Woman: It’s been long time since you didn’t come [in basque]
Woman: It’s just that between one thing and another, between work and…
This story begins in a kitchen.
Woman: We were neighbors.
Woman: Of course, always…
That kitchen is located in Lasarte, a town in Gipuzkoa, very close to Donosti, to San Sebastián.
Woman: Yes, we’d knock like this against the wall, toc, toc, toc, and the other one would hear. “Ah, that must be the neighbors. Let’s see what they want.”
It could be any of our grandmothers’ kitchens: tiled floor, children’s photos and drawings on the fridge, a window that looks out onto a covered balcony. It’s spotless, full of light.
Woman: To get the sugar, or the flour to make a cake…
For the past 10 years, a group of neighbors from Lasarte has been gathering in that kitchen to work on coexistence. That’s actually what they call themselves, “Bizikidetza” — “coexistence” in Basque.
Woman: And we live our lives in the kitchen…
Neighbors concerned about how political violence has affected life in Lasarte.
What they do, in practice, is: to talk.
Man: Are you still carrying that pain? [in basque]
They meet with people who¡ve suffered this kind of violence, they talk with them, and as neighbors, they acknowledge their pain.
Woman: Yes… [in basque]
At first, of course, it wasn’t easy.
Kike: When we started, people were surprised, they saw us together and said, “What’s he doing with him?”
They were neighbors with different ideologies, and they wanted to acknowledge all the victims in the town.
Peio: The first meetings, people didn’t even want to be in a bar or anywhere public. I remember that the first meetings were in the park, sitting on…
Rosabel: On a bench, you and me.
Peio: On that bench.
So they had to find a more private space, where people could meet without fear of being seen. And Isabel, one of the members of the group, had an idea:
Rosabel: She said, “Well, come to my kitchen. Come for a coffee at my place.” And so it became Isabel’s kitchen.
A kitchen is not just any part of the house. In Basque, it’s sukaldea, “the place near the fire.”
Peio: The fire is the most important part of the house. Whenever the house was located in two different municipalities, the one that determined which it belonged to was the kitchen. So, here, what really matters is the kitchen.
Isabel was the oldest member of the group: she was 80 years old and had spent her entire life trying to build bridges between neighbors in the town. And so her kitchen became the place where the group would gather, and get to know each other, and, paradoxically, the place where others began to recognize them as well.
Kike: I think we’ve managed to reach a point where anyone from any political background can greet us.
It took them years.
Kike: And well, now it’s seen as normal that a member of the police walks with me or… that someone, the sister of someone killed by the police, also… We’ve achieved something…
Peio: We’ve just been at the supermarket with a a policeman, and next moment we’re with the sister of the ETA member who was killed and so on…
[Music]
I know this group because a few years ago, my friend Xuban, who is also from Lasarte, made a documentary about them. The documentary takes place in that kitchen and is called “Isabel’s kitchen.” Xuban interviewed all the victims from the town, and all of them spoke while seated at that table, covered with a green, red, and white cloth. And one day, a woman from the town sat at that table and told a story that made Xuban think about my obsession with silences. And he sent me this audio.
Xuban: Txabelix. Let me tell you. The story is that there was a little girl, two years old, who was murdered at a train station. Her parents immediately had another daughter. They gave her the same name as the one who died.
A woman who carried the same name as her sister who had died and whom she never met.
Xuban: So this family lived for… well, imagine, nearly 50 years, believing they were victims of ETA.
A family that believed they had been a victim of ETA.
Xuban: And then, just a few years ago, it was investigated and discovered that the murder wasn’t committed by ETA…
And suddenly, 50 years later, they had to question their own memory, their own story, their own silence.
Since I heard this message, I couldn’t stop thinking about how that woman must have lived with the weight of that name, with that memory every day of her life. And how she might have reinterpreted it afterwards.
[Music]
That woman, and that little girl, were named Begoña. Begoña Urroz Ibarrola. At first, Begoña didn’t want me to interview her. She was going through a tough time, didn’t feel like it — “maybe later,” she said. I myself wasn’t in my best moment either, to be honest. So we postponed the meeting, but we kept in touch. And exactly a year after my first message, Begoña told me that we could have a coffee: just a coffee, no mic, no recorder, at a bar in Lasarte.
A few days later, I arrived early at the bar in the town square where we were meeting. It was summer. I was nervous. She arrived right on time: straight blond hair, glasses over strikingly blue eyes, nearly 60 years old. She didn’t seem nervous, but now I know she was. We had an herbal tea, then another, and then another. Neither of us drinks coffee, and we both love to talk. If someone had seen us talking, they’d have thought we were two friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time, catching up on life. But of course, we weren’t two friends: I was someone who wanted to know her story. And, as we talked, I realized I’d want to tell it too. So, at the end of our conversation, I asked if I could interview her — this time with a mic and a recorder — and she said yes. “Would the next day be okay?” “It would”.
[Train ambience]
So the next day, I got on a train at the Amara station in Donosti, or San Sebastián, and headed toward Lasarte.
During the 15-minute trip, I thought about a lot of things. That night I had been reading about the story of that little girl: a story of many decades of silence that, suddenly, had become a very, very public story: the death of that girl made headlines, public debate, and even reached the Spanish Congress. Why so much silence and then, suddenly, so much spotlight?
I always tell stories about silences. The podcast I direct — this podcast — is called “We don’t talk about that”, and I came to this story for that reason: to understand how a family had lived so many years without speaking. But now, suddenly, it seemed this was also a story of noise. Of a lot of noise.
That’s what I was thinking on that train ride to Lasarte.
But I was also thinking of something else. Something more personal, that had to do with my own story. I’m Basque. I was born and raised in Euskadi. I’ve told many stories about the Basque Country, but I’ve never told one about “the Basque issue” — about the conflict, about terrorism, about our history of political violence… About whatever name we choose, because there aren’t shared words to talk about “what happened.” Every term is loaded. I didn’t even know whether to say Donosti or San Sebastián in this narration, whether to say Euskadi or the Basque Country. And I work with words. Did I really have the strength, the courage to step into this open wound of my country? Into this topic that is forbidden for many, sacred for others, and hard for everyone? Into this topic that may be the hardest one to talk about for so many of us, and certainly for me? Was I myself entering into my own We don’t talk about that?
And in the midst of those questions and fears, the train kept moving.
Announcement: Lasarte Oria.
And I arrived in Lasarte, and Begoña was waiting for me at the station.
Begoña: Good afternoon…
And somehow, I was already inside this story.
Isabel: On the one day the sun’s out…
Begoña: Yes…
So, welcome to Se llamaba como yo, a seven-episode documentary series about the memory of Begoña Urroz. About a family’s five decades of silence, and about the noise that broke it.
Begoña: Basically, look, the area where my mother lived…
A series from De eso no se habla, co-produced with EITB Media and supported by the Ministry of Culture. I’m Isabel Cadenas Cañón.
And this is episode 1. Begoña.
Isabel: How lovely. The terrace…
Begoña: Let’s go this way because there’s more shade over here. Well, we still have time.
Our first interview took place in her living room. It’s a bright room, opening onto a balcony full of plants. And while I was looking at the objects in the room—plaques, photos, dried flowers, little porcelain figurines—Bego opened a drawer and pulled out a folder.
Begoña: I want to show you the folder where I keep all the memories, photos…
It was the folder of “the little girl.” In Lasarte, some people still refer to her sister as “Begoñita.” But she never calls her by her name. She always says “the little girl.” And that’s what I’ll call her too in this series.
Begoña: Well, you can’t imagine what I have in here…
Bego read me the clippings from the folder, and I thought about how, for many victims, these folders are just another part of the house: always there, tucked in a drawer or on a table in the living room, like a presence.
Begoña: Look: what a pretty little jacket my little girl had, it was made of angora. Every time I see this photo I say “look at that little bonnet”… My mother always wanted us to look nice, to be pretty. My little girl was so beautiful, and my parents were so young, and then… That happiness was taken from them. But these are things that happen, and we have to deal with them.
Later, as I kept listening to Bego, I realized she often ends her sentences like this—avoiding emotion, accepting what happened that summer of ’60, before she was born.
Begoña: On June 27, 1960, a bomb exploded at the Amara station in San Sebastián. Begoña Urroz Ibarrola, 22 months old, died from her burns.
And there, in the folder, a newspaper article telling the story.
Bego’s parents were named Jesusa and Juan. They had emigrated to Lasarte from a little town in Navarra, Beintza Labayen, because Juan had gotten a job as a factory worker. That day in 1960 was a Monday: while Juan was at the factory, Jesusa took a train from Lasarte to San Sebastián. She wa carrying her only daughter, the little girl, in her arms. She was going to buy her some little shoes. The next day, they were planning to visit family in their hometown, and Jesusa wanted the girl to look nice. That’s why the new shoes. When she arrived at the station in Donosti, she went to the baggage claim. Her aunt Soledad worked there, and Jesusa thought it would be easier and faster to buy the shoes if she left the little girl with her aunt. Just a matter of minutes. And in those minutes, it happened. Bego’s mother told it like this:
Begoña: She said that the bomb was in a suitcase and, when she came back, she found everything on fire, and her daughter was practically burned—about 80% of her body was burned.
A station porter managed to pull the girl out of the flames and she was rushed to the Perpetuo Socorro clinic. That bomb had been part of a chain of explosions: bombs went off in Barcelona, Madrid, Bilbao; but only the one in Amara caused casualties. It injured five others, including Soledad, Jesusa’s aunt. Jesusa spent the night at the hospital, by her daughter’s side. But the burns were too severe: the next morning, at 7 a.m., the little girl, Begoña, died.
Her funeral was that same day, June 28, at the church in Lasarte.
It was Saint Peter day, the patron of Lasarte. And that date—June 28—is one Bego would bring up many more times. Because for her mother, Jesusa, that day was burned into her memory. And Begoña tells it as if she had lived through it herself.
Begoña: The day of the burial, they were carrying the little girl in a little white box to be buried, and just at that moment, the marching band was passing… they were the town’s festivities. Nobody in the town knew. Yes, someone had died, but it seemed like they were burying any neighbor, right? So my mother always talked about the pain, you of taking the little box down and people around jumping and dancing. That’s why she was terrified of that day.
From the day of the burial onward, Jesusa started going to church to pray every day.
Begoña: I don’t know exactly what the church is called. It’s… Capuchinos, maybe? It’s just a bit further from the station. So she went there every day to pray because she wanted to get pregnant, to have another girl.
The girl had been their first daughter. They wanted another daughter, no matter what, Bego told me.
Begoña: The bomb was in 1960. My brother was born in ’61, and I was born in ’62.
They named the boy Jon. And they baptized her with the same name as her sister: Begoña.
Begoña: I don’t know if it was the right thing, but well, that’s the… the weight or the memory of my sister. Sometimes I feel like we’re two people. I’m one, but we’re two.
For Bego, explaining the weight of that name isn’t easy.
Begoña: It’s like saying… How would I put it? It’s just… sometimes it’s hard to express, right? Like my sister is always there. As if it were… “Don’t forget her,” you know? Don’t forget her. She’s always there.
And the girl has shaped her in ways that go far beyond the name. In our early conversations, I asked if she considered herself a victim of terrorism, and she said yes—but she also told me she had been a victim in other ways, above all.
Begoña: A victim in the sense that when she was killed, my parents’ way of raising their kids changed—at least with me. If my sister hadn’t died, I would have turned out differently. My life would be different. Because my parents would’ve treated me differently.
One of the most important things for her is overprotection.
Begoña: They made up for… that absence of the girl, they poured it all into me, you know? It was like saying, “Well, we lost one, and this is the one we won’t lose, the one who counts for both.”
Bego grew up hearing that everything around her was dangerous, that she had to be protected from everything.
Begoña: We’d go on vacation. “Oh, do you have to go on vacation? Something bad might happen to you.” We’d go… “Be careful with the car,” instead of encouraging us and saying, “Have fun, enjoy the trip,” it was always “Let’s hope nothing bad happens.” Everything was focused on fear, always, always, always fear.
And it seems that fear settled into her. For example, she inherited the fear of the day the girl died.
Begoña: And look, those little things in the end affect you too, you know? Because when the 28th comes around, I’m always thinking, “I hope nothing bad will happen today, I hope nothing bad will happen.”
Begoña also talked to me a lot about how those fears have shaped the woman she is today.
Begoña: I don’t know how to ride a bike, I don’t know how to drive, I mean… What I’m saying is they passed that on to me in such a way that I have a lot of fears. In life, you learn from what you see, from what you’re taught, from how you’re raised. And then it’s really hard to change all of that, so I think my life would’ve been different.
There’s something else that marked Bego’s childhood: silence. The silence that went hand in hand with that fear.
At first, the silence was something imposed by what was expected in those times.
Begoña: I think my mother didn’t have time to think about anything. She knew she had to bury her daughter and go to work…
And what was expected, in those times, was to work.
Begoña: It was that simple. The baggage claim in San Sebastián couldn’t close. It had to be open every day, because that’s where people left their suitcases. So, since my aunt couldn’t go, my mother had to go in her place. So my mother… She buried her and went to work the next day. She didn’t even get one day of mourning.
Later, aunt Soledad returned to the baggage claim, she and her brother were born, but that silence somehow stayed, it became chronic.
Begoña: We barely talked about it home… Not much, to say the least—almost nothing. It was like: that happened when I wasn’t even born, so let’s leave it there, right? It happened and it happened. Let’s move on with life. So, no… it wasn’t talked about. At home, we didn’t talk about it.
So Bego and her brother came to understand what had happened to the girl through whispers they overheard on the street, through snippets of conversation caught in passing.
Begoña: “Oh, so… Are you the sister of that… Oh, is this the daughter, the sister of that girl you had?” people would say to my mother. “Wow, are you the sister of that little girl who died?” So you start to piece things together… Someone tells you something, you go to the village and people start talking to you. “Oh, what a lovely girl, we still remember your other daughter,”—that kind of thing.
Other times, the questions came without anyone having to say anything. Like when they started going to the cemetery to place flowers on the little girl’s grave.
Begoña: And every time I saw the name, for me it was… whoa. It was intense, right? To see your name and both your surnames there. I’d say, “Wow, is that my sister or is that me?” That was always the question I asked as a kid—“Is that me? Am I the one lying there?”
Faced with their children’s questions, her parents had to start telling them what had happened—but they stuck to the facts: this happened, in this year, in this place. And that was it. Especially her mother, Jesusa.
Begoña: She never really told me what she felt in that moment, you know? Her daughter was killed, and from that point on, there was nothing more to say. “They killed my daughter. They killed my daughter.” That’s the only thing she would say. “They killed my daughter.” And well, with those words, it was like she said it all.
In any case, people didn’t talk about it much in the town either. The little girl’s death had almost no impact in Lasarte. Bego read me a passage from a book the town council published in 2011 that describes the girl’s death this way:
Begoña: Look at what it says: “At the time, the death of Begoña Urroz barely had any social impact. There were no public demonstrations or acts of condemnation in which the family felt supported. Silence prevailed. No authorities or organizations approached them for many years to offer their support.” —I’d say 50 years—. I don’t think anything else needs to be said. That says it all. No one came.
And it seems that, amid all that silence, no one ever explained to her parents what had happened to their daughter—who planted the bomb, or why.
[Music]
The newspapers of the time weren’t much clearer. El Diario Vasco, La Voz de España, and many other papers mentioned the bomb. And they all did it the same way: they reproduced a press release from the Ministry of Governance—the Franco-era Ministry of Home Affairs. This was common at the time: under Franco, newspapers would publish the official version handed to them by the regime. The press release ended like this:
Begoña: “These acts were carried out in an attempt to fulfill terrorist instructions that foreign elements, in cooperation with Spanish separatists and communists, have been pushing insistently.”
I don’t know whether Bego’s family read the paper in those days. But this was the only explanation printed in the media at the time. At least, on this side of the Pyrenees.
And so days passed. Then months. Then years…
So, when a group began putting up leaflets, and then started killing people, and then it became known that this group was called ETA, Jesusa and Juan assumed the girl had also been a victim of that group.
Begoña: I think it was just a deduction… Well, it was obvious, given the context we were living in. Not because anyone had told us. But the situation at that time was all about ETA. Even though ETA didn’t claim it—, they did take credit for other attacks. But not this one. Still, they were the ones carrying out attacks in the Basque Country. What else would you think?
ETA was founded in the late 1950s. From the time it was created until it stopped killing in 2010, it assassinated 853 people, according Spain’s Ministry of Home Affairs. But Begoña Urroz does not appear to be one of them.
[Music]
This isn’t a true crime. My goal here isn’t to find out who killed the girl. Who killed the girl has been clear for years. For a long time to some, and for others, only recently.
And in this story—like in all stories—everything depends, of course, on the narrative. On who you read, who you trust, and sometimes, quite literally, where you are.
For example, if you stay on the train from Donosti to Lasarte a few stops more, in under an hour you’ll reach Hendaye, the first town on the French side of the Basque Country. And there, in the French press, three days after the bombing, the newspaper Le Monde published a story: a group called DRIL had claimed responsibility for the attack.
Isabel: Can you tell me very briefly what the DRIL was?
Xavier: The DRIL was an action group made up of Spanish exiles, republicans, and anti-Salazarist Portuguese. It was formed to fight against the dictatorships of Franco and Salazar, with members based in Caracas, Cuba, Paris, Belgium, and North Africa.
This is journalist Xavier Montanyà. He was one of the first people I spoke to when I started working on this story. I went to see him at his home in Barcelona—a real researcher’s house: it’s packed with folders, files, documents in boxes, on shelves, even on the floor. Montanyà is one of the foremost experts on this group, the DRIL. DRIL stands for Iberian Revolutionary Directorate of Liberation. And Montanyà, as you just heard, refers to it as an “action group.”
What to call the DRIL is a debate in itself. If you search for it on Wikipedia, DRIL is described as a terrorist organization formed in 1959 by Spanish and Portuguese exiles to fight against the Salazarist and Francoist dictatorships. That is, if you lokk at Wikipedia in Spanish. But if you look it up on Portuguese Wikipedia, it says the same—that they fought against Franco and Salazar—but instead of calling them a terrorist group, it describes them as an armed anti-fascist organization. In fact, the leader of the DRIL, Humberto Delgado, is considered an anti-fascist heroe in Portugal. So much so that Lisbon’s airport is named after him, and he is buried with full honors in Portugal’s National Pantheon. And he isn’t just honored in Portugal—Delgado was assassinated in Badajoz, Spain. And there, the president of the region dedicated a monument to him. At the unveiling, he said that Humberto Delgado is “a symbol of what had to be endured so that Spaniards and Portuguese can now live in democracy.”
Can a group that fight a dictatorship be considered terrorist? This is a long-standing debate among historians. In the case of the DRIL, for some—like those who edited the Spanish Wikipedia—they would indeed be considered a terrorist group. For others—like those who edited the Portuguese Wikipedia—they would not.
In any case, the DRIL had a short lifespan. It lasted barely five years. Its most well-known action was “Operation Dulcinea”: in 1961, 24 DRIL members hijacked a Portuguese ship with over 500 passengers on board. They held the ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to draw global attention to the Franco and Salazar dictatorships. The ship was called Santa María; they renamed it “Holy Freedom.” During the hijacking, there was a shootout, and a crew member was killed by the DRIL. That would be their second and final victim.
In 2004, Xavier Montanyà published a book about the hijacking. And in that book, he dedicated a chapter to the 1960 bombing campaign—the campaign that killed Begoña Urroz.
That’s why, like Bego, he also has a folder full of documents about the girl.
Isabel: What’s in this folder? For someone who can’t see it, what does it say?
Xavier: Well, “First victim of ETA and Spanish archives.” 2012. That’s because, you see… I’ve got a whole box—maybe two—of material from the DRIL investigation.
In fact, he has more than just one folder.
Xavier: So one day I started organizing stuff because… you know, to write my articles, to…
In that folder he keeps the documents that support his argument that Begoña Urroz was a victim of the DRIL.
Xavier: Let’s see…
A DRIL’s claim of responsibility in Caracas, two days after the bombing…
Xavier: El Nacional. June 29, 1960. Caracas, Venezuela. “The DRIL takes responsibility for the bombs that are exploding in Spain.”
Diplomatic documents from the Spanish embassy at the time…
Xavier: So the text says: “The Iberian Revolutionary Directorate of Liberation, DRIL, assumes full responsibility for the recent bombing attacks in the most important cities in Spain, including Madrid, Barcelona, and San Sebastián.”
The article in Le Monde that reported the same claim…
Xavier: Because look, this was also published by Le Monde.
And a book in which one of the DRIL’s leaders, writes about the little girl’s death and says: “Of all the DRIL’s sabotage operations, hers was the only innocent death.”
Isabel: How interesting.
Xavier: Yes.
He also showed me a book by a historian who, back in 1985, had already written about the DRIL’s responsibility.
Xavier: I mean, the number one pro-Franco historian says, quote, “The DRIL was preparing the series of attacks that would explode on June 26 and 27 on the Barcelona-Madrid train and in San Sebastián, causing one death and several injuries.”
That information, of course, never reached the Urroz family. And that’s why, in the midst of such a lack of information, Montanyà thinks it was understandable for the family to believe ETA was responsible.
Xavier: What really plays against ETA is that, unlike the DRIL and the anarchists, who didn’t aim to kill, ETA did. So of course, between one group that did things without killing and another for whom killing was part of their…
I spoke a lot more with Montanyà. He’ll return in other episodes. But for now, it’s enough to know that, just one day after the attack, there were already quite a few signs that the bomb that killed little Begoña Urroz had not been planted by ETA, but by the DRIL.
[Music]
Isabel: Where there is trust…
As soon as I got back from Barcelona, I went to visit Bego.
Begoña: While you’re drinking your tea…
…we sat down to chat in her kitchen, although we were hardly ever alone.
Begoña: Juan Luis, do you want anything?
Isabel: Ah, maybe a little milk.
Because very soon Juan Luis, her husband, would join us—and it became a kind of ritual.
Isabel: I was in Barcelona. I met Xavier Montanyà.
Every time I had something new to tell them, I’d go to their kitchen…
Begoña: And? Is it true? Does he confirm that it was the DRIL?
And the three of us would sit and talk while Bego and I drank tea, and Juan Luis had coffee…
Juan Luis: And what was his evidence?
And many times—often—we’d even eat pastries.
Isabel: He bases it on several things. One, that there was a claim of responsibility in a Venezuelan newspaper the day after.
Juan Luis: Oh yeah? And is that verified?
Isabel: Yes. Le Monde published an article saying it was the DRIL. I’ll read it to you, okay? The title is “The bombings are the work of an anti-Franco network, the DRIL.” June 30, 1960, Le Monde.
Juan Luis: Two days later.
Isabel: “According to the police, the bomb attacks that took place on Sunday and Monday at the Barcelona, Madrid, and San Sebastián stations…”
…“were carried out by the network known as the Iberian Revolutionary Directorate of Liberation, using Cuban terrorists and having established…”
Isabel: “…their headquarters in France.”
Begoña: Then how is it that for so many years they kept saying it was ETA? I don’t understand. I mean, in the end you start to think—is it just out of pure interest? Political interest?
Isabel: I don’t know.
In those conversations in the kitchen, as I kept telling Bego and Juan Luis what I was uncovering, I realized I was also bringing them a part of their history they hadn’t known.
Isabel: What do you think about this news I’ve brought you?
Begoña: Well…
Juan Luis: In any case, all of this is very strange, isn’t it? In the end.
Bego: It’s becoming clear that, well…
And little by little, in that kitchen, we got to know each other more. And I also started to share with them my own doubts and fears about telling this story.
Isabel: In my head it was like, wow—how do you live your whole life thinking it was one group, and then it turns out it wasn’t?
Begoña: And then it turns out it wasn’t.
Isabel: That’s what I kept thinking. And suddenly, the day I came to talk to you…
And I, who had always avoided the whole “Basque issue”, who had often wondered why I was getting into all this, realized I’d been asking myself the wrong question.
Begoña: Did you ever imagine you’d find all of this?
Because it wasn’t about why I was telling this story, but for whom. And then I knew. I was going to tell this story for Begoña.
[Music]
And I was going to do it literally—by now shifting to second person.
So this series is for you, Bego.
Bego: That’s where you’re going to commit yourself, so to speak, because…
So that between what you’ve told me and what I’ve discovered, you can finally have a narrative of what happened to your sister Begoña’s memory. Why so many years of silence, and why suddenly so much noise.
Isabel: Well, guys, I don’t know—should I come back another day?
To understand, for example, why no one ever told your family about those documents Montanyà showed me, those documents pointing to the DRIL’s responsibility—not in the ’60s, not in the ’70s, not in the ’80s, not even in the 2000s, when someone very unexpected took an interest in your story.
That’s coming in the next episode.
Bego: Right, yeah, because suddenly you find out that in 1960 this happened…
Isa: Suddenly I see there’s a…
Bego: There’s a gap of years there… Just look at how long this is taking you—all this information.
Isa: Since the first time I wrote to you, and you ignored me…
Bego: Yeah. That was during the pandemic.
[Music]
