No está lloviendo, Madrid está llorando: 'It's not raining, Madrid is crying'
At 6.45am GMT (7.45am Spanish time) on March 11 my mother rang me, crying hysterically. You don't know my mother, but she really is not the kind to cry hysterically. She fought underground for democracy in Spain, she's tough as nails. She lives in Valencia; every morning she wakes up at 7am, has breakfast listening to Radio SER, and then gets a red and white train, part of a national network of short distance overground trains to go to work. That day my mother, who is tough as nails, could not bring herself to go to work on those trains - the same trains blown to shreds in Madrid. All she could do was sob, and all I could do was run to find the El Pais website to make sense of what she was telling me.
The death toll kept rising. It can't be ETA. ETA wouldn't do that, not without a warning. The bombs exploded in the most famous working class neighborhood in Madrid, where the Communist Party of Spain was founded. ETA would never do that, it can't be them.
I didn't sleep on Thursday night. Is it Al Qaeda, 911 days since 9/11? The traits begin to be there. Trains early in the morning targeted at commuters, like planes in New York; bombs set to go off when the emergency services arrive (thankfully, they didn't go off because of a fault in the mechanism) and a chilling letter sent to a London paper from a Muslim fundamentalist group.
ETA denies it, condemning the attacks; the government is adamant it was ETA, although they look at the Al Qaeda possibility. Campaigning for the general election has stopped, but this is quickly becoming an electoral issue. If it was ETA, the tough line right wing party (PP) will have the upper hand. If it was Al Qaeda, the anti-war left wing party (PSOE) will get the advantage.
Reports start coming in about fascists taking to the streets to condemn all those who are not Spanish (Basque or 'darkies', doesn't matter). Spaniards would never do this to Spaniards, they shout. My mother rings, gone from despair to anger, describing rumours on the radio that the government is not telling the truth.
Friday, 7pm, 11 million Spaniards walk the streets in the pouring rain. I sit on the Oxford Tube and await news. At the demonstration there was mostly silence, but with occasional angry shouts: against the war, against ETA, against Aznar, against terrorism, against lies. For the truth.
I am carrying a suitcase on the London tube. I leave it on the side and sit down. Three people come over to ask whether the bag is mine. Clearly, there is tension in London too. On Saturday morning I fly to Spain. I buy El Pais at the first available opportunity, reading it all the way through. In Barcelona, my mother's best friend is waiting for me. We talk about what is happening. She is another fighter for democracy, and another who is comparing the tension and fear and lies with the dictatorship. On the train to Valencia I sit, re-reading El Pais, next to a young man listening to the news on the radio. He tells me that Radio SER has just announced that three Moroccans and two Indians have been arrested, but the government remains quiet. ETA could be working with Al Qaeda, is ETA trying to confuse us? No,this is clearly Al Qaeda. Finally, the Home Secretary speaks - yes they have arrested them in connection with the bombing, yes they are Muslim fundamentalists, but it is still not clear whether it was ETA or Al Qaeda. As one, the passengers shout in anger, "It's a cover up."
When I arrive in Valencia I join a group of people beginning to congregate in the main square, in front of the PP's offices. The plan is to block the road. And so we do, about 300 of us. Other people start arriving soon. The police don't know what to do. They just kind of stand around. And then the news comes - the government is accusing the PSOE of calling the demonstrations, they are thinking of declaring an emergency and stopping the election. One step to make this crowd angrier. The angrier we get, the more tense the police gets.
More news comes in - Radio SER has talked to the Spanish intelligence services. They have known it was Al Qaeda for a while, but the Spanish Home Secretary is refusing to talk to them. The older members of the crowd again talk about remembering fascist times. By 2am more news starts coming through - the Home Secretary has finally acknowledged that they do know it is Al Qaeda. The electoral commission has thrown out their complaint, that the demonstrations were called by the PSOE and that the election is illegitimate.
The day of voting - no-one has had any sleep and by 8pm, as polls close, my mother's house is packed. Each time Aznar comes on the TV, we boo; each time Zapatero comes on telly, we clap and shout. We go quiet when Blair comes on - an awkward silence. The polls begin to come in, and we are winning... by a lot. Thank God, the Virgin Mary and the Holy Grail, says our next door neighbour.
At about midnight we are outside the PSOE's offices in Valencia. When Zapatero comes out to declare his victory, he asks for a minute's silence for the victims. We've cried many seas, shouted till we lost our voices and smiled to wash it all away.
This morning the news was hopeful.The PSOE is already talking a language I recognise. Liberty and equality. A welfare state to be proud of. A new approach to terrorism. And the Spanish troops in Iraq to come home in July unless the UN takes charge.
In the face of the dignity of the Spanish people was the disgraceful attitude to tragedy of the leaders of the PP. Has Al Qaeda won the elections? Perhaps. What I do know is that hundreds of thousands of young people voted for the first time, myself included. We did so with feeling: I heard a lot of people talking of their government as if it were really, truly theirs. Tragedy and democracy have brought the Spanish people together.
At 7.33am, the time of the first explosion, I was travelling on the train on my way to work. Fortunately I use the metro rather than the local above-ground trains which were targeted. As I boarded the underground a notice flashed up on the screen warning passengers they could not change at Atocha due to an incident. I didn't think twice though: minor breakdowns are fairly common on the metro. I teach a group of adults every Thursday, and on arriving someone had just heard news of an explosion at Atocha on the radio. We all started to worry about the remaining member of the class, Emilio, who travels to work via Atocha, and had not turned up. When he did eventually arrive it was with the terrible news that 40 people had been killed by a bomb. We were all shocked and upset. By the time I finished teaching the class I had received a text from my friend Tom in Madrid, checking I was okay. He added the sobering news that there had been more than one attack. Somewhat stupidly I got back on the metro, which was unusually empty, to return to my apartment for breakfast. The first thing I did was turn on the television and was rooted to the spot by the live images; the smart red and white cercanÃas train brutally ripped open as if by the talons of a giant predator, to reveal dozens of limbless, bloodied prey lying helplessly inside. It was so shocking it was almost surreal, but the scream of sirens reminded me of the proximity to the carnage, as did the constant buzzing of messages on my mobile phone from people back home. Never have I felt so moved and reassured by the arrival of 160 electronic characters from the people I love. I didn't have much of an option but to use the metro. When I got on at my stop everyone stared at me closely as I entered the carriage. I did the same as new people boarded at following stops. People shuffled anxiously and practically ran out of the train when they reached their destination. The classes I taught that afternoon were distracted and quiet as all of us had our minds elsewhere. Friday morning dawned grey and sombre, and the metro journey that morning to visit my friend Tom was the hardest part. Everyone was clutching copies of the daily newspaper containing the horrific details of the attacks and sickening photographs. The carriage was silent and people were struggling to read through tear-filled eyes. I remember reading that one of the victims was to turn 18 that day and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. The fact that the 191 killed were real people - parents, children, workers, students - really began to sink in and I felt a terrible sadness. I was glad to see Tom, although we found ourselves staring at the television, wanting desperately to switch it off, but yet unable to. Enormous grief was mixed with anger. The terrorists had succeeded in stealing the vitality away from an amazing city with the brutal murder of so many people. I shared the pain of Madrid that day, and I felt for the first time since my arrival, like a true madrileña. On the Friday I took part in the demonstration in the city. I needed a way to help release some of my anger and grief and I felt it was necessary to display my disgust at the attacks. The weather seemed to reflect the emotion of the city, having dawned grey on the morning of the attacks, then releasing heavy rain as everybody took to the streets on Friday evening to show their outrage, grief and solidarity. As we poured outside a million umbrellas went up, forming a protective layer of coloured scales that slid slowly through the streets like an enormous reptile. While the clouds spilled giant tears, many of the citizens below displayed their anger through vicious calls against the anonymous 'assassins,' 'sons of bitches' and 'cowards' responsible for the bombings, while others shouted for peace and freedom, declaring that a march like this was the way to fight for a cause, not acts of terrorism: "No está lloviendo, Madrid está llorando" 'It's not raining, Madrid is crying.' Four hours later we had marched as far as Atocha station. The beautiful glass-walled station terminal was lit from the inside and shone like a massive temple. Around it, ugly metal-cutting machines, cranes and steel barriers were a testament to the atrocity that had unfolded there. From Atocha the crowd dispersed, soaked through to their skin by the incessant rain, and exhausted with the emotion of the previous 36 hours. We headed back to watch in awe the television footage of over two million people in peaceful protest. There was no sense of fear of being in a crowded place during the demonstrations. The Spanish are gutsy people: although the attacks destroyed the very soul of the city, people still came spontaneously to show their support.
22nd Apr 2004