Memory is that which survives oblivion. Sol Gallego-Díaz remains in my memory much less than everything we experienced, but enough to know that it was exceptional. And it was for a reason: its ethical value.
There are brilliant journalists, others are brave and many are tenacious. Sol was all that, but he stood out for his ability to do the right thing: stand up and say no; stand up and tell the truth to those who do not want to hear it or believe that they can disguise it with power or money.
Ethics often show crooked lines in journalism. Every day there are those who give us lessons from their stands and then return to their caves. Sol was dour, not given to pontificating. I used to listen with my eyes fixed; then he would scribble on a piece of paper, tense his face and wait for the right moment to launch his argument. About feminism, freedom, political struggle, the journalistic enterprise, prejudices or the drift of the world… Highly influenced by Hannah Arendt, She was a journalist committed to her time and with clear and legible values. Not sectarian, he defended an idea of progress in which institutions played a fundamental role, but also the demand for honesty in political leaders.
The first times I met her, back in the nineties, I saw her as distant and complex. Someone who breathed other atmospheres and with whom it was not easy to get along. You entered his office with respect and left with the impression that you had fallen short in everything. Over time, as weekend deputy editor, I got to know her more, especially during her time as a correspondent in Buenos Aires. We hit it off. She brought up excellent songs (I still remember when she discovered me in an interview with President José Mujica), She was hardworking and in her articles she never failed to raise the gaze. Little by little, that initial dryness transformed into complicity. She was good at laughing and laughing at herself, and when the time came, removing solemnity from the trivial (that evil that affects us journalists so much). But his mastery lay not so much in the analysis of complexity, which he exercised brilliantly in its Sunday columns, but in submitting any issue to the citizen filter, in getting out of the atrophy to which the life of political and business cabals leads us and returning it to the streets. “Never stop traveling on the subway, walking around the neighborhoods, talking to people,” he used to say. In the middle of the discussion he opened the windows of common sense. He was intellectually bold. Exceptional in reasoning and enviable in his sense of reality. But, above all, she was loved.
Rarely have I felt an Editorial team as dedicated as when she came to the direction of the newspaper in June 2018. A complex time. I was a correspondent in Washington and she offered me to be deputy editor. We hadn’t seen or talked to each other for a long time. I accepted, but we agreed that I should not come to the Editorial Office until the vote for my position was held. Only later did I set foot at the headquarters of Miguel Yuste, 40. And I remember that we took a walk around the Editorial Office. I have never seen a director applaud and hug like that (or any other, truth be told). She aroused an unusual enthusiasm.
He always did.
And the reason was its ethical soundness. He kept his word. He fiercely defended the journalistic perimeter, evaluated any decision based on its benefits for the citizen, for the reader. She held the position of director for two years. That was the deadline he requested and the one he met. During her mandate, the pandemic hit us (about which she had no doubts) and we began the path of digital subscription, one of the newspaper’s greatest achievements. But, above all, she was a moral reference, with whom I had moments of complicity (she herself told me that, when the time came, she wanted to take the reins of her destiny) and that in the most unexpected moments she would surprise you with a small gift, ask you to see photos of your little daughter or invite you to have a glass of wine (or more) after a stormy closing.
I know Sol believed in people. Life, for her, was being here, in this world that never stops spinning. And that, between turns, allows us to read, listen, give our opinions, debate. She will always live there. On the move. In the columns and reports he wrote. In a newsroom whose corridors were tiring like few others. I am sure that, when Miguel Yuste’s lights go out, even if the building ceases to exist, his voice will resonate in some office, near a computer or telephone. She will survive oblivion because she is much more than a memory. She is the best journalist.
