Have I told you I'm a Galician? My mother was born in Boiro, in a town in the Ria de Arousa. When he was in the Aitite Sea, he spent months without knowing his daughter. Most of the men in the family were sailors. Once my great-grandfather Manuel went to visit the port of Bilbao my great-grandmother Celsa. Fascinated by the rise of the Biscay industry, she told her husband: “Here we can have a better future.” They emigrated to Barakaldo with three daughters, let us and my first nephew, my mother. The Galicia Centers settled on a floor that made life easier, all together, until each of the husbands was able to buy a house.

In the summer, the whole family went back to Boiro to spend their holidays. Arousa became a summer space for families migrated to industrial cities like Bilbao. In addition to the new homes, the number of bars was also multiplied; my grandfather explained to me that most served to hide drug trafficking. The 1990s was the time of Operation Nécora. In 1998 Boiro was also news, as the tetraplegic writer Ramon Sampedro exercised his right to die there.

For me the beach of Boiro was synonymous with rich food and joyful songs (Bailaches Carolina, bailei yes sir…). It's synonymous with freedom. When I was 13 years old, I started doing juerga and ligar in Boiro.

If you are currently typing Boiro on Google, after the entries of Wikipedia and the City Hall, you will find a news item from December 29, 2017: “Boiro’s young woman reported that the detainee tried to force her into a trunk threats with a knife.”

I woke up on January 1, I went on Twitter and started the year with a shiver that caused me news. The man who has tried to kidnap Boiro's youth is A Pobra do Caramiñal, a town near Boiro, killed in 2016 by Diana Qué. The young man managed to zafe from his aggressor, who managed to zafe from the aggression and turn to the police.

The closeness to a terrible fact, the feeling that “I could be a victim”, shakes us inside. The news becomes real, it embodies itself.

A week after Diana Quer's disappearance, I was in Boiro. I found the walls of our neighborhood plagued with their photographs. I bathed in the lagoons of A Pobra do Caramiñal under the helicopter. My grandmother, turned on Telecinco, was constantly repeating "the poor girl" as fake journalists unwrapped the dirty wipes of the family. My grandfather replied: “He hasn’t survived, he’s been killed by a pig.”

Now it's me who can't take Diana Quer out of my head. In my memory lives Nagore Laffage. I also remember the two girls reported for group violations in Sanfermin and at the Malaga Fair. The media and justice have called into question the credibility and morality of both. They survive, but how can they heal the wounds of the public judgment?

Rape or death. He could die or live under suspicion. Feminism has described as sexual terror the warning we receive since childhood. My grandmother, who had turned on Telecinco's news, often said to me: “In the end you will not be able to leave the house alone.” Researcher Nerea Barjola remembers that the crimes in the Alcasse stopped hitting a whole generation of girls. We feminists develop and share the discourse and resources to defend our freedom. I am clear about the speech. But my body needs to embrace terror to feel chills.