There are victims and there are executioners. The series is relentless in that regard, even if an unfortunate promotional poster would lead to misunderstandings. Some pulled the trigger from behind and did not care that the back of the head placed in the crosshairs was that of an innocent, who had previously made life impossible with blackmail, threats, harassment. But the series, like the novel, is not limited only to pointing out culprits, errors and horrors. It is clear and only fanaticism can cloud the judgment. His journey into the bowels of monstrosity is an odyssey through the quicksand of pain under a shower of tears that makes every street a shroud, those endless tears that fail to clean the blood shed in the damn name of rotten ideals. Leaden skies, leaden days: the last coffee, the last gestures before going out into the street, where a murderer awaits cocked. In Homeland, widows speak with their buried husbands, the news broadcasts release news that 864 dead arrive late (ETA stops killing), the mothers of the criminals defend them because they are mothers, and the priest shows more understanding for the terrorist’s family than for the victim. The flashbacks show flashes of barbarism in the streets, cockiness of thugs erect for carrying Molotov cocktails in hand and standing up to their overwhelmed parents. And the families, of some and of others, are broken into a thousand pieces between thousands of gagged mouths. Yes, Patria begins well with those drifting marriage scenes, with the amazement of the brothers who do not understand the armed and heartless struggle, with the complicit silence of a people that hides while the rain cries blood.