It’s four in the morning and Guille and I are returning to Seville from Malaga airport. We’ve just come from Edinburgh, where we presented our latest documentary. We’re exhausted, exhausted. Ismael Serrano plays on the radio: “Dad, tell me that beautiful story again…”. We sing it in full because we haven’t forgotten the words for decades, we laugh at it. “Now they are dying in Bosnia…”because we realize that we are a little older, because then we remember ourselves: long hair, Subcomandante Marcos t-shirts, guitars and that wonderful naivety of youth in which we think we can change the world. We laugh a lot, we sing loudly and the night becomes more beautiful. We belong to this song and to all that it means.
We also grew up with the stories our parents told us and we recreated them a thousand times in our imagination until they became part of us. Because we are made of stories, even the ones we don’t live.
