The man who planted trees

To really know if a person is of outstanding character, you have to spend several years and have the good fortune and opportunity to observe his behavior. If his actions are not selfish, his motives are unbelievably generous, his mind is not filled with thoughts of seeking rewards, and he has left a visible mark on the earth, then it is basically right to conclude that he is a person of outstanding character.

One day in 1913, I traveled a long way to an unknown plateau, a place called Provence, near the Alps in southeastern France. As I walked across this lifeless plateau, I saw nothing but wild lavender and barren mountains and yellow earth.

I was about to cross the widest part of the plateau when, three days later, I realized that it was a barren area. I arrived near the ruins of a dilapidated village and pitched my tent for the night. I had run out of water two days ago and now had to replenish it. I thought there would be a well or a spring within the village. I did find the remains of a spring, but it had long since dried up.

I was standing on this high ground with no shade in June, and the wind was blowing so hard from above that no one could withstand it. The wind was blowing against these dilapidated houses, as if a lion was roaring when disturbed while eating, so I had to look for another place.

I walked for five hours, still can not find water, it seems to be hopeless. The high ground was dry everywhere, and there were many weeds. I saw a towering black shadow in the distance, like an isolated tree trunk. In the absence of a better choice, I walked towards the black shadow, which was a standing shepherd. On the sun-dried ground, 30 sheep were still lying. The shepherd handed me a water bottle, and I took a sip. After a while, he led me to his place in the depression, and then drew water from a natural well, the water was clear and delicious. Above the mouth of this well, he installed a rudimentary windlass. The shepherd said very little, which is a characteristic of people who live alone, but I felt that he was a confident and decisive man. It was a strange encounter in these desolate highlands. It was not a simple wooden house, but a house made entirely of stone, with traces of his self-built work and the blood and sweat he had spent restoring the ruins after arriving on this plateau. The roof was firm and medium-sized, and the wind blew over the roof tiles, making a sound as if the waves were crashing on the shore.

The house was neatly arranged, the dishes were clean, the floor was polished, the lances were oiled, and the soup was rolling on the stove. I noticed at this time that his beard was cleanly shaved, his clothes were securely buttoned, and his clothes were carefully stitched by him, and no mending could be seen. He invited me to have soup, and after a while, I handed him a pouch of tobacco, and he said he didn't smoke. His dog was also very quiet, friendly but not fawning.

From the moment we met, I knew there was no need to tell him I had to spend the night here.

The shepherd took out a small bag, from which he poured out a pile of acorns and scattered them on the table. He began to pick one by one, without distraction to pick out the good fruit. I smoked my pipe, intended to help him pick, he said this is his job. In fact, watching him concentrate on his work, I can not intervene, and our conversation ends here. He picked out a large pile of good acorns, then counted ten grains, while more carefully eliminated the small grains and cracked. He selected a total of 100 intact acorns, and then we went to bed.

With this shepherd is really peaceful. The next day, I asked to stay here another night, he said yes. I felt like he was taking it all in stride. Staying another day was not necessary, I was just driven by curiosity and wanted to know more about him. He opened the fence, grazed the sheep, and dipped last night's carefully selected acorns with the bag into a bucket of water before leaving the house with the bucket on his back.

I saw him with an iron bar, about as thick as a thumb, 1.5 meters long. I walked peacefully along a path parallel to his. The sheep pasture was in a river valley, and he asked his sheep dog to watch the sheep, and he came towards the hill where I was standing. I was afraid that he would come to tell me to leave, so that I would not annoy him insensitively. In fact, he invited me to come along, probably because he was afraid I would have nothing else to do. We climbed about 90 meters and reached the ridge.

Then, he used an iron bar to poke a hole down, put an acorn, and then covered with soil. In this way, he planted acorns after acorns. I asked him, "Is this your land? He said no. Then do you know whose land it is? He said he didn't know. He guessed it was public, or abandoned private land, and he did not want to know who the owner was. He carefully planted the 100 acorns. After lunch, he went back to planting. Perhaps because I kept asking, he finally said that he had been sowing in the wilderness for three years, sowing 100,000 seeds. Of these 100,000 acorns, 20,000 sprouted. These 20,000 seedlings, about half will not survive because of gophers or the unpredictable natural environment of the Provence highlands, while the remaining 10,000 will eventually grow up on this bare plateau.

I wondered at this point how old he was: he looked over 50 years old. He said he was 55 years old, and his name was Elze Aboufiyah. He used to have a farm in the plain and was one of those who lived there; then his only son and his wife passed away one after another, and he retired to this barren plateau and lived freely with his flock of sheep and sheepdogs. He believed that this plateau was dying because of the lack of trees. He added that because there was no pressure of career, he could take up the task of saving the earth.

At that time, although I was not old, I also lived a life of isolation and more or less knew how to communicate affectionately with a lonely heart. But because of my youth, I had to make some plans for my future and go after a minimum of happiness. I told him that in 30 years, the 10,000 oaks would become a spectacular forest. He replied briefly, if God helps him, 30 years later, he planted the number of trees must be very impressive, and the 10,000 trees already planted is just a drop in the ocean.

In addition to oaks, he is also studying the method of planting beeches. In a nursery near his house, he used the beech seeds to grow seedlings. These saplings are protected by a wire fence around the perimeter to keep sheep away and are growing well. He also plans to plant birch trees in the valley, which has water underneath to grow birch saplings.

On the third day, we said goodbye.

After a year in this way, World War I (1914) broke out and I was involved for five years. How could an army infantryman remember planting trees again? To be honest, I had long forgotten about it.

One day in 1920, with no particular purpose in mind, I wandered down the road to the bare plateau again.

The view of the countryside was the same as before. But in the distance of the uninhabited village, a gray fog covered the not-so-distant hills as if a blanket had been laid flat. On the previous day, I remembered the man who shepherded the sheep and planted trees. "Ten thousand oak trees," was my response, "and indeed occupy a not inconsiderable space!" Who would have thought that Elzeh Abu Faiyeh was still alive after the many men I have watched fall on the battlefield over the past five years? Imagine what an old man in his 50s could do in the eyes of a young man of 20, other than wait for death. But the shepherd is still alive. In fact, he is more athletic. He has changed his occupation and has only 4 sheep left, but 100 more hives. He no longer shepherds sheep simply because he is afraid they will chew up the saplings he planted. He told me that the war did not affect him at all, he has been planting trees without distraction.

The oak tree planted in 1910 is 10 years old, growing taller than us, looks very spectacular, I was so amazed that I could not say, and he was silent, we two actually spent a day walking in his forest without words. The 3 zones we walked through were 11 kilometers long and 3 kilometers wide at their widest point. Please don't forget that these forests were created from this man's hands & mind, without any technical support.

He executed his plan and the beeches were already at my shoulder height. I looked into the distance as far as the eye could see, and he executed it so thoroughly. He showed me the birch bushes he had planted four years earlier, when I was fighting in the Battle of Verdun (1916). He planted all the birch saplings in the valley where he thought the ground was wet, and it turned out that his suspicions were correct. The birch trees were already standing like young girls, and they were becoming a forest.

The creation was like a chain effect. He had no burden on his mind, he carried out the plan step by step with the purest of ideas; but, on our way back to the village, we found that the riverbed, which had been dry, was now flowing. This is one of the most impressive scenes in the chain effect.

The wind also spreads seeds. When the water returns to the earth, willows and wicker; meadows, vegetable beds, gardens, all kinds of will to live, will all reappear. These unconscious changes have become part of the routine and seem more natural than ever. Although people may see the bushes suddenly appearing from the ground, they treat them as the work of nature's whim. This is why no one disturbed Bouffier's tree planting. If someone had found him on the plateau, things might have been different. But no one knew he was here. Who in the town or administrative unit office could have imagined that there would be such a man who would persist in spite of his own interests?

In 1933, a forest patrolman came to his house and handed him an order not to build a fire outdoors in order to avoid spilling over into the "natural" forest. That was the first time he heard the naive words: "A forest will be created naturally!" At that time, Bouffier was planting beeches 12 kilometers away from his home. He was already 75 years old and planned to build a stone house next to the land in order to save himself the trouble of going there and back. The following year, he finished it.

In 1935, a group of officials came to inspect the "natural forest", including senior officials of the Forestry Department and many technicians. But they talked a lot of nonsense, and the result of their discussions was to do what was necessary to dispose of the "natural forest". Fortunately, they did not take any other measures than to do one useful thing, which was to put the forest under the protection of the province and not to allow any charcoal making industry.

One of these forestry officials was a friend of mine, and I talked to him about this curious incident. One day, a week later, we both went to visit Bufiye, who was 10 kilometers away from the official's forestry patrol, working hard to plant trees.

The forester was not there because he was my friend, he was a man who understood nature and knew not to make a show of it. The three of us had lunch together in the silent contemplation of the wilderness.

We walked across the wooded hillside covered with trees that were already seven or eight meters high. I still remember the scene here in 1913: a pervasive desolation. This peaceful and untiring elder, who lived in the healthful mountain breeze and led a frugal life, coupled with a tranquil mind that was uncontested by the world, was blessed by the old heavens with an awe-inspiringly robust body.

Before leaving, that friend left a few planting suggestions, but did not overemphasize their importance. He told me on the way back, "Bouffier obviously knows more than I do." After walking like this for another hour, he added thoughtfully, "He knows more about planting trees than everyone else, and he has realized the path to happiness."

The only thing that ever might have threatened these trees happened during the Second World War. In those days, some cars were powered by wood-burning engines, but there was a general shortage of firewood. 1940 saw the beginning of the cutting of oak forests, but this upland area was far from the train routes, and timber dealers assessed that it was not a good place to cut wood and finally gave up. The shepherd didn't care about this. He was already 30 kilometers inland and continued his work peacefully, ignoring the 1939 World War as much as he did the 1914 World War.

The last time I saw Elzeb Aboufiyah was in June 1945, when he was 87 years old. I used to cross the desolate highlands on foot, but today, despite the devastation left by the war in the countryside, there are buses running between the Durrance Valley and the highlands. I didn't recognize the fields I used to see on my long walk in the fast transportation. What appeared in my eyes was a new land. I could only confirm from the names of the villages that this was the former ruined and desolate homeland.

The entire countryside glowed with health and richness, and the uplands that were in ruins in 1913 were now neat farms, clean farmhouses, and people living happy and comfortable lives. The ancient streams, watered by the rain and snow from the forest, have flowing vitality again. The water of the stream, guided by canals, flows to every farmhouse, every maple forest, and every green mint field. Residents who used to live in the plains where land prices were high, moved to live in these highlands, bringing with them vigor, energy and a spirit of adventure. Along the way, there were friendly men and women, little boys and girls laughing and joking happily, and people finally found the fun of picnicking again. Counting the population, it is impossible to deny that the happiness of more than 10,000 people who are now living comfortably came from the gift of Elzeb Abu Fiyah. He was able to turn a desolate land into a "land of Canaan" full of milk and honey by his physical actions and hidden virtues. Among all things, only charity is worthy of worship.

In 1947, Aboufieh, Elzeh, was laid to rest in the almshouse in Banon, France.