For the German adaptation, click here
The Greek proverb which goes, "A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit", sums up perfectly all that's wrong with today's world. The man who plants a tree, knowing that he will never sit in its shade, has started to understand the meaning of life.
Most readers encounter "The Man Who Planted Trees" as an ecological parable or gentle inspiration. They admire its message of environmental stewardship, nod appreciatively at its humanistic optimism, perhaps feel momentarily better about our species' potential. Then they return it to the shelf and continue their lives fundamentally unchanged.
The story's premise is deceptively simple: In 1913, a young hiker traverses the barren, wind-scoured highlands of Provence in France, a landscape so bleak it drives inhabitants to madness or exodus. There he encounters a silent shepherd methodically planting oak trees — one hundred perfect acorns daily, year after year, asking nothing in return. The narrator returns after both world wars to discover this solitary man's quiet, relentless labour has miraculously transformed thousands of acres of wasteland into a vibrant, water-rich forest ecosystem where communities once again thrive.
This simple summary betrays nothing of the story's devastating power. What makes "The Man Who Planted Trees" truly powerful is not its ecological message but its fundamental challenge to our understanding of time, purpose, and what constitutes a meaningful life. That silent shepherd plants trees he will never sit beneath. He creates forests without recognition or reward. He persists through two world wars, through personal tragedy, through complete societal collapse and reconstruction, doing just one thing: planting perfectly selected seeds in precisely the right places, then letting nature and time do what they will. His refusal of instant gratification, external validation, or even measurable short-term progress are an affront on everything our culture holds sacred. His calm, methodical labour exposes the poverty of our addictions to immediacy, recognition, and tangible results.
The silent shepherd plants trees knowing three things for certain: many will fail to grow, he won't live to see most that do succeed, and he has no guarantee the world won't destroy his work through war or greed or simple indifference. Then why bother? Because the planting itself matters. Because transformation always begins in apparent futility. Because life, ultimately, is measured not in what we harvest but by what we plant. These are my conclusions. I let you draw your own.
