It's seven in the morning at the Rennes jail. Half awake, half dream, I'm in bed, in sweet dreams. Krauk-krauk! The door of Ziega opens to the tupust. “Vous avez une heure pour vider la cellulle”, barking through the door. Banaramate. Extradition travel. Escort. Tips. Prescriptions. Dizziness. Dirty cottages. Waiting hours. Aeroplane. Through the windows the toy mountains and the square, brown, green rural areas, as in a puzzle, it's beautiful, I get excited. There I see Euskal Herria below txiker, and the sea, proud and endless. The sea... I keep tears. Udaltzaingoa: “Guk etorri zara.” Tips. “Siesese hemen.” Van. Heat. Sweat. Co-operative Meco. From the French walls to the Spanish walls. Everything changes so that nothing changes.

You reason, Griselidis: in the heart of faceless cities, among the high walls, the silence you hear singing is parallel. Body noise, screaming without a mouth. Our Ortzi is the same and the topic, I look for his eyes between the bars, above the fences... after all, to find cotton giraffes, there, far away. I draw the clouds with my eyes and suddenly I remember.

So yes, in the dark, I repudiate life with Rosa, as if we knew a magical secret, we only both. He who makes clear and well-being to everything that is false and sad. Olga already knew that we're rich because we're prisoners, because we have something -- that many who say they're free from life often don't have that.

And what does it matter what we are, not Louise? Because we are only the benefits of our time, our mistakes and our virtues. The only important thing is our doing: that it is not us, that will remain for humanity when we disappear.

And yes, Griselidis, in this cold and hard sepulchre that annuls life, we meet the hearts, the values and the colors to break their stone stomachs with our molars; running behind the unknown beasts to disperse the arms; taking the moon from the trees and, with rain, in the blood of the stars to advance on the path of the open viscera throughout the earth........ Let ASKATASUNA our love forever.

Maybe that's why it's Zehra that if we look back when we cross the door, we'll feel hurt, like a bird that a fin will be tied up in the assortment, not a prisoner of the first or totally free. So, once again, we take and continue to build by claiming, painting, talking and facing the system. In short, continuing to fight with imagination will free the flight of the fearless birds from the wings.

Griselidis Real, a slut, writer and activist, in prison, painted concerns and wrote dreams. Rosa Luxembourg, Olga Benario and Louise Michel revolutionaries flew and fought with poetry both in the ruthless sun of exile and in the shadow of brick walls. The Kurdish artist and journalist Zehra Dogan, in the absence of paintings, was loaded with women drawing with corrupt food.

All of them and many of the members who have found me inside have demonstrated to me during these years the close relationship between struggle, feminism and creation, which are veins of the same blood. I have taken your words with mine to write this text, with your memory, model and tribute.