The Filmin platform premiered last Friday the documentary Isla familia, co-directed and starring Cubans Abraham Jiménez Enoa, a recognized –and persecuted– independent journalist, and Claudia Calviño, one of the leading producers of independent Cuban cinema. The feature film, which they recorded with their mobile phones and is the directorial debut for both, narrates how the couple decides to leave their country for Spain after strong repression and harassment by the Cuban regime. All while they await the birth of their first child.

"I was your student!" In the course of about five minutes, two people stop Marifé Arroyo on the street with gestures of gratitude and emotion. The teacher, expelled during the Transition from the school in Barx, a small town in La Safor, raises her hand and covers the faces of her former students, leaving only their eyes exposed, trying to remember what they looked like when they were children. "I don't recognize you this old and with a beard," she exclaims sarcastically.

The repression on October 1st has had many victims, but some who have not suffered either prison or exile have gone more unnoticed. Among them are the nine teachers from the El Palacio Institute in San Andrés de la Barca who were singled out and accused of harassing the children of Civil Guards in the days following the referendum. The accusation could not be sustained and the case was closed, but their name remains tainted. If you search for them on Google, you'll find news stories about the accusations against them and a piece byThe World –which made the front page– where their names and surnames were listed, along with the subject they taught and a photograph of their faces. The court case went nowhere, but the public accusations are still online, accessible to anyone with a couple of clicks on Google. Now they are demanding that the digital trail of the closed case be erased, that the harm done to them be repaired, and that a plan be drawn up to protect teachers from prosecution for what they say in the classroom.

On April 6, 1925, during the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera, Father Bartomeu Barceló i Tortella (Felanitx, 1888 - Barcelona, ​​​​1973) delivered a fiery pro-independence sermon in Girona Cathedral, which landed him in prison that same day—Holy Monday—and later. Throughout his life, Barceló was a priest committed to the language and to the entire nation, and he never retracted his words, despite the repression he suffered. Next Sunday, he will be honored and that historic event, which will mark one hundred years ago on Sunday, will be remembered. The event will take place on the steps of the cathedral at 12 noon and has been organized by the Association of the Agermanats of Girona and Mallorca.

If the role of the Council for the Republic was the focus of tension between Republican Left of Catalonia (ERC) and Together for Catalonia (JxCat) before Pere Aragonès was invested president, the judicial processes against pro-independence demonstrators were part of the discussion with Popular Unity Candidacy (CUP). The Government pledged to withdraw en bloc from all cases against demonstrators in which there were no proven injuries to Catalan police officers or there were insufficient guarantees to identify alleged aggressors. A commitment, however, the executive now admits it will not be able to fulfil, sources in the Presidency department have explained to ARA.

It is quite understandable that both the accent of the campaigns of denunciation and the informative attention on the repression of independence have been placed on the case of those imprisoned, those in exile and on the more than 3,000 people who have been or are being investigated or prosecuted in judicial processes. They are the visible part of the repressive iceberg. Even so, there is another plan, the effectiveness of which lies precisely in its opacity, and which conditions personal behaviour and that of many organisations, often without those affected being sufficiently aware of it. And although the hardest blow is dealt to those who hit the repressive stone, the machinery of social life is damaged, above all, by the fine sand that gets into its delicate gears.

He has done it: he has confessed some facts that he has not committed. Worse still, he has undertaken to pay substantial compensation for the repair of the damage made to a police van that he has not damaged, and compensation for the injuries of an officer who fell while beating him to arrest him. This decision hurts in anyone's soul: to defend one's dignity and truth, or to give in and buy security. This confession will swell the poisoned statistics that tomorrow will be used to show that the system works: police forces write up statements, the prosecution and private prosecutors hold up charges based on these statements, and finally a sentence is passed that closes the circle and validates the whole gear. Once the agreement is closed, a trial will be held. This trial is reduced to a bargain: the accusations reduce the penalty to ensure the accused person does not enter prison, in exchange for admitting the facts and the penalty. Our confession will serve to show that the police officers arrested the right person, that the prosecution and the other charges also charged the right person, and that the sentence has convicted the right person. What is clearer than a confession, to show that someone is guilty?