
It is April 2017 and I have just found myself in the remarkable and privileged position of witnessing a moving event, marking the end of an era that has spanned my entire life—the final disarmament of the militant Basque separatist group ETA[1].
For the Basque region in northern Spain, this month in this year is filled with symbolism. Eighty years ago, on 26th April 1937, the small town of Gernika-Lumo (the Basque name for Guernica) was carpet bombed by the German Luftwaffe’s Condor Legion, at the behest of the Spanish Fascist leader General Franco. This event, which was meant to be hidden from the wider public gaze, was in fact the first documented example, in modern warfare, of a direct attack targeting civilians[2]. It was a deliberate flouting of international conventions on the rules of warfare and heralded a new era, where the battles of the 20th Century would be waged against cities and ordinary civilians, as a mechanism of fear and intimidation[3].
However, this is also the 30th anniversary of another event for the Basque Country and the idea of Basque independence. In 1987, fifty years after the bombing of Gernika, a conference was held to bring together many of the disparate groups who were arguing or fighting for Basque independence. Some days ago, I attended a meeting here in Gernika-Lumo. The meeting was all held in Euskara (the Basque language), but my friend Andreas kindly translated the most pertinent parts of what was being discussed. The venue was especially significant. We were in the old Astra arms factory which had produced guns, bullets and bombs for Franco’s regime, and, ‘miraculously’, survived the almost complete destruction of the city. It is still not known whether the people of Gernika were in fact bombed with armaments that they themselves had made, but this horrible irony is entirely possible. And so, this unambiguous symbol of the fascist period is now a cultural centre for Gernika. The building has been re-appropriated and it has been re-inscribed with a meaning and purpose that is emblematic of a much wider transformation of the city and the people’s collective post-Franco psyche.

The original Franco-era Astra munitions factory that has been transformed into a cultural space. (Shirrefs)
The meeting was both a book launch and a panel discussion. The book, called Gernikaren Egiak: Oroimen biziko herria [Gernika truths: People will live in memory], was a transcript of the conference in 1987. In a large sense, both the book and the discussion were dealing with the idea of memory, as much as they were dealing with the more concrete issues of the fight for Basque independence from Spain. We are always facing moments when we confront the fragility of memory. Our individual memories are not perfect recorders. Our minds absorb, categorise, interpret, distort, conflate, disorient, fail and ultimately forget. Our collective memories are equally subject to these chaotic forces, so how can there be any coherence to our experiences? One answer is that our individual memories rely, to a degree, on our collective memories and vice versa. We are constantly creating and comparing our individual data sets, looking for patterns and overlaps. To a large degree, these overlaps construct what we would call our collective consciousness.
The problem of shared memory is that it’s not intergenerational, at least not in its original form, and so there’s a dilemma for how or what we pass on to the next generations—which aspects we consider to be crucial for the maintenance of identity, tradition and culture. This must inevitably be a much more conscious or deliberate act than the involuntary phenomena of collective experiences. It always feels more critical when the memories carry layers of stark difference, often tied up in violence and suffering through war or persecution. For cultures that have experienced great pain, in order to perpetuate a distinct identity, the mantra of ‘never forget’ becomes a desperate plea for legacies to be maintained and pain memories to be honoured. But we do forget. Memories change and evolve and fade and morph into other memories. We need clear and articulate symbols and artefacts to remind us of what the dead can no longer tell us. But signs and symbols are themselves open to interpretation, misinterpretation, distortion and deliberate misuse. They can also become incomprehensible, unless the context and codex of interpretation is successfully passed down through the generations. Memory is complex. Maintenance of memory is far more complex.
The problem experienced by the Basque people, is the same problem that is being experienced, conceptually, by the European Union. How does an idea that made infinite sense in one era, and in one set of circumstances, maintain relevance and urgency when so many of the parameters of context and immediacy have changed? In the case of Basque independence when does one decide that the logic that produced the idea in the first place no longer works in a different time? When does a cause, however righteous and worthy, lose its edge and its power to hold the imagination of subsequent generations? In some cases, powerful movements can become caricatures or, worse still, parodies, even within the lifetime of the cause’s creation. When I spoke to some Basque people in their twenties, talking about the push for independence, I got an eye-rolling look in return. I asked if they were bored with the subject, and they just said they wished ‘they’d all shut up about it.’ The ‘they’ being referred to is the generation that have lived through the years of Franco, who have grown up with parents and grandparents that survived the bombings in 1937. Some have been involved politically and, in many cases were punished for their activities. Some were involved in militant separatist groups like ETA. Some have spent time in jail. Some are still in jail. Some have been tortured. Some have committed very violent crimes.
This is not a simple subject. But all, in this generation, know that there are two narratives at work. One is the official doctrine of all Spanish governments which, even to this day, long after the demise of the Franco regime, rejects all accusations of wrongdoing on the part of the Spanish state, including the unwavering denial that Gernika, or any other Basque region, was systematically bombed by the fascists. The lie persists that the city was destroyed by the Republicans, which for Franco meant the Communists. In other words, Madrid says that the anti-fascists were so evil and immoral that they actively destroyed their own towns and killed their own people. This lie would be comic in its cruel illogicality and its patent contradiction of fact, except that it is deeply offensive to the Basque people who lost family, friends, homes, businesses and generally had their worlds destroyed. It’s also utterly mystifying to the rest of the world, and especially to Germany, who have long since openly admitted to, and apologised for, their part in the crimes.

Crowd gathered in the centre of Gernika, 26 April 2017, to remember the bombing, 80 years earlier. (Shirrefs)
As a brief digression, let’s ask why such a stark difference of responses exists between Spain and Germany. One answer is quite simple. Fascism in Germany was comprehensively defeated, both practically and ideologically, regardless of the disturbing re-emergence of far-right German movements that persist in trying to revive the rhetoric and nationalist xenophobia of the Nazi era. By contrast, fascism in Spain was never defeated. Franco simply died, and the body of his fascist regime was covered with a tarpaulin of self-delusion. The faux democracy that replaced it is some weird, cloistered construct, through which the ghost of Franco walks freely, whispering in the ears of politicians and bureaucrats to the present day. If this sounds overly dramatic, barely two years ago we were at a European Union event in the Australian capital, Canberra, attended by the spectrum of a European ambassadors. My wife struck up a conversation with the Spanish ambassador and innocently mentioned our plan to spend time in the Basque region and to research a radio program on the destruction of Gernika by the Franco-Nazi alliance. The Spanish ambassador promptly, and undiplomatically, turned on his heel and walked away without another word. Lyn was speechless, but another attendee simply laughed and said, ‘Franco is alive and well in the political corridors of Madrid’.
Of course, violent acts on all sides are crimes, but it’s not difficult to understand that some of these actions started out of the dilemma of social/cultural oppression and powerlessness. The problem exists for any militant resistance movement, no matter how just the cause, that unless you achieve your goal quickly and manage to right wrongs and overturn a corrupt or cruel regime while there is still the spirit of a fight in the wider community, you are doomed to be condemned by history. Once a campaign has become overly protracted, powerful regimes will always manage to claw their way back to occupy the moral high ground, regardless of their true moral character. The result is that militant groups are forced to the wrong end of this polemic and the ruling power gets to write the story. Once this arrangement is set in place, the dominant regime can do almost anything with impunity, support for the resistance will diminish, as formerly loyal communities suffer from the backlash, and, increasingly, frustration sets in. From this position, there is also virtually no possibility of victory for any group that persists in unofficial militant activity beyond this point. The problem is to recognise or determine when ‘this point’ is.
Modern history has many examples of this, but perhaps the most obvious parallel to the Basque situation is that of the Irish Republican Army, the IRA. The Provisional IRA, which was the main core of the IRA that persisted after other groups had split, began the process of disbanding its armed groups and vowed to work towards solutions through peaceful and political means. In 2011, Gerry Adams, leader of the Sinn Féin political party declared that ‘The war is over. The IRA is gone’ And 3 years later, in 2014, he again stated that ‘The IRA is gone. It is finished.’ Some cast doubt on how true this was, but to all intents and purposes, the IRA had disarmed, and no evidence of any residual organisation could be found. Both the IRA and Sinn Féin wanted this to be seen as an equitable denouement—a victory of sorts. But in a recent interview on BBC’s Radio 4[4], a former IRA Chief, speaking about the coldly brutal determination of the British forces in dealing with the IRA and its members, said:
They were very, very ruthless and ultimately succeeded in defeating the IRA.
When asked if he was saying that the IRA had lost, he answered simply:
Yes, absolutely.
And so it is also for ETA, whose final conclusion came in the last few weeks. To my astonishment, I found out during the meeting at the Astra Cultural Centre that ETA had announced a full disarmament the following Sunday. This was an extraordinary declaration because, although ETA had declared a unilateral ceasefire in 2010, they had never disarmed. And for an organisation that was still declared a terrorist group by the Spanish government and outlawed by the European Union, while this moment was as unambiguous as it was unavoidable, everything about it was fraught with difficulty.

Graffiti demanding amnesty for jailed ETA members. (Shirrefs)
A few days after the event I spoke with historian and long-time Basque leader Karmelo Landa, and I innocently commented that entire day felt as if it had been choreographed within an inch of its life. He looked at me with something between a smile and a grimace. It was a look that said ‘You have no idea.’ This is a man who has been a Member of the European Parliament (MEP) and has spent two, separate two-year periods in jail as a guest of the Spanish government. These jail terms were not because of anything Karmelo Landa had necessarily done. He says the Spanish authorities described the jail time as ‘preventative’.
When he responded to my question about the apparent high level of orchestration of the disarmament event, what he did say surprised me. ‘This event has been six years in the making.’ The simple truth of this is that the disarmament was in fact part of a contiguous, long-term process, of which the ceasefire back in 2010 was merely the beginning. At that moment, I began to comprehend the almost impossible nature of the handover.
The location for the gathering of Basque people was a major indicator of the geo-political complexity involved. The event was not held in Spain. It was conducted in the south-eastern French city of Bayonne—known to the Basque people as Baiona. It has a Basque name, because this is Basque territory. The mountains of the Pyrenees, or Pirineaoak, are not a boundary or wall for the Basque people, as they are for both the wider French and Spanish national identities, but a magnificent manifestation of the natural world. Viewed on all sides by the many Basque communities, these mountains unite them.
So, why not Spain? It wasn’t just that it wasn’t held in Spain, but that it could not have been held in Spain. The 2010 ceasefire changed nothing for the Spanish government. Spain’s official position of demonising ETA and utterly rejecting any attempt at finding a middle ground is as fierce as it ever was. The reason is simple—ETA may have backed themselves into a corner of moral defeat and political impotence, but so have successive Spanish governments. A softening approach would mean that Spain would have to finally concede to total involvement in the brutal treatment of the Basque people. There is no half position here, they either were or they weren’t, and this elephant in the room will keep getting larger, the longer this lie continues. Spain is not alone in this dilemma. Turkey has the Armenian genocide of 1915 as an open wound, as it continues to lie to the world, and to itself, about what happened, despite all public evidence to the contrary. These are preposterous denials on the world stage given the exponential expansion in the freedom of access to information and communication since the early 20th century.
As a consequence, I was told that any attempt to stage this event in Spain would have likely resulted in many arrests. Baiona has therefore long served as a relatively safe city of exile for many Basque people who are either still under suspicion, or actively being hunted by the Spanish authorities. Even for many Basque people who have done their time in jail, but feel their lives and safety can never be assured on Spanish soil, this city has become home. I met one man who had spent many years in prison, and who had reluctantly moved his life to the French city. His smile was amazing and generous, his sense of humour was infectious. But in the gaps, there was a clear hint of sadness and displacement. Having said that Baiona was ‘safe’, one woman I met had had her house raided by the French police two days earlier, on suspicion that she was harbouring certain ‘wanted’ individuals.

Hôtel Monbar, in the French city of Baiona, site of extrajudicial killings, in 1985,
of four ETA militants by a Spanish state death squad. (Shirrefs)
And so, after much hurried ringing around, I managed to score a ride across the border to the historic event. My companions were all next-generation Basques—in their thirties or younger—but all three were fiercely wedded to the idea of independence for their region, their people, their culture. While their approach to the dilemma is quite distinct from their parents and grandparents, the essential politics of the Basque question remains unchanged. Some are involved in a group called Lobak, which represents the grandchildren of survivors of the bombing of the Basque cities in 1937. Lobak however, is reluctant to deal with the subject of ETA. As one member told me, ‘Too complicated, to painful … just too soon.’ This was what dawned on me as we neared the end of our two-hour plus international drive. I knew this was a deeply important and historically significant event, but I couldn’t escape the fact that my connection was somewhat abstract and intellectual, even though there were many moments when I found the day quite overwhelming. For the masses of people I found myself amongst, there was nothing abstract about this. This was real. It was personal and visceral and painful. It represented people they knew who had either been involved in ETA, or perhaps who had been killed by ETA. This was about family and friends and, in some cases, it was about their own involvement. We arrived and I found myself surrounded by tens of thousands of people from every corner of the Spanish and French Basque country. I was trying to take it all in, but there was one moment, in the middle of all the momentous and incomprehensible speeches from the vast stage, I turned around to look at the faces of the people there … and every one of these thousands of people were weeping. I will never forget that feeling. This was a moment that most of these people had longed for, but had not dared believe would happen. For victims and perpetrators alike, it was the end of a long and terrible period of righteous patriotism that had turned toxic and had consumed so many lives in tragedy. This moment meant the nightmare might in fact be over. I felt very small. I also felt deeply honoured to have been welcomed into this space.
What followed though was just as instructive. On arrival, it had taken us a mere thirty minutes to get from the parked car to the centre of town. Our departure however, was far less efficient. The streets of Baiona are lined with bars. By my calculation, we visited almost every one of them, and it took us four hours to reach the car. I was getting impatient, until I realised what was going on. This was the many different communities of the Basque region coming together and affirming each other, renewing bonds that have extraordinary depth and meaning. And on a day like this …

Baiona street on the day of the final disarmament of ETA. (Shirrefs)
Cultural survival is a complex process. Cultural survival under duress, against a backdrop of violence and hostility, can be almost impossible. It doesn’t just happen, and it’s difficult. Survival of the past requires a conversation with the future. None of this happens by chance. It demands that people care enough to actively use the mechanisms built into the culture, to perpetuate the culture. It almost implies a self-sustaining system, but not quite. People within cultural frameworks may embody those culture, but without a conscious decision by those inheritors of traditions, cultures can, and do, wither and die. The implication of this is that cultural survival doesn’t require the technology of modernity to survive, and in fact it might just be that the reverse is the case. In the case of the Basque people, with one of the oldest continuous connections to place in the northern hemisphere. Technology is not necessarily the enemy, but while it facilitates communication and provides valuable tools that we previously never imagined, it also homogenises and blurs cultural distinctions in a way that threatens so many things that cannot survive the blunt instruments of the myriad, dominant, globalising forces. So, what can seem like retrograde, xenophobic nationalism, can sometimes be just a reflexive ‘firewall’, built into the cultural DNA, attempting to protect against this blurring effect. The trick for culturally distinct groups must be to question their own reflexes, as much as they must interrogate the external phenomenon. This is what all groups do to some degree and the process ought to be largely peaceful and internalised. It only becomes an issue when the group identity is constantly questioned or denied by others. This is the dilemma that the Basque people continue to face and have little power to change. It will be up to the future generations to find a sophisticated way to deal with this unjust history and balance it with the impact of a fast evolving, global future.
[1] Euskadi Ta Akatasuna, which translates to ‘Basque Country and Freedom’
[2] Two foreign journalists working for English papers, George Steer from The Times and an Australian, Noel Monks, working for the Daily Express, witnessed the bombing, but it was only The Times that resisted the official responses from Berlin and Madrid, that neither country had been involved, and so The Times widely disseminated the story of the attack.
[3] See also, Shirrefs, M (2017), The random power of fear, The Identity Papers [website], https://theidentitypapers.com
[4] Former IRA Chief, Kieren Conway, Today, BBC Radio 4, Tuesday 11th April, 07:55