Between January and May 2015, after finishing my studies at the age of 25, my friend Irati Astobieta and I toured Chile, Argentina and Uruguay as part of the Calabazan Wandering Project. Using the poetic tool of whispered poetry, we gave Basque poems from mouth to ear in the streets through cardboard tubes.

That’s how we got to the cultural center of La Quadra in Montevideo. We gave some workshops there in exchange for a few nights of sleep. On the first night, while we were drinking some beers on the street, the proposal came up amid jokes. A member of La Quadra told us that Pepe Mujica and Lucia Topolansky had a relationship with the ex-Tupamaro because they were party members. They shared several stories and anecdotes about the couple. “It would be wonderful to be able to whisper a poem to them,” we dreamed. “Do you want to try? Now a friend works with him. If you want, I’ll call you and ask you,” the comrade replied. “Okay,” we said, though neither Iraq nor I thought we’d get an answer. Then he cried out: “Two Basque friends want to whisper a poem to Pepe and Lucía.” We don't know what your friend would think. However, shortly afterwards he rang the phone and we heard: “The old man said he would come” (the old man said they would come)

On May 1st, Mujica and Topolansky made an appointment for us, next to their chakra. They had a political event with the party on the occasion of the workers’ day and then a neighbor of the couple would leave them to all who would eat at El Quincho de Varela.

We took the car in the center of Montevideo and in 20 minutes we reached the rural area of Rincón del Cerro. We were welcomed by the silence, in front of the large countryside and a few houses. We walked a little and then the group of people appeared to us, outside a house; among them Mujica and Topolansky, wrapped in a hug. Our friend approached them and told them that we were “Basques who wanted to whisper a poem to them.” They came straight to us and hugged us. I don’t remember what they told us, but Mujica asked the party members and friends who were waiting for her to wait for a while, that some Basques came to give us a gift and wanted to attend to us. Lucia was silent, smiling. “Will you join us at the table? “We’re tired, we’re old,” he said.

Mujica and Topolansky paved the way for us among the people who looked at us in amazement. We were two 25-year-olds, each with a tube of color in hand, following the couple, unable to believe what was going on. I couldn’t find the words to describe how this couple looked at us: respect, curiosity, willingness to receive what was coming, humility, illusion, closeness... I could sense the mixture of all of them in their eyes, at least that’s what they made us feel.

We whispered the words of Joseba Sarrionandia, first to one and then to the other. First in Spanish and then in Spanish. All the people around him were silent, unable to understand what was happening, but understanding that something was happening and that what was happening required silence.

I don't even remember what we talked about afterwards. Mujica was looking straight ahead. “Everyone is our country if it’s ours,” he repeated over and over again: “The village, the village, the village. The most important thing.” I remember that Topolansky started talking to us about freedom, about the relationship between love and freedom. He told us that a few days later they would come to the Basque Country and that he was very grateful for the gift of those poems that came from our country. We hugged him again and went to the car, surprised by what had just happened, the warmth of those hugs in the body. How many things would fit in those two little bodies? How many stories and stories would be written on the folds of these wrinkles?

Yesterday, when I was on the subway back from work, my eyes landed on the mobile screen. The Instagram algorithm showed me the images before the start of the route that would transport Mujica’s body through Montevideo. I’m not much of a flag bearer, but I burst into tears when I saw Topolansky covering her husband’s coffin with the Uruguayan flag, as he put his shirt on, as he prepared his chair for him to sit down. How do you say goodbye to a man who has been with you for 40 years? How do you say goodbye to your loved one? Can it be learned? And I got a chicken's ass on the pictures I saw later. The village on the street: a flood of bodies melted in tears. The village crying, the village screaming, the village alive. The village, the village, the village. The most important thing.