The snow is stepped on. The beach is stepped on. The asphalt is stepped on. The Pyrenees are stepped on, the Costa Brava, Daurada, Domesticada, Gasificada… But the stubble is not stepped on. The bare fields. The fields that are the heads of when we were little and they used to peel us at 1. The cereal stalk standing up. We sip the cocktail of sun and earth. The smell of the stubble. Fresh, tender vanilla. And before us that golden hair like a fairytale princess. That flat expanse of red potatoes. And the man gets off the harvester with a munch-munch in his eyes. Looking at the dream of the future: bread, pasta, rice, popcorn… Food for others, food for you, for us.
The stubble field is the sweat planted in the land by some so that others can harvest. Life is sad for some to make others happy. The stalks remain, the wheat leaves. We must separate the grain from the chaff. But we carry it all within. It’s been a long time since this. And now we have harvested.
harvested.
The grandchildren, the children, of those farmers of the stubble fields became professors, police officers, salespeople, lawyers… Whatever. They studied. Son, study; daughter, study. The social tractor was this. Progress, possibilities, the supposed better future. That they live better than us. Have they done it? Do they do it?
If there are fires it's because there are no farmers. If there are fires it's because we don't want to see the farmers. If there are fires it's because neither the stubble fields are seen, nor do we want to see them. If there are fires it's because we want them to exist. If there are fires it's because the father is burning. Not a few of the grandchildren and children of farmers are killing the father, the farmer, the farming, on the grill of bureaucracy, on the barbecue of legalized illiteracy, on the bonfire of ideological stereotypes in the hands of minority arsonists. We have gone from the open field of the stubble sun to the shadows of air-conditioned bunkers. We have gone from the millennial knowledge of the farmer to the not-knowing of a law, a legislation, a paper, an idea born of the mental straw of people who have stopped learning what they learned and aspire to know nothing at all. Yes, we have gone from not wanting to see how those farmers also suffered sunburns, heatstroke, sunstroke… to wanting to legislate the sun, the stars, nature, the fields, the crops, prejudices, institutionalized stupidity. This is what ignites everything.
From their bell-tower-minaret-watchtower office, the ideal-not-real prophets make their preachings, proclamations, sermons. They scold like hoarse reactionary priests lecturing those who are not what they are not and have ceased to be. They cry like strangled subsidized magpies what those who live in the crematorium-mortuary territory should do and how they should live.
So much studying to end up being charlatans, shamans, healing masters, sellers of miracle syrups. So much studying to be professionals of a phosphorescent red fire and to force farmers to repeat the importance of farmers, the forest, the undergrowth, the ultrabush, forest management, animal, mineral, sidereal... Km 0 products, binary pistachios made with sustainable criteria agreed upon with the Sun, the Moon, the plum, the unions, and the associations for pistachio rights. But nothing happens, everything will be fixed. Soon there won't be a single farmer left. No stubble. Nothing. And from stepping, nothing can be stepped on anymore.
