We've loved them so much, we've educated them between cotton, in the longest meadow that exists. That's what we've given them. We have anticipated their needs before they perceive it. They have always accompanied us, companions, guides, problem solvers. We did not want to carry too much on their shoulders. We didn't want to see them suffer. We did not want to lose them.

So much for us, that we prefer to see them lifted up on the walls, that upright on the wall, pasting posters. I would rather be on the ground playing with the play-station to set fire to the ATMs on the street. We have done our best to ensure that the Basque people – the people, the homeland, whatever it may be – had no price for them. In any case, for our only visits to be to the Erasmuscos, to Vilnius, to the Cohimbra, to Heildelberg, and not to the Black Jump, to Puerto, to Fresnes. We've been actively working on deactivating their value. We have used every means to remove our young from the dangerous aspects of life.

Yes, it's true. Not everything has been our credit. It's not all our fault. Many didn't need it too much. The teaching system created by Guhaurek also has its holes, its corpses, raised inside the closet. More than one person who has left our classrooms, both priests and, at the same time, hating the Basque, be it the people, the homeland. Without such resentments, others have escaped us in silence. Wind. Who would throw the first stone? It's not for everyone to be marginal. Marginal. Exclusionary

The effort has not been corrupt. Most of them have emerged from the massacre after the era of armed struggle. Only a few – and more than was wanted – have not known torture, prison, exile, defeat. Even less, and more easily than you want, your hands are blotted with blood.

Look at them. Most of them are ordinary young people. Well, not so normal. Hello, and goodbye. And their clothing is something different. And most of them listen to other kinds of music. They will also be cured over time. Moreover, they are like the others. The younger ones get drunk, they get drugged, they touch their skin, they make prayers blinded to small and large screens, and most learn something. The elderly, for their part, get drunk, drugged, touch the skin, make prayers attached to small and large screens and, for the most part, are unemployed. Like the others. As passive as the others, as little creators as the others, as slow as the others. Waiting for their problems, like others, to be solved.

We did not want to ideologize too much, fearing that it was a cell. We've glued to them the anger of the organization, thinking that they would become murderers. We cut off the wings of creativity so that their dreams don't become a common nightmare. Now, go talk to them about their historical responsibility as a generation and the need to leave a mark, at least a trace. You don't even know what you're talking about.

They say things change. They say we're in a new time. Welcome to change. Welcome to the new era. We need it.

I do not know whether in Bilbao or in San Sebastian. I don't know if in Vitoria or Baiona. In my place of residence, forty years of raw men and women rejuvenate our meetings and conferences, rejuvenate the comfort and audience of our media, rejuvenate our groups of readers and disreaders. There is no new generation claiming turn. In the corners we do not hear the cry of the rebels who are going to kick us in our altars. We are on the eve of retirement and we see no one behind us.