Homeland (Patria) (2019)
Fernando Aramburu (1959)
Translated from the Spanish by Alfred MacAdam
592 pages
The complex social dynamics of internecine conflicts can often remain profoundly inscrutable to those not directly impacted. Though the broad outlines of the political motivations may be clear, the intensity of the resulting violence and the ability, despite that ongoing violence, of a relatively small core group to maintain the support over decades of the broader community in which they operate can seem nearly incomprehensible to those not intimately involved. And all this can be particularly perplexing given the apparent desire of the vast majority of people to want to simply live in peace, going about the quotidian business their lives.
As a case in point, the Basque separatist movement in north-eastern Spain, along the Atlantic coast around the border with France has stood out – a bewildering tragedy mostly reported on internationally in the wake of a deadly attack. Led for over half-a-century by ETA (Basque Homeland and Liberty), the main political goal of the group was relatively straightforward: a desire to separate from Spain and form an independent Basque homeland. Less clear is how they continued to maintain local support over such a long period as the violence – involving executions and bombings – expanded from attacks on government officials and the security forces, to include business people and others in the private sector, and even targeted Basques not felt to be sufficiently supportive of the movement; then, too, the violence also inevitably led to ever more aggressive reactions within these communities from national security forces.
To better understand situations such as this one, an outsider could turn to history books that explore in detail a movement’s political motivations, the violence it perpetrated and the social and economic consequences for local communities. But that kind of factual analysis can struggle to give an appreciation for the complexity of the cultural and psychological dynamics that lead young people into such groups and that underpin the support these groups get from so many in the local population – whether from ‘true believers’ or from the larger set of those cowed into silence despite their reservations. And the profound impact on those touched – directly or indirectly – by the ongoing violence of such conflicts can also be difficult to make evident. For a deeper understanding of these aspects, one can often more profitably turn to fictional accounts that explore the situation up close, from the perspective of individuals caught up in the unfolding calamity. The best such works provide a clear-eyed depiction of the whole through a nuanced portrait of the details.
Just such a feat regarding the history of the impact of ETA’s violent role in the Basque conflict of the past half century has been accomplished by the Spanish writer Fernando Aramburu, with his amazing novel Homeland. Through the experiences of two families in a small town south of San Sebastián (in Basque: Donostia), the capital city of one of the provinces of the Basque Autonomous Community of Spain, he explores the social complexities that arose from how deeply embedded the ETA movement was into daily life in the local communities of the Basque region.
At the heart of the story are the matriarchs of the two families, Bittori and Miren. Inseparable childhood friends who in their youth had considered entering a convent together, they ended up instead marrying, and their husbands over time also become best friends, regularly found together at the local pub drinking and playing cards, as well as riding with the local community bicycle touring club. Eventually Bittori has a son and a daughter, and Miren two boys and a girl, and the families end up spending significant time together as the children grow up, including attending local festivals and events.
But as the children grow into early adulthood, differences creep into the families’ relationship, differences that, as is so often the case, can be papered over when things are going well but become festering wounds when conflict arises. For one, Bittori’s husband Txato becomes a relatively well-off businessman in the small town as the owner of a trucking company while Miren’s husband remains a poor factory worker. Although Bittori and Txato don’t intentionally flaunt the wealth they’ve acquired, every vacation they mention and every trinket they buy for their friends’ children makes a tiny, but enduring and corrosive mark on Miren’s pride.
Then, in a community in which ETA has a strong presence, and even those who are not supporters attend the rallies and demonstrations out of a distinct fear of standing out if they don’t show up, one of Miren’s sons gradually becomes involved with the organization. Slowly, inexorably, he graduates without conscious commitment from participating in demonstrations with his friends, to acting out, to more serious violence – before suddenly being forced to escape the police by taking the only path he knows: entering more deeply into ETA. Thus, while Bittori and her family view the organization with disdain, Miren confronts a more complex reality.
All this eventually comes to a head some years later, when graffiti begins appearing on the walls around town accusing Txato of being a police informant and traitor to the Basque cause. He and his family suddenly become ostracized by the townspeople as none are willing to risk the wrath of ETA, especially in such a small town in which everyone knows one another. To Bittori and her family’s shock, this rejection comes also from Miren, for whom the fact of having a son in ETA has led her to harden her heart – her mother’s love allowing no doubts to exist in her mind about her son and his cause. As we learn already in the opening chapters, a crushing moment of violence sends both families spinning wildly apart, each on their own destructive trajectory; and yet their deeply intertwined past leaves them with seemingly unbreakable ties that continue to weigh heavily on them. Can they find peace, forgive the seemingly unforgiveable?
For readers not directly connected to Spain and the Basque conflict, hearing about the unremitting series of deadly attacks – whether in this novel or in the news – for what seems like a political dispute can leave one with a clear judgement of ETA as the more guilty party in what occurs. Certainly the words of Christopher Hitchens in his essay Letters to a Young Contrarian seem both relevant and reasonable:
In some ways I feel sorry for … fanatics, because they so much miss the point of being human, and deserve a sort of pity. But then I harden my heart, and decide to hate them all the more, because of the misery they inflict and because of the contemptible excuses they advance for doing so. (109)In that vein, it can be easy to view the Basque conflict in a simple dichotomy of good and evil, and for an author to write a story with characters similarly sharply defined.
But Aramburu has done readers the immense favor of foreswearing a simplistic perspective on the situation as he explores it through his novel. In Homeland he presents his characters as deeply flawed and vulnerable: some react with merciless anger and spite, while others try to ignore the reality by turning inward or leaving home behind. But he demonstrates that these same characters can eventually grow and learn and change, rising above their past feelings to find some measure of understanding, mercy and forgiveness in their hearts. In short, he presents them as human beings, with all the complexity that that entails. The result is a story that provides a nuanced portrait of the conflict, of youth caught up in the violent program of a pitiless organization, a community impacted by its presence and its acts, and the victimization that results on all sides.
Through his story he demonstrates that it is possible to understand, to strive to understand, the reasons for why someone does something – anything, really – without necessarily countenancing their behavior.
To be clear, however, Aramburu does not trivialize the violence, or excuse the community that, through their silence, tolerates it and allows it to happen. Late in the novel, in response to the brutal event at the heart of the story, a character notes:
In my village people are probably saying in low voices so no one hears them that this is savagery, useless bloodshed, you don’t build a nation that way. But no one will lift a finger. By now they’re already hosed down the street so there won’t be a trace of the crime. And tomorrow there will be whispering in the air, but deep down it will be business as usual. People will turn out for the next demonstration in favor of ETA, knowing that they’d better be seen with the rest of the herd. That’s the price you pay to live in peace in the land of the silent. (426)
And, in fact, among the many heartrending aspects of the story – the senseless violence against an innocent, the seemingly inexorable radicalization of a young man, the heart-breaking dissolution of lifetime friendships – perhaps the most disturbing and dispiriting is the recognition of the culpability “of the herd” and “the price you pay to live in peace in the land of the silent.” The power of a few radicals willing to resort at any moment to brutal violence cows many if not most into quiet, compliant submission in the community. Easy enough for a reader to condemn in the abstract context of a distant conflict, but each must wonder what our reaction would be, if confronted by the same circumstances, the same decisions.
In constructing his novel, Aramburu has used a particularly effective structure – splitting the story into 125 chapters of a few pages each, and moving back and forth in time within the several decades covered by the story. Thus a reader often comes to learn of consequences before detailed causes, gets brief glimpses into each character’s life before shifting again to the next one, and so only slowly over the course of the book comes to see and understand the full complexity of their lives, of their relationships with one another, and the variety and challenges of their experience. His approach teaches – forces – readers to withhold judgement, to wait until more of the puzzle pieces are in place, before drawing final conclusions about motivations and intent.
And so ultimately this book about the Basque conflict is really a story about humanity, wherever we may live. We must each confront our own choices and motivations, in the face of the injustice and inequality we see around us, of whatever form.
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The priest in Aramburu’s story comes across as particularly compliant to ETA and its power in the community. At one point, trying to comfort Miren, he tells her that:
[God] made us Basques the way we are, tenacious in our purposes, hardworking, and firm in the idea of a sovereign nation. For that reason, I would go so far as to assert that on us has fallen the Christian mission of defending our identity, therefore our culture, and above all our language. … I say to you, completely honestly, our struggle isn’t only just. It’s necessary… (286)The priest’s claim that the Basques have “the Christian mission of defending our identity”, and that by implication the violent means ETA uses “isn’t only just … it’s necessary,” reminds me of the preacher in Mark Twain’s The War Prayer, who, as his congregation’s sons march off to war claims God’s preference for his countrymen, beseeching
Lord our God,Arambaru’s priest needs a visit from the “aged stranger” who then enters the church as the preacher completes his lecture, stands before the congregation, and once the preacher finishes, says
Father and Protector
of our land and flag!
I come from the Throne –He tells the congregation the other side of what they and their preachers are requesting, the violent destruction they are wishing on their enemies, who, he reminds them, are also God’s creatures.
bearing a message from Almighty God!
But, of course, Twain’s story concludes: “It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.” And, so it would likely go with someone trying to convince the priest and his congregation in the small town to reconsider their stand.
(My review of Twain’s story The War Prayer here.)
Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
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