“If only mine were the last drop of Spanish blood to be spilled in civil strife. God willing, may the Spanish people at peace, so replete with extraordinary virtue, at last find homeland, bread and justice”. Who among today’s Spaniards could possibly disown this quote? The man who uttered in November 1936 shortly before being shot by firing squad, in whose tombstone the epitaph is inscribed, is José Antonio Primo de Rivera. The current left-wing government of Spain has different plans for his bodily remains. As part of its so-called law of democratic memory, approved last summer, Primo de Rivera will be disinterred this week from his tomb at what used to be called the Valley of the Fallen—renamed Valle de Cuelgamuros by the same bill—incinerated, and his ashes will be relocated to the San Isidro monastery in Madrid. So what does the government of Pedro Sánchez fault Primo de Rivera for? Although he ended his life on the aforecited conciliatory note—and even though he lived through only six months of the civil war from prison before being executed by the Second Republic, which viewed him as a threat—Primo de Rivera remains a standard-bearer of 20th century Spanish fascism, someone historians see as having laid the idealogical groundwork for Franco, who went on to rule for 40 years upon winning the Civil War. He is the latest target of a sweeping effort, unfolding since the previous socialist government in the late 2000s, to settle the scores of these tumultuous decades of Spain’s history. These bills do various things. They rename streets and monuments. By setting up DNA banks, they enable families to trace, find and give a proper burial to Republican victims of Francoist repression buried in mass graves. And lastly, they reframe the way History is taught, depicting the Second Republic (1931-1939) as the unimpeachable defender of freedom and democracy against Franco’s fascist villains. This week, we will navigate this treacherous topic by inquiring about Franco’s exact place in Spain’s public consciousness, exploring the demographics of this issue, and questioning whether Spain’s history can be so neatly framed as a black-or-white story of good versus evil. We are joined by two distinguished hispanists. On one side of the line, Michael Reid, a longtime regular at The Economist and the author most recently of Spain: The Trials and Tribulations of a Modern European Country (2023), with Yale University Press. On the other side of the line we have with us Nigel Townson, a professor of History at Complutense University in Madrid.

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