Yoyes Pelicula Critical Thinking

The first blast reverberated through the old quarter of San Sebastián at one o'clock in the afternoon. It rattled the windows of the ornate buildings around the 18th-century Santa Maria del Coro church and sent a flock of pigeons into the sky. We were standing in a cobblestone plaza outside one of the town's most famous pintxos—tapas—bars, La Cuchara de San Telmo, eating braised rabbit and sipping red Rioja wine when we heard it. A minute later came a second explosion, and then a third. "Let's go see what's happening," said my companion, Gabriella Ranelli de Aguirre, an American tour operator married to a San Sebastián native, who has been living there for nearly 20 years.

I didn't know what to think. This was Basque Country, after all, the homeland of Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, or ETA (Basque for "Basque Homeland and Freedom"), which has been waging a violent campaign for independence from Spain for nearly four decades. True, the group, which has killed some 800 people and maimed hundreds more, had not carried out a bombing or shooting for three years, and momentum appeared to be building toward a lasting peace.

This past March, in a communiqué that stunned Spain and the world, the group had even declared a "permanent cease-fire" and said it was committed to promoting "a democratic process." Batasuna, ETA's political arm—which had been banned by the Spanish supreme court in 2003—has engaged in quiet talks with the Basque Nationalist Party and other Basque political parties about establishing a road map to a permanent peace. And, in another sign of changing times, Gerry Adams, the head of Sinn Fein, the IRA's political wing, and Gerry Kelly, a convicted bomber turned Sinn Fein deputy, traveled to the Basque Country last spring to give Batasuna advice on peace negotiations. The Sinn Fein leaders, who once gave ETA counsel on bomb-making technology, have also been lobbying the Spanish government to drop charges against top Basque separatists, legalize Batasuna and move 700 ETA prisoners held in Spanish and French jails closer to their families. "We are approaching the beginning of the end of ETA," Prime Minister José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero declared in February 2006.

But as Ranelli and I raced toward the harbor, I had to wonder if the group had returned to its old tactics. Then I saw the cause of the commotion: a white-haired man wearing a blue Napoleonic military uniform with epaulets and brandishing a musket was firing into the air. He belonged, he explained, to Olla Gora, one of San Sebastián's dozens of "eating societies," male-only clubs dedicated to the pursuit of socializing and gastronomic indulgence. "It's our [society's] centennial," he said, and its members were reenacting the Napoleonic battles that raged here in the 19th century. As Ranelli and I made our way back down through the quaint alleys of the old quarter—rebuilt after 1813, when British and Portuguese troops burned down almost all of it—she said my reaction was all too common. "San Sebastián is a wonderful town," she went on, "but the violence has eclipsed everything else. A lot of my friends have had the impression that this is a scary place—another Beirut."

Comparisons to Lebanon may be exaggerated. But this rugged region in the shadow of the Pyrenees has long been an anomaly—an enclave marked by an ancient language, a tradition of fine food and wine, and a political culture soaked in blood. Feeding on Basque pride and decades of repression by Spanish dictator Francisco Franco, ETA's campaign of terror turned elegant cities such as San Sebastián and Bilbao into caldrons of fear and violence. At the height of its violent campaign for independence, in 1980, the separatists murdered 91 people, and countless business enterprises have fallen victim to ETA extortion over the past four decades. "Everybody in Basque Country has a cousin or an uncle who has either been a victim or a member of the group," one Basque journalist told me.

Now ETA is widely regarded as an anachronism, a holdover from the days when radical groups such as Italy's Red Brigades and West Germany's Baader-Meinhof gang were recruiting European youth with their Marxist-Leninist rhetoric and desperado chic. In 1997, the United States government designated ETA a foreign terrorist organization. Since then, a number of developments—the Basque Country's growing prosperity; a post 9/11 crackdown on terrorist groups; widespread revulsion at violent tactics in the aftermath of Al Qaeda's 2004 Madrid train bombing (for which ETA was initially blamed); arrests of ETA fugitives in both Spain and France; and a waning enthusiasm for ETA's aim of independence—have drained the movement of much of its vigor.

The peace process, however, is still fragile. In recent years, ETA has declared other cease-fires, all of which collapsed. The main Spanish opposition party, led by former prime minister José María Aznar, has urged the government not to negotiate. The peace initiative is being challenged by victims of ETA terror, and any deal is likely to leave unresolved the still contentious issue of Basque independence. Zapatero, in June 2006, warned that the process would be "long, tough and difficult," saying that the government would proceed with "prudence and discretion."

Then, a series of setbacks jolted the Spanish government and raised fears of a return to violence. First, in August, ETA publicly criticized the Spanish and French governments for "continuous attacks" against the Basques, apparently referring to the arrests and trials of ETA members that have gone on in spite of the cease-fire. Three hooded ETA members read a communiqué at a pro-independence rally in late September, confirming the group's "commitment to continue fighting, arms in hand, until independence and socialism is achieved in Euskal Herria [Basque Country]." A week later, a hiker in the woods in French Basque Country, near the Spanish border, stumbled across hidden weapons—including guns and chemicals for bomb-making—sealed in plastic bins, evidently intended for ETA. Later in October, some 350 guns disappeared from a gun store in Nîmes, France; it was suspected that ETA had engineered the theft. It was perhaps the starkest indication yet that the group could be preparing for the collapse of negotiations, and the resumption of attacks.

But despite all the obstacles, the mood is upbeat. Traveling around Basque Country, from the avenues of San Sebastián to mountain villages deep in the Basque heartland, I encountered a sense of optimism—a belief that the Basques have a real chance of a lasting peace for the first time in decades. "I still remember the day I heard the news [about the cease-fire]. It gave me goose pimples," says Alejandra Iturrioz, mayor of Ordizia, a mountain town where a dozen citizens have been killed by the group since 1968.

In Bilbao, Basque Country's biggest city and an emerging cultural capital (home to architect Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Museum), the change is already being felt. "More people came this summer than ever before," says Ana López de Munain, the communications director for the striking titanium-and-glass creation. "The mood has become more relaxed. We just hope it stays that way."

Nowhere are the benefits of waning tension more evident than in San Sebastián, a cosmopolitan seaside resort that comfortably straddles the Basque and Spanish worlds. Twelve miles west of the French border, along a rugged, horseshoe-shaped bay facing the Bay of Biscay, San Sebastián was a Basque fishing and trading town until the mid-19th century; in 1845 Spanish queen Isabel II, stricken with a skin ailment, came to bathe in the Bay of Concha on her doctor's orders. Aristocrats from Madrid and Barcelona followed, throwing up beachfront cabanas and Belle Epoque villas, wedding-cake structures adorned with turrets and spires. Along the Rio Urumea, a tidal river that empties into the Bay of Concha and divides the city in two, I strolled the Paseo de Francia—a faux stretch of the Ile St. Louis, with a Seine-like promenade.

San Sebastián itself has been the scene of political violence: in 1995, an ETA gunman walked into a downtown bar and shot dead one of the city's most popular politicians, Gregorio Ordoñez. Six years later, thousands marched silently through the streets to protest the murder of newspaper executive Santiago Oleaga Elejabarrieta. But there hasn't been a shooting or bombing here in years. Real estate is booming, with two-bedroom condominiums facing the sea fetching up to a million euros.

I went to lunch in the affluent Gros neighborhood with Gabriella Ranelli and her husband, Aitor Aguirre, a 39-year-old former professional player of pelota, similar to the sport better known in the United States as jai alai, the indoor game played with a hard rubber ball and gloves with basket-like extensions. (Pelota is the most popular sport in Basque Country.) We stopped by Aloña Berri, a pintxos bar known for its exquisite food miniatures, and ordered plates of Chipiron en Equilibria, a tiny square of rice infused with squid broth, served with sugar crystals spun around a wooden stick that spears a baby squid. Sophisticated establishments like this one have transformed San Sebastián into one of the culinary centers of Western Europe. Aguirre told me that these days the city is dedicated far more to the pursuit of good times than political agitation. "The roots of the Basque problems are in the provinces, where Basque culture is strongest, the language is spoken all the time and people feel that their identity is more threatened," he added. "Here, on the coast, with the cosmopolitan influence, we don't feel it as much."

Still, San Sebastián remains distinctly Basque. About 40 percent of its population speaks Basque; identification with Spain is not strong. Here, separatist politics still stir emotions. Spanish director Julio Medem's documentary La Pelota Vasca (The Basque Ball), featuring interviews with 70 Basques about the conflict, created a furor at the 2003 San Sebastián film festival. And memories of Franco's brutalities are etched into the city's psyche. The palace, where Franco vacationed for 35 years, has been shuttered since his death in November 1975; the city still debates whether to turn it into a museum, a hotel or a memorial to his victims.

One rainy afternoon, after taking in an exhibition of Russian paintings at Bilbao's Guggenheim Museum, I made the 30-minute drive to Gernika, set in a narrow riverine valley in Vizcaya Province. Gernika is the spiritual capital of the Basques, whose ancient culture and language, some believe, date back several thousand years. From medieval times, Castilian monarchs met here, beneath a sacred oak, to guarantee the Basques their traditional rights, or fueros, including special tax status and exemption from serving in the Castilian army. But in 1876, at the end of the second Carlist War in Spain, these guarantees were finally abrogated, and the Basques' dreams of autonomy or independence from Spain were indefinitely deferred.

I parked my car at the edge of town and walked to the main square, the site of the Gernika Peace Museum, which commemorates the event that has come to define the town. When the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, the Basques allied themselves with the Republican government, or Loyalists, against the fascists, led by Franco. On April 26, 1937, the Italian and German Air Forces, on Franco's orders, carpet-bombed and strafed Gernika, killing at least 250 people, an event immortalized by Picasso's painting named for the town. (The artist used an alternate spelling.) "Gernika is seared into the heart of every Basque," I was told by Ana Teresa Núñez Monasterio, an archivist at the city's new Peace Museum, which features multimedia displays chronicling the bombing.

Franco's fascist forces defeated the Loyalists in 1939; from then on, the dictator waged a relentless campaign to erase Basque identity. He drove the leadership into exile, banned the Basque flag and traditional dancing, and made even speaking Basque punishable by a prison term. Some families reverted to speaking Spanish, even in the privacy of their homes; others taught the language to their children in secret, or sent them to clandestine schools, or ikastola. Children caught speaking Basque in regular schools were punished; teachers would pass a steel ring from one student caught speaking Basque to the next; the last one to hold the ring each day would be whipped. Margarita Otaegui Arizmendi, the director of the language center at the Deusto University in San Sebastián, recalls, "Franco was very successful in instilling fear. A lot of the children grew up without a knowledge of Basque—we call them ‘the generation of silence.'"

After Franco's death, King Juan Carlos took power and legalized the Basque language; in 1979, he granted autonomy to the three Spanish Basque provinces, Alava, Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya. (Basque separatists also regard the Spanish province of Navarra as part of their homeland.) In 1980, a Basque parliament elected a president and established a capital at Vitoria-Gasteiz, beginning a new era. But ETA, founded by a small group of revolutionaries in 1959, has never given up its goal—full independence for the Spanish Basque provinces and unification with the three Basque-speaking provinces on the French side (where the nationalist movement is less fervent). For many Spanish Basques, the goal of independence has come to seem meaningless. "There's a whole generation of people under the age of 30 who have no memories of Franco," a Basque journalist told me. "We have prosperity, we have autonomy, we're pretty well off on all counts."

The journey from San Sebastián to Ordizia takes only 30 minutes by road through rugged hills cloaked in forests of oak, apple and pine, but it bridges a gap as wide as that between, say, Washington, D.C. and Appalachia. It had been raining nonstop for three days when I set out; the mist shrouding the slopes and red-tile-roofed villages conveyed a sense of a world cut off from Europe. Located in the highlands of Guipúzcoa, regarded as the most "Basque" of the three provinces, Ordizia is a town of 9,500 that was founded in the 13th century. When I arrived, crowds were flocking to the market in the town square, beneath an Athenian arcade-style roof supported by a dozen Corinthian columns. Elderly men wearing traditional wide, black berets, known as txapelas, browsed through piles of fresh produce, wheels of Idiazabal sheep cheese, olives and chorizo sausages. Outside rose green hills covered by concrete high-rises; Franco had ordered them built in the 1960s and packed them with workers from the rest of Spain—a strategy, many in Ordizia say, intended to weaken Basque identity.

With almost no unemployment and fertile highlands, Ordizia is one of the wealthiest corners of Spain. Yet almost everybody here has been touched by violence: there is the Basque policeman, posted out of town, who keeps his job secret from his neighbors for fear of being killed, the stationery store owner whose daughter, a convicted ETA bomb-maker, languishes in a Spanish prison hundreds of miles away. In a seedy bar clubhouse in one of the high-rises on the outskirts of town, I met Iñaki Dubreuil Churruca, a Socialist town councilman: in 2001, he narrowly escaped a car bomb explosion that killed two bystanders. I asked him how many people from Ordizia had been murdered by ETA, and he and a friend began counting, rattling off a dozen or so names: "Isidro, Ima, Javier, Yoye....We knew them all," he said.

Later I walked through the town center to a flagstone plaza, where a single rose painted on a tile marked Ordizia's most notorious killing: that of María Dolores González Catarain, known as Yoyes. An attractive, charismatic woman who joined ETA as a teenager, Yoyes tired of life in the group and, with her young son, fled into exile in Mexico. After several years she grew homesick and, reaching out to ETA's leaders, received assurances she would not be harmed if she came back. In 1986 she moved to San Sebastián and wrote a critical memoir about her life as a terrorist. That September, she returned to Ordizia for the first time since her exile to attend a fiesta and, in a crowded plaza, was shot dead in front of her son. David Bumstead, an English teacher who ran a language school in the town, later observed the scene. "I remember seeing her body, covered in a sheet, lying on the cobblestones," he says, recalling that "sadness enveloped the town."

Though Yoyes' murder caused widespread revulsion in Ordizia, enthusiasm for Basque independence has never flagged here. In 1991, Batasuna received 30 percent of the votes in municipal elections and came close to naming the town's mayor. (A coalition of other political parties formed a majority and blocked the appointment.) In a dank, smoke-filled bar beside the town's marketplace I met the man who nearly won the post, Ramon Amundarain, a grizzled former Batasuna politician. He told me that 35 percent of the highland population favored independence. "I didn't even speak Spanish until I was 10," he said. "I don't feel Spanish at all." He pulled an Euskal Herria ID card out of his wallet. "I carry it in protest," he told me. "I could be arrested for it." When I asked whether he believed violence was an acceptable way of achieving his goal, he answered, cautiously, "We did not reject it."

The next day I drove farther south into the province of Alava, part of the Rioja wine-producing region. Alava is considered the least Basque, and most Spanish, of the Basque Country's three provinces. Here, the weather cleared, and I found myself in an arid, sun-splashed valley framed by gray basalt mountains. Jagged mesas loomed over groves of cypress trees and a rolling sea of vineyards, and medieval walled villages climbed hillsides; the landscape, the climate, all seemed classically Spanish.

The 12th-century village of Laguardia was having one of its summer fiestas, this one celebrating San Juan, the town's patron saint. Then I heard a distant clattering of hoofs, and I leapt into a doorway just as half a dozen bulls roared down the main street. I had stumbled into one of the hundreds of "running of the bulls" festivals that take place every summer across Spain—this one, unlike Pamplona's a few dozen miles to the northeast, relatively unspoiled by tourists.

Later that morning, I made my way to Bodega El Fabulista, a wine cellar owned by Eusebio Santamaría, a third-generation winemaker. Santamaría has chosen to keep his operation small—he produces 40,000 bottles a year, entirely for local distribution—and he makes most of his money from the private tours of his cellar he conducts for tourists. Since the ETA cease-fire, he told me, the number of visitors had grown significantly. "The atmosphere across the Basque Country has changed," he said. I asked him whether people felt their Basqueness strongly here, and he laughed. "It's a mixture of identities here, Rioja, Alava and Navarra," he said. "I say I belong to all of them. Wine does not understand or care about politics."

But people do, and everywhere I traveled in Basque Country, debates over Basque identity and independence still raged. In Vitoria-Gasteiz, a modern city on the arid plains of Alava Province and the Basque capital, María San Gil vented her contempt for the cease-fire declaration. San Gil, 41, a gaunt, intense woman, saw the separatists' brutality firsthand in 1995, when an ETA gunman walked into a bar in San Sebastián and shot to death her colleague Gregorio Ordoñez, a popular, conservative Basque politician. Soon after that, she entered politics as a candidate for San Sebastián's city council, and is now president of the Populist Party in the Basque Country. San Gil has likened Batasuna's leader, Arnaldo Otegi, to Osama bin Laden and, despite ETA's truce, remains adamantly opposed to any negotiations. "These people are fanatics, and one cannot legitimize them at the political table," San Gil told me. She dismissed comparisons between ETA and the IRA, whose cease-fire call in 1997 was embraced by the British government. "Ours is not a war between two legitimate adversaries. It's a war between terrorists and democrats, so why do we have to sit down with them? It's like sitting down with Al Qaeda. We have to vanquish them."

Others, however, see such intransigence as self-defeating. Gorka Landaburu, the son of a leading Basque politician who fled into exile in France in 1939, also knows the extremists' brutality firsthand. Landaburu, 55, grew up in Paris and moved to San Sebastián in his 20s. There he began writing for French and Spanish newspapers and became a leading voice of ETA opposition. "My parents were Basque nationalists, but I've never been," he told me as we sat in a café in front of San Sebastián's Hotel Londres, a whitewashed, early-20th-century landmark with filigreed iron balconies and French windows, overlooking the seafront promenade. "We have our own taxation, our own laws, our own government. What do we need independence for? Money? We have the euro. Frontiers? The borders are open. Army? It's unnecessary."

Landaburu's critiques made him an enemy of the separatists. "I got my first warning in 1986—an anonymous letter, with the ETA seal"—a serpent coiled around an ax—"warning me to ‘keep quiet,'" he said. "I ignored it." In the spring of 2001, a parcel bearing his newspaper's return address arrived at his home. While heading out the door to work the next morning, he opened the letter; five ounces of dynamite blew up, mangling his hands, destroying the vision in his left eye and lacerating his face. "I remember every second—the explosion, the burst of fire," he told me. He staggered out the door covered in blood; a neighbor took him to a hospital. "Every time I pick up a drink, button my shirt, I think about the attack, but I can't let it dominate me or I'd go insane," Landaburu said.

In the months after I spoke to Landaburu, increasingly belligerent pronouncements by ETA, increased incidents of street violence and the theft of the handguns in Nîmes seemed to strengthen the arguments of hard-liners such as María San Gil. But it was difficult to know whether ETA's vows to carry on the struggle were rhetorical or whether they foreshadowed another campaign of terror. Nor was it out of the question that a radical splinter group sought to sabotage the peace process—the Basque equivalent of the Real IRA, which killed 29 people in a car bombing in Omagh, Ireland, in August 1998 in reaction to the IRA's cease-fire the previous year.

Landaburu told me that he expected setbacks: the bitterness and hatred caused by decades of violence were too deeply engrained in Basque society to be overcome easily. Even so, he was willing to give peace a chance. "I'm not going to forgive, I'm not going to forget, but I'm not going to oppose the process," he told me. He took a sip of orujo blanco, a strong liquor distilled from white grapes, and gazed upon the Bay of Concha—the crescent of beach, the azure waters framed by forested cliffs, the hundreds of people strolling the promenade at sunset. "After 40 years of Franco's dictatorship, and 40 years of a dictatorship of terror, we want to live in a world without threats, without violence," Landaburu said. "I want peace for my kids, for my grandkids. And for the first time, I think we are going to get it."

Writer Joshua Hammer lives in Berlin. Magnum photographer Christopher Anderson is based in New York City.

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The Basque nationalist clandestine organisation ETA (Euskadi (e)Ta Askatasuna, Basque country and Freedom) emerged in the late 1950s but entered the Spanish national consciousness on December 20, 1973 with the spectacular assassination of the designated political heir of Francisco Franco, Admiral Carrero Blanco. Since the death of Francisco Franco and the end of his dictatorship in 1975, ETA has been the central theme of no less than 50 movies. These films encompass different genres from thrillers, melodramas, comedies and B movies, to social realism and documentaries. Some of these films adopt a clearly militant tone while others strive to introduce a more subtle and reflexive approach to the thorny issues of violence and conflict. Intentionally or not, they are all engaged in some discussions of legitimacy, blame and responsibility as much as they are all imbued with issues of representation, the imaginary and sincerity.They all say something about the changing nature of Spanish and Basque cinematic depictions of ETA and the long lasting Basque conflict.


A direct description of political violence in general and of the Basque clandestine organisation ETA (Euskadi (e)Ta Askatasuna, Basque Country and Freedom) in particular was hardly feasible in Spain before 1975[1], even during the period of relative and gradual liberalisation of the Francoist regime in the 1960s when an alternative and clandestine cinema emerged[2]. After a thorough and relentless film censorship during the first phases of the Spanish dictatorship where only war epics and historical extravaganzas celebrating the glories of Spain and the heroes of the Civil War were funded and promoted, the 1970s and the subsequent political transition after the death of Franco in 1975 open the path to a new era for Spanish cinema but also for a Catalan and Basque film industry. Censorship was abolished in Spain by Royal Decree on 11 November 1977 and that was certainly a pre-condition of the creation of new forms of cinema after decades of scheming obliqueness. Since the now classical films produced in the late 1970s by José Luis Madrid (Comando Txikia, released in 1976), Gillo Pontecovro (Ogro, released in 1979) and Imanol Uribe (The Burgos Trial in 1979 and Escape from Segovia in 1981) until Lasa eta Zabala produced by Pablo Malo and released in 2014, ETA has been the central topic of no less than 50 Spanish and Basque movies [see the list below].

It is not a consistent cinematographic trend since the mid-1970s. The way how ETA and the Basque country have been portrayed in these films changed over time but in many ways it followed the political and social fluctuations of the Basque and Spanish societies themselves. Comando Txikia, Muerte de un Presidente (Commando Txikia, Death of a President), produced in 1976 by José Luis Madrid and Ogro produced by Gillo Pontecorvo  in 1979 are historical reconstructions of the assassination of designated political heir of Francisco Franco, the Admiral Carrero Blanco. With El Processo de Burgos (The Burgos Trial, 1979) by Imanol Uribe dealing with the famous 1970 trial of ETA activists, these are the very first attempts of a liberated Spanish cinema to engage with the most immediate historical moments of a political transition still in the making. They were quite audacious attempts but also perhaps presenting a rather naïvely heroic perspective on ETA and its fights against the Francoist regime. Yet, these films reflect many of the tensions one could feel within the ranks of Basque nationalism by the end the 1970s, caught between the bullet and the ballot box. As such, Imanol Uribe’s La Fuga de Segovia (Escape from Segovia, 1981) reflects the political movement of many Basque radicals from armed resistance under Franco to cultural militancy under democracy. Based on the personal account of the escape by Ángel Amigo Quincoces, Uribe’s film is a turning point in the depiction of ETA toward a less heroic tone and a somewhat more sarcastic critique of Basque nationalism and Spanish democracy that one will found in La Muerte de Mikel produced by Uribe and released in 1984.

The 1980s witnessed a diversification in the cinematographic approaches to ETA and to the political situation in Spain and in the Basque country. Eloy de la Iglesia’s El Pico (The Shoot, 1983) is a steady analysis of the Spanish society and of the Basque political scene through the eyes of a young heroin addict, son of a Guardia Civil officer. Los Reporteros (The Reporters, 1983) directed by Iñaki Aizpuru is also an excellent testimony, between fiction and documentary, of the difficulties experienced by Basque nationalists at the time. It illustrates the difficult choices facing a new generation of Basque intellectuals and artists when the live televising of the aborted military coup of February 23, 1981 in Spain strengthened the view that despite the end of the dictatorship, the sound of Francoist jackboots was pretty much still lingering around. Pedro Costa Muste El caso Almeria (The Almeria Affair, 1983) follows the same inquiry by recreating the trial and conviction for murder of three Civil Guards who had shot three men in cold blood, thinking they were ETA militants. With la Muerte de Mikel (the Death of Mikel, 1984) Imanol Uribe not only confirmed that he was one of the most well-known Basque filmmakers but also opened the path to a wave of more critical and engaged filmmakers. Through the life of an unhappily-married young pharmacist involved in Basque nationalist politics, Imanol Uribe ushers his viewer into the labyrinth of desire, revolutionary politics and violent confrontations[3]. The depiction of the private and political lives of members of ETA and of the tension between loyalty and friendship, affective ties and discipline is also central in Ander y Yul (Ander and Yul) (1989) by Ana Díez. Bizkaiko Golkoa (the Bay of Biscay, 1985) by Javier Rebollo is also quite exemplary of this new cinema emerging in the mid-1980s and interrogating the myths, tensions and the memoir of Basque nationalism. Perhaps far away from that more intellectual movement, Goma-2 (Killing Machine, 1984) by José Antonio de la Loma is still an interesting testimony to that period. Goma-2 is a strange mix of spaghetti western and action packed adventure with a touch of ETA with Chema, an ex-member of the Basque organisation who became a truck driver and embarks on a bloody campaign of revenge. Despite its B movie qualities, Goma-2 is the first commercial film to discuss the issue of pardon and the politics of reinsertion of ex-members of ETA into Spanish society.

The bulk of films emerged at the end of the 1990s and beginning of the 2000s when Spanish society was starting to revisit the consensus on the success-story of the democratic transition[4]. It was also a time when the first demonstrations against ETA’s violence emerged[5]and when dissident prisoners but also ex-members of the Basque clandestine organisation still in exile were publicly expressing strong views on the need to stop the spiral of violence[6]. These films were produced alongside a massive editorial boom in academic and non-academic publications on ETA, the Basque country and the conflict. In the Basque country, the 1990s saw the emergence of a new wave of filmmakers who were keen on introducing a different view on how to portray but also to engage more deeply with the complexities and nuances of Basque nationalism. With Vacas (the Cows, 1991) Julio Medem was perhaps the first to engage in a de-mystification of Basque nationalism and of the Basque conflict.

Three main broad themes emerged in this new cinema dealing with ETA and the Basque country in the 1990s and early 2000s. The first theme is centred on the issue of belonging, commitment and disillusionment but also of sentimental and existential dilemmas with Sombras en Una Batalla (Shadows in a Battle, 1993) by Mario Camus, Uribe’s thriller Días contados (Running Out of Time, 1994), A Ciegas (1997) by Daniel Calparsoro, El viaje de Arián (Arian’s journey) (2000) by Eduard Bosch, Yoyes (2000) by Helena Taberna or the adaptation of Bernardo Atxaga’s novel Zeru horiek (Those Skies) (2005) by Aitzpea Goenaga, Clandestinos (clandestine) (2007) by Antonio Hens and Todos estamos invitados (We are all invited) (2008) by Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón. The second broad theme across the cinematic production of the 1990s is more centred on the intermeshed links between Basque nationalism, Basque geography, the landscape and the transmission of the memory of the conflict and the victims’ testimonies with films such as Vacas (1991) and The Basque Ball: Skin Against Stone (2003), both directed by Julio Medem, States of Terror (2000) by Arthur MacCaig, Trece entre mil (Thirteen Amongst a Thousand, 2005)[7]and El infierno vasco (Basque Inferno, 2008) by Iñaki Arteta, Asesinato en Febrero (Assassination in February, 2001) and Perseguidos (2004) by Eterio Ortega Santillana,  La casa de mi padre (Black Listed) (2008) by Gorka Merchán and Mientras los niños jugaban (While Kids are Playing, 2011) by David Fontseca. The third theme is centred on particular historical re-enactments where filmmakers took different historical events as a point of departure in order to play with the conventions of the documentary and the thriller: El Lobo (Wolf, 2004) and GAL (2006) by Miguel Courtois, Sanfermines 78 (2005) by Juan Gautier and José Ángel Jiménez, Cell 211 (2009) by Daniel Monzón.

This list would be incomplete without mentioning Acción Mutante (Mutant Action, 1993) by Alex de la Iglesia. This film does not really belong to one of these broad categories. It is arguably a unique filmic object in the cinematic landscape mixing science fiction, comedy and film noir[8]. Yet it is a cult classic of the 1990s and the very first attempt to bring comedy to the issue of violence. The protagonists of Acción Mutante are a collection of politically radicalised disabled men who have formed a “mutant action” clandestine group to carry out guerrilla warfare on a culture obsessed with fitness and beauty. 

With ETA’s call for a permanent ceasefire in 2011, perhaps unsurprisingly, the number of films dedicated to the organisation, its history and its actors has increased exponentially. Al final del túnel – Bakerantza (The Light at the End of the Tunnel, 2011) by Eterio Ortega is a full-length documentary about ETA’s ceasefire. Using first-hand testimonies by people whose lives have either revolved or are still revolving around the consequences of the Basque conflict, Eterio Ortega Santillana takes a close look at Basque Nationalist roots and offers spectators a group of experiences, emotions and stand-points that allow us to glimpse the end of suffering and hopes for peace, freedom and reconciliation. Dragoi Ehiztaria (El Cazador de Dragones) (2012) by Patxi Barko is a remarkable fiction on the doubts of a militant of ETA and ¿Por quién no doblan las campanas? (For whom the bell does not toll? 2012) by Maite Ibáñez tackles the memories of violence in the late period of the Francoist regime. Umezurtzak (The Orphans) (2013) directed by Ernesto del Río focuses on how past events disturb the memory and the possibility of forgiveness while Asier ETA biok (Asier and I, 2013) by Aitor Merino and Amaia Merino tells the story of the friendship between Aitor and Asier Aranguren from their time growing up together in the conflict-affected and politicized 1980 of Pamplona; One became a filmmaker and the other joined ETA.

This outburst of new documentaries and movies does not mean that this effort of depiction of political violence in general, and of ETA in particular, is universally accepted. It took four years and a great deal of difficulty for Helena Taberna to realise her film on Yoyes (2000) and to see her work recognised[9]. In 2003 Julio Medem’s Basque documentary La pelota Vasca (Basque ball) sparked bitter controversy:

La pelota vasca, from its premiere, triggered an irrational, violent response in many sectors of the Spanish state and some sectors of the Basque Country, particularly from the conservative Partido Popular (PP) both within and outside the Basque Country”[10].

When in May 2015 Jordi Évole interviewed the ex-member of ETA Iñaki Rekarte on his popular Spanish show “Salvados”, it set the social networks alight[11]. In a recent interview for CNCine (National Film Board of Ecuador), Amaia Merino, co-author with her brother Aitor of Asier ETA biok (Asier and I) expressed her view on the situation:

One has to keep in mind that for the Spanish State, ETA is taboo. It provokes discomfort and, why should I  not say it, visceral hatred. Everything is confused and through the State’s discourses and the media everyone is pushed to believe that independence and ETA are the same. It encourages the idea that being Basque means to be part of ETA and that ETA is a band of murderers who kill because they are mad and sick or because they are poor and thugs. It is so simple and so unreal”[12].

The judgment might be harsh considering the extraordinary and diversified production of Spanish and Basque movies on ETA. Yet, it says something extremely important about the pervasive nature of the conflict that these 50 movies echo perfectly: any depiction of the violence goes with views on the conflict. As noted earlier, these films encompass a wide range of genres. Some of these films and filmmakers have achieved international recognition such as El processo de Burgos (The Burgos Trial, 1979) by Imanol Uribe, Ogro (1979) by Gillo Pontecorvo, Yoyes (1999) by Helena Taberna, La pelota Vasca (Basque ball, 2003) by Julio Medem or Trece entre Mil (Thirteen among a Thousand, 2005) by Iñaki Arteta. Others such as Los Reporteros (The Reporters, 1983) directed by Iñaki Aizpuru, Goma-2 (1984) by José Antonio de la Loma or Bizkaiko Golkoa (1985) by Javier Rebollo are still rather unfamiliar outside the ranks of Spanish or Basque cinema aficionados. Some of these films are adopting a rather clear militant tone while others strive to introduce a more reflexive approach to the thorny issue of violence and conflict. Intentionally or not, they are all engaged in some discussions of legitimacy, blame and responsibility as much as they are all imbued with issues of representation, the imaginary and sincerity. They all say something about the changing nature of Spanish and Basque cinematic depiction of ETA, but also, and perhaps more importantly, they all say something about the complexity of a Basque conflict which is both imagined and performed and not over yet.


Big screen – list of the Spanish and Basque films on ETA

What follow is a chronological (and almost comprehensive) list of Spanish and Basque films in which ETA and the conflict in the Basque country are the main subject matter and characters:
  1. Comando Txikia (Muerte de un presidente)(1976) by José Luis Madrid
  2. The Burgos Trial (1979) by Imanol Uribe
  3. Ogro (1979) by Gillo Pontecorvo
  4. Escape from Segovia (1981) by Imanol Uribe
  5. Los reporteros (1983) directed by Iñaki Aizpuru
  6. El Pico (1983) by Eloy de la Iglesia
  7. La muerte de Mikel (1984) by Imanol Uribe
  8. Goma-2 (1984) by José Antonio de la Loma
  9. Golfo de Vizcaya-Bizkaiko golkoa (1985) by Javier Rebollo
  10. Ehun metro (one hundred meters)(1986) by Alfonso Ungría
  11. Ander y Yul (Ander and Yul)(1989) by Ana Díez
  12. Vacas (1991) by Julio Medem
  13. Sombras en una batalla (1993) by Mario Camus
  14. Acción mutante (1993) by Alex de la Iglesia
  15. Running Out of Time (1994) by Imanol Uribe
  16. A ciegas (1997) by Daniel Calparsoro
  17. Yoyes (1999) by Helena Taberna
  18. El viaje de Arián (Arian’s journey) (2000) by Eduard Bosch
  19. States of Terror (2000) by Arthur MacCaig
  20. Asesinato en Febrero (assassination in February) (2001) by Eterio Ortega Santillana
  21. The Basque Ball: Skin Against Stone (2003) by Julio Medem
  22. El Lobo (Wolf)(2004) by Miguel Courtois
  23. Perseguidos (2004) by Eterio Ortega Santillana
  24. Olvidados (Forgotten)(2004) by Iñaki Arteta
  25. Trece entre mil (2005) by Iñaki Arteta
  26. Zeru horiek (Those skies) (2005) by Aitzpea Goenaga
  27. Sanfermines 78 (2005) by Juan Gautier and José Ángel Jiménez
  28. GAL(2006) by Miguel Courtois
  29. Clandestinos (Clandestine) (2007) by Antonio Hens
  30. El infierno vasco(Basque Inferno) (2008) by Iñaki Arteta
  31. Todos estamos invitados(we are all invited) (2008) by Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón
  32. Tiro en la cabeza (Bullet in the Head) (2008) by Jaime Rosales
  33. The Broken Window(2008) by Eñaut Tolosa and Hammudi Al-Rahmoun Font
  34. La casa de mi padre (Black Listed) (2008) by Gorka Merchán
  35. 48 horas (48 hours) (2008) by Manuel Estudillo
  36. Cell 211(2009) by Daniel Monzón
  37. Tchang (2010) by Gonzalo Visedo and Daniel Strömbeck
  38. El precio de la libertad (The price of freedom) (2011) by Ana Murugarren
  39. The Light at the End of the Tunnel in the Basque Country(2011) by Eterio Ortega
  40. El asesinato de Carrero Blanco (The assassination of Carrero Blanco) (2011) by Miguel Bardem
  41. Mientras los niños jugaban(2011) by David Fontseca
  42. Dragoi ehiztaria (El cazador de dragones) (2012) by Patxi Barko
  43. ¿Por quién no doblan las campanas? (2012) by Maite Ibáñez
  44. Barrura begiratzeko leihoak(2012) by Josu Martinez and Eneko Olasagasti
  45. Umezurtzak (The Orphans) (2013) by Ernesto del Río
  46. Asier ETA biok (Asier and I) (2013) by Aitor Merino and Amaia Merino
  47. Lasa eta Zabala (Lasa and Zabala) (2014) by Pablo Malo
  48. Echevarriatik – Etxeberriara (2014) by Ander Iriarte
  49. Negociador (negotiator) (2014) by Borja Cobeaga
  50. Fuego (Fire) (2014) by Luis Marías

[1].  Jordan, Barry, and Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas. Contemporary Spanish Cinema. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998

[2]. Miguel Fernández Labayen & Xose Prieto Souto (2012) Film workshops in Spain: Oppositional practices, alternative film cultures and the transition to democracy, Studies in European Cinema, 8(3): 227-242; Roselló, Roberto Arnau. “los Colectivos cinematográficos en la Espana Tardofranquista: militancias, transgresiones y resistencias”, Doc On-Line: Revista Digital de Cinema Documentário 15 (2013). Available online at : http://www.doc.ubi.pt/15/artigos_roberto_arnau.pdf

[3]. Davies, Ann. “Male Sexuality and Basque Separatism in Two Films by Imanol Uribe.” Hispanic Research Journal 4.2 (2003): 121-132. Evans, Jo. “Imanol Uribe’s La muerte de Mikel: Policing the Gaze/Mind the Gap.” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 76, no. 1 (1999): 101-109

[4]. Omar G. Encarnación (2014) Democracy Without Justice in Spain: The Politics of Forgetting. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press

[5]. Funes, Maria J. “Social Responses to Political Violence in the Basque Country Peace Movements and Their Audience”, Journal of Conflict Resolution 42, no. 4 (1998): 493-510

[6] . El Pais, “Un preso ‘histórico’ de ETA pide a la organización que acabe la violencia”, 15th of November 1990; Isidro Etxabe Urrestilla (aka Zumai) is the first, while being in jail, to declare publicly the need to stop the violence. See http://elpais.com/diario/1990/11/15/espana/658623608_850215.html

[7]. Mitchell, PhiliP. “Remembering the present: Iñaki Arteta’s Trece Entre Mil and the transmission of grief.” Studies in Hispanic Cinemas (new title: Studies in Spanish & Latin American Cinemas) 8, no. 1 (2012): 3-18

[8]. Buse, Peter, Núria Triana-Toribio, and Andrew Willis. The cinema of Álex de la Iglesia. Manchester University Press, 2007

[9]. Larreta, Carlos Roldán. “’Yoyes’: historia y vicisitudes de un proyecto cinematográfico”, Sancho el sabio: Revista de cultura e investigación vasca 34 (2011): 135-158

[10]. Labanyi, Jo, and Tatjana Pavlović, (eds.) A companion to Spanish cinema, John Wiley & Sons, 2012, p.93

[11]. http://elpais.com/elpais/2015/05/13/inenglish/1431509510_541863.html

[12]. http://www.cncine.gob.ec/cncine.php?c=1341

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