I’m a Journalist in my fifties working in Pamplona, Spain. Yes, the city of the running of the bulls. I have never ran because, as you probably noticed if you read my last name, my blood is not Spanish and everything about bulls is something I don’t understand at all, and scares me a lot. But I couldn’t escape, because as a journalist I had to report about the wounded during the run, which was pretty bloody.
I don’t have any pretentious goals in this blog. I guess it will not have many readers. I only want to tell you the story of a little girl waking up to life in Spain not knowing a word of Spanish and living in the middle of two worlds: the real world of the city and the Country in what I lived, and the imaginary world of a lost Country I didn’t knew, but I have always feel my beloved Homeland. And because we had for decades forbidden to go to our Homeland, I finally grew up feeling that my home, his walls and rooms and above all my family, my parents, my brother and my sisters were my Homeland.
Now we don’t live in that home, my father passed away years ago, and my brother and sisters live in different cities. Now, my Homeland is my Mom.
When she goes, I’ll lose my roots and will fly I don’t know where. Maybe to the US, land of emigrants, or maybe to that then forbidden and now free Country by the Adriatic Sea, from where she and my father (also journalist that was a prisoner by the fascists and then by the communists) came after so many sufferings (concentration camp, jail, refugee camps, years of separation, religious prosecution). Yes, I think I would like to die there. In fact, the first time I went there it was like a came back. Everything was so familiar I really thought I have been there before.