Interview with José Farrujia by Nira Llarena , press writer and creative.

Before meeting him in person, I already knew José Farrujia through social media, as is the case for many people. With his calm and approachable manner, he has become a leading figure in the field of "Canarian topics," that catch-all term that has never been entirely clear to most Canary Islanders.

Through his work, he critically engages us with important questions about our past, our identity, and the value of understanding and preserving our archaeological heritage. In recent years, there has been a resurgence of outreach efforts in this area, with comics, short films, movies, and novels interpreting this indigenous past in ways that resonate with the tastes of internet-savvy generations. Farrujia seems to want to navigate both sides of this somewhat turbulent waters, oscillating between the immediacy and superficiality of social media and the depth of academic research. He has published more than twenty books, some with the clear aim of bringing the results of his research to a wider audience. In his latest, "When the Sky Spoke to Us," written with his friend Miguel Martín, he takes us on a journey to the past of a territory close to and well-known to the residents of La Laguna: the Addar or La Punta del Hidalgo achimenceyato (kingdom).

In this conversation, prompted by his participation in the Ciudad de La Laguna International Campus and the revival of the "Written in Stone" exhibition, we reviewed some key issues related to heritage management and the indigenous question in the Canary Islands. Before we began, he told me that his current role at the University of La Laguna is to train future teachers for the islands so they can teach Canarian history to their students. A teacher of teachers. This pedagogical skill is undeniably evident in him; listening to him is a pleasure, far better than following him on Instagram.

Since the presentation of the exhibition “Written in Stone” in 2014 and after more than ten years of research, collaborations and publications, how do you think the management of archaeological heritage in the Canary Islands has changed?

We are living through a somewhat contradictory moment that has been brewing in recent years. On the one hand, there is greater interest in and knowledge of archaeology; on the other, greater vulnerability of archaeological sites. This is largely due to the rise of social media, not only from a professional perspective, which is also true, but above all from an amateur one. This has made archaeology, especially rock art, highly visible. This increased visibility has brought this heritage closer to the public, but it has also exposed it to risks, particularly due to a lack of real awareness of its fragility.

Although efforts are being made by the government and formal education systems, gaps remain in the public's understanding of heritage. Even the revival of this exhibition, "Written in Stone," arose from public interest: the original catalog sold out, and many people requested a reprint. Furthermore, when we organize activities such as talks or screenings, the response is usually overwhelming. In this, social media has been key: it informs, connects, and allows participation even remotely.

However, we must also be aware of institutional limitations. For example, in Tenerife there is only one island-wide heritage unit and hundreds of sites, making effective oversight impossible. Furthermore, nearly 90% of the rock art is exposed to the elements, making it vulnerable not only to looting but also to natural factors such as rain and erosion.

All of this means we are dealing with a very fragile heritage; we are fighting against the passage of time. That is why documentation, education, and public awareness are fundamental.

The archaeological and natural heritage
of the Canary Islands cannot be separated. They go hand in hand.

You mentioned the issue of resources earlier. In relation to what we were discussing about the changes in the last decade, how do you see the evolution of the role of institutions in their commitment to the conservation of archaeological heritage?

 In the last legislative term, there has been a cut in the budget allocated to heritage management, with the resulting consequences. And then there is another important issue: since 2019, with the new Canary Islands Cultural Heritage Law, local councils have assumed more responsibilities in this area, which has significantly changed the landscape.

The problem is that many of these municipalities lack technical units and specialized staff. In many cases, the councilor responsible for heritage also manages other areas such as culture, social services, or security, which dilutes the attention and effort that can be dedicated to it.

It's a relatively recent law, and we're still seeing how it's being implemented. But for now, the reality is that not all municipalities are prepared to assume this responsibility, whether due to a lack of infrastructure or resources.

In the current context, how do you understand the relationship between archaeological heritage and natural heritage? Do you think it's possible to consider the archaeological heritage of the islands apart from the natural environment in which it is located?

No, the archaeological and natural heritage of the Canary Islands cannot be separated. They go hand in hand. A good example is the case of Tindaya Mountain: its full protection was not achieved solely through institutional decisions, but thanks to the impetus of environmental movements that understood its value as both natural and cultural. This reflects that in the Canary Islands, since the 1980s, there has been an awareness of heritage that unites nature with culture.

This connection is evident in the indigenous world of the Canary Islands. For these communities, not only was the engraving itself important, but also where it was made. The place had a symbolic, spiritual value, often related to the landscape or the sky. In our research, we have seen outcrops ideal for engraving that have no petroglyphs, simply because the surrounding area lacked that symbolic meaning.

Therefore, if we want to understand rock art, we must also understand the territory that gave it meaning. Separating them is to decontextualize it and empty it of significance. In fact, in cases like "Cuna del Alma" (Cradle of the Soul), there was even talk of moving the site to a museum, which would completely distort its nature. It's like taking the podomorphs from Tindaya and exhibiting them in a museum. It makes no sense because what gives it meaning is the context of the mountain and the phenomena that occur in relation to the sky, allowing us to understand what was happening there.

The exhibition captivates largely due to its aesthetic value, especially thanks to Tarek Odec's stunning photographs, which undoubtedly contribute to disseminating and appreciating these art forms among the people of the Canary Islands. However, this raises a question for me: what are the implications of considering indigenous rock art as "art" from a European aesthetic perspective?

When we conceived this project, I had recently published a book focused on an archaeology of the margins, reflecting on the colonial management of heritage and how that management generates a particular image. In that book, I began, for the first time, to introduce images that departed from the prototypical image of archaeology. Scientific photographs don't usually connect with people: they focus on details, use scales or markers, and rarely transcend beyond the academic sphere. That's why we opted for a more aesthetic approach, one that would help to disseminate and highlight these manifestations in a more accessible way.

However, that doesn't mean we should consider these expressions as "art." In fact, in the publication of "Written in Stone," I am very critical of the use of the term "rock art." Using that concept implies projecting a cultural category that doesn't necessarily reflect the original intention of those who created these engravings. For the indigenous peoples of the Canary Islands, what mattered wasn't so much the aesthetic aspect, but rather the symbolic and functional value of what they did and, above all, as I mentioned before, where they did it.

We also know, from studies of other cultures such as those of North Africa, that what is represented does not always coincide with its symbolic interpretation. Imagine, then, how complicated it is to interpret abstract forms like spirals or checkerboard patterns. Furthermore, not all rock art has the same function. Some mark territorial boundaries, others sacralize places important to community life, such as water sources, or are linked to astronomical phenomena, such as solstices. To try to encompass everything under the term "art" is to oversimplify a very complex cultural reality. That is why we prefer to speak of "rock art," a more open term that does not impose an external interpretation, but rather leaves room to try to understand it from its original context, from its own cultural logic.

In recent years, decolonial thought has gained ground in both academia and public debate. The case of La Laguna is particularly interesting, as it is a city marked by its Hispanic heritage, but also by a strong indigenous presence, as you and Miguel Martín have studied in the book "When the Sky Spoke to Us." Bearing this in mind, do you think the colonial perspective has influenced which archaeological sites are valued or protected more in the Canary Islands, and especially in La Laguna?

La Laguna is a prime example of how colonial heritage has influenced the selection and valuation of archaeological heritage, and more generally, heritage management models. When it was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1999, the criteria valued were linked to architecture, monuments, and urban planning—in other words, to a colonial vision of heritage. This is not unique to La Laguna or the Canary Islands. It is a global management model that UNESCO itself has come to question, having observed that many of the properties inscribed on its list follow the same pattern: historic centers from the colonial era, which ultimately generate a kind of global homogenization of the cultural heritage that is preserved, visited, and promoted.

In contrast, research such as that compiled in the book "When the Sky Spoke to Us," focused on territories like Addar (in Punta del Hidalgo), proposes an alternative perspective. This territory is part of the same municipality as La Laguna, but its heritage is entirely different: it is neither architectural nor monumental, and for this reason, it has historically remained outside the spotlight. In fact, no archaeological excavations have been carried out there, highlighting the existing lack of knowledge, despite it being a relatively small territory (approximately 19 km²) but with a density of archaeological sites comparable to other menceyatos (kingdoms) such as Güímar, which covers more than 200 km².

One of the reasons it has survived in good condition is that it forms part of the Anaga protected natural area, which also underscores the close relationship between archaeological heritage and the natural environment. The research aims not only to enrich the catalog of cultural assets of the municipality beyond the colonial period, but also to demonstrate that other heritage realities exist that must be recognized, managed, and shared with society.

This decentralization involves broadening the focus to include neighborhoods and areas of the municipality that are not part of the historic center but contain valuable heritage elements. In the specific case of the Addar territory, key archaeological sites have been documented in areas frequented by locals and tourists, such as the coast towards San Juanito. These sites, without research or public awareness, go unnoticed despite their importance for understanding the indigenous history of the Canary Islands.

The current fragmentation, this kind of "Balkanization" of heritage,
has weakened our cultural projection.
Each island has gone its own way, and that has prevented us from
building a common narrative.

Returning briefly to your vision regarding heritage and land management, how do you think we in the Canary Islands could move towards a more critical, inclusive, and diverse approach to heritage management?

For now, I believe there's a fundamental issue: we need to recover a management approach that addresses problems from a regional perspective, rather than an insular one. I think the current fragmentation, what I often call a kind of "Balkanization" of heritage, has weakened our cultural and identity projection, both externally and internally. Each island has developed its own heritage policies through its local councils, which has prevented a more comprehensive view that would allow us to understand the similarities and differences between the islands and build a shared narrative.

Then, if we speak from a decolonial perspective, although a policy of decolonizing museums has already begun at the state level, I think it's very late in Spain. The truth is that the decolonization of museums was driven by indigenous communities, such as the Maori and even North American ones, as early as the 1970s. And, without a doubt, the fact that this debate has reached Spain is a direct consequence of those indigenous movements that began to develop in other parts of the world and ended up being supported by government agencies.

Here, however, we continue to display Aboriginal human remains in museums without having generated a serious ethical debate or involving society. Let us not forget that museums are spaces for projecting issues related to our identity and our culture, and therefore, society must be a partner in this process.

Returning to the book you wrote about La Laguna (“When the sky spoke to us”), which of the Guanche place names recovered in the book is your favorite?

Without a doubt, the name that stands out is the ancient name of what we now know as Roque de Los Dos Hermanos: Aramuygo. It's my favorite because, if you understand what Aramuygo represents, you begin to grasp a good part of the indigenous worldview of this territory, Addar. The Guanches didn't name places randomly: each name described a specific quality of the land. For example, Anaga means "the highlands," due to its mountainous character. In this case, Aramuygo refers to a mountain "with two faces," something that perfectly corresponds to the two-headed shape of the rock, which has two peaks and a transverse orientation to the coast, with an eastern and a western face.

And that's key, because it was from one of those faces that they observed solar phenomena that were very important to them, such as the winter and summer solstices. From certain coastal sites, the Guanches aligned their observations with that specific face of Aramuygo, which acted as a natural marker.

When you understand all of this—the meaning of the name, its location, its relationship to nearby archaeological sites—you realize how valuable toponymy is. It's like an open book: if you know how to read it, it allows you to reconstruct how people understood and inhabited the territory.

You've mentioned, and also highlighted in your book, the connection between archaeological sites and Guanche beliefs. Could you tell us which ritual manifestation has most caught your attention or which you've come to understand best?

One thing is clear here: Guanche rituals are deeply connected to the land, although, unfortunately, only their material traces have survived. The more symbolic or ceremonial aspects—such as songs, offerings, and who participated in the rituals—were lost with colonization and the shift in beliefs. What we can study, however, are the archaeological sites, such as the cupules and channels, which appear in strategic locations, aligned with astronomical phenomena like the solstices.

A clear example is the Roque de Aramuygo I mentioned. From certain specific points, you can see the sun rise over that rock precisely on the winter solstice. These kinds of observations lead us to believe that the Guanches marked these places as Axis Mundi , points where the sacred manifested itself, where the sky symbolically touched the earth. And this doesn't just happen in one place: we see it on different islands, as part of a shared worldview.

Although we may not know for certain exactly what they said or did in those rituals, we do know that the movement of the stars marked their calendar and their organization of time. For a livestock-raising and agricultural society, this was essential. Even many of the sacred paths they used, like the one leading to Chinamada, have been reused as trails to this day, and still retain that symbolic character. In fact, the names of some places, like "La Escaleruela," have their roots in that ritual past. That's why I believe that knowing the territory and its place names is key to understanding that way of seeing and experiencing the world. Everything is connected.

 Using the concept of “rock art” implies
projecting a cultural category that does not
necessarily have to do with the
original intention of those who created those engravings.

A funny question just occurred to me that could serve as a closing question for this interview. If we brought Jules Verne's time machine here and you could use it, would you go to the future or the past? And at what time and place would you get out?

Without a doubt, I would travel back in time. I would go straight to the Adaar region; it's an area I feel very connected to, not only through research, but also on an emotional and family level, as I've lived between La Laguna and Bajamar for many years. I would love to spend a week—I ask for nothing more—seeing what daily life was like there, how they interacted with their surroundings, what they actually did, and why.

I think we'd be in for a lot of surprises. There are things we interpret today through archaeology, toponymy, or historical documents, but we always have lingering doubts about whether we're getting it all right. And right here in Adaar, we've been fortunate enough to have a rare confluence of elements: archaeological remains, ancient names that describe the territory, and documentary sources that allow us to connect all of that. It's been a privilege to work in a place where so many pieces of the puzzle fit together so well. So yes, without hesitation: back to the past, now Adaar.

Perhaps the closest thing we can get to stepping into a time machine right now is listening to someone as wise and insightful as him. If you don't want to miss this journey into the past, José Farrujia will delve into all these issues with a lecture as part of the "Rationale for Heritage in the 21st Century" series at the La Laguna International Campus. It will take place on July 4th at the CajaCanarias Cultural Center in La Laguna.