Masanobu Fukuoka (1913-2008), Japanese farmer and philosopher, one of the leading figures of natural farming in the 20th century. After studying agricultural science and microbiology, he worked as a plant pathologist at the Yokohama Customs Office. In 1938, a profound existential crisis led him to a mystical experience of nothingness (Mu) and oneness with nature, after which he decided to resign from his position as a research scientist and return to his native village on the island of Shikoku to apply his newly acquired knowledge practically in agriculture. Over the next 65 years, he developed his method and philosophy of natural farming, based on the idea of non-action, non-intervention, which he described in the book The One Straw Revolution (1978, Slovak: One-Straw Revolution, 2007). It is based on five principles: no plowing, no fertilization, no use of pesticides and herbicides, no weeding and no pruning; yet the yields of Fukuoka's farm were among the highest in Japan. Fukuoka considered natural agriculture not only a means of producing food, but also an aesthetic and spiritual approach to life, the goal of which is the cultivation and improvement of human beings. He was convinced that it offered the key to solving global food security, to reconnecting humans with nature and to the ecological restoration of landscapes damaged by the previous practice of industrial agriculture. In this sense, he has been intensively engaged all over the world since the 1980s, see his book: Sowing Seeds In The Desert: Natural Farming, Global Restoration, and Ultimate Food Security (2012). From the author's other books: MU 1: The God Revolution (1947), Nature's Way of Farming (1985), The Road Back to Nature - Regaining the Paradise Lost (1987), Ultimatum of God Nature (1996). In 1988, Masanobu Fukuoka was awarded the Ramon Magsaysay Award, Asia's equivalent of the Nobel Prize; and in 1997, he was awarded the 5th Earth Summit awarded the Earth Council Prize in Rio de Janeiro for his contribution to sustainable development.
That morning I was washing lemon boxes in the river. As I bent over the flat stone above the water, my hands felt the coolness of the autumn river. The red leaves of the sumac growing along the riverbank were reflected against the bright blue autumn sky, and I was amazed at the unexpected beauty of the branches against the sky. In this accidental scene the whole world of our experience is present. In the flowing water, the passage of time, in the left and right banks, in the glare of the sun and the shadow, in the red leaves and the blue sky, everything appears within the sacred silent book of nature. And man is a tiny thinking reed here. When we search for what nature is, then we must investigate what the "what" is, and what the man is who investigates this "what." We are heading, so to speak, into a world of endless inquiry. Man, in his attempt to gain a clear understanding of what it is that fills him with wonder and amazes him, has two possible paths. The first is to examine himself deeply, the one who asks, “What is nature?” The second path is to examine nature apart from man. The first path leads into the realm of philosophy and religion. When we gaze absently at water, it is not unnatural to see it flowing from top to bottom; yet it is not inconsistent to observe the water standing still and the bridge flowing past. But if we follow the second path, the scene divides into a whole range of diverse natural phenomena—water, the speed of the current, waves, wind, and white clouds—all of which present to us separate objects of inquiry, leading us to more and more questions that spread endlessly in all directions. This is the path of science. The world was once simple. Walking in a meadow, you hardly noticed that you were wet because you had stumbled over drops of dew. But ever since people have attempted to explain this single drop of water scientifically, they have trapped themselves in an endless intellectual hell. Water molecules are composed of atoms of hydrogen and oxygen. People once thought that the smallest particles in the world were atoms, but then they discovered that inside the atom there is a nucleus. Recently they have discovered that inside the nucleus there are even smaller particles. Among these particles of the atomic nucleus there are hundreds of other different kinds of particles, and no one knows where the exploration of this tiny world will end. The way in which electrons inside the atom revolve at ultra-high speeds in orbits is said to be exactly like the flight of comets inside the galaxy. To atomic physicists, the world of elementary particles is as vast as the universe itself. But it has been shown that besides the galaxy in which we live, there are countless other galaxies. Thus, in the eyes of a cosmologist, our entire galaxy becomes infinitely small. The fact is that people who think that a drop of water is simple or that a rock is solid and motionless are happy ignorant fools, and scientists who know that a drop of water is a vast universe and that a rock is an active world of elementary particles that flow to and fro like rockets are clever fools. When we look at this world simply, it seems real and close. When we understand it comprehensively, it becomes frighteningly abstract and distant. The scientists who rejoiced when rocks were brought to Earth from the moon understood the moon less than the children who sing, “How old are you, Mr. Moon?” Basho was able to perceive the wonder of nature by observing the reflection of the full moon on the surface of a still pond. All that scientists did when they went out into space and stamped everywhere with their space boots was to obscure the beauty of the moon for millions of lovers and children on Earth. How did people come to think that science is beneficial to humanity? In this village, grain was originally ground into flour in a stone mill that was turned slowly by hand. Then a water mill was built, which used the power of the river current and had incomparably greater momentum than the old stone mill. Then a few years ago a hydroelectric power plant was built, and soon after that an electric-powered mill. How do you think these advanced devices work for the benefit of human beings? In order for rice to be ground into flour, it must first be polished, that is, transformed into white rice. The grains are peeled, the germ and bran, which are the basis of good health, are removed, and the rest is kept. (Note: The Japanese character for remainder—pronounced kasu—is made up of the radicals for “white” and “rice,” and the character for bran—nuka—is made up of “rice” and “health.”) The result of this technology is the breaking down of the whole grain into incomplete byproducts. When this all-too-easy-to-digest white rice becomes our daily staple, our diet becomes deficient in nutrients, and dietary supplements become a necessity. Watermills and factory mills do the work of the stomach and intestines, and the result of their use is that these organs become lazy. The same thing happens with fuels. Crude oil is created by transforming the tissue of ancient plants buried deep in the earth under great pressure and heat. This substance is pumped through wells and transported from desert regions by pipeline to ports and then by ship to Japan, where it is finally refined into kerosene and oil in large refineries. Which do you think is faster, provides more heat, and is more convenient overall—burning this kerosene or burning cedar or pine branches from the trees in front of your house? In both cases, the fuel comes from the same plant matter. Oil and kerosene just had to travel a longer distance to get here to you. Today, people say that fossil fuels are no longer enough and that we must develop a new form of atomic energy. Finding rare uranium ore, compressing it into radioactive fuel, and burning it in a huge nuclear furnace is not as easy as striking a match to light dry leaves. Moreover, a fire in a fireplace leaves only ashes behind, but a nuclear fire leaves radioactive waste that will be dangerous for many thousands of years. The same principle applies in agriculture. If you grow fine, oily rice in waterlogged fields, you get a plant that is easily attacked by insects and diseases. If you use “improved” varieties of seeds, you have to rely on the help of chemical insecticides and artificial fertilizers. On the other hand, when you grow small, hardy plants in a healthy environment, chemicals are not needed. When you cultivate flooded rice fields with a plow or tractor, the soil will suffer from a lack of oxygen, its soil structure will break down, destroying earthworms and other small soil animals, and the ground will become hard and lifeless. When this happens, the field must be turned every year. However, if you adopt a method in which the land cultivates itself naturally, then there is no need to use a plow or any cultivation machinery. After the pure organic matter and microorganisms in the living soil are burned, the use of fast-acting artificial fertilizers becomes necessary. When chemical fertilizers are used, the rice grows quickly and tall, but at the same time weeds multiply. At that time, herbicides are applied, which are believed to be beneficial. But if we sow clover with the grain, and if we return all the straw and organic residues to the field as mulch, we can grow crops without herbicides, chemical fertilizers, or pre-prepared compost. There are few things in agriculture that cannot be eliminated. Artificial fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, machinery—none of these are necessary. But if conditions are created in which these means become necessary, then the power and help of science are needed. I have shown in my fields that natural farming will produce a crop comparable to that produced by modern scientific farming. If the results of natural farming on the principles of non-action are comparable to those of farming based on the findings of modern science, and yet the investment in natural farming, in terms of labor and resources, is only a fraction of that of scientific farming, then what is the benefit of scientific technology?
Translated from Masanobu Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution / An Introduction to Natural Farming. Rodale Press, Emaus 1978, pp. 164–168. Translation: Jiří Zemánek.