FUNDACIÓN VÍCTIMAS DEL TERRORISMO 95 - ENGLISH

I do not really know how to begin this letter. It is the first time I have done anything like this. For me, it is like opening a part of myself, of my life, that very few people have known until now. And that is because we were taught not to talk, not to share anything with anyone, out of fear, because you did not know who might be listening. It sounds paranoid, doesn't it? But those who have truly suffered all this know what I am talking about. I lived only one part of this story, but many people suffered it in full. All the years during which Spain was subjected to this terror, especially the so-called years of lead, marked a before and after in the lives of the people who suffered them. Today I allow myself to talk a little about that story. I cannot contribute much, since I was not able to know my uncle Antonio or Hortensia, but I can explain how, because of all this, my family's life changed and, consequently, so did mine and my brother's. Neither of us knewmy uncle. I thinkmy first memory is of my grandparents' house, with his photographs in every room. You ask questions and notice a certain tension on their faces. Why? They only tell you that he died, and that is all. No one tells you the truth until one day they explain what happened. At the time I did not understand it. Today, I still do not understand it. An atrocity like that cannot be justified by the defense of any ideals. It is also worth noting the date on which it happened. Do you know what it means for children not to see their family happy at Christmas? It is very sad. Three Kings Day was approaching, and my brother and I were happy and nervous. What would the Three Kings bring us that year? Toys, of course, but do you know what else? Getting up on Three Kings Day, getting dressed, and going to the cemetery. Why? Because someone had decided to murder two innocent people and, to make it even worse, on Three Kings Day. Now I accept it with resignation, but at the time I was angry, very angry. Two children in a cemetery on Three Kings Day. And so it was, year after year. Some people say the past should be left behind, but it cannot be. I do not want to live with hatred, because hatred is a burden; but I cannot forget, nor can I forgive. I often imagine what my life would have been like if none of this had happened. No one can guarantee that it would have been better, but they did not let me find out. My father told me that my uncle was a very good person, cheerful and a joker. Everyone loved him. I was also told that Hortensia was very good, always with a smile on her face. I can only know them in that way, through what their friends and relatives tell me. Those relatives spent their whole lives seeking justice and died without knowing who had cut their lives short forever. Among them were my grandparents, who only had my brother and me. Life was unfair to all of us again. My brother took his own life when he was 25. He took the reasons with him, but I am sure that part of them was due to everything he had experienced in childhood. It is very difficult to understand all this when you are small. We spent much of our childhood growing up in a Guardia Civil barracks. Anyone who has never lived in a barracks cannot understand the sense of brotherhood that is created there. It is like a family, for better and for worse. I still remember every time a car entered, the guards using a mirror to check whether there were car bombs underneath. Or when I went into my father's office, where the walls were covered with the faces of the murderers. I was afraid to look at them. When we moved away from there, the first thing I said to my father was: "Dad, they are not going to put a bomb here now, are they?" I was 10 years old. When I think of those years when terrorism struck so hard, I can only imagine the terror of those who lived there. I have read the story of my uncle and Hortensia again and again, newspaper clippings from the time, even the film that recounts that tragic day. I never asked my father about it. I saw the pain in his eyes. Pain, rage, and helplessness. I already knewmy grandparents that way. My grandfather tried to bear it in one way, but my grandmother did not. I never saw her wear any color other than black. Now I have no one left on my father's side of the family. My father died almost three years ago. I know he would have come to this event. He always tried to keep the memory of his brother alive, but he no longer can. Now I am the one taking over from him, trying to ensure that it is not forgotten. I want to thank all the people who continue this work: keeping alive the memory of all those men and women who died unjustly for a senseless cause. Thank you for preventing it from being forgotten, because it is necessary to explain to future generations what happened, even if it hurts, even if people do not like it, even if it causes pain, so that something like this never happens again. Thank you from the heart for allowing me to take part in this event. I have not been able to attend in person, but through this letter I want to pay my small tribute to my uncle Antonio and to Hortensia. For the two of them, and for all those who have died: a kiss to heaven. Laura Ramírez 21 Niece of Antonio Ramirez Gallardo, murdered by ETA on January 6, 1979, in Beasáin, together with his girlfriend Hortensia González Ruiz.