The mountains and fields of Riglos (Huesca) are reflected in the eyes of Nahia Alkorta. Remember the month of July 2012. The then 25-year-old woman from Gipuzkoa decided to go to Riglos to spend the weekend with some friends and her husband. She says that while they were doing adventure sports, she took photos with a camera she bought to document their new life. I was just 38 weeks pregnant. Just a few days later, when she returned home, she felt the first contractions. With the excitement of a woman about to have her first child, the woman went with her partner to a hospital in the Basque Country. And that was the beginning of the nightmare for Alkorta, who now, at the age of 37, tells the story in “My Stolen Birth” (Arpa), which has just been published. In the hospital, she suffered obstetric violence during the birth of the first of her three children. It’s been 11 years.
Alkorta is the woman behind the second of three UN convictions against Spain for obstetric violence. This type of aggression, which occurs in both public and private health systems, consists of actions or inactions by health workers that cause physical or psychological harm to women during pregnancy, childbirth and the postpartum period. And that was the case with Alkorta, who, despite the passage of time, relives the aggression every day.
The woman from Gipuzkoa went to the hospital at dawn. A few weeks ago she sent a birth plan to her referral agency. “Nothing I wrote was taken into account,” he denounces. He remembers every detail of those days in July 2012. He tells it without hesitation. How they brought her to the ward, how she was infantilized, how several resident doctors examined her without her consent, how they finally performed a cesarean section, how they treated her “like an animal” when they clung to her after giving birth to their son, what a burning smell from the cesarean section, how she was separated from her son for more than four hours right after birth… How she didn’t sign any document to give her consent.
“I couldn’t walk for several weeks. I needed help from my family. It wasn’t autonomous. The psychological damage was greater. In a way, I still carry it with me. I can’t smell any burning. Years ago it blocked me, I became empty. Now I can move on, but my stomach turns when I remember everything that happened,” explains Alkorta. But the worst thing for her was the guilt: “I blamed myself, my husband and even my son.” The author was eventually diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.
“I can’t smell any burning,” explains Nahia Alkorta, who still suffers from the psychological effects of her first birth: Victoria Iglesias
Nahia Alkorta waits in the office of her lawyer Francisca Fernández in San Lorenzo de El Escorial (Madrid). Clouds cover every corner. It doesn’t take long until the first raindrops fall. The landscape is a far cry from the one the woman found in 2012, sunny, even summery, that she saw in Huesca before her life completely changed. It’s a morning in late October and Alkorta has come to tell how the system broke her and how she tried to rebuild herself. How he came to write his story and that of his son.
As he explains his case, his lawyer Francisca Fernández constantly nods. She also suffered obstetric violence 20 years ago. They performed the Kristeller maneuver, which involves pushing on the bottom of the uterus when the baby’s head is trapped in the birth canal to speed up the process. Her daughter suffocated and had to be resuscitated, and Fernández suffered from physical and psychological problems – she, like Alkorta, was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder – that she still carries with her. This practice is discouraged by the World Health Organization (WHO) and the Spanish Society of Gynecology and Obstetrics (SEGO) as it can harm mother and child.
After that first birth, Fernández decided to specialize in health law. The lawyer does not dare to give an accurate estimate of the number of cases she has handled since she began working in this area. He says he handles about 60 cases a year. The one from Alkorta came to her in 2012 through the email forum Apoyo Cesáreas, where several women shared their experiences with obstetric violence. “There are terrible testimonies. 20 years ago [que fue cuando Fernández se sumó al foro para contar su experiencia], 10 or 12 mothers joined every week. “It’s outrageous,” he denounces. In 2022, a decade after the birth of their first child, Alkorta and Fernández received the second UN ruling condemning Spain for its poor practices. And his criticism of the country is fierce.
Nahia Alkorta and Francisca Fernández, at the law firm in San Lorenzo de El Escorial (Madrid). Victoria Iglesias
The author of “My Stolen Birth” laughs when asked if her health center has apologized. “The only thing I received is a press release highlighting his excellence,” he points out.
Nahia Alkorta became pregnant again. Her daughter was born in the middle of detention and the “fear of going through the same thing again,” as she says, paralyzed her. “Fortunately, everything went well and I didn’t have to experience any more nightmares,” she says, carefully watching the looks on her children’s faces as they came to the interview. While the little ones carefully observe the photos taken of the two women for this report, Alkorta looks at Fernández. The photographer asks them to meet. As the flash plays, a “thank you” sounds from Nahia Alkorta’s mouth.
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