I have a dream. It's been one of those needles. Along the course of the Oka River, six roams roam in full lungs, accompanied by the pattern and guide Zuberoa, a very brunette ten-year-old girl, with sweet eyes and a snowsmile, giving orders to young captives with a firm and firm voice: “La Yunca”. “Eroaaaan” “Bozuuuun”. “Retract.” “Eskegiiii” “Hainkaaaak”. “Let’s go up.” “Emon striborreraaaa.” “Trinka baborreraaaa.” “Amaaaaituuu”.

I have seen with emotion the ability and courage that adolescents have shown to advance in the immersion of the oars in the water and in the strength of the force. At seven, awaiting the bold orders of the ten-year-old girl, who left with her goal on her chin, blind and unheaded. But looking forward, standing, without diverting the line from the border, the timonel: Zuberoa.

“Oh our people, what you are and where you are (…) crushed, drowned, spoiled, weakened and accustomed to violence, do you no longer have the courage to strengthen your breath?” Along with the profane voices of Benito Lertxundi, I am reminded of the sterile and lacrimal speeches of our politicians; the obscene reasons that the economy fell into the black hole; our unbearable dependence on Spain and France and their indignation towards us: imposed education, degenerated health, marginalised culture and the regrettable situation of our language.

The Basques are making us pass by as someone for too long. And we haven't been anybody. And if we've been who. But that being is always in nobody's thought. Because we are not united and because we cannot demonstrate in Europe that there is a compact social mass behind an accessible project.
And we're tired of crying, of being angry and of not having achieved the goal we want to achieve.
And I have kept dreaming, in the face of the beautiful bucolic landscape of Urdaibai, listening to Zuberoa's firm instructions, and it has smiled at my lips, and for a moment it has also seemed to me that before the Latvians, before the Catalans and before the materialization of the Plot Esku Dago project, there have been weeping boilers that joined hands, necessary to set up a new historical-political map.

A comforting dream, therefore, that of Zuberoa, that marks the way, precursor of long and strong hands, and that marks the way. Merged. Seven in the morning.