My father and his
siblings were born in the medieval village of Arroniz,
not far from Pamplona. Arroniz is practically a ghost
town now. This main road—with its four bars—is
the social epicenter.
My heart flutters as I swerve along the one-lane road leading to
Arroniz, the medieval village where my father was born. I've spent
almost every summer of my life here, in this town, population 500,
where half the people share my last name. But this is the first
time I've come with an ulterior motive: I want to get my family,
divided for generations on the issue of Basque nationalism, to talk
about what it means for them to be Basque.
I round the final hairpin turn and smile at the first site of Arroniz,
its rows of stone houses hugging the slopes of a steep mountain.
I drive along the only paved road, flanked by the few bars that
comprise the town's cultural center. I turn and climb the hill toward
Carasol, my family's ancestral home. When I step out of the car,
the sweet familiar scent of sage greets me. A swarm of sparrows
circles above. I call our street the "widows' row," because
the only people left are a half-dozen whiskered ladies, always dressed
in black. They've known my family forever. They call me "La
Americana." As soon as they see me, they squeeze me and kiss
me and fill me in on the town gossip.
This olive tree is
one of hundreds that dot
Arroniz's farmlands. My uncle Pedro has toiled on
these lands since he was a boy.
Carasol is vacant most of the year, but today my cousins, my Uncle
Pedro and Aunt Yosune and I will fill the place with the scents
and sounds of a chuletada—lamb chops roasted over dried
grape vines. I've always known that this branch of the family believed
in an independent Basque state. But this is the first time all of
us have sat down to talk politics. We are all shocked when our uncle
Pedro declares his support of the terrorist group ETA. For the first
time, my cousin Samuel expresses his sadness over his inability
to learn Basque, thanks to repression by the former dictator, Francisco
Franco.
As we talk, it dawns on met that we are speaking Spanish, but this
place somehow doesn't feel like Spain. Yet I can't quite figure
out what defines these people, this setting, even me, as Basque.
Here is part of our conversation:
Pedro: I personally consider myself Basque. I'm not Spanish.
Juan Mari: I, of course, also consider myself Basque.
Samuel: I also consider myself Basque. And I have nothing against
Spaniards or anyone, or Americans.
Yosune: I also consider myself, like he just said. And I have nothing
against Spaniards or anyone, but I consider myself Basque, Basque,
Basque.
Samuel: (sings a Basque song) It means I'm Basque and I'm proud.
Yosune: When people hear this, they're going to think these guys
are…
Juan Mari: They're going to say, 'Vicky, are you sure you feel
safe over there, because it sounds like they're all terrorists.'
(laughs)
Victoria: (laughs) I feel very, very safe.
I stop by my aunt
Mari Carmen's house to say goodbye before leaving for
Madrid.
My most daunting interview is with my aunt Mari Carmen and her
husband Jose Mari. Mari Carmen is my father's youngest sister, and
when she married the pro-Franco heir to a canned asparagus empire,
she alienated her brothers, most of them landless laborers. And
although over the years, my uncles have put aside their differences
long enough to celebrate weddings, communions and chuletadas
together, there's always been an underlying resentment.
I sit down for a meal with Mari Carmen, Jose Mari and Uncle Pedro.
About a minute into our discussion Uncle Pedro gets up and quietly
excuses himself. It strikes me that for my uncles' generation, people
in opposing ideological camps can share a meal together, but they
can't talk politics without one or both of them walking away. But
Pedro's absence enables Jose Mari to speak more freely. I can only
imagine how Pedro would have reacted upon hearing his brother-in-law
call Basques "hicks," or call the influx of Basque-speaking
people into Pamplona an "invasion," or compare
the Basque independence movement to Hitler.
I meet my cousins
Txema, Armando and Ana in Arroniz before heading to
Pamplona for the running of the bulls festival.
Years ago, Jose Mari and I hiked to the top of Monjardín, a Roman-era
fortress. We looked out over the miles of vineyards, olive orchards
and wheat fields, and he said, "You'll never see a more beautiful
place than Navarra." Now, sitting at the table listening to
him, I realize his condemnation of the separatist movement comes
from the fear that they'll take his beloved Navarra away.
Like his father Pedro, my cousin Txema (pronounced Chema) always
embraced the idea of Basque independence. So I'm surprised when
he says the fight for statehood is unrealistic and unwise. He's
now the minister of culture for a left-leaning political party,
Batzarre, and Txema
explains the party's approach to ending violence in
the region.
When I meet up with my cousin Armando in Madrid, Armando
says he's "sickened
and saddened" by "the fear and the blackmail"
that make discussion of the issues so difficult. "That's the
problem: not only has this fight been radicalized between the ETA
and the governing powers, but it's also been radicalized between
everyday people."
I meet up with my
cousin Armando and his sister Ruth in Madrid. We bar-hop
and talk politics.
But we both take comfort in the direction our family is going.
We cousins embrace dialogue, compromise, tolerance. My aunt Yosune's
sons have even joined with my aunt Mari Carmen's sons to open a
hotel—Hotel Mauleón. That's something our parents' generation would
never have dreamed of doing.
On my way to the airport, I get that choked-up feeling I get every
time I leave my family. I feel I'm being yanked apart from people
who share more than just my pale skin, my black hair, my last name,
my blood. What does it mean to be Basque? What's the best way forward?
I think about how the fight over these questions has ripped so many
families apart. While our parents still bear the scars of this struggle,
for my generation, the scars seem to be fading. And while this discovery
might not have given me the answers I was looking for, it has given
me hope.
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