随。

在整篇写作中，我不想过度强调“克伦族”这个族裔，他们和森林与自然的链接并不只属于一个族裔和身份，而是一种日常的实践。Swae说，每片森林都是相似的。如果我们愿意，我们也可以与一片土地产生这样深的链接。

在前文中提到的仪式，其实也是20年前提议的传统，并不非要捆绑在某种”血与土“的代际传递当中。很多时候，我厌弃传统，因为其大多时候沦落成了一种逃避与应允伤害的借口。想到传统，想到的是无意识的重复家族中的创伤，上一辈人的恐惧，自上而下的信念体系，权力与控制的辅佐。而Swae向我呈现的传统，更像是一个人在进入一片土地后应该学习与遵循的节律、结构，而这种结构是由不同的栖息者共同创造的，你中有我，我中有你。像那颗会被新树包裹的老树，改变总是势不可挡，更新换代，新陈代谢，传统也总是处在开放变化当中。

在去森林的路上恰好碰到了很多年轻人，应该和我们差不多岁数，Swae说现在村子里很多年轻人都会选择留下，继续和森林生活在一起，种地劳作。但他们依旧会感到困惑，在全球化这个看似“人人都应该走出去”的奇观下，Swae的方式是将一只脚扎在村庄的土地里，而另一只脚则需要出走，去到外面继续讲述土地的故事。

“保护”也是一个有些奇怪的事情。当Swae与村民们所在的这片土地被划为“国家保护公园”时，有关部门便借着保护的名义禁止村民们继续耕地，不让他们森林活动，粗暴地切断了他们与这片土地一直以来的联系，也没有真正地保护这片土地。

在和政府和森林部门斗争的过程中，Swae也会经常使用现代技术，比如GIS，来证明他们曾经一直在这里生活，他们应当拥有对这片土地的阐释权。最后一晚，篝火映在他的脸庞，眼睛闪烁，他笑着对我说， “有时候呢，技术也是一种展示真相的方式。"

维系传统从来不是对于“新”的排斥，原住民世界观与现代技术可能本身都是人类尝试理解世界的一种方式，他们好像不需要拼个你死我活。

临走前，Swae送了我一本书，我学会了描述一种新的感受 —— solastalgia，不同于我们熟悉的nostalgia, 一种怀旧的略显浪漫的思家/思旧，solastalgia描述的是对失去的家园的哀悼。

Swae送我们下山时，提到了他父亲曾经的大象。他们所实践的“rotational farming 循环耕作" 就是由学习大象的轨迹而来。后来因为他的父亲需要守护家园的土地，没有时间再照顾大象。

大象可以通过鼻子感知到地表的震动， 也可以用超声波与10km以外的同伴交流，这些敏感的感知让他们很容易被困扰和被激怒，所以当这片土地上发生暴力，比如当很多大树被砍倒时，他们所感知到的声音比我们能听到的要更加难以忍受。

不仅人类在体会着家园的失去，大象也在体会着。他们的栖息空间包含着他们对土地的历史理解与当前现实之间的冲突。城市和种植园剥夺了他们熟悉的森林环境。像难民被迫适应和糟糕的生存状况共处一样，他们学会了在晚上觅食，避免和人类接触，也开始尝试在一些香蕉树种植园内觅食。

这是他们心理地图之间的冲突，迷失，因为过去所依赖的已经被摧毁，他们挣扎着创造新的记忆。

下山的路上，我们一直在跟随着那条河流，在森林里穿梭。我在车上反复的昏睡，做梦，昏睡，做梦。我我第一次体会到，梦和眩晕可能是我被动逃离城市现实的一种方式，是我被动抵抗当下的一种方式。而我的梦永远不会结束，我的反抗也永远不会结束。

我感到这篇写作无法终结，短短的几天时间，我也没有完全的吸收与体会。我也意识到我无法，也并不需要讲出所有的记忆。在下一个雨季来到之时，我会回去，回到这片记忆中的家园。

如想了解更多Swae与Hin Lad Nai Village土地的故事，可前往：

Intertwined with air

Siwakorn Odochao details his people's way of perceiving trees and humans as intimately connected, and draws on the air as the element that weaves between them. Through the co-dependency of humans and trees to prepare the air for each other, he elaborates on the relationship between air, health and environment.

https://wellcomecollection.org