I do not know if the exhibition of the multidisciplinary art project Hamaika will reach your people.

Along with the works, eleven testimonies. There is everything in it: fear, pain, anger, hope, disappointment, strength... testimonies written with affection. People who live in the cloud drowning those who feel the bad breath of the threat. They all live with the ghosts of wind turbines.

Three women spoke to us in the presentation of the exhibition of those who would like to keep secret. Among the listeners, most were women. There's no chance.

What happened in our homes when we met this wind macro-project? What kind of explosion occurred? What broke before, heart or future? Which bases are more solid, which gives you the land or those of the parties? What can save you, tailor-made legislation or poetic justice?

Under the sheets, the flooding of the tear is drowned, with no hope of it reaching the rescue. From there it acquires the status of ghost. The fabrics used to cover the old paintings will conceal the shipwrecks he lives.

You try to find grips. In town hall. Office of Friend Lawyer. Internet. There, apparently, is a group. Emails. Calls. Telegram groups. And meetings. Meetings between offshore shipwrecks. Thanks to those hands that come to you, they teach you swimming and diving in those waters.

At the same time, from day to day, in the village, your life is on standby, you're not off, but you're not operational either. There, in the limbo.

You start the cross-sectional look that reminds you that you're an underwater boat. Confidential comments that make you feel black sheep. In Derabr, you have to learn that you cannot talk about the issue, that it is inappropriate to criticize those 1,398 flights that have left Loiu in Easter; that the actions of the Scientific Rebellion group to denounce the indifference of politicians to the climate emergency break social peace. As words do and the presence of groups opposed to the macro-projects existing in the Basque Country.

Then comes the silence. An invisible border emerges between them. You come to believe that the movements you use are only in your head, until you know the results of the meetings and agreements.

You've broken up twice and in both thousands of pieces.

Once, with the blow of the ghosts of the destruction of the territory you want. They've broken you. Pain is acute. Solastalgia connects the chunks.

In the second, you have been denied the break with the community or group you want. They've crushed you. Debris, result. Dust has been dragged by the wind, like at funerals.

And nobody answers the long-standing question: How many megawatts do these breakups cost? The question is poetic, not serious, useless.

It's no bad thing the Shipwreck Congress will rescue you.

And art has taken the sheet away from you to stop being ghost at once.