I never thought I’d have to write something like this.

These greenhouses aren’t just burnt-out structures. They represent my grandfather’s and my father’s life’s work – decades of hard work, early mornings, sacrifices and love for the land.

The fire has left us with a sight that is still hard to believe: iron bent by the heat, the greenhouse in ruins, machinery lost, and a place that was once green now turned black.

My father is 68 and says he no longer has the strength to start all over again. And I understand that. But it pains me to think that everything they built with such effort might disappear forever.

Today I went to collect the few plants that have survived. I carried them in my arms and couldn’t help but cry. Because every plant I saved was a memory, a part of our history that the fire failed to take away.

I don’t usually ask for help. I’ve never done so. But today I am asking for it.

I’m asking that we aren’t forgotten once the cameras have gone away. That the authorities, aid organisations and anyone who can lend a hand also turn their attention to the small family-run farms that have been devastated.

We don’t want pity. We want a chance to save at least part of what my grandfather and my father built, to rebuild the barn and the fencing, and to preserve the farm so that this legacy doesn’t end up in the ashes.

If you can share this message, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Because the green turned black in a matter of hours, but I still want to believe that one day it will be green again. 🌱❤️