National Rural Network: Regarding your latest book, Almáciga, how did the idea or project of creating a dictionary or compilation of rural terms and vocabulary that are falling into disuse come about?
María Sánchez: Almáciga is a passion of mine for rescuing rural terms that I've known and appreciated through my work as a veterinarian. It first emerged in my head over three years ago. The book was born at the Bañarte festival (Baños de Río Tobía, La Rioja) with an installation in which we set up clothespins with clothespins where we hung words—the signifier on the front and the meaning on the back—and on a table we placed a notebook and pen inviting people to jot down the words they liked most about rural areas but had stopped hearing.

This notebook continues to accompany me, and I continue to distribute it at all the events I attend to continue collecting words. This means that it's a living project that doesn't end with the printing of the book, but rather continues on the website almáciga.es , where terms and vocabulary continue to be collected and updated at the request of the public.
Almáciga not only collects words and meanings, but also the entire history behind each word. It's about—above all—wanting to know where we come from in order to know where we're going, and demonstrating that rural communities have a wealth of culture and heritage to reclaim.

RRN: What have been your sources?
MS: Well, basically the living voice, the spoken voice, of all those who wanted to participate, as well as the ranchers and shepherds I work with in the fields, my family, and the readers. It's a project of everyone who wanted to be involved, and above all, it's a work of talking to people. Almáciga collects my favorite words, but it's not a glossary or a dictionary. I wanted the words to be alive in the text, to tell a story, to breathe. For me, it was very important not to just make a list of words with their meanings.

RRN: What words have caught your attention the most that you didn't know?
MS: I have my favorites. For example, “ cosirar ”; “go walk around the cattle or pasture to make sure everything is in order and that the plants or livestock don't need help.” For me, this means being aware of your surroundings: it's care, love, and interdependence with what surrounds us. A very valuable word in times of pandemic.
Another favorite would be “ colodra ,” ´horns where shepherds drank´, which are decorated with very beautiful engravings.
Also " jañikin ," which refers to the time in the morning when agricultural activities are carried out before the sun heats up. That is, taking advantage of the cool of the morning.
Or “ seher ”, which refers to the morning wind that helps plants and vegetables grow in the garden and in the fields.
There are many words about the land in the book, because the name itself—“ almáciga ”—is chosen for its second meaning in the dictionary: the place in the garden where seeds are left to germinate, waiting for them to sprout and then transplanted permanently into the garden. I liked that image of Almáciga in the book, as a place where words are heard again, named, shared, and celebrated.

RRN: Also, what words do you use frequently because they have been in your vocabulary since childhood and yet are not very common today?
MS: In my hometown and in my family, we still use expressions that I realize are no longer used when I leave my surroundings. This is the case with " cascabullo " (acorn hood); "hacer los avíos " (doing errands) or " deíles " (running errands). We can't forget that these words, accents, and languages ​​have often fallen out of use because of what it used to mean (and until not long ago) to be from a village, that simple, flat postcard image where our towns are associated with misery, rusticity, hunger, and poverty.

RRN: Do you think that what is not named does not exist?
MS: Absolutely. That's exactly what I talk about in " Tierra de Mujeres ." You can't blame people for not preserving the rural environment if they haven't been given the opportunity to get to know it. If you don't know something, you can't love it or care for it. It doesn't exist for you. In Tierra de Mujeres, I talk about the experiment conducted in the scientific journal Science in the United Kingdom. A group of children were given two decks of cards: one with Pokémon dolls, and another with animals from their environment. Most of them named the Pokémon, but not the common animals. Because they didn't know them. That's why it's essential to teach, show, name, make known, and also delve into the origin of things. How can we love that which we don't know? Do we know how to recognize a cork oak, a holm oak, an olive tree, a poplar, an ash tree? Do we know the plants we step on? Do we know the animals we see on the sides of the road? We want a vibrant, green countryside, but do we know how to recognize its shepherds and name the species that inhabit it?

RRN: Are you familiar with the Inventory of Traditional Knowledge related to Biodiversity? In some ways, Almáciga resembles this compilation, except that in the case of the inventory, there are no words, but rather plants, animals, rural customs and practices that are collected so they won't be lost.
MS: I know it, but my proposal isn't academic. I think it's very important and necessary to dignify the lives and knowledge of rural people, of our ancestors. They were told that what they knew wasn't worth anything. Now we're returning to many of the things and knowledge they put into practice. I don't expect us to live like them, but I do want to recognize their knowledge and put it into practice with the knowledge and tools we have today. For example, in the countryside, goats and shepherds have always been key in the fight against forest fires. So it's very painful that university studies come to endorse something that, through popular wisdom, has long been known. The knowledge of our rural ancestors hasn't been taken into account. And this is something we owe to our grandparents. To tell them that what they know is useful.

MS: Yes, I think there's a time shift, a paradigm shift. Many people are tired of the life and ways of working imposed on us by the system, and it's normal for these questions to arise. But there have always been periods when rural literature has been written about. For me, it's important to ask ourselves who has written, from what place, what gender, what social class. It's great to see all the new voices writing from our rural environments.

RRN: Do you believe in the so-called neorurality?
MS: For me, it's not so much about the people who come to live from the city to the countryside, but about the people in the villages who don't have the option to choose whether they want to stay or leave. What we need to talk about is having decent living conditions in the villages. Because the pandemic brings people to the city who have the means, who have the money, and who have a job in the city that allows them to do so. And that's great and opens up many opportunities. But the point is being able to stay if you want to stay because you have decent living conditions in the village, and being able to leave if you want to leave, but not conditioned by a lack of development in your locality. My mother couldn't decide and at 12 years old, she dropped out of school to pick olives. In 2020, many young people are forced to leave their village.

RRN: Do you think the pandemic has changed perceptions of the rural world and its inhabitants? Do you think there could be a shift from the urban to the rural world, or a greater symbiosis between the two?
MS: Yes. Almáciga was closed before the pandemic, and because of all this, I felt the need to write a kind of epilogue. The pandemic has been a kind of "pachakutik" for modern societies. This tremor that is shaking us comes from accumulated energy from the past that needs to be released for new possibilities to emerge. It's necessary to shake up the past and feel fragile enough to question whether we like where we come from and where we want to go. The pandemic has recreated village life in city neighborhoods. And it has made many people realize that the city life imposed on us is often not made for sharing... and be careful, these rhythms are also occurring in many of our towns. As they say in Basque: "good neighbor, good friend. Before the distant relative, there is the neighbor" ("auzo ona, adiskide ona, urrutiko parientia baino, beinago auzoa"). The path lies in the transfer and sharing of both worlds. In bringing a lot of the city to the towns, and in bringing village life to the cities. In sharing, in abandoning prejudices and stereotypes, in coming together, in seeking a common language.