We did what we had to do. These are the values our parents taught us.
In the municipal palace of La Coruña, a city still carrying the grief of a hate crime that claimed a young gay man's life in 2021, two Senegalese men were named adopted sons of the place they once inhabited without legal standing. Ibrahima Diack and Magatte Ndiaye had moved toward violence when others moved away, risking deportation to aid Samuel Luiz as he was beaten to death on the waterfront. Their recognition — the first for African-born individuals in a list spanning more than 150 years — arrives as courts have finally closed the case against his killers, and asks something of the rest of us: what does it mean to belong to a place, and who truly earns that belonging.
- Samuel Luiz was beaten to death in a homophobic attack on La Coruña's waterfront in July 2021, a killing that exposed the city's vulnerability to hate-driven violence.
- Two undocumented Senegalese men ran toward the assault rather than away, knowing that any police encounter could end their lives in Spain permanently.
- Courts have now convicted four of five defendants — three as perpetrators, one as accomplice — offering a measure of legal closure to a case that shook the city for years.
- La Coruña responded not only with prosecution but with ceremony, awarding Diack and Ndiaye honorary citizenship and placing them among only forty-four names on a list dating back to 1868.
- Both men deflected the label of hero, insisting their parents' teachings left them no other option — a quiet rebuke to a society that treats basic solidarity as exceptional.
On a February afternoon in La Coruña's municipal palace, Ibrahima Diack and Magatte Ndiaye received plaques naming them adopted sons of the city. It was formal recognition of something they had done nearly four years earlier: moving toward a man being beaten to death when almost everyone else moved away.
Samuel Luiz was killed on the city's waterfront in July 2021, targeted by a group of young people because he was gay. The attack was swift and brutal. Diack and Ndiaye, both undocumented at the time, had everything to lose — their legal status, their safety, any future in Spain. They intervened anyway.
Mayor Inés Rey called the night a 'human hunt' driven by hatred, and described the two men as 'saviors of goodness' who could not rescue Luiz but refused to abandon him. Neither man accepted the word hero. Magatte spoke calmly: 'We did what we had to do. These are the values our parents taught us in Senegal.' Ibrahima credited his family for giving him love and respect over money. 'If someone needs help, you have to step in,' he said. 'What you reap is what you sow.'
The ceremony carried a significance beyond its warmth. Diack and Ndiaye became the only African-born individuals on an honorary citizenship list stretching back to 1868, now holding forty-four names. The recognition came as courts were finalizing convictions — three perpetrators found guilty of murder, one of complicity, a fifth acquitted — closing the legal chapter on a crime that had long unsettled the city.
What the afternoon ultimately honored was not heroism in any dramatic sense, but something quieter and harder: the choice, made in a fraction of a second by two people with no safety net, to treat a stranger's life as worth protecting.
On a February afternoon in La Coruña's municipal palace, two Senegalese men stood to receive plaques naming them adopted sons of the city. Ibrahima Diack and Magatte Ndiaye had done something that most people, faced with the same moment, do not do: they tried to help a stranger being beaten to death.
Samuel Luiz died on the waterfront in July 2021, attacked by a group of young people who targeted him because he was gay. The assault was swift and brutal. In the chaos, two people moved toward him instead of away. Both were undocumented immigrants. Both had everything to lose—their legal status, their safety, their future in the country. They tried anyway.
Mayor Inés Rey, presiding over the ceremony, called what happened that night a "human hunt" driven by hatred of Luiz's sexuality. She called Diack and Ndiaye "admirable" for intervening when almost no one else did. "Only a couple of people came to his aid, the ones with the most to lose," she said. "They could not save him, but they acted as saviors of goodness, pure altruism."
Neither man accepted the framing of heroism. Magatte spoke first, his voice steady. "We are not heroes. We did what we had to do. These are the values our parents taught us in Senegal." He thanked the city's authorities and the nonprofits working to make La Coruña more humane. Ibrahima echoed the sentiment, crediting his family for giving him something more valuable than money: love and respect. "If someone needs help, you have to step in," he said. "What you reap is what you sow."
The ceremony carried weight beyond the moment. Diack and Ndiaye are the only African-born citizens on a list that stretches back to 1868 and now includes forty-four names. They received this recognition as courts were closing the case against those who killed Luiz. Four of the five defendants faced murder charges—three convicted as perpetrators, one as an accomplice. A fifth, a woman, was acquitted.
Government officials attended, including the regional delegate and provincial subdelegates, all emphasizing the courage of two young men who chose solidarity over self-preservation. An organization called Ecodesarrollo Gaia, which had opened a school in Senegal bearing La Coruña's name, spoke of how the city would never forget the example these two had set.
What struck observers was not the ceremony itself, but what it acknowledged: that in a moment of violence rooted in hatred, two people without legal standing, without power, without the safety net most citizens take for granted, moved toward danger instead of away from it. They did not do it for recognition. They did it because, as they explained it, there was no other choice.
Citações Notáveis
Only a couple of people came to his aid, the ones with the most to lose. They could not save him, but they acted as saviors of goodness, pure altruism.— Mayor Inés Rey
If someone needs help, you have to step in. What you reap is what you sow.— Ibrahima Diack
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter that these two men were undocumented when they helped?
Because it changes what the act cost them. A citizen who helps might face injury or trauma. They faced that plus the real possibility of deportation, of losing everything they'd built in the country. The risk was asymmetrical.
But they both downplayed it—said they were just doing what they were taught. Does that ring true to you?
It does, actually. There's a difference between false modesty and genuine conviction. They weren't performing humility for the cameras. They were saying: this is who we are, this is what we were raised to be. That's harder to dismiss than if they'd accepted the hero label.
The mayor used the phrase "human hunt." That's strong language for a city ceremony.
It had to be. You can't honor what these men did without naming what they interrupted. Samuel Luiz wasn't just attacked—he was hunted because of who he was. Acknowledging that is part of what makes the recognition meaningful.
Four people were convicted. Does that close something for the city?
Legally, yes. But the real closure comes from what happened in that room—the city saying: we see you, we remember, and we're naming you as part of who we are now. That's the kind of closure that lasts.