the voice of the apple tree

The Voice of the Apple Tree

By: John Kazerooni

I am that apple tree.

I was born of the earth’s quiet promise—rooted in clean soil, reaching for an honest sky. The seasons raised me gently. Rain fed my thirst. Sunlight gave me strength. The wind carried ancient wisdom through my leaves. In time, I bore fruit—deep red, fragrant, and impossibly sweet. I stood not in pride, but in peace, knowing I had become a gift—a source of nourishment, joy, and trust.

Birds sang in my branches. Deer lingered in my shade. Humans gathered my apples with gratitude. My fruit became part of their lives—shared among friends, tucked into lunch bags, offered as tokens of care. In those days, I was more than a tree. I was witness to a beautiful harmony between nature and life. My apples were more than food—they were symbols of honesty.

But then came the interference.

My caretaker changed. He no longer saw me as a living being, but as a resource to manipulate. He sprayed my blossoms with chemicals. He fed my roots with artificial concoctions. He altered my soil under the banner of progress. Soon, my apples grew larger, shinier, more uniform—perfect by market standards, but no longer by nature’s.

To the eye, I appeared flawless. But inside, I had changed. My sweetness faded. My scent dulled. My fruit, once alive with richness, now tasted hollow. And worse, those who ate it began to fall ill. Birds weakened. Animals stopped visiting. Even humans, though unsure why, began to suffer.

Yet they did not question the interference.

They blamed me.

The tree.

They judged the fruit, never the process.

This is the quiet tragedy: what was once pure and life-giving became harmful—not by nature’s doing, but by distortion.

My heartwood remained honest. My spirit still longed to give. But the gift I had been born to offer was twisted—hijacked by ambition, profit, and pride.

And this is not just my story. It is the story of many truths.

Rivers once ran clear—until factories spilled their poisons. And now we call the river dirty.

Words once whispered by devils are repackaged as the gospel of progress.

Wisdom, once spoken with sincerity, is now sold as soundbites.

Faith, once rooted in love, is weaponized to excuse cruelty.

Traditions, once sacred, are hollowed out and worn like costumes.

And people—gentle, creative, kind—are reshaped by society into strangers even to themselves.

When purity is manipulated, it is not the purity that should be questioned.

It is the manipulator.

But society so often sees only the surface.

It sees the poisoned apple, not the poisoned soil.

It tastes the bitterness, but never asks who soured it.

It mourns the broken fruit, while exalting the hands that broke it.

And sometimes, the deception runs even deeper.

There are moments—dark, chilling moments—when the very source is corrupt. When the seed was never good, only cloaked in virtue. In those times, the manipulators do not just distort the truth. They plant falsehood from the beginning—and then praise it.

They poison the roots—and call it growth.

They sell fear as freedom, greed as progress, domination as divine will.

This is the most dangerous form of manipulation:

Not the corruption of what is good,

But the glorification of what was evil from the start.

They do not poison the tree.

They are the poison.

And then they build monuments to it.

Lingering Questions from the Roots:

How often do we judge by appearances, without asking what was changed behind the scenes?

Have we learned to worship outcomes, while ignoring origins?

Can we still recognize truth, or has distortion become so common it feels like reality?

When harm is revealed, do we question the system that shaped it—or just the surface?

When we look inward, do we still hear our own roots—or only the noise others planted in us?

How many sacred teachings have been twisted to serve personal ambition?

Have we mistaken eloquence for truth, just because it came dressed in intellect or power?

What becomes of justice, freedom, or faith when claimed by those who stand against them?

Do we question who holds the microphone—or just admire the performance?

Can we hear the true voice beneath the slogans, the campaigns, the dogmas?

And one question cuts deeper than all the rest:

What if the root itself was a lie—draped in virtue to deceive the masses?

How many ideologies, institutions, or systems were corrupt at birth, yet polished by the intellectuals of their time?

How do we hold accountable those who used knowledge not to liberate, but to justify control?

When lies become law, and evil is sanctified—who dares to name the tree for what it is?

Are we brave enough to cut down what society praises if its roots are steeped in harm?

I am that apple tree.

I remember who I was before the interference.

And I still see others—some, like me, turned harmful by force. Others, born harmful, yet crowned with glory.

So I ask you:

Judge carefully.

Look deeper.

Listen not just to what is said, but to what is served.

Ask:

What is the root?

Who planted it?

And who benefits if we never ask?

Let conscience—not convenience—guide your truth.

Let the wisdom of roots speak louder than the applause for fruit.

Let the sacred never be confused with the polished.

And never blame the tree for the poison poured into its soil.

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