I came to Guatemala for a placement connected to rural and Indigenous agriculture, and although my time with the Campesino Committee of the Highlands (CCDA) gave me a starting point, most of what I learned came directly from the farmers and community members themselves. It was in their fields, kitchens, and everyday conversations, more than structured activities, where I truly began to understand what agriculture means here.

I grew up in a farming family in Canada. My family grows strawberries and blackberries, and many parts of agricultural life felt familiar to me: early mornings, unpredictable weather, the stress of pests or disease, and the reality that crops don’t pause for holidays. Climate change has made farming increasingly unpredictable back home too. And, like Guatemala, many Canadian farmers struggle with unfair prices and exploitative intermediaries. Even in one of the world’s wealthier countries, farmers are often squeezed by middlemen, processors, and retailers who take the biggest share while producers are left with the smallest.

But being here made me understand something deeper: even when the challenges look similar, we are not affected equally. In Guatemala, Indigenous campesino families not only face climate change, crop disease, and unfair markets, they face them alongside historical and ongoing inequalities, racism, and dispossession. Many Indigenous families farm on small parcels of land because large sections of Guatemala’s fertile land remain concentrated in the hands of a few. Women, despite being central to agricultural work, often lack equal access to land titles or decision-making power. On top of this, land defenders face criminalization, State support is minimal, and many families live with the daily fear of losing the small pieces of land that sustain them and their communities. This is the reality that shapes what it means to be an Indigenous farmer in Guatemala.

Despite these obstacles, the farmers I met carried a depth of knowledge and adaptability shaped by generations of working closely with the land. Their expertise shows in how they read subtle shifts in climate, care for their coffee plants, diversify their plots, and restore soil. Watching them work reminded me that farming is not “unskilled”—it’s intelligence, memory, experimentation, and deep observation.

So it is heartbreaking that farming remains one of the most undervalued professions in the world. So much labour goes into producing the food and coffee we depend on: fertilizing plants, monitoring cherries for the precise moment of ripeness, de-pulping, washing, drying, sorting. This process takes months, yet farmers receive only a tiny fraction of the price consumers pay. I’ve seen something similar in Canada, where fruit growers often sell at a loss while intermediaries take the profit. But here, the injustice cuts even deeper because Indigenous farmers are navigating the same global market pressures without stable land access, state support, or financial cushioning.

Some of my most meaningful moments in Guatemala were not structured workshops or planned activities; they were simple, human interactions. Sitting with producers and listening to their stories. Sharing meals. Walking through the fields. Laughing and playing Uno with coworkers at lunch. These small moments taught me more about solidarity than any formal program could. Solidarity isn’t arriving with solutions; it’s arriving with humility, listening, building relationships, and recognizing that the struggles you witness are long-term, ongoing, and deeply rooted in history.

Photo of three women growers in a forest in Guatemala.

Women-led community reforestation and diversification in a coffee plot in San Antonio Palopó, planting jocote, cushin, and lemon trees.

My time here reshaped how I view my own farming background. I see now that while farmers in Canada face serious challenges (unfair prices, climate change, corporate control of markets), they typically have access to land titles, legal protections, and government programs that many Guatemalan farmers are still fighting to obtain. The similarities between our struggles made me feel connected; the differences made me more aware of privilege and inequality within global agriculture.

Every community, every family, every person is sustained by agriculture in one way or another. The communities who grow our food deserve dignity, security, and a fair return for their labour. This experience has motivated me to keep advocating, learning, and acting in solidarity with those who continue to fight for land, justice, and a livable future. The people I met here will continue to shape how I think, learn, and work long after I leave.