I will continue writing about them.

Reality repeats itself to the point of boredom, and that boredom can be a deterrent when it comes to writing about what's wrong, what's unfair, what's discriminatory. That's why, much to my chagrin, we need to be tiresome.

I've been thinking for weeks about what would be the first topic of my return to this page, and after much thought, I've decided I'll write about them, the women I've seen on the beach, although I've already done this so many times that the reader might turn up their nose and move on. Reality is more persistent than the words I can use to point out what seems to me an aberration. But I take the risk of being tiresome because I understand that this privileged plot of land I can cultivate every week can still be of use. That's why I want to write again about the girls, the young women, the young and older women I meet every summer by the sea, who break my heart and whose situation provokes an indignation that not only doesn't subside with the years but emerges with ever greater rage. They often hide in remote corners where they can't be seen, like those beaches once reserved for men or women. And since this shelter isn't enough, this gender segregation (they never hide) covers them up from head to toe in the heat wave. We wish it were to prevent the harmful effects of solar radiation, but if these women bathe dressed in layers of synthetic fibers in what must be horribly hot weather, it's not for health reasons but by patriarchal design. The blackness of their clothing, scandalous among bodies in bikinis and swimsuits, next to older women doing topless, calls forth a message we can all hear and understand, even if we don't know the specific language in which it was written: that women, simply by virtue of being women, cannot go through the world uncovered, that our bodies are inscribed with shame, a primordial flaw that must be hidden. Our nudity, even partial, is offensive and an insult. And it is so because it denotes a desire for exhibition intended to excite the male. Even if we are girls, even if we haven't thought for a moment about men when we dive into the salt water. They, in short panties and bare chested, sometimes accompany them, their counterparts covered by this kind of giant and opaque condom called a burkini, that creation more horrifying than the corset, fruit of the alliance between capitalism and fundamentalism (my aunts, at sea, bathed them).

No, I will not let the repetition of this reality, increasingly widespread, also among sub-Saharan women who had escaped the textile control of fanatics, leave me speechless in the face of what is an obscene and flagrant sexist discrimination. Even if they are four Moors, four immigrants who do not occupy anyone's political agenda (except for "lifelong" feminists). I will not stop writing about the stain of fundamentalism that is spreading everywhere and trapping them in the net of the renunciation of freedom, now presented as a personal choice. I will not stop the keyboard even if Silvia Orriols appropriates the accusations we feminists make to legitimize Their identity-based and xenophobic hatred. I don't care about the pure Catalonia that Ripoll dreams of; the one I want is mixed, mestizo, respectful of human rights, and belligerent against injustice and discrimination. In the Catalonia I want, girls enjoy fresh water without prisons, and women who wear bikinis or swimsuits are not considered indecent or bad Muslims.