Dawn Raised Me
Dawn Raised Me I was born in the countryside. A place where the scent of earth changed its hue with each season, where the whole village knew the day had ended when the sunset dyed the ridge behind our hill. Fish swam in the stream beside the cattle shed, and my grandmother fermented soybean paste in heavy clay jars. It wasn’t some romantic tale or a point of pride—it was simply the environment etched into my bones. To those raised in cities, such scenes might seem quaint, even strange. But for me, that world became the lens through which I learned to see life. My father was a farmer. He lived by his hands and endured the passage of seasons with his own two feet. In winter, he sharpened shovels and hoes. When spring came, without fail, he would wake me at four in the morning. It was early—far too early for a child to welcome it. My body always clung to sleep, and the world outside remained cloaked in darkness. But when I followed my father out into the morning chill, I saw sta...