I met my six-year-old self last night.
She couldn’t sleep. She was scared.

She only wanted to talk about the seagulls and the cormorants, the fish and the dolphins she had seen covered in a thick, black layer—their feathers and wings glued together as they struggled to open them, their eyes shut. They were trying to survive under a petroleum blanket that spread faster than they could ever outrun it.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did they let it happen? Why are animals suffering? Why aren’t the waves moving? Why is the ocean black?”

I could have answered her. I could have explained that a handful of old men allowed it to happen. We could have talked about how they got away with it—how a carefully managed chain of irresponsibility and corruption let them walk free.

But she didn’t want to hear it. And even if she had, she wouldn’t have understood.

Twenty-three years later, I don’t think I understand it either.

She only wanted it to be over. And how I wished I could have given her that. But I couldn’t. She wanted it to have never happened in such a deep, desperate way that it would have hurt too much to tell her: this was only the beginning.

So instead, I let her rest. I told her everything would eventually be okay. That we would try our best.

The MV Prestige sank in November 2002, spilling 77,000 tons of heavy fuel oil off the coast of Galicia, Spain—my home.

I was six years old when the biggest environmental disaster of the Iberian Peninsula unfolded before my eyes. And it changed me forever.

I wasn’t old enough to truly understand why the ocean, the beaches, the rocks, and the seaweed were pitch black. I wasn’t old enough to grasp why so many animals were dying in the arms of volunteers, or why so many washed ashore already dead.

Yet, somehow, I knew.

I remember the image of that massive ship slowly sinking, broadcast live on television. We all watched in silence, fingers crossed, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as we feared. Hoping it would be as “under control” as the politicians claimed.

But it was worse. Much, much worse.

We watched the destruction of our ecosystem live on TV, while no one stopped it.

For at least ten years after the spill, I would still find black patches on the rocks of the beaches I swam in. The scars were there. They probably still are. The ocean was an open wound. It was crying for help.

And people responded.

Volunteers from across the continent came to clean the waters I grew up swimming in, to save as many lives as they could.

The scene was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. The world had turned black and white, yet the power of those people was a shining light. The thick oil and the white, COVID-like suits moved in perfect, rhythmic harmony along the coast.

Little did they know that the remaining suits from that catastrophe would end up serving the same purpose in 2020—protecting those wearing them against something even bigger.

The Prestige changed us as a community. It showed me how powerful we are when we come together—when people see, understand, and act.

Those living by the ocean opened their doors, only for that thick, black layer to seep inside their homes.

The disaster was far worse than anyone expected. While thousands of volunteers shovelled petroleum from the sand and put suffering animals to sleep, our president stood on TV, claiming it was just a matter of “thin threads” leaking from the sunken barrels.

We were fighting a monster that would continue spilling fuel for years. The more we cleaned, the more arrived.

And then we realised something—something both a blessing and a curse.

We had no one. No authority.
Yet, we had each other. We had community.

I’d be lying if I said living through such a traumatic event didn’t shape who I am today.
Witnessing the power of volunteering at such a young age turned me into one myself.

It felt—and still feels—almost mandatory to use my time to protect the ecosystems that sustain my life, and life in the planet I inhabit as a whole.

The streets, the houses, the balconies, even people’s clothes in Galicia were covered by a banner—a cry of outrage that became a citizen movement transcending borders, disasters, and time: “Nunca Máis.” (Galician for “Never Again.”)

“Nunca Máis” touched us all.
It was an absolutely unified decision. A final warning to the political class: this would NEVER happen again.

The only good takeaway from the Prestige catastrophe was precisely “Nunca Máis”—the people had risen, and they would no longer allow decisions with such devastating echoes in our collective history.

But how wrong we were.

We forgot that only the people save the people. And in Galicia, the people have nothing in common with the political class living in mansions on the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela, our capital.

The Prestige left scars—but they hadn’t healed. And now, Altri has reopened the wound.

Altri Galicia—the megaproject, the enormous, colossal monster that must be fed eucalyptus —an invasive species planted in our region just a few decades ago— 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Altri is the name we give to Proyecto Gama, a massive pulp factory planned for Palas de Rei, Lugo, focused on producing textile fibres. Altri is simply the company behind the monster—a wealthy Portuguese corporation that found no support in its own country and decided to devastate the neighbouring ecosystem, Galicia, thanks to the complacency of our government.

In southern Galicia, there’s already a similar, much smaller company: ENCE. It’s responsible for turning the forests I grew up in into eucalyptus plantations that burn every year, destroying homes, towns, and lives. For as long as I can remember, every year, the entire city of Pontevedra—my city—marches against this factory.

The government keeps granting it 50-year licences. They never listened.

In comparison, though, Proyecto Gama, would make ENCE look like a playground.

It will occupy 360 hectares (10 times more than the current factory in Pontevedra) and require 46 million litres of water EACH DAY, extracted and returned—polluted—into the River Ulla. The company itself has admitted that at least 30 million litres will be discharged, again, polluted, into the river.

In summer, the area already suffers from water shortages. Locals might not be able to wash their dishes every day, but the eucalyptus-eating monster will never go thirsty.

And its reach extends far beyond those 360 hectares. Three protected areas under the Natura 2000 network—ZEC Serra do Careón, ZEC Sistema Fluvial Ulla-Deza, and ZEC Sobreirais do Arnego—as well as the Atlantic Islands of Galicia National Park, are all at risk.

The project directly threatens several endangered species, including endemic plants and more than 140 bird species that inhabit the region, many of which appear on the Galician and Spanish endangered species lists. They didn’t care about the cormorants or the seagulls—just as they don’t care now about these thousands of birds.

To bring this project to life, Altri is requesting up to 250 million euros in public funding from the EU’s Next Generation funds. These resources—meant for sustainable recovery and environmental protection—are instead being funneled into a venture that could collapse one of Galicia’s most precious natural ecosystems.

The response from local communities and environmental organisations has been swift and fierce. We have not forgotten—nor forgiven—the Prestige. Over 23,000 objections have been submitted, with major groups like Greenpeace among them. The first protest in Palas de Rei—the epicentre of the controversy—drew more than 20,000 demonstrators, all united against what they see as a barbaric assault on their homeland.

The Altri pulp megaproject is not just an industrial development. It is a reckless gamble with Galicia’s future. It threatens to erase part of our natural heritage, endanger our communities, and permanently scar an ecosystem that has sustained us for generations.

The Prestige happened behind our backs. We made the mistake of trusting that it wouldn’t happen again—that someone would listen if only we’d had the chance to speak.

But Altri is happening right before our eyes, with our children screaming for a future that is being taken away from them. Only one thing is clear: If history repeats, so do we.

We have fought, we have shouted. We’ve taken “Nunca Máis” and turned it into “Altri Non”—a cry that now resonates at every protest, every march, every social gathering, every concert or presentation, every place where more than three people come together. And yet, they’re trying to drown it out.

And I wonder: if we’ve all learned from the past, why can’t we teach them?

It’s Earth Day as I write this, and all I can think about is my six-year-old self crying over the Prestige, not knowing how to help her while shouting “Nunca Máis.”

And my 28-year-old self, crying now, still not knowing how to help—while screaming “Altri Non.”

The post ‘Never Again’, Yet Again: Altri and How to Build an Activist appeared first on eco-nnect.

Isaac Romero’s transformation, from a high-pressure role at Inditex to becoming a passionate advocate for regenerative agriculture, is a tale of rediscovery, purpose and hope for a more sustainable future.

“I used to work at Inditex, in their footwear division in Alicante.”

Inditex, the Spanish multinational known for brands like Zara and Bershka, is one of the largest fashion retailers in the world. The company — now worth over $170 billion (USD) — epitomises fast fashion, a business model that encourages rapid turnover of styles to meet high consumer demand.

“It was an ultra-consumerist world, and it was draining me. My job was to boost sales, to constantly push for more and more, but in my personal life, I had stopped buying almost anything; I no longer believed in the system I was a part of.”

For years, Isaac was deeply embedded in this world, driven by overproduction and relentless sales targets. However, fast-paced consumerist culture slowly diminished his sense of purpose: he began questioning whether a system that thrived on constant consumption could truly bring fulfilment.

Isaac’s youth was spent in Los Guájares, a village in Granada, in southern Spain — with a population of just over 1000 people — where his parents were lifelong farmers. In the past, inhabitants adapted to the steep, rocky landscape by growing crops like grapes, olives and almonds on terraced land. These traditional farming methods shaped the area’s identity.

Growing up in Los Guájares, Isaac learned the value of hard work, the patience of waiting for a harvest, and the deep connection between people and the land. As a young man, he left home in search of broader horizons, studying abroad in Finland, working in Taiwan, and eventually settling in Barcelona. Yet, despite his global adventures, the rural rhythms of his childhood continued to resonate within him.

“I never imagined going back to the land, much less making a living from it. I saw myself as a city man, but then I got laid off, and I was relieved.”

The layoff marked a turning point in Isaac’s life. Instead of plunging him into despair, it ignited a period of reflection and transformation.

“I moved to Barcelona and immersed myself in sustainability studies, doing a course on climate change, permaculture in Girona, and a Masters in Circular Economy.”

In Barcelona, his new studies stood in stark contrast to his former corporate life, introducing him to a world focused on long-term environmental health rather than short-term profits. Then the COVID-19 pandemic arrived. A global crisis that forced many of us to reassess our lives and priorities. For Isaac, the slowdown was both a challenge and an opportunity. While many of his peers in the sustainability sector dreamed of acquiring farmland, he realised he already had a hidden treasure: ancestral land in Granada.

“I thought, ‘Isaac, what are you doing? You have land in Granada, more than you can manage. Why are you here in the city?’ The city no longer made sense to me. The constant push for consumption, the endless stimuli… I was done with it.”

Isaac found himself back in Los Guájares, where the familiar cadence of rural life, the scent of tilled earth, and the rhythm of the seasons welcomed him like an old friend. Yet, his return was far from a simple homecoming; it was a call to reimagine his destiny.

“I started working alongside my father, but you can’t just tell a 66 year old who has been doing things the same way his whole life that he needs to change. So I made gradual changes, little by little. It took three years just to transition our farm to organic methods.”

The project that emerged from this transformation, Arraigo, is not just a farm, it is a living laboratory that blends the traditional wisdom of his family’s farming practices with modern sustainability techniques to create a new vision of agriculture.

“People think it’s idyllic, but the reality is tough. Arraigo isn’t just about farming; it involves marketing, selling, packing and shipping. Some days, I question everything, but I remind myself why I chose this path.”

One of the foremost challenges Isaac confronts is water scarcity, an issue that is growing more severe as Spain’s climate shifts. Avocado trees, now the flagship crop of Arraigo, are notoriously thirsty, and declining rainfall in the region is becoming a big problem.

“Avocado trees need a lot of water, and rainfall is decreasing every year, that’s why I’m studying regenerative agriculture and working with specialists in Girona to make our farm more resilient. We’re implementing techniques to retain soil moisture and reduce reliance on chemical fertilisers.”

Regenerative agriculture, as practiced at Arraigo, is a radical departure from conventional methods. Rather than relying on intensive irrigation and synthetic fertilisers, Isaac has adopted practices that work with nature. Techniques such as cover cropping, mulching and composting are now integral parts of Isaac’s farm’s routine. These practices not only improve soil health but also boost its ability to retain water, a critical advantage in an increasingly arid climate. Isaac is also exploring agroforestry, growing multiple types of plants together in a symbiotic relationship, creating an ecosystem that mimics the natural diversity of a forest.

“Avocados have become one of the most profitable crops in Spain, but the way they are grown today is not sustainable in the long-term. We need to rethink how we farm if we want to continue feeding people without depleting resources.”

Regenerative agriculture is more than a set of practices, it’s a philosophy, and Isaac’s background plays a huge role in his commitment to this new way of farming. The values of hard work, respect for nature and the cyclical rhythm of the seasons were instilled in him from a young age, and have reemerged as the guiding principles of his new life.

“Returning to the land isn’t just a career change for me; it’s a way of reconnecting with my heritage and honouring the legacy of my family. I want to show that sustainable, regenerative farming is not only possible but can also be a viable path for future generations.”

The modern food system, driven by industrial agriculture, has led to the erosion of small farms and rural communities. Many small farmers have been forced out of business in Andalucía, and the resulting urban migration has left a huge void in rural areas all around Spain. Isaac believes that by making regenerative agriculture economically viable, it is possible to revitalise these communities and restore the balance between urban and rural life.

“This is not just about growing food, it’s about restoring our connection to the Earth, to the seasons, and to each other. If we change the way we farm, we can change the future.”

To achieve this vision, Isaac has actively engaged with his local community, collaborating with schools, universities, and local cooperatives to educate people about the benefits of sustainable farming. These efforts are part of a broader movement focused on reconnecting urban consumers with the origins of their food, a movement that has the potential to transform the entire food system.

Across the world, farmers and researchers are increasingly turning to regenerative agriculture as a solution to the challenges of the climate crisis, food security and environmental degradation. Industrial agriculture, with its heavy reliance on fossil fuels, synthetic fertilisers and monocultural practices has led to widespread ecological damage.

“I see Arraigo as part of something much bigger. The way we farm and consume needs to change, and I hope my project can be an example of what’s possible.”

Isaac is also passionate about the role of technology in farming. He’s exploring precision agriculture tools that track soil moisture, nutrient levels and crop health in real-time. These innovations boost productivity while reducing waste and environmental impact. By blending modern technology with traditional farming knowledge, Isaac wants to prove that sustainable farming isn’t just a thing of the past, it’s a forward-thinking practice that can tackle today’s challenges.

“Every tree I plant, every method I implement, is a step toward a future where our food systems are not only sustainable but regenerative, where nature and humanity work together in harmony. The land has always been here. We just need to learn how to respect and work with it again. Our ancestors knew how to live in harmony with nature, and there’s so much we can learn from them.”

Isaac’s transformation from a corporate executive to a regenerative farmer has required him to confront not only external challenges, like water scarcity and deep-rooted agricultural practices, but also internal struggles like self-doubt. During long days spent working on the fields, Isaac often reflects on his past life in the city and the hollow victories of corporate success.

“Returning to my roots has taught me that true wealth is not measured in sales figures or profit margins, but in the health of the land and the well-being of the people who depend on it. I want to build a legacy that honours the past and sustains the future.”

As the sun sets over the rolling hills of southern Spain, Isaac’s avocado trees stand as living proof that a sustainable future is within reach. Looking ahead, Isaac dreams of expanding Arraigo into a cooperative network that connects like-minded farmers across Spain and beyond. He envisions a future where regenerative practices become the norm rather than the exception, where consumers actively choose products that support ethical, sustainable agriculture, and every purchase contributes to the well-being of the Earth.

“I want to show that sustainable farming isn’t a niche or a luxury, it’s a necessity.”

Isaac’s story is a powerful reminder that transformation is possible at any stage of life. His bold decision to leave behind his corporate career to return to the land is a call to action. It invites us all to consider how we might live more harmoniously with nature and contribute to a more sustainable future.

“Every step we take toward sustainable farming is a step toward healing our planet. The future is in our hands, and it starts with the choices we make today.”

The post New roots in ancient soil appeared first on eco-nnect.