Soto del Real, January 13th, 2018
My dearest Empar,
Normally I start the letters with classics “welcome”, “most beloved”, “dear”, or “dearest”. I recently received the letters that Antonio Gramsci sent to his sister-in-law, Tatiana Schucht, from prison, with the brilliant translation by Alba Dedeu published by Josep Cots’ 1984. He began all the letters with a genuine “most beloved”, and I do it, as a small homage without any political intent; the shared struggle of the prisoners, we could say. Well, some with situations much more adverse and lasting than others (hopefully, right?).
It’s three in the afternoon.
Txell and Amat just left, with my mother and my sister Esther. The title of the article could be: “2 hours touching us in Soto del Real prison”. That’s the way it is, 2 hours in which I need more hands to caress my mother after 90 days without having seen each other, the same with my sister, and at the same time making my son to feel close to me, to have enough time for him to fall asleep in my arms, because he will also have time to wake up, even if it’s only once a month, where his father is the first person he sees, smells, listens to.
And between all of it, Txell explains me some news, Ada’s dinner – a very beautiful evening – tomorrow Pisarello will come … With my free hand, I take the opportunity to caress my mother, Maruja. She tells me that, on Election Day, the market’s olive seller, embraced her, and whispered in her ear how proud he was that she went to vote with the yellow scarf. I need more hands, Empar. With the most sensible look you can imagine, Esther, my middle sibling, embraces my soul. She waits her turn to explain that “the children are well, Dad is recuperating, and Pol and Neus, with Leiva, hung a big picture on the front of the house in defense of prisoners’ freedom.”
We have time to review the current situation and, in the coming and going of headlines, an affirmation remains engraved in my brain: “Today in Catalonia people are much more aware in general.” It may seem abstract, but I can understand it perfectly.
Sensitivity means tenderness, and this must mean that there is no space for hatred or resentment. Between all of us, we are planting a seed that already gives fruit just by sowing it. In the face of injustice we become militants of tenderness, and perhaps that was not part of the script, but every day that goes by it becomes clearer that everything that we are living together makes us better and a little more human.
Thank you for being there, Empar. Let’s embrace ourselves and continue to write each other.