Spanish fiesta for peace

Harry Eyres

Barcelona

AFiesta for Peace and Disarmament .organised by the Catalan Communist Party (PCC): one might have expected a

grim and dreary occasion, badly amplified speeches in draughty halls, orange juice in plastic cups, the distribution of indigestible literature. But Spanish communists are generally agreed to have excellent parties, which, so long as they are of the festive variety, are notably well-organised and imaginative.

Of course, there were speeches in

draughty halls, or rather in one huge draughty hall, the old covered market of Barcelona called the Borne, a magnificent cast-iron structure like a High Victorian railway-station. As for the amplification, the sound was clear but eardrum-piercing, as most of the speakers deployed a lungpower which would have filled the hall without mechanical assistance. At each climactic call for proletarian solidarity or denunciation of American imperalism, large numbers of the audience rose to their feet and delivered the fist-brandishing PCC salute. Peace means something rather dif- ferent to the PCC than the sedentary, tea- brewing vigil of the women of Greenham Common. In its editorial stating the aim of the Fiesta, the PCC organ Avant spoke of the movement for peace and disarmament in terms of uncompromising belligerency: `The struggle for peace ... raising a flag for democracy against the forces which are destroying the military virtues of our coun- try ... we must fight this battle and take all the consequences.'

The passion of the oratory and the

unanimity and strength of the response (there were 20,000 people in the Borne dur- ing the big central meeting) were truly impressive. Apart from the circumstances of a concerted European 'peace movement' (perhaps 'peace feeling' or even 'peacewish' would be better expressions) in a period of alarming international tension, this was also a more local expression of enthusiasm for a new political party of the Left at a time when Spanish communism on a na- tional level is in the doldrums. Not only did the PCE (Communist Party of Spain) win only four seats in last year's national elec- tion, but it has since then failed to settle its internal disputes (like other European par- ties of the Left one could name) and thus to voice any effective criticism of the increas- ingly centrist, pro-American attitude of the• nominally socialist government headed by Felipe Gonzalez.

The PCC, which at present is only represented in the semi-autonomous Generalitat, the local government of Catalonia, was formed a year and a half

ago when it broke away from the old- established Catalan Communist party PSUC, which has aligned itself with a brand of Eurocommunism, considered by the PCC to be a betrayal of Marxist-Leninist principles. The PCC are declaredly pro- Soviet. Their combination of passion, rigid dogmatism and dedication to a non- indigenous ideology is characteristic of several of the great social and political movements of Spanish history. Comparing their style of politics to the cautious pragmatism of Felipe Gonzalez, one is reminded of Gerald Brenan's remark in The Spanish Labyrinth that in Spanish politics the line of moderation is always the line of most resistance. He was of course writing of the time up to and including the civil war; and it is understandable, to say the least, that the cardinal principle of the nascent Spanish democracy should be the avoidance at all costs of a second civil war in one cen- tury. But it was not so long ago, on 23 February 1981 in fact, that Lt-Col Tejero walked in to the Parliament building brandishing his pistol, and the tanks of General Milans del Bosch rumbled through the streets of Valencia.

Not that the Fiesta de Avant was a purely political occasion. Its purpose, as the of- ficial programme declared, was `to open a space for peace and joy ... to counter the threat of mass destruction offered by American imperialist aggression with a vin- dication of life'. Pious platitudes, you might think: phrases reminiscent of one of the GLC's most hare-brained schemes of cultural patronage. But the utopian ideals of the PCC are backed by an organisation which knows exactly where to find the best fresh sardines and squid, rather than whey-

'Have you got any organic glue?'

faced bureaucrats nourished on instant cof- fee purveyed among the corridors of Coun- ty Hall. The staple drink of the Fiesta, at around 15p a glass, was what can still, while Spain stays out of the Common Market, be called `champan': the bubbly white wine of San Sadurni de Noya.

Some of the other entertainments did, it is true, have a certain political slant. A ram- shackle marquee resembling a first world war field hospital housed an Exhibition of Soviet Cinema. But the projectionists work- ed wonders and the epic simplicities of Pud- vokin's The End of St Petersburg seemed far more convincing in such a rugged setting than they ever could amid the plush velour of the Gate Bloomsbury. One end of the Borne was given over to an informative ex- hibition in honour of the centenary of Marx, whose works could be purchased from an adjoining bookstall. Outside the covered market, facing the row of excellent impromptu bars, there was a series of stalls manned by representatives of communist nations and revolutionary movements in other countries. Central America understandably attracted the greatest in- terest, while a steady stream of the faithful visited the rather pedestrian Soviet display. Little tourist booklets describing the various Soviet republics were on show: in one of them I was struck by a photograph of the great square of Samarkand flanked by huge and empty-looking mosques. 'Ex- amples of monuments from earlier historical epochs may also be seen,' was the guide's comment. Tashkent, on the other hand, it may come as a relief to hear, 'is now a completely modern industrial city'. The Chilean communists' stand was decorated with a red banner on which was inscribed THE PEOPLE SAY GET OUT. No doubt they were referring to the military regime, but the stand was scarcely visited throughout the Fiesta, and it appeared that the message had been interpreted too literally.

On each of the three evenings of the Fiesta, the Borne was transformed from a political forum into a musical stage and dance-floor, while outside among the bars the muezzin-like cries of a flamenco singer competed with a Parisian-style Catalan café concert. Most of the 70,000 people who were reckoned to have been at the Fiesta over the whole three-day period must have come mainly to listen to music and to dance. There was a rock concert on Friday night, then on Saturday a rhythmically in- toxicating programme of Rumba Sevillana followed by Salsa Cubana. The fact that Pedrito Diaz and his boys had the right ideological credentials (though Pedrito himself looked more like Liberace than Fidel Castro) seemed somewhat irrelevant as their supremely brash but exhilarating drums and trumpets had everyone in the hall, bourgeois matrons as well as Catalan Young Comminists, dancing with the en- viable ease and unself-consciousness which all Spanish people seem to possess on the dance-floor. It was a small irony symbolic of a larger one that such a genuine and uni- quely Spanish celebration of freedom and spontaneity should be conducted under the suspicies of the most coercively deter- ministic of world ideologies.

The Fiesta ended on a soberer note. Before the the traditional Portuguese pipes and drums of Victor Jara's band, sprightly but nostalgic in their evocation of a lost world, brought the occasion to a close, a group of Catalan mimes acted out their bleak vision of the past and future. The earth was represented by a huge inflated ball. The mimes began by touching and stroking it in awe and admiration. Gradual- ly, their approach changed; one, Atlas-like, dared to lift it onto his shoulders; finding it so light, they began to toss it to each other in an increasingly violent game. The inevitable climax came as the ball deflated amid weird sounds and flashes of light symbolising the holocaust. This was hot, as many people in the audience thought, the end. After a few moments, one of the mimes began to show signs of animation, but the jerky movements were those of an insect. He was soon joined by the others, who had undergone similarly Kafkaesque metamor- phoses into locusts and mantises, and life got under way once more as the insects devoured each other.