In the Element of Fire: Stories from the Forest

"Fire is as essential a natural element as water. Why, then, do we fear or reject it?" — a S’gaw Karen elder

This question has stayed with me for over a year, ever since I began exploring the links between fire and air pollution. As I listened more deeply to stories, especially those from the community at Huai Hin Lad Nai, I began to see fire not just as a cause of crisis, but as a part of nature and life.

Fire in the Modern World

In the modern world, fire is often forgotten, unseen, or feared. We associate it with danger and destruction: wildfires, smog, and climate disasters. Yet fire still powers our lives: we burn fossil fuels for electricity, heat, and transport. Even solar energy relies on the heat of the sun.When we turn on a light or charge our phones, fire is there, hidden behind the systems we rarely think about.

Still, many people associate visible fire with damage, especially in rural or indigenous communities. It's common for urban dwellers to criticize traditional farming methods that involve fire, while ignoring the much larger environmental impact of their own daily consumption: fast purchasing of products, air travel, imported food, and endless electricity use.

Fire as Celebration, Safety, and Wisdom

In many cultures, past and present, fire is more than a physical force. It symbolizes beginnings, community, nourishment, and protection. Around the world, fire is used to gather people, to heal, to celebrate, and to grieve.

Around the world, fire is used to gather people, to heal, to celebrate, and to grieve.

At Huai Hin Lad Nai, a S’gaw Karen community nestled in the mountains, fire is a companion. The community protects and nourishes over 4,000 acres of land through a deep understanding of the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. Their knowledge of nature is not written in books; it’s read from birdsong, insect calls, wind direction, and the feel of the soil — passed down through generations with reverence and care.

A Life Tied to the Forest

When a child is born, their placenta is placed inside a bamboo tube and tied to a fruit-bearing tree in the forest. That tree becomes their lifelong companion, a symbol of their connection to the land. Everyone in the village knows whose tree belongs to whom. The community takes collective responsibility for protecting each person’s tree, and in turn, the forest as a whole. This ritual reflects a profound belief: that each person is born into a relationship with nature, not as a master, but as a part of the ecosystem.

The Fire in Every Home

Every household in the village has a central hearth, not just for cooking but for warmth, comfort, and connection. When a child is born, the mother and baby stay by the fire for two months to recover — a traditional postpartum practice known as Yu Fai, which translates to “staying with fire.” The warmth is believed to restore physical balance, promote circulation, and support emotional and spiritual healing.

Every household in the village has a central hearth, not just for cooking but for warmth, comfort, and connection

Fire is also used to preserve food, warm homes during cold winters, and gather people for evening conversations. Community decisions, spiritual reflections, and important stories are often shared in circles around the fire. In this way, fire becomes both physical and political — a space of intimacy and collective wisdom.

Fire in Farming: Misunderstood and Misrepresented

Perhaps the most misunderstood part of the community’s relationship with fire is in their rotational farming. Every year, each household burns a small plot — about one acre — in a tightly controlled, respectful ceremony. Before the burn, they listen for the sound of the fire cricket, whose call signals that the rain is near. Ceremonies are held to ask permission from other living and spiritual beings of the land to move aside.

After burning, the land is nourished, crops are planted, and life begins anew. Fields yield corn, rice, fruit, tea, and honey. The soil is alive. Unlike the monoculture farms that stretch endlessly across the hills — dry, silent, and stripped of life — this method maintains biodiversity and regenerates the forest.

They burn once a year, for 20–60 minutes, and yet are blamed for the air pollution, PM2.5 smog. In reality, their carbon footprint is far lower than that of urban lifestyles. Just one international flight generates more emissions than this entire farming practice. And the same forests they manage absorb vast amounts of carbon in return.

They are blamed, while living with care, minimalism, and deep respect.

Wisdom in the Forest

The community distinguishes between sacred forests, protected areas, and rotational farmland. Sacred forests are never burned. Firebreaks are created in two layers to ensure fire doesn't spread beyond its intended boundary. During fire season, when the land becomes dry and fire risks are high, community members take turns watching over these areas to prevent fires from outside their territory. This shared vigilance requires immense care and dedication, a testament to their deep commitment to protecting the forest.

Trees, too, hold stories of fire. Young trees carry what some call "fiery energy" — rapid growth and intensity — while older trees embody "wise fire".

Trees, too, hold stories of fire. Young trees carry what some call "fiery energy" — rapid growth and intensity — while older trees embody "wise fire": stability and presence. Ecological science echoes this metaphor: young trees absorb the most carbon in their early years, and regrowth after careful cutting can store carbon efficiently.

This reflects how the S’gaw Karen practice rotational farming: cutting, resting, regenerating. The land isn't abandoned but gently rotated back into health. Research on similar rotational farming systems shows that, when managed with long fallow periods and diverse plant regrowth, these practices can sequester more carbon than degraded or permanently cleared land, while maintaining biodiversity (Bruun et al., 2018).

Reflections from Youths: Our Unbalanced Relationship with Fire

As a group of young people visiting the village, we weren’t just learning about fire. We were learning about ourselves.

What if we consumed less, connected more deeply with nature and each other? What if we slowed down? What if we trusted the earth? In contrast to the urban routine — work, exhaustion, instant meals, isolation — we saw another way: to gather food with our hands, to know our neighbors, to listen before we act. A life with more meaning, and perhaps, more joy.

“Fire feels like power,” said one youth during our reflection. It reminded us of what the elders in the community shared: "Fire, in the hands of the good, will do good. But in the wrong hands, it destroys."

We each hold fire in our lives — in our passions, our choices, our voices. The question is: how will we use it?

Fire is not just a force to fear. It is life, power, healing, and responsibility. The people of Huai Hin Lad Nai have shown us that living with fire, with care, knowledge, and humility, is not only possible but necessary. Perhaps if we listened more deeply to fire, we could also learn to listen better to ourselves — and to the Earth.