Spain’s New Old Flag
By JONATHAN BLITZER
MADRID — Every Thursday evening, in the middle of the Puerta del Sol, a small crowd gathers around an equestrian statue of King Carlos III to stage a modest protest. There are rarely more than 25 people, most of them in their 70s. The first thing several of them do is unfurl a banner that reads: “Against impunity, in solidarity with the victims of Francoism.”
Then, a few others hoist up the tricolor flag of Spain’s Second Republic. Its yellow, red and purple bands hearken back to an era of democratic promise. That tumultuous period, which began in 1931 with the election of a left-leaning coalition that sent King Alfonso XIII into exile, had its share of political squabbles and reactionary violence. But it also brought heady euphoria and a raft of egalitarian reforms. A new constitution enshrined women’s suffrage and freedom of speech, while stripping the nobility of its erstwhile privileges.
Those days had a palpable air of reformist zeal and ambition. Today, amid a painful recession and a crisis of political leadership, the promise of that bygone era has a renewed purchase.
The Spanish public is reeling. But unlike in the years of the Second Republic, much of the drama revolves around what seems to be happening outsideSpain. National politicians have been reduced to beleaguered spectators. The Republican flag is a bedeviling, homegrown symbol underlining the enervated state of the current political class.
Under the circumstances, its relevance and meaning are shifting. Until recently, older Spaniards who remember the years of the dictator Francisco Franco, just after the Second Republic, regarded the Republican flag with a mix of pained nostalgia and a flash of activist fervor. And Spaniards born after democracy was restored in the late 1970s tended to think of it more as a recondite artifact than a galvanizing symbol. Now it’s making a comeback with them, too, thanks to the growing democracy deficit in the European Union generally, and in Spain specifically.
At public demonstrations against austerity measures, an ever diverse array of protestors, including young people, wave the old tricolor. As the journalist Javier Valenzuela told me, “Young people in their 20s and up are identifying the flag as a symbol of protest against the current state of affairs.”
Bearers of the Republican flag at public demonstrations say it has a range of meanings. Some cite historical memory of the atrocities of the Civil War and its enduring legacy of unburied enmities. Others, drawing on the history of the Second Republic, mention the waning prestige of the Spanish monarchy.
Still more carry it to rallies as a call for economic justice at a time when the government is doing nothing about the widening gap between the rich and the poor — a chief issue also during the early years of the Republic. As one activist remarked: “The question shouldn’t be ‘Why are we seeing so many more Republican flags now?’ It should be ‘Why weren’t we seeing more of them in the years before?’”
The flag is, crucially, a catchall. In the current political morass it’s hard for engaged citizens to know where exactly to take aim with a pointed critique. So much seems to be going wrong. The Republican flag invites and sustains activism while also keeping criticism flexible and open-ended.
Last Thursday, at around 7 p.m., two 18-year-olds walked to the center of the Puerta del Sol. One of them was carrying a backpack. She paused for a moment, as if she were having second thoughts, but at her friend’s prodding she unzipped her bag and pulled out a Republican flag. She draped it over her shoulders and joined the group of elder protestors.
“Why this flag? Why now?” I asked her. ”It’s because I don’t identify with the current Spanish flag,” she said. Then, gesturing to the flag of old hanging off her shoulders, she shrugged: “I feel closer to this one.”
MADRID — Every Thursday evening, in the middle of the Puerta del Sol, a small crowd gathers around an equestrian statue of King Carlos III to stage a modest protest. There are rarely more than 25 people, most of them in their 70s. The first thing several of them do is unfurl a banner that reads: “Against impunity, in solidarity with the victims of Francoism.”
Then, a few others hoist up the tricolor flag of Spain’s Second Republic. Its yellow, red and purple bands hearken back to an era of democratic promise. That tumultuous period, which began in 1931 with the election of a left-leaning coalition that sent King Alfonso XIII into exile, had its share of political squabbles and reactionary violence. But it also brought heady euphoria and a raft of egalitarian reforms. A new constitution enshrined women’s suffrage and freedom of speech, while stripping the nobility of its erstwhile privileges.
Those days had a palpable air of reformist zeal and ambition. Today, amid a painful recession and a crisis of political leadership, the promise of that bygone era has a renewed purchase.
The Spanish public is reeling. But unlike in the years of the Second Republic, much of the drama revolves around what seems to be happening outsideSpain. National politicians have been reduced to beleaguered spectators. The Republican flag is a bedeviling, homegrown symbol underlining the enervated state of the current political class.
Under the circumstances, its relevance and meaning are shifting. Until recently, older Spaniards who remember the years of the dictator Francisco Franco, just after the Second Republic, regarded the Republican flag with a mix of pained nostalgia and a flash of activist fervor. And Spaniards born after democracy was restored in the late 1970s tended to think of it more as a recondite artifact than a galvanizing symbol. Now it’s making a comeback with them, too, thanks to the growing democracy deficit in the European Union generally, and in Spain specifically.
At public demonstrations against austerity measures, an ever diverse array of protestors, including young people, wave the old tricolor. As the journalist Javier Valenzuela told me, “Young people in their 20s and up are identifying the flag as a symbol of protest against the current state of affairs.”
Bearers of the Republican flag at public demonstrations say it has a range of meanings. Some cite historical memory of the atrocities of the Civil War and its enduring legacy of unburied enmities. Others, drawing on the history of the Second Republic, mention the waning prestige of the Spanish monarchy.
Still more carry it to rallies as a call for economic justice at a time when the government is doing nothing about the widening gap between the rich and the poor — a chief issue also during the early years of the Republic. As one activist remarked: “The question shouldn’t be ‘Why are we seeing so many more Republican flags now?’ It should be ‘Why weren’t we seeing more of them in the years before?’”
The flag is, crucially, a catchall. In the current political morass it’s hard for engaged citizens to know where exactly to take aim with a pointed critique. So much seems to be going wrong. The Republican flag invites and sustains activism while also keeping criticism flexible and open-ended.
Last Thursday, at around 7 p.m., two 18-year-olds walked to the center of the Puerta del Sol. One of them was carrying a backpack. She paused for a moment, as if she were having second thoughts, but at her friend’s prodding she unzipped her bag and pulled out a Republican flag. She draped it over her shoulders and joined the group of elder protestors.
“Why this flag? Why now?” I asked her. ”It’s because I don’t identify with the current Spanish flag,” she said. Then, gesturing to the flag of old hanging off her shoulders, she shrugged: “I feel closer to this one.”
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