D. Ismael (that's how we always called him) has left us. He was my teacher at History of Law, my director at thesis , my teacher...

The same man who, many years ago, showed up one day in Pamplona with the task of creating a University, as if it were something simple... and he succeeded! And he knew how to make the difficult easy, and possible what, in the eyes of the majority, seemed impossible. I don't know if that was his dream or his plan, but, as Sartre wrote, "He is not happy who does what he wants, but he who wants what he does", and you, Mr. Ismael, always knew a lot about true happiness.

Intelligent, hard-working, vital, positive, cheerful and extremely generous, he left no one indifferent. With a welcoming and cordial smile that enveloped whoever looked at him, he would get involved in your life to the point of making your problems his own.

Such was her common sense, her charm and her capacity for conviction that, to a little student (me) who had decided to take the competitive examination when she finished degree program, she convinced her that the University was "the best professional outlet for a woman because of its flexibility and creativity". And if she wanted to dedicate herself to the University, why not to History of Law? And, within it, why not to the world of Indian Law, her great passion? Don Ismael, if I let you, you organize my wedding; a wedding in which the only guest outside the family was you.

Because of his vocation as a teacher, he not only showed horizons, but he was personally involved in your professional career. In my case, he made sure that some job opportunities opened up when I had to move to Salamanca.

I greatly admired his way of looking at the world. He saw what others of us are not even capable of glimpsing. How can I explain it? Perhaps, with the story of the two friends in Granada that I told him one day.

One invites the other for a silent walk at dusk on a dreary April day. The latter accompanies him reluctantly. On his return, the former asks the latter: "What did you see"? The answer, almost grumpy, is not long in coming: "Few people in the street, as expected". The other tells him, in turn, what he has discovered: "the moss that sprouts, the ivy that, slowly, tears the stone, a white Moorish window, the cry that pours the April moon... and, to see, I have even seen the silence...".

This is how Antonio Machado summed up that walk:

"Silence... In the night the peace of the moon
illuminates the white Moorish window.
Silence... It is the moss that sprouts
and the ivy that slowly tears the stone wall...
The cry that pours the moon of April".

How lucky I was, or rather, many of us were, to meet him!

Thank you for everything and God bless you, Mr. Ismael.