A woman in white steps into a quiet room. It is night, and new mothers are trying to rest after childbirth, while family visits drift in and out. When silence finally returns, the only sound is the soft cries of sleepy newborns, a reminder of the warm, safe space once provided by the mother’s womb now beyond reach for many in this moment of unsettled transition.
He cannot recall the features of the intruder who slipped into his room, only that she wore a white robe and moved with hesitation, as if afraid to reveal her presence. “What a contradiction,” thought the young mother. “If you are here to care for us, why hide?” With eyes heavy from exhaustion, she watches the woman lean down, cradle her baby, and then disappear swiftly. The memory of that moment lingers, forcing a haunting question: would she ever see him again?
The fear of a baby being taken is a reality many families confront. Recently, a newborn’s abduction in a Bilbao hospital sparked widespread distress as a woman held the infant for hours, leaving anxious parents desperate for answers. They worried over every hint of whether the child would appear, whether the suspect had fled the country, and whether they would ever hold their baby again. The ordeal is painful to imagine—helplessness, uncertainty, and heartbreak colliding in a single moment. The suspect told the family, “I’m attending a hearing test so I can discharge him tomorrow.” Hours later, the child was found on the eighth-floor mat at a local farm. It is a scene that movies rarely do justice to, and reality often feels even more shocking than fiction.
No. This is not only a plot device. In fact, baby theft has persisted beyond storytelling, and Spain has faced such acts for decades, from the postwar years through the late 1990s. In 2021, forty-seven investigative cases were opened following inquiries by regional prosecutors into reports connected with the abduction of newborns, particularly linked to the actions of the country’s Technical Secretariat and its head, Álvaro García, during inquiries into these cases.
Amnesty International has highlighted various scenarios where minors could be illegally taken, calling attention to periods when systemic gender ideology and state control over women intersected with hospital and maternity settings. They noted that prisons, hospitals, maternity wards, and charitable centers sometimes operated without adequate safeguards, with religious communities not always providing oversight expected in those contexts. The broader historical pattern shows a country wrestling with the long shadows of past governance while attempting to safeguard the most vulnerable—new mothers and their babies—from harm and exploitation. A broader historical analysis shows how the Franco regime’s policies contributed to a loss of identity for many families, a legacy that continues to color discussions about women’s rights and child welfare in contemporary Spain.
For years, hospital rooms dressed in clinical white bore witness to rumors and narratives about babies being taken or hidden away. Phrases like “they said he was stillborn” echoed in hushed tones, while others whispered, “they wouldn’t let me see him.” Such experiences left deep scars on families, a sorrow that lingered for generations. Yet there is a note of relief in the present, as some families have found a peaceful path back to one another—moments of calm and reunion that bring healing after a long and painful journey. In Bilbao, there remains a sense of cautious hope as one family finally reconnects with their baby, continuing life with a renewed sense of belonging and a redefined trust in the care system that surrounds them.