At Zuera Correctional Facility, the holidays are almost indistinguishable from any other day. Metal doors, stark corridors, barbed wire—all serve as constant reminders of where you are. Even the decorated Christmas tree on the lawn and tinsel at the entrance to the community hall seem out of place, as if they’ve accidentally ended up in this world. The routine remains unchanged whether it’s Christmas or New Year: dinner is served at eight, and if anyone wants grapes at midnight, inmates eat them in their cells, alone or with cellmates. The TV in the cell broadcasts the chimes, but there’s no festive spirit.
While life bustles outside the prison walls—people rush for gifts, meet friends, join New Year’s runs—inside, everything is still. Many activities pause, leaving only time to wait. “You have to be very strong here,” admits Abdel, who has spent six years in Zuera and another year in San Sebastián prison. All this time, he hasn’t received a single temporary leave. “Days like these are especially hard,” he says. “With every year it gets more familiar, but it’s still sad. Time passes, you can’t get it back, so we try to value every moment, even here.” Abdel learned welding, earned his school certificate, and now dreams of going to university. His goal for 2026 is to start training as a metalworker and machinist. Even behind bars, dreams persist, and the greatest one remains freedom.
A woman’s perspective
Tanya is one of the few women in Zuera. She’s a doctor—educated, elegant, and a mother of two. This year, for the first time in five years, she was allowed a short home visit. “Coming back was hard,” she admits, “but I saw hope for more permits. When I said goodbye to my kids, I told them: this is just the beginning.” Tanya shares how hard it is to be a mother in prison, unable to care for her children, and how guilt can become almost unbearable. She finds solace in her studies—pursuing sociology, writing for the prison journal, and supporting other women.
In Zuera, as in most Spanish prisons, women are a minority—just 7% of the inmate population. They live in a separate unit, and Tanya believes the key is not to give in to apathy. “We have to believe we can change things, and act,” she says. For her, the passing years are not an addition, but a subtraction: “One year less, not one more.”
Time and change
Gonzalo, from Colombia, is waiting to move to the third regime and may be deported home in 2026. “My life here feels like it’s been put on pause, but time doesn’t stop. What we lose isn’t money—it’s time with our family, on special days. That’s the most valuable thing,” he says. In two and a half years at Zuera, he was granted his first permit to leave for a holiday, giving him renewed strength. Gonzalo dreams of returning home to start over and not repeat his past mistakes.
José Carlos from Zaragoza also doesn’t want to go back to prison. He is close to completing his training as a social educator, plays guitar, and sings in the band “Frecuencia Z,” which was formed by the inmates themselves. In the new year, he hopes for change: “I want to move forward, create new opportunities for myself, so I don’t have to return here. Time leaves its marks.”
Work and support
Social workers and educators strive to support inmates. Marivi and Vicky, who work at the prison, admit that they are in short supply: there are only 70 social workers in prisons across Spain. Marivi hopes that by 2026 there will be more staff. Their colleague Julio has been working here for 27 years, has gone through all the units, and perhaps that’s why he handles solitude calmly. He recalls spending New Year’s alone more than once, just like many other staff members. Vicky organizes the Christmas market and publishes the prison magazine, believing it’s important to create a festive mood even under these conditions. Their mission is to help inmates change, find new paths, and not lose hope.
