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Laura Hamilton

#pañueloblanco

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By Laura Hamilton

panueloblanco

Symbols have been used for centuries to allow people to demonstrate they belong to a group, reflect their beliefs and show solidarity with a cause. With time they become icons – for better or for worse – and just one look at a symbol can evoke the memory of the cause associated with it. I will look at the movement of the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo in Argentina and their trademark white headscarf (pañuelo blanco in Spanish), an example of a symbol prior to the age of the Twitter and Facebook, where solidarity to a cause is often shown in a digital format.

Nowadays, the use of a hashtag allows people to use social media in order to show their solidarity, or disagreement, with a topic or thought. It creates a group mentality and means that people are able to group their thoughts and beliefs together by simply adding a hash sign before an agreed word. This can be used in relation to pretty much anything, but often is used in campaigns or protests. However, this has not always been the case, and prior to the Internet, other methods were used to identify groups.

Although the Guerra Sucia took place in Argentina over 40 years ago, every day new discoveries are being made about what truly happened during those years of political violence, especially thanks to the tireless campaigning of a group of Argentine women.

The picture accompanying this article shows street art above a children’s playground in Buenos Aires. Although at first it seems like ghosts, or abstract cartoon characters, it is in fact depicting the trademark white headscarves of La Asociación Madres de Plaza de Mayo (The Association of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo).

Street art covers the city: this piece has not been created at random, but has been put here to show that the Madres are protecting the children; watching over them; that they will not allow the atrocities of the ‘dirty war’ to be repeated. Wandering around the city, you can see this same design dotted around and it is even stencilled onto the pavement in the Plaza de Mayo.

The significance of a white headscarf in this context is that when the headscarves were first used it was because their protests began in a time when it was prohibited to meet in groups. Therefore members were able to identify one another by this item of clothing, but could not be arrested for protest, since it was not out of the ordinary. A white headscarf, something which most Argentine women owned already, was then transformed from a simple item of clothing into the symbol of their protest.

The white headscarf has served as a symbol, becoming a political icon due to the association with the cause and embodying the Madres political aims. It reflects the political action they have taken and the creativity used to show solidarity and further their cause in a way that meant they could not be arrested since they did not physically gather in a group but were able to identify one another through the white scarf, which has now become the symbol of their cause.

In the 21st Century, modern technology facilitates protests: live commentary appears on Twitter within minutes; Facebook statuses inform us of friends’ political views; YouTube videos go viral and make a global impact. Protests can be organised in a matter of minutes via social media, with hashtags allowing users to show their solidarity for a campaign. These women used what they had available and anyone who has visited, or lived, in Buenos Aires will be able to explain the meaning attached to these headscarves and the identity that they have now embodied. This demonstrates the impact something as simple as a piece of white cloth can have, a predecessor to the hashtag in identifying oneself as part of a movement, or the Guy Fawkes’ masks worn by Anonymous protesters in recent years. It demonstrates that using a symbol to signify group identity has been around for centuries, and leaves me to wonder what the Madres would use if they were to begin their movement today.

23F or ‘The Coup that Never Was’

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by Laura Hamilton

Last month marks the 32nd anniversary of 23F, the failed military coup in Spain, which threatened to challenge the state’s transition to democracy.

On the 23rd February 1981, the military governors in the various regions around Spain planned a coup d’etat. Although Franco had nominated the King as his successor, military leaders, led by General Milans del Bosch, were not happy with the changes that were taking place as Spain transitioned from a repressive dictatorship to a fully-fledged democracy.

The coup began when Antonio Tejero stormed congress with the Guardia Civil (Spanish military police) and held the Parliament hostage. This was meant to be the signal to mobilise the rest of the country. However, they were hesitant and it was only in Valencia that tanks rolled in the streets.

My parents were living in Spain at the time, having moved to Madrid only a month earlier. Having come from England, where a military coup is an unfamiliar concept, they weren’t really sure what was going on. My father was in a meeting, which was overrunning. One of his Spanish colleagues left to call his wife and tell her he would be late. Hurrying back in a few minutes later, he agitatedly informed the room “¡Hay un golpe!” (There’s a coup!) before all the Spaniards rushed home to check on their families.

Spain’s history is marred with coups – it was this lack of stability, which provoked the army to rise up under Franco. We recently discussed, in one of my classes, the way that your culture influences the way you view a situation. The Spaniards had grown up in a country that had been under 40 years of military dictatorship. Although the majority of the population supported the transition to democracy, the constant threat of a military takeover existed since a sizeable minority still believed that life under Franco was better: there were low crime rates; goods were cheap; ‘immoral’ behaviour wasn’t rife.

No one explained the seriousness to my father and his colleague, who were the only expats in the room, so they didn’t fully grasp the concept of what was going on. Instead, they decided to continue working, travelling across Madrid to another meeting. My father recalls how this meeting was located in the same building as the Spanish press and TV headquarters. On their arrival, they found that the whole area was closed off and the seriousness of the situation began to set in.

At the same time, my mother, in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language, had no idea what was going on. She had no television or radio, since they were still in the process of being shipped across, and it was prior to the widespread use of the Internet or mobile phones. She first found out what was happening when my father’s colleague called, excitedly informing her “have you heard the news? There’s been a coup!” Having no way of contacting my father, she was worried, mainly because of the fear of the unknown. As aforementioned, if you do not have any experience of a situation, you have no idea what to expect or how to prepare.

The whole country was on tenterhooks and there was only one person who was able to change the situation – the King. Having been ‘trained’ and chosen by Franco, he was seen by the majority of Spaniards as Franco’s puppet. However, his actions on the night of 23rd February turned him into the nation’s saviour, affirming his leadership of the country. As Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, the military governors had sworn allegiance and loyalty to the King. It was this promise that he used to assert his authority and bring Spain back on the path to democracy. He appeared on the national television channel, TVE, throughout the night. Dressed in his military uniform, he broadcast the message that he did not support the coup and reaffirmed the need for democracy in Spain. It was this message that managed to convince the military governors to step down and not continue with their planned coup.

Spain’s future hung in the balance on that date. Yet, through the strong leadership of the head of state, he was able to save it and proceed with the transition that was taking place. There is a strong belief that, had the King supported it, the coup would have been successful and Spain would be a very different place today. Although Spain has recently been marred by many problems, there is no doubt that things would have been worse had the King not fully supported the path to democracy and used his leadership to save the country from returning to a military dictatorship.

Photobolsillo

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By Laura Hamilton

Sánchez, Gervasio. Photobolsillo (La Fábrica, Spain, 2011)Gervasio Sánchez: PHotoBolsillo

Amazon, paperback new from $15.60

My first exposure to the work of Gervasio Sanchez was his exhibition, Antologia, in Madrid last year. Exhibited in an old warehouse, his photographs were made even more haunting by their surroundings. In his work, he captures the human aspect to war – depicting people both during and after conflict has ended.

Although I had never heard of him before I lived in Spain, he is one of Spain’s biggest war photojournalists, winning various prizes over the years and covering many major conflicts: from Central America to Lusophone Africa to Eastern Europe and various other places in between. He has also focused on more specialist issues, such as the desaparecidos in Latin America; the people who ‘disappeared’ during conflicts and their families do not know what happened to them. Through this focus he raises awareness of problems that are frequently ignored post-conflict by broadcasting them to the outside world.

My experience in Madrid led me to want to see more of his work, to learn more about what he had done and where he had been. Pasión y Memoria (Passion and Memory) stood out to me since it is not only readily available, but it also featured a selection of his work, rather than focusing on one specific conflict. Published as part of the PhotoBolsillo series, which focuses on Spain’s most important photographers, it contains an introduction by Sandra Balsells, a fellow photojournalist. Following this, each image in the book has a simple caption, explaining where the photograph was taken and the year. Portraying everything from victims of mines in Mozambique, to child soldiers in Peru, this small book of black and white images allows you to travel with him through his experiences and see conflicts through his eyes. The photographs depict emotions and people’s experiences of conflict. Although I am not familiar with the work of many war photojournalists, I know that his work makes me feel as if I am able to see a side of conflict that is frequently forgotten in newspaper reports.

Many of his images feature children and highlight their resilience after conflict. For me, one of the most powerful images is No. 42. The image features two young boys in Panama, hanging off the skeletal remains of a building after the invasion in 1991. If you were to replace their surroundings, it would look no different to a photograph of children playing on a climbing frame. However, their smiles contrast with the bombed out remains that surround them, a reminder of the warzone where the image was captured. Yet they are still playing games, swinging off posts and appearing to be in a race with one another. Whereas many war photojournalists only capture the misery of war, this photo, along with many of Gervasio Sanchez’s other images, shows the hope that still exists after a conflict.

I would recommend this book as a starting point for Sanchez’s work. Although the photo captions are written in Spanish, the introduction, which gives an overview of his career, is provided in both English and Spanish. Nonetheless, the images themselves are powerful enough that they need no words to explain them.