I graze, I feed, I collapse

It's 5:30 in the morning, I make a coffee with milk, grab my backpack and walking stick, and open the corral gate to go graze before the sun and heat drive us out of the newly planted stubble.

Just a few days ago, Catalonia burned, and, as every time it burns, the media was filled with paid vocational sociologists, political scientists, and lawyers on leave explaining the virtues of forest management, mosaic landscapes, and extensive livestock farming. One said that harvesting machines are the main cause of the fires; another said that the farmers of the Segarra region have destroyed the forest margins and biodiversity, and that tomatoes no longer taste (or, he said, taste) like tomatoes; and yet another talked about sixth-generation fires. Then they linked this to the telephone testimony of a unionist—who, it seems, is also a farmer in addition to being a unionist—who said that what's needed is to give farmers carte blanche to do as they please, just as it's always been done, and that, if it's always been done, there must be a reason.

The flock advances slowly, headfirst, searching for the ears of grain that have escaped the machine's voracity. Now there's a small guerrilla of sheep snooping in the grass at the edge, but they quickly back down, decapitating a stalk and returning to the orderly geometry of the rows of busy half-stalks that were once wavy and green.

I've been trying to produce food in a—let's say—sustainable way for almost 30 years. And I say "let's say" because I trust the reader will be able to remember the meaning of the word before we all messed it up, and I say "sustainable" because I'd like to think that when we're all gone, there will still be something left of all this. Nothing; a tiny bit of possibility, a red-hot iron, a second chance for those who come after us.

For me, then, "sustainable" means producing food efficiently and at a competitive price (this nuance is important) without degrading the environment in which I produce.

I'll tell you in advance that my conclusion after those 30 years is that it's not possible. And I said that the nuance is important because producing sustainably is only within the reach of a minority, and to think this is the ultimate solution is either cynical or ignorant, or both.

I, and so many others, have found our own solutions at the individual level, of course, but it would be naive to think this is part of a possible global solution. The world is hungry, and producing as much as I do isn't enough to feed it. Realizing this is devastating, yes, and even more so if you have children and think about the collapse they'll face. I advise you not to overthink it, basically because we don't have the gift of perpetual survival guaranteed, and having children is an important part of this sustainability plan.

Well, it would be too long to try to resolve it in these four lines, but you see that I have not only thought a little but I have also rolled up my sleeves and sweated, and if I, with that background that I hope gives me a certain credibility, have come to the conclusion that this balance is currently impossible, I am surprised that the scales (understood as productivity and sustainability) dare to pontificate about a global solution that definitively finds the balance.

I don't think it's fair that some environmentalists accuse farmers of being responsible for this environmental mess. We farmers are merely the enforcers of a perverse system we have all created.

I do not think it is responsible that some farmers consider biodiversity to be a whim of four hippies Urbanites. The biodiversity crisis is real. It's like a fever; it's a symptom of the planet's poor health, and we'd do well to take it seriously.

Until both groups, together (and behind them, all of society), come to the conclusion that the priority is to find this balance and not uncritically and irresponsibly choose one side of the scale, this will continue to go to hell. A sustainable hell, yes. Sustained, even.

In other words, there is no possible solution without empathy or renunciation, and if you know a little about the history of humanity, well... what can I tell you? You already know how it ends.

Anyway, nothing, make a garden and hug the family tightly, I'll head back to the corral, the sun is already beating down and the sheep are chewing the cud.