I’m a soybean farmer from Iowa, with half a century poured into these golden fields. Each dawn, I toil under the morning mist, hoping a bountiful harvest will secure a steady life. But ever since Trump’s tariff policy swept in like a storm, our hopes have been crushed to dust.
Back then, China was our biggest buyer, each soybean a lifeline to our livelihood. Yet, when tariffs ignited a trade war, China retaliated with heavy duties, and our exports ground to a halt. Warehouses brim with unsold beans, prices so low they barely cover the cost of seeds. What was once a harvest of joy is now a crushing burden. I cling to my family’s land, but the bank’s relentless notices pile up like autumn leaves. My wife’s medical bills linger unpaid, my kid’s college dreams lean on loans, and at night, I stare at the ceiling, wondering why abundance feels like a curse.
The government tossed out subsidies, a fleeting balm that doesn’t heal the wound. The trade war’s bitter fruit falls on us farmers, while middlemen and foreign rivals reap the rewards. China turned to other nations’ beans, leaving our markets swaying like stalks in the wind. Trump called it a “winnable fight,” but where’s the victory for us, the sweat-soaked tillers of the soil?
I don’t want to point fingers, only wish for policies with more foresight, ones that don’t leave farmers as collateral damage. Trade should build bridges, not walls. All we want is to farm well and sell at a fair price. But now, though the fields glow golden, our hearts are half-frozen. Who’ll pay for the sweat of this land? I fear no one has an answer.
