by Dan Hancox
First published by Verso 2013
Text © Dan Hancox
Photographs © Dave Stelfox 2013
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
Verso
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ISBN-13: 978-1-78168-130-5
eISBN (US): 978-1-78168-188-6
eISBN (UK): 978-1-78168-499-3
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A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
v3.1
To Javi. Seriously, let me get the next round.
No one can stop us. There is not enough blood, nor enough walls, to prevent that one day, land, rights, and, of course, liberty will be achieved by everyone.
Marinaleda: Andaluces, levantaos,
Juan Manuel Sánchez Gordillo, 1980
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
1. Meet the Village
2. The Story in the Soil
3. La Lucha
4. The Land Belongs to Those Who Work It
5. Bread and Roses
6. Opposition in Utopia
7. The Village Against the Crisis
8. The End of Utopia?
Acknowledgements
1
Meet the Village
For as long as human beings have dreamed, they have dreamed of creating a better world. The year 2016 will mark the 500th anniversary of Thomas More’s Utopia, his short book describing the fictional island of Utopia, a regimented but model community, whose name in Greek means ‘no place’. In the contemporary imagination, utopia has usually meant exactly this – no place real at any rate; nowhere actually existing. A utopia is a projection of our disappointment with the real world around us, a photo-negative of its manifold injustices, and our weaknesses as a species. We are always disappointed, so we dream of better.
We are used to the idea of utopia as an imagined place. It’s often a community located in an alternative, fictional reality; on earth, or in another universe. A made-up world, where the plot twist is often that although this place seems like paradise, it is really built on lies and horror. The stories we tell ourselves are full of cautionary tales that not only is building paradise an impossibility – even attempting to build it is dangerous and hubristic. Aim high, and you will fall further.
If it’s not a projection into a made-up world, utopia is an idealised vision of the future, a manifestation of a political or religious project, a blueprint for how we should all live our lives – and one day, if you would only join the party, or the church, perhaps we all will. These, like the literary utopias, are usually abstract intellectual exercises, rather than concrete attempts to forge a new community. But what if you actually tried to build utopia? How do you go from a fevered dream, an aspirational blueprint, to concrete reality?
In 2004, I was leafing through a travel guide to Andalusia while on holiday in Seville, and read a fleeting reference to a small, remote village called Marinaleda – a unique place, ‘a communist utopia’ of revolutionary farm labourers, it said. I was immediately fascinated, but I could find almost no details to feed my fascination. There was so little information about the village available beyond that short summary, either in the guidebook, on the internet, or on the lips of strangers I met in Seville. ‘Ah yes, the strange little communist village, the utopia’, a few of them said. But none of them had visited, or knew anyone who had – and no one could tell me whether it really was a utopia. The best anyone could do was to add the information that it had a charismatic, eccentric mayor, with a prophet’s beard and an almost demagogic presence, called Juan Manuel Sánchez Gordillo.
Eventually I found out more. The first part of Marinaleda’s miracle is that when their struggle to create utopia began, in the late 1970s, it was from a position of abject poverty. The village was suffering over 60 per cent unemployment; it was a farming community with no land, its people frequently forced to go without food for days at a time, in a period of Spanish history mired in uncertainty after the death of the fascist dictator General Franco. The second part of Marinaleda’s miracle is that over three extraordinary decades, they won. Some distance along that remarkable journey of struggle and sacrifice, in 1985, Sánchez Gordillo told the newspaper El País:
We have learned that it is not enough to define utopia, nor is it enough to fight against the reactionary forces. One must build it here and now, brick by brick, patiently but steadily, until we can make the old dreams a reality: that there will be bread for all, freedom among citizens, and culture; and to be able to read with respect the word ‘peace’. We sincerely believe that there is no future that is not built in the present.
As befits a rebel icon, Sánchez Gordillo is fond of quoting Che Guevara; specifically Che’s maxim that ‘only those who dream will someday see their dreams converted to reality’. As I was to discover, in one small village in southern Spain, this isn’t just a t-shirt slogan.
The heart of Andalusia is a wild place. For many years, the centre of this great region was ‘the cradle of banditry’, where the infamous bandoleros roamed. They were the celebrities of their day, the people’s heroes who robbed from the rich and gave, occasionally, to the poor. Centred around the Sierra Sur mountains, it is an area historically populated by vast tracts of farmland, impoverished landless labourers and popular outlaws – and arrayed against them, the aristocratic landlords, the bourgeois political class, and the hired goons of the powerful: the detested military police force, the Guardia Civil. Spain, wrote Albert Camus, is ‘the native land of the rebel, where the greatest masterpieces are cries uttered towards the impossible’, and those cries resound loudest of all in Andalusia.
Andalusia is the second largest of Spain’s seventeen autonomous communities, and a region which is much more than a region – it’s a sin of omission to call it ‘the southern bit of Spain’. Andalusia has a unique culture and politics, and, more than anything, a unique personality. Its history is marked by a succession of class wars and civil wars, invasions, conquests, uprisings, mutinies and riots, where in spite of these sporadic, often violent disruptions, the quiet but unadorned rhythms of peasant life have remained largely unchanged for millennia. The latest disturbance brought down upon the heads of the Andalusian people is, like the Inquisition, the Reconquista and the Spanish Civil War before it, one they had no responsibility for.
In spring 2013 unemployment in Andalusia is a staggering 36 per cent; for those aged sixteen to twenty-four, the figure is above 55 per cent – figures worse even than the egregious national average. The construction industry boom of the 2000s saw the coast cluttered with cranes and encouraged a generation to skip the end of school and take the €40,000-a-year jobs on offer on the building sites. That work is gone, and nothing is going to replace it. With the European Central Bank looming ominously over his shoulder, Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy has introduced labour reforms to make it much easier for businesses to sack their employees, quickly and with less compensation, and these new laws are now cutting swathes through the Spanish workforce in private and public sectors alike.
Spain experienced a massive housing boom from 1996 to 2008. The price of property per square metre tripled in those twelve years: its scale is now tragically
reflected in its crisis. Nationally, up to 400,000 families have been evicted since 2008. Again, it is especially acute in the south: forty families a day in Andalusia have been turfed out of their homes by the banks. To make matters worse, under Spanish housing law, when you’re evicted by your mortgage lender, that isn’t the end of it: you have to keep paying the mortgage. In final acts of helplessness, suicides by homeowners on the brink of foreclosure have become horrifyingly common – on more than one occasion, while the bailiffs have been coming up the stairs, evictees have hurled themselves out of upstairs windows.
When people refer to la crisis in Spain they mean the Eurozone crisis, an economic crisis; but the term means more than that. It is a systemic crisis, a political ecology crack’d from side to side: a crisis of seemingly endemic corruption across the country’s elites, including politicians, bankers, royals and bureaucrats, and a crisis of faith in the democratic settlement established after the death of Franco in 1975. A poll conducted by the (state-run) Spanish Centre for Sociological Research, in December 2012, found that 67.5 per cent of Spaniards said they were unhappy with the way their democracy works. It’s this disdain for the Spanish state in general, rather than merely the effects of the economic crisis, that brought eight million indignados onto the streets in the spring and summer of 2011, and informed their rallying cry ¡Democracia Real YA!: real democracy now.
Even before the crisis descended on Spain, the wealth gap in Andalusia was a chasm. It has been so forever. It is a region where mass rural pauperism exists alongside vast aristocratic estates – the latifundios, the South-American-style mega-estates owned by the Spanish nobility. It’s an often-repeated bit of southern rural mythology that you can walk all the way from Seville, the Andalusian capital, to the northern coast of Spain without ever leaving the land of the notorious Duchess of Alba, a woman thought to have more titles than anyone else in the world. While 22.5 per cent of her fellow Spaniards are forced to survive on only €500 a month, the duquesa is estimated to be worth €3.2 billion – and still receives €3 million a year in EU farm subsidies.
In one small village in Andalusia’s wild heart, there lies stability and order. Like Asterix’s village impossibly holding out against the Romans, in this tiny pueblo a great empire has met its match, in a ragtag army of boisterous upstarts yearning for liberty. The bout seems almost laughably unfair – Marinaleda’s population is 2,700, Spain’s is 47 million – and yet the empire has lost, time and time again.
Sixty miles east of the regional capital, Seville, ninety miles from Granada and its Alhambra, sixty-five miles inland from Malaga and the Costa del Sol, surrounded by endless expanses of farmland, sits Marinaleda. The nearest ‘big town’, with supermarkets and roundabouts and other such urban affectations, is Estepa, six miles away – and even its population is only 12,000. Marinaleda’s bus stop sees two buses a day, one going to Seville and one coming the other way, and there is no train route for miles around. But then Marinaleda is not really on the way to anywhere.
Nothing is known of any possible Roman, Carthaginian or Moorish forebears, although these peoples left quite a mark on the rest of the region. The first record of the village’s existence is in the early 1600s, as part of the Marquis of Estepa’s farmlands, when landless labourers toiling over the wheat and olive crops set up there to be closer to their work, and to the water from the nearby Salado Creek.
Driving through the south, it can be hard to spot the signs of the crisis that is ravaging it. The olive plantations cover Andalusia in a sprawling camouflage, like those big nets army cadets have to crawl under, roughly stitched together and spread out like a blanket over the gentle undulations of the landscape. Occasional wheat fields and almond or orange trees interrupt the olive rows, along with some empty fields, lying fallow for four years or more while the soil replenishes itself. Sometimes a farmhouse nestles amid this pattern, many of which are ruins from another era, ceilings gone, half-crumbled walls adorned with chipped whitewash and graffiti.
Although Marinaleda is in a part of Andalusia known as the Sierra Sur, the southern highlands, here on the broad plain of the Genil River there is only one range of any significant elevation for miles around. High up one of these hills sits Estepa; if you climb up just a little from the town centre, you can see across whole regions. On my first visit to Estepa, I met a young woman from Oregon called Robyn, who was doing a year’s English teaching in Andalusia. With some Spanish friends we went for a walk up to the top, to look down on the fields and see if we could spot Marinaleda.
The air up there was packed with invisible dust. It tingled on the tongue and constantly assailed the skin – the dust in this part of the world is impossible to ignore, especially if you’re not used to it. Robyn was more than familiar with it, but had just returned from a short holiday in the UK, and the sudden change from the all-pervasive London damp to Andalusia’s bone-dry winter air chapped her lips to the point that they were actually bleeding. She dabbed the blood away, but it just kept coming.
You have to go further south than the Sierra Sur before you encounter clear reminders that this land was once the Al-Andalus of the Moorish Caliphs. South, towards Granada and the coast, where some of the road signs are written in English and Arabic as well as Spanish, and there are advertisements for ferry tickets from Algeciras for Morocco, and North African restaurants and coffee houses. Even when Andalusia’s extraordinary history is concealed from view, a great deal has endured for centuries – in the day-to-day life and spirit of the people, and the attachment to the land.
Looking south across Marinaleda from my landlord Antonio’s whitewashed balcony, which is a heat trap even when the temperature peaks at sixteen degrees Celsius, as it normally does in winter, the only visible difference from a century ago are the spiky TV aerials, the spindly church weathervanes of this predominantly secular community. Otherwise, the residential part of the village appears the same as it ever was. The leaves on the orange trees stir reluctantly in the intermittent breeze, a chicken wanders past a man in blue overalls turning over the soil in his vegetable garden.
Little of the farming is actually done directly next to the village. El Humoso, the 1,200-hectare farm owned by the village co-operative, is several miles away. However, there is one olive oil processing plant in the village itself, providing a heavenly scent to counterbalance the exhaust fumes from the main road. And on the fringes of the village there are numerous big sheds and garages with dark, open interiors and clumsy, lethal-looking farm equipment. Tractors and trailers and things with big metal teeth and spikes – and occasionally sparks from the soldering iron. Then there is the sizeable vegetable processing and canning factory on the edge of the village, built to create more work for the co-operative in the 1990s, proudly adorned with massive paintings of pimentos and artichokes.
If you stand in the right spot near La Bodega, the restaurant on the very edge of the village, the factory building blocks out Estepa, to the south, and you really could be in the only village in the world. The hills behind Estepa, once swarming with bandits, are the only bumps in the skyline you can see from Marinaleda, and even those are usually obscured when you’re in the midst of the village. If you head further out, towards and beyond Marinaleda’s cemetery, with its twelve-foot walls and centuries of resting Carmens and Antonios, and walk through the fields to the north, on the dirt tracks across slender, underwatered streams, you can see Estepa much better: the parent town sitting prettily on the balcony surveying the region, the basin below.
It may be a household name in Spain today, but it was not until the late twentieth century that Marinaleda gained any notoriety. The village’s first victories came during a different systemic crisis, one which exists in the living memory of many: the aftermath of a fascist dictatorship. In 1975, thirty-six years after his brutal victory in the Spanish Civil War, General Francisco Franco finally passed away. He left Andalusia in a wretched state: aside from the embryonic construction and tourism industries on the Cost
a del Sol – the profits from which rarely enriched the locals – the region was bereft of industrial development, and of investment generally. As a region historically home to rebellious peasant farmers, scourges of the kind of central authority Franco embodied, and his enemies in the 1936–39 Civil War, he had been happy to let it rot.
In the ensuing chaos of the dictator’s death, while his friends and enemies manoeuvred to address the power vacuum in Madrid, the small community of poor, mostly landless farm labourers in Marinaleda began to pursue their own unique version of la Transición. At the time, 90 per cent of landless day labourers, known in Spain as jornaleros, had to feed themselves and their families on only two months of work a year.
As Spain began its slow, careful transition from fascism to liberal democracy, the people of Marinaleda formed a political party and a trade union, and began fighting for land and freedom. There followed over a decade of unceasing struggle, in which they occupied airports, train stations, government buildings, farms and palaces; went on hunger strike, blocked roads, marched, picketed, went on hunger strike again; were beaten, arrested and tried countless times for their pains. Astonishingly, in 1991 they prevailed. The government, exhausted by their defiance, gave them 1,200 hectares of land belonging to the Duke of Infantado, head of one of Spain’s oldest and wealthiest aristocratic families.
From the very beginning, one man was at the forefront of this struggle. In 1979, at the age of thirty, Juan Manuel Sánchez Gordillo became the first elected mayor of Marinaleda, a position he has held ever since – re-elected time after time with an overwhelming majority. However, holding official state-sanctioned positions of power was only a distraction from the serious business of la lucha – the struggle. In the intense heat of the summer of 1980, the village launched ‘a hunger strike against hunger’ which brought them national and even global recognition. Everything they have done since that summer has increased the notoriety of Sánchez Gordillo and his village, and added to their admirers and enemies across Spain.