by Dan Hancox
In the eight or so years I have known about Marinaleda, I have sometimes had to remind myself of the gap between the grandiose claims made about the village, by left and right alike, and the humble size and intimacy of the place itself. It is a village which means so much to so many people, across the world; but it has only 2,700 inhabitants, and whole hours can pass where the greatest noise and excitement emanates from a motorcycle speeding down Avenida de la Libertad, or the vocal exercises of a particularly enervated rooster.
It is both poignant and appropriate that Sánchez Gordillo seems to see no bathos, or discrepancy, in devoting as much attention and passion to the local specifics of the pueblo – the need to start planting artichokes this month, not pimentos – as he does to the big picture, persuading the world that only an end to capitalism will restore dignity to the lives of billions.
The big hitters of the Spanish mainstream press might not have noticed that Sánchez Gordillo was unwell, but the steady stream of left-wing enthusiasts visiting the village were finding out upon arrival. At a table outside Bar Gervasio I watched Sergio, the smart young councillor with the black stubble and the black jeans, unblinkingly try to explain to Uzma, the British documentary-maker, that it was ‘normal in political life to be away sometimes’. I don’t know where he is, and he’s ill, Sergio explained; ‘I’m not connected with him.’
‘Hombre, you’re famous!’ shouted one of Sergio’s young friends as he walked past us. Sergio looked sort of proud and embarrassed at the same time. In his mid-twenties, he’s by far the youngest councillor in the village, though only a decade younger than the new leader of IU, Alberto Garzón – a man identified more with the indignados than with established party politics. The future political direction of this generation, who not only do not remember fascism, but were not yet born when Franco died, is going to be critical to Spain’s future – not least because they are the ones weathering the jaw-dropping 57 per cent rate of youth unemployment and awkwardly squeezing back into corners of their parents’ homes.
Sergio recalled his mother telling him they were on strike when he was three years old. He did not, he laughed, know what it meant, but remembered noticing even then that something in the routine of his young life was different. ‘By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was conscious about the situation in the village, and how it was different from other villages, from talking to my sister and my mother, and going on my first demonstrations. I remember so many demonstrations, so many. The big one was when I was eighteen, going to Seville, and being in the big city, in front of the parliament of Andalusia. Seeing power for the first time was a revelation. I realised politics must be more than just passively choosing between two identical parties.’
His scepticism about all mainstream politics is that of an ever-growing majority in Spain. ‘A pox on all their houses’ has become more than just an offhand expression of apathy, so common in Western capitalist countries: it is an increasingly fervently held wish, as contempt is transformed into anger. For Sergio, the most important issue facing Marinaleda during the crisis was, in a sense, the same as it ever was: trying to persuade the central authority that work, shelter, culture, and life without undue interference – whether you call that freedom or autonomy – were all basic human rights.
‘Marinaleda has been important twice in its hundreds of years of history. The first time was in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when we had the Transition, and that was a crisis really, a crisis of democracy, trying to find a way out of the fascist state, a way out of dictatorship. Right now, this is Marinaleda’s second moment. Look at the rest of Spain. During the better economic times, people weren’t watching us. Now they are all coming here. It’s an economic crisis, a political crisis, a crisis of corruption – it’s a systemic crisis.’
‘Are you optimistic about the village?’ I asked, alluding to the situation with the peonadas, and the collapse in funding they were getting from Seville.
‘The situation with work is critical right now,’ he agreed. ‘It’s complicated, with the peonadas, but critical. But of course I’m optimistic. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be working on this project. It’s a real alternative to the crisis, and I believe the rest of the capitalist world can be different, too. I’m aware that Marinaleda has advantages and disadvantages, but we can be an example.’
He cited their achievements again, with the same matter-of-fact confidence that Sánchez Gordillo always displays when talking about seizing the land, building houses, and reclaiming culture for the people. Are your fellow villagers optimistic too? I asked.
‘Yes, of course. They know the situation is critical. In the past Marinaleda received a lot of benefits from Seville to help create jobs, and now they are being taken away, because of the crisis of capitalism. But the pueblo, they know we fought – we all fought – for our needs and rights before, and it’s necessary to do so again.’
It’s not quite back to square one, back to 1980, but I was starting to see Sergio’s rationale. This was Marinaleda’s second great crisis-opportunity. You have a big burden, I said, you’re making a big promise, if you think you can sustain the utopia in this context. He laughed – at me, this time.
‘Are you serious? We’ve been fighting for thirty years, and we promised all this, back then. Look at what the village was like thirty years ago, and look what it has become through struggle.’
He stopped short of saying, ‘Ha, your feeble crisis of capitalism is nothing,’ but I got the feeling he wanted to. The odds stacked against them in 1975, when Franco died, were certainly far, far greater, and this brazen revolutionary confidence is going to be essential to the village’s future.
We ordered another round of drinks, and Uzma pestered Sergio some more about when she might be able to meet Sánchez Gordillo; he buffered and stalled, perhaps a little weary of his role as gatekeeper, especially since his instructions were clearly to keep the gate firmly shut. I tried to swerve the conversation away from the mayor.
For my book, Sánchez Gordillo is not everything, I said to him. I’m more interested in the people, the pueblo, as a collective, and what they have achieved – not just the one man.
‘Okay,’ he said, gravely, ‘but you’ve got to understand who we’re talking about here. Quite simply, everything Marinaleda has won is thanks to Sánchez Gordillo. That is evident. Everything we have made, it’s thanks to him.’
It felt almost like I was getting told off for having the temerity to shift the credit for their victories from the leader to his followers – for daring to underestimate his influence. ‘But one day,’ I started, ‘well, the day will have to come when he …’ Sergio cut me off.
‘When he’s no longer leader, in the future, the project will continue. The project is still the same, to create a utopia, and that will continue.’
He stopped.
‘But the day has not come yet.’
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my parents, Helen and Rod, for advice and support beyond the call of duty, to my sister Sally across the other side of the world and to my wonderful friends for putting up with me while I was writing this.
Thanks to Dave Stelfox for photographs and solidarity in the form of hot cheese; to Steve Bloomfield, Tan Copsey, Paul Fleckney, Cat O’Shea and all previous and honorary members of the Republic of Florence for their patience and good humour (you’re an acknowledgement); to Daniel Trilling for his ever-wise counsel; to Anthony Barnett, Alice Bell, Melissa Bradshaw, Heleina Burton, Joe Caluori, Ally Carnwath, Adrian Cornell du Houx, Valeria Costa-Kostritsky, Anna Fielding, Sam Geall, Rosa Gilbert, Paul Gilroy, Alex Hoban, Tom Humberstone, Jamie Mackay, Alex Macpherson, Phil Oltermann, Jen Paton, Laurie Penny, Kirsty Simmonds, Alex Sushon, Kanishk Tharoor, Vron Ware, Bella Waugh, Nick Wilson and Chris Wood for listening to me witter on; to my editor Leo Hollis at Verso, as well as Federico Campagna, Huw Lemmey, Mark Martin, Lorna Scott Fox, Sarah Shin, Rowan Wilson, and my agent Sophie Lambert at Conville and Walsh. Shouts also to the people
keeping my brain switched on in London, in particular everyone at openDemocracy, the Deterritorial Support Group and Novara Media.
I’m forever grateful to everyone who talked to me across Spain in the last few years – and especially to all the people who bought me beer, took me on marches, gave me lifts, talked politics with me, and made me lentils and chorizo. Thanks in particular to Marcel and Karine at Can Serrat in El Bruc, Ian Mackinnon in Madrid, Carlos Delclós, the Artefakte gang, Jaime Casas and Tom Clarke in Barcelona, Juanjo Alcalde, Emma Herrera Ortiz and Paulette Soltani in Sevilla, Javi Rivero and his family in Estepa, and Chris and Ali Burke, Antonio Porquera Tejada and Cristina Martín Saavedra in the village.
Thanks above all to the people of Marinaleda.