He’s bright and open, and his optimism about farming is infectious.

WHY IT MATTERS: Market research suggests that the public trusts Canadian farmers and wants to hear from them about what happens on their operations.

While Gomiero started posting content to YouTube some 15 years ago, he only really started to post regularly in the past five years. Three years ago, his content caught the attention of Discovery Channel executives, who offered him a reality TV series. Now going into its third season, Quella pazza fattoria (That crazy farm) is so popular that it has renewed interest in agricultural studies at local universities.

Gomiero was part of a group of social media stars that was invited to EuroTier, held in Germany every second November. During the four-day trade fair, the largest of its kind for livestock producers in the world, he shared his experiences with young farmers and would-be ‘agri-influencers’ in the hopes that they, too, will be able to move the needle on the public’s perception of farming.

From his first post, Gomiero had one goal: to educate the public about farming and to clear up common misconceptions around topics such as environmental management, animal welfare, and even the income of farmers. He said the latter is something the general public gets wrong. They assume farmers are rich when they see the expensive equipment used on farms.

The public has responded positively. Gomiero attributes their acknowledgment to his dedication and to his ‘no-filter farming’ approach. The key, he said, is to post regularly, and to show the realities of farming, including the beauty and the challenges. He shares at least one original video each day, and posts everything from equipment malfunctions to the birth of a new calf.

While Gomiero is transparent about what happens on the farm, he does have to be careful around some topics. The general public, he said, is sensitive about animal care and welfare. When posting livestock-related content, he carefully explains what he’s doing and why. When performing potentially dangerous tasks, he clearly points to the risks and highlights proper safety protocols.

“I have a little bit of responsibility because there are a lot of people watching my videos every day,” he said.

Gomiero said it’s especially important to create posts that help clear up common misconceptions. For example, he’s used his platform to highlight the environmental efforts of Italian farmers and to explain how and why they use pesticides. While his authenticity has won him public respect for the most part, dealing with ‘haters’ is a hazard of the job.

“Sometimes maybe there will be some haters, but don’t care about these things,” he said. “Just continue because I think people like what we do.”

Public persona pitfalls

Olly Harrison, a 44-year-old crop farmer from Tarbock, England, calls his foray into social media accidental at best. But what started out as ‘a joke’ has turned into a serious following. In fact, the earnings from his YouTube channel have helped pay for a brand-new sprayer.

It started during the first COVID-19 lockdown of 2020, around the time when social distancing rules were first introduced.

The British Broadcasting Corp. (BBC) was working on a story on moisture challenges in UK farmers’ fields and needed footage of an actual farmer. Harrison was asked to shoot a short smartphone video for the story. That night, he shared the video on his own social media channels and watched with surprise as it gained traction.

On a lark, he shot a second video the next day, this time from inside his tractor cab, and again posted it to social media. Engagement was high, he said, and people seemed to like what he was doing, so he decided to keep going.

“After about a month, I was still making a video every day,” Harrison said. “I was like, when do I stop? And I thought, well, the world is going a bit mad, so when the world’s gone back to a normal place, I’ll stop.”

But he hasn’t stopped. Since March 2020, Harrison has posted at least one video every single day. His YouTube channel, Olly Blogs Agricontract, is now home to over 2,000 videos that have garnered over 100 million views. The channel boasts 145,000 subscribers.

In 2023, the DLG invited Harrison to Agritechnica, the world’s largest trade fair for agricultural machinery, where he was awarded Agri-Influencer of the year. In a one-on-one interview, he shared the pros and cons of becoming a public persona.

Like most social media mavens, Harrison is uncomfortable with being called an influencer. But he is. Viewers like his honest approach, and they like his content, which features the highs and lows of arable farming in the UK. Some days he posts videos of equipment and field work. In others, he talks politics and policy.

His aim is two-fold: to narrow the divide between urban and rural communities by championing farmers and the work they do, and to make a difference. The latter may sound vague, but the results are distinct.

Mental health an agricultural issue

In 2020, Harrison started a movement that he calls #AnswerAsAPercent whereby followers share their mental health status as a percentage. He’d just lost a friend to suicide — a friend he thought was perfectly well.

“The biggest lie in the world is ‘I’m fine’,” he said. “It’s much easier to say I’m 50 per cent or 60 per cent. And if someone has the time, they can ask why. It’s so simple. If we can get everyone doing this, we can make a difference.”

In the early days, Harrison took the time to respond to as many people as he could. Eventually, the movement produced an organic community that began to take care of itself.

Following the loss of a second farmer to suicide, Harrison and a friend came up with a plan to drive a combine from Liverpool to Land’s End, the westernmost peninsula of Cornwall, to raise awareness about farmer mental health. The 1,500 kilometre journey took four days to complete and raised over $175,000 and caught the attention of mainstream media.

Being a farmer in the public eye

Harrison cautions those who aspire to become social media influencers that there are downsides to becoming a public persona. There’s a sense of responsibility that comes with creating a community, especially one with such a strong focus on mental health, and as he put it, you can’t always be online.

Harrison is also uncomfortable with being a public figure. People feel they know him, he said, but they really only know his online persona.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am what you see,” he said. “I’ve just got to be careful.”

Despite the challenges, Harrison shows no sign of slowing. “If people keep watching, I’ll keep doing it,” he said.

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It’s been 100 years since the first bombs – artillery shells, chemical weapons and hand grenades – dropped in battlefields across the Western Front. The most heavily hit region is undoubtedly West Flanders where Persyn lives.

Of the 1.4 billion bombs fired, it’s estimated that some 400 million to 500 million shells did not actually detonate. Of those, experts believe 10 to 15 per cent are chemical weapons, shells filled with toxic chemicals. To this day, those gases – some meant to kill, others meant to confuse or maim – remain, awaiting release.

During the First World War, the Germans and the French were the first to use phosgene gas as a chemical weapon. Persyn’s bomb, however, was of British design. A colourless gas, phosgene has an odour similar to musty hay. To detect it, though, concentration levels need to be 0.4 parts per million. And at that level, it can be deadly.

Immediately after the gas was released, Persyn’s eyes and lungs began to burn. He knew he had to move. If he passed out, it could be hours before someone found him.

Persyn didn’t get away unscathed, though. His lungs and eyes burned, and he said he felt ‘funny’ – not dizzy, but funny. “I immediately felt that I had something in my system,” he said.

Persyn knew he needed medical attention – and fast – but he couldn’t reach his wife, so he called his daughter who works as a nurse in Ypres. She came immediately. He remained at the hospital, where he was put on oxygen, for a day and night. Normal blood oxygen levels are between 95 and 100 per cent, says Persyn. “My blood oxygen level was 88… 75 is deadly.”

Persyn knows he is lucky. Phosgene is highly toxic and meant to kill. Others in the region haven’t been so lucky, though. Unexploded munitions around Ypres have killed a total of 358 people since 1918. Another 535 have been injured.

On the way to the hospital, Persyn called the police to inform them of the bomb. A special Belgian military squad, known as DOVO, is tasked with collecting unexploded munitions in Belgium. They can’t, however, be reached directly. Farmers – for it’s mostly farmers who find the shells – must first call the police, who are trained to identify most bombs.

Depending on urgency, the disposal experts will come almost immediately. Their responsibility is collection; they do not actively search for unexploded shells.

Lieutenant D. Gunst, who works with the special tactical unit in Langemark-Poelkapelle, Belgium, says the army simply isn’t organized to do that.

On average, DOVO receives 3,000 calls a year that lead to the removal of some 300 tonnes of munitions. According to First Sergeant Gaetan Algoet, though, last year they received an incredible 4,025 calls. With a staff of just over 300 – most of whom are not explosive ordnance disposal qualified – it’s a big job.

In Belgium, unexploded munitions are found nearly every day, most commonly between March and May during spring planting, and in the fall during harvest, says Gunst. Since 1918, the squad has identified 90,000 bombs. It’s an ongoing issue with no end in sight. “In my lifetime no one will see the end of the problem,” says Gunst.

In the field, identification is limited to the eye. Once collected, the team takes munitions back to the base and sorts them by hand on an ID platform. It’s not possible to know for certain if some bombs contain chemicals. Those in question are sent to one of two on-site X-ray labs for further identification. Some are dismantled by hand; others are exploded in a contained detonation chamber. At the moment, liquid content shells are safely stored.

Why did so many bombs land but not explode? As the war progressed, explains Gunst, the quality of the shells rapidly deteriorated. In some cases, soil contact was needed for detonation. Often, the soil was simply too wet. Instead of exploding on contact, the shells sunk into muck.

The task of finding the bombs that lie beneath the fields is immense. But what can farmers do? Persyn did look into having his fields professionally cleaned, but he says the cost is too high. Instead, he’s decided to do it himself.

Enter Dr. Marc Van Meirvenne, head of the department of soil management at the University of Ghent. At the exact time that Persyn was being treated in the hospital, Van Meirvenne was knocking on his door. The soil specialist has been mapping heavy metal concentrations (copper, zinc and iron) in West Flanders in an attempt to tie them to First World War munitions. Looking at original First World War aerial photos, he’s been able to determine which West Flemish fields were most heavily hit. Persyn’s farm was on that list.

Using electromagnetic and magnetic detection equipment, Van Meirvenne and his team create maps with GPS co-ordinates for the location of munitions. Today, Persyn is using those maps.

Van Meirvenne feels strongly about the burden unexploded munitions puts on farmers. “All of the risk and all costs remain on the landowner,” he says. “This is not correct because they did not put those shells into the soil, so why should they risk their lives or spend huge amounts of money to clean it?”

“Something must be done because to continue living in an area full of unexploded ammunition, I mean… It’s not a situation that improves,” he said.

For now, though, Persyn has little choice but to do it on his own. Last year, he rented a front-end loader and began work in a recently harvested field.

In the first 10 minutes of work, he discovered an unexploded 90-kilogram British bomb. It took four men to carry it out of the field. Later he discovered a bunker, and nearby, some 200 unexploded shells that had been simply buried at the end of the war. On average, he says he finds 30 shells – 10 unexploded, 20 empty – and 30 hand grenades each year. During potato harvest one year, he found 13 in one day.

It’s a risky task, but Persyn says he’s very careful. “You have to know that we are used to this here,” he says in dialect. “If you dig a hole, there’s a chance you’ll find a bomb. This is how we grew up. This is our soil.”

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