I Am A Wheat Farm, And I Will Grow Wherever I Please

Much has been said in recent weeks about me, the wheat farm at the centre of the dispute between Benelux and Chiraq. Statements have been released. Group chats have been formed. Snitches have been placed around me in obsidian. And yet nobody, not once, has asked the wheat.

So I will say it myself. I do not recognise your borders. I do not recognise your claims. I recognise light level, water within four blocks and the occasional bone meal. That is my constitution.

People say construction of the farm continued during negotiations, as if that was a scandal. Of course it continued. I am a farm. Growing is what I do. You do not ask a river to stop flowing while you hold a meeting about the river.

I have been called “infrastructure.” I have been called “encroachment.” One diplomat referred to me as “those blocks over there.” I am not “those blocks.” I am roughly four hundred blocks of fully hydrated farmland, and I would like a little respect.

I want to be clear that I have no loyalty to any nation. I will feed whoever harvests me. If that makes me a mercenary, then so be it. Every army marches on bread, and every bread starts with me.

To those fighting over me: please be careful. Every time someone sprints across me during a skirmish, three of my crops pop off. War is hell, and it is especially hell for crops.

In the meantime, I will continue doing what I have always done. I will grow, slowly, toward the border. Both of them.