There are people who teach without needing to stand in front of a blackboard. People from whom one learns by observing, listening, and sharing time with them. My grandfather, Juan Díaz, is one of those people. A farmer, and someone from whom I have always learned, he reminds me that behind every worked land there is much more than a harvest: there is effort, patience, sacrifice, and a way of understanding life that we should not allow ourselves to lose.
Sometimes I think that those of us who grew up in Lanzarote are not fully aware of what we have. We have learned to recognize the volcanoes, to admire La Geria, and to feel pride in our landscapes. We see them in photographs, in tourist campaigns, and in postcards that travel the world. However, we rarely stop to think about the people who have made it possible for that landscape to continue to exist.
Because Lanzarote is not just an island of volcanoes, beaches, and hotels. It is also an island of farmers, of hands calloused by work, and of generations who learned to make the land thrive even when conditions seemed to be against them.
And yet, what are we doing to prevent all that from disappearing?
We like to boast about our roots, but we don't always take care of those who keep them alive. We talk about tradition, identity, and heritage, while many of the activities that gave meaning to those words face an increasingly uncertain future. It seems we only remember the countryside when it becomes a beautiful image to show to outsiders.
The data helps to understand the dimension of the problem. According to statistics from the agricultural sector collected by the Cabildo Data Center from ISTAC, Lanzarote had 3,872 cultivated hectares in 2024. Although the area had increased compared to the lows of previous years, agricultural production fell to 12,913 tons, the lowest figure in the last two decades. Furthermore, crops that were part of the island's traditional diet, such as tubers, have gone from occupying 654 hectares in 1996 to just 56 in 2024.
Behind these numbers lies a reality we cannot ignore: keeping Lanzarote's agriculture alive is increasingly difficult. Water scarcity, production costs, difficulties in obtaining profitability, and the lack of generational succession are some of the obstacles facing the sector. And meanwhile, the landscape that makes us so proud depends, to a large extent, on someone continuing to work those lands.
My grandfather makes me think precisely about that: about all that we can learn from older people and how little we sometimes value what they have to teach us. For too long we have associated progress with leaving behind certain ways of life, as if the traditional were necessarily old-fashioned, and the old-fashioned, dispensable. But what is the point of moving forward if along the way we forget what has made us who we are?
It is not about idealizing the past or asking new generations to live as their grandparents did. It is about understanding that the knowledge accumulated over decades has a value that does not always appear in statistics. Knowing how to work the land, understanding its rhythms, and adapting to the conditions of an island like Lanzarote is also a form of knowledge. One that deserves respect, recognition, and continuity.
And the same happens with our elders. We have become accustomed to thinking that they are the ones who have to adapt to an increasingly fast-changing society, when we should also stop to listen. Behind every older person there is a lifetime of experiences, decisions, and learning that we cannot recover once they are gone. Sometimes we wait too long to ask, to thank, or simply to sit down and listen to their stories.
That is why this article is also for them. For those who have worked their entire lives without expecting recognition, for those who have cared for their families and contributed to building the island we enjoy today. People who do not always appear in grand speeches, but without whom Lanzarote would not be the same.
It is not enough to honor them when they are no longer here, nor to remember the importance of agriculture when a farm has been definitively lost. It is necessary to support those who continue to cultivate, to facilitate young people finding a future option in the countryside, and to protect an agricultural heritage that is part of our identity. It is also necessary to give our elders the place they deserve while we can still learn from them.
Because an island does not lose its roots overnight. It loses them little by little, every time it stops caring for those who sustain them, every time it abandons a land, and every time it allows knowledge to disappear without asking what value it had.
Hopefully, we will learn to take care of what we have before we miss it. To listen to our elders before their voices fade and to value the countryside before its lands stop giving us what they have given us for generations.
Because when there is nothing left, remembering our roots will be easy. The truly difficult thing will be to recover them.
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