If there ever was a single political entity that encompassed all of what we now think of as the Basque Country — Euskal Herria with its seven provinces — it was the Kingdom of Nafarroa, originally known as the Kingdom of Pamplona. On the border of what later became France and Spain, it enjoyed great influence and power for its size due to its location, controlling the mountain passes between the future powers. Weaved throughout its history are a series of kings, the Sanchos, that were instrumental in both the kingdom’s rise and eventual break-up. Their stamp on Basque history cannot be overstated, founding the capitals of the Basque provinces of Gipuzkoa and Araba.
The Sancho Kings of Pamplona and Navarra. Images from Wikipedia.
Sancho I, born around 860, was the King of Pamplona from 905 to 925. His father, García Jiménez, first established the Jiménez dynasty, though Sancho I was the one who really consolidated power and created a meaningful dynasty, with Muslim sources referring to the dynasty as the Banu Sanjo, or descendants of Sancho. During his reign, Sancho I fought often with the Muslim rulers on his borders, winning some key victories.
His grandson, Sancho II, ruled from 970 to 994, the Kingdom of Pamplona being ruled in the intervening years by Sancho I’s brother and son. Sancho II is the first to be called King of Navarre, so described in the donation of a monastery in 987. By virtue of his mother, Andregoto Galíndez, he also became the Count of Aragon. During his reign, the Codex Vigilanus was completed, a compilation of many documents that included the first western representation of Arabic numerals. His reign was also besotted with various military defeats against the Muslim lords to the south and, in an effort to stabilize his kingdom, he married off his daughter Urraca to one of them.
Sancho III, also known as Sancho the Great, was born around 992 or so. He was the grandson of Sancho II and ruled from 1004 to 1035. As the Muslim hold on the south began to fragment, Sancho III tried to unify the Christian lands. He expanded his rule, acquiring Castile and León as the consequence of various marriages, fighting, and military victories. At its peak, his rule reached from Galicia to Barcelona. Amongst other things, he also started a Navarran series of currency and was one of the first great patrons of the Way of Saint James. Upon his death, he split his kingdom amongst his sons.
Sancho IV, Sancho III’s great grandson, was King of Pamplona from 1054 until 1076, beginning his reign when he was only fourteen years old. Soon after his accession, many of the lords of his kingdom defected to León, ruled by his uncle, Ferdinand I. In 1062, they signed a treaty that established their border, with what is now Bizkaia, Gipuzkoa and Araba under Sancho’s control. Not long after, in 1067, the War of the Three Sanchos pitted Sancho IV against his cousins in Castile and Aragón. Sancho IV was killed in 1076 by his brother Ramón Garcés and sister Ermesinda of Navarre.
Sancho V, then also King of Aragón, took over upon Sancho IV’s death. He was Sancho IV’s cousin and Sancho III’s grandson. He ruled Pamplona until his own death in 1094. After a number of military victories, he was defeated by El Cid at the battle of the Battle of Morella and was killed in 1094 while inspecting the walls of a Muslim stronghold.
More than 50 years later, after the intervening reigns of Peter I, Alfonso I, and García Ramírez, Sancho VI the Wise ruled, officially changing his title from King of Pamplona to King of Navarra. Born in 1132, he ruled from 1150 until his death in 1194. During his reign, in an effort to solidify authority in the face of Castilian might, he founded the towns of San Sebastián/Donostia and Vitoria-Gasteiz.
Sancho VI’s son, Sancho VII the Strong, followed his father as King of Navarra until his own death in 1234. He was the first to establish the now-familiar chains as his blazon. He was also the last member of the Jiménez dynasty. He was a close ally of his brother-in-law Richard I of England. While campaigning in Africa, his kingdom was invaded by Castile and Aragon, a consequence of which was the loss of Araba, Bizkaia and Gipuzkoa to Castile. He died childless in 1234, likely the result of a varicose ulcer in his leg.
Primary sources: Wikipedia; please see the various links in the text above.
This native of Busturia was NASA’s chief engineer and participated in the mission that took Armstrong and Aldrin to the moon.
This article originally appeared in its Spanish form in El Diario.
Antonio Guezuraga Besanguiz poses in his United States Army uniform in which he served with honor for four long years
How is it possible that a boy from a small town in Bizkaia, with just a few hundred inhabitants, managed to become one of NASA’s chief engineers, helping to put the first man on the surface of the moon? This is the story of Antonio Guezuraga Besanguiz.
Antonio was born on June 10, 1919 in Busturia, on the shores of the Cantabrian Sea. His parents were Lucio Guezuraga Ateca, born on December 13, 1893, in Axpe, a barrio of Busturia, and Estefana Besanguiz Echevarria, born on December 26, 1892, also in Busturia. According to Antonio’s son, Robert Guezuraga Uriarte, “Antonio’s mother took him to Bilbao, put him on a boat whose final destination would be New York and told him that when he arrived he would look for Basques in the city, and they would help him. That’s where he met my mother, María Uriarte.”
“Echoes of two wars, 1936-1945” aims to disseminate the stories of those Basques and Navarrese who participated in two of the warfare events that defined the future of much of the 20th century. With this blog, the intention of the Sancho de Beurko Association is to rescue from anonymity the thousands of people who constitute the backbone of the historical memory of the Basque and Navarre communities, on both sides of the Pyrenees, and their diasporas of emigrants and descendants, with a primary emphasis on the United States, during the period from 1936 to 1945.
THE AUTHORS Guillermo Tabernilla is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association, a non-profit organization that studies the history of the Basques and Navarrese from both sides of the Pyrenees in the Spanish Civil War and in World War II. He is currently their secretary and community manager. He is also editor of the digital magazine Saibigain. Between 2008 and 2016 he directed the catalog of the “Iron Belt” for the Heritage Directorate of the Basque Government and is, together with Pedro J. Oiarzabal, principal investigator of the Fighting Basques Project, a memory project on the Basques and Navarrese in the Second World War in collaboration with the federation of Basque Organizations of North America.
Pedro J. Oiarzabal is a Doctor in Political Science-Basque Studies, granted by the University of Nevada, Reno (USA). For two decades, his work has focused on research and consulting on public policies (citizenship abroad and return), diasporas and new technologies, and social and historical memory (oral history, migration and exile), with special emphasis on the Basque case. He is the author of more than twenty publications. He has authored the blog “Basque Identity 2.0” by EITB and “Diaspora Bizia” by EuskalKultura.eus. On Twitter @Oiarzabal.
Josu M. Aguirregabiria is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association and is currently its president. A specialist in the Civil War in Álava, he is the author of several publications related to this topic, among which “La batalla de Villarreal de Álava” (2015) y “Seis días de guerra en el frente de Álava. Comienza la ofensiva de Mola” (2018) stand out.
After traveling to the French port of Le Havre, he arrived in New York on June 29, 1936, on the ship SS Normandie. He was 17 years old. His father had lived in the city of skyscrapers since 1924. More than two weeks later, on July 18, 1936, the military coup against the elected government unleashed a war in Spain that lasted three long years. Antonio’s older brother would die during the war.
His studies as a marine engineer and his incipient career in the Merchant Marine were interrupted by the Second World War (WWII). Although not a US citizen, he was enlisted in the US Army on January 9, 1941, in Jamaica, New York. A few months later, in September, Antonio obtained American citizenship, serving during the war in two infantry regiments corresponding to as many divisions: the 39th (of the 9th Infantry Division “Old Reliables”) and 411th (of the 103rd Infantry Division “Cactus Division”) regiments. His experience during the war was vast and included the North African and European theaters of operations.
Decorations received by Antonio Guezuraga during his participation in World War II. Courtesy of Robert Guezuraga Uriarte
After arriving in Algeria on November 8, 1942, he began a journey that led him to participate in the campaigns of Algeria (being one of the first American fighters to fight on foreign soil) and Tunisia, where his unit acquired a more active role by leading the combat operations covering the advance of the 1st Armored Division, helping to subdue the Germans in North Africa in the aftermath of the war in May 1943. Later he would land in Sicily, where they fiercely fought for eight days for Troina. Transferred to the United Kingdom to prepare for the invasion of France, they arrived in Normandy on D + 4 Day, taking part in the fight for the Contentin Peninsula and fighting fierce battles that would take them to the south of Paris and later to Belgium. From September 19, 1944, his unit was involved in the terrible fighting in the Hurtgen Forest and later in the Battle of the Bulge. They were then sent to the Rhineland, from where they progressed into the interior of Germany. On an undetermined date, at the end of the war in Europe or just afterwards, he joined the 411th Infantry Regiment, which had the great honor of linking up with the North American troops fighting in Italy by crossing the Alps through the passage of the Brennero, linking the two fronts and reaching Vipiteno on May 4, 1945.
Antonio was discharged with honors on August 14, 1945, with the rank of fourth grade technician. His specialty was auto mechanics, for which he received the driver badge, to which he added a mechanic badge, but he would also see action with the infantry, obtaining the prestigious badge that accredited his entry into combat. His decorations included the Good Conduct Medal, the United States Defense Service Medal, the Europe, Africa and the Middle East Service Medal, and the Bronze Star, which was awarded to him in February, 1945. In the words of his son Robert, “Antonio loved America and he served it for more than 50 years.”
After the end of the war, Antonio married María Uriarte Ateca, born in 1920 in Brooklyn, New York, to Basque immigrant parents, Pedro Uriarte, born in Abadiño, Bizkaia, in 1891, and Eulalia Ateca Yspizua, born in Busturia in 1890. They had two children during a brief marriage that ended when Maria passed away after Robert’s birth. The children were sent to Busturia where they grew up in the home of Antonio’s mother, returning to New York in 1957, the year in which Antonio married Eleonora Gregoratti, born in Louisiana to an Austrian father and an Italian mother. Eleonora had served as a nurse for the US Navy in the Pacific during WWII. “She was a great role model for me,” Robert told us.
Antonio returned to maritime life, working, initially, for civil shipping companies. In March, 1947, he joined the US Army Transport System (ATS) based in the Port of New York, moving soldiers and goods to Germany and Italy, progressing rapidly in his engineering career. When the ship the Golden Eagle, on which he worked as a second assistant engineer since 1949, was transferred to the Atlantic area command of the Military Sea Transportation Service (MSTSLANT; later known as the Military Sealift Command) in 1950, Antonio decided to continue being part of the crew, starting a new adventure in his life. He served aboard several US Naval Ships (USNS) between New York and Europe, primarily. On board the USNS Buckner, he received a special mention for his great gifts as chief engineer, a position he had held since 1952.
Antonio Guezuraga’s maritime career spanned from 1947 to 1984, serving in both Korea and Vietnam. Courtesy of Robert Guezuraga Uriarte
He also served on the USNS Vanguard (T-AGM-194; formerly known as USNS Muscle Shoals, T-AGM-19), a missile range instrumentation ship converted in 1965, and transferred to the Military Sealift Service in 1966. Designed to be an offshore missile tracking station, she participated in the Project Apollo test series and in 1969 she continued in these roles. She subsequently participated in the Skylab program and in the US-Soviet Apollo-Soyuz test project.
But undoubtedly the most notable experience was Antonio’s participation in the Apollo space program, with which the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) intended to put a man on the moon. Antonio worked as a NASA chief engineer until 1984.
He was selected as the Marine Employee of the Year by MSTSLANT in 1969. In turn, he was also publicly praised by Michael Collins, Apollo 11 command module pilot, one of three men who went to the moon (July 16-20, 1969), along with Commander Neil Armstrong and lunar module pilot Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin. Collins recognized Antonio’s individual contribution, through his work on the USNS Vanguard, in making that mission a success.
NASA presents the “Silver Snoopy” medal to Antonio Guezuraga in a ceremony that took place in February, 1970. “Silver Snoopy” is one of the NASA symbols that best represents the intention and spirit of space flight. Courtesy by Robert Guezuraga Uriarte
Collins wrote of Antonio, “His contribution was an essential factor in the success of Apollo 11.” Consequently, NASA awarded him the “Silver Snoopy” award for his professional excellence in February, 1970. (Antonio was then a member of the Office of Instrumentation Ships at the Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland). He also participated in the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project, the first international manned space mission that took place from July 15 to 24, 1975. For his work on this first joint mission in outer space, he also received a special mention from the crews of both the United States and the Soviet Union.
The Apollo-Soyuz team presented Antonio Guezuraga with a certificate and a metal medallion for his contribution to the success of this first international mission in space in 1975. Courtesy of Robert Guezuraga Uriarte
The exceptional accomplishments of the young emigrant who arrived in the country with only 17 years of age is measured by the achievements that Antonio reaped throughout his life. His mother Estefana not only sent him to the New World, but also enabled him to explore the endless opportunities that life offered him, helping to make the dream of walking on the surface of the moon come true. Along with his engineering skills, his social and linguistic skills accompanied him throughout his life, since he not only spoke Basque, but he also knew how to read and write it. According to his son Robert, “he was very proud of that, especially during the time of Franco’s dictatorship in Spain.” Additionally, he was fluent in English, Spanish, Italian, and German. Antonio passed away at the age of 72 on April 10, 1992 in Brevard, Florida. Little did Armstrong imagine (or did he?), when he said that of “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” that in reality he was describing the thousands of steps that in turn took so many other men and women who helped him reach the moon. Among them, a boy from Busturia. One of ours.
Collaborate with ‘Echoes of two wars, 1936-1945.’
If you want to collaborate with “Echoes of two wars” send us an original article on any aspect of WWII or the Civil War and Basque or Navarre participation to the following email: sanchobeurko@gmail.com
Song and dance are an integral part of Basque culture. It seems that, whenever you get more than a few Basques together, they spontaneously break out in song and dance. At large dinners, whole rooms can bust out into song. At fiestas, small groups dance in the street. And where there is song and dance, you need music. The one-man or one-woman band – the txuntxunero or txistulari – comprised of the flute and drum fits the bill nicely.
The txuntxunero, or more commonly called the txistulari today, arose somewhere in Europe sometime in the 13th century — there are a number of images depicting musicians playing the flute and the drum at the same time. For example, in the Basque Country, there are depictions of what we would call a txistulari in the monasteries of la Asunción de Tuesta and La Oliva. It’s not until the 15th century, however, that we find written references to these musicians in the Basque Country — people such as Réonart de Ufon, in the service of Carlos III in 1413 and Johan Romei, Johan de la Mota and Pedro Julián, who were in the service of Carlos, Prince of Viana.
The txuntxunero played so-called “música alta,” or loud music, intended for open air and meant to be heard, to be a herald or lead a procession. However, the most important role of the Basque musician was to lead dancing. The combined rhythm and melody of the txistu and drum provide the perfect soundtrack to dancing. However, the Church viewed dancing, with its lustful movements, as diabolical and musicians were excommunicated and even depicted as devils. Indeed, during the Basque witch trials, the only woman txuntxundera documented before the 20th century was accused of witchcraft and one man, Miguel de Xubiri, was executed in 1575.
In the 16th century, the solo nature of the txistulari resulted in their gradual decline, as ensemble groups became more popular. However, in the Basque Country, the txistu and drum are about the only instruments used to accompany dance. Further, it is about this time that cities and villages start to hire these musicians. By the 18th century, dances became regulated — handkerchiefs had to be held to prevent hands from touching, dances had to end by sunset, they had to be held at a specified place — and the hiring of musicians by the cities themselves was part of this effort. The txuntxundero also had very specific duties, such as announcing dawn on holidays and accompanying authorities in processions and parades.
It’s also about this time that the txistu started becoming more than a popular instrument, it became more “cultured.” Emphasis was placed more on the flute than the drum, eventually leading to these musicians being called txistularis rather than txuntxunderos. New melodies were written. The txistu evolved, became tunable so it could be played in groups. And txistu virtuosos arose, musicians such as Vicente Ibarguren and Baltasar Manteli.
However, in the 19th century, the txistu was considered old fashioned and again fell out of favor. The final abolishment of the fueros led to a new movement to maintain old Basque customs, and the txistu was no exception. It became one of the central elements in Basque cultural renaissance but also a political football, used by different sides to promote their agenda. One editorial said that “Before reason, the sounds of the txistu reach the heart.”
The Spanish Civil War, as it did to so many aspects of Basque culture, halted this renaissance in the txistu. In some cases, military governors, associating the txistu with Basque nationalism, confiscated all txistus. However, since then, new avenues for the txistu have arisen. Whole orchestras filled with txistus were created, elevating it to new heights. But, new competition, in the form of rock and pop music, also led to the txistu filling a niche and folkloric space in Basque music. Even so, the txistulari and txuntxundero today are as technically accomplished as ever, and there are numerous events promoting the musical form.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The next morning, Maite was up early. She lay in bed, going through her slides on her computer one last time as Kepa slowly woke next to her. He sat up in bed, watching her for a moment, not wanting to interrupt. She could feel his eyes on her, though, and after she finished looking through the current slide she turned to him.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Just wanted to say good morning. Shall I run out and fetch some breakfast and coffee while you get ready?”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“That would be great!” she exclaimed. “But first…” She set aside her computer and pulled Kepa toward her, her lips meeting his as she embraced him. More than a few minutes passed before she released him again.
Kepa smiled at her. “Are you sure you have to go to this interview? We could just stay here…”
Maite returned the smile. “We’ll have time for that later. And, besides, if I don’t go, they won’t pay for the hotel.”
“Fair enough,” said Kepa as he jumped out of bed and threw on some clothes. “Be back soon.”
While Kepa was out, Maite took a shower and laid out her clothes for the day. It wasn’t long before he returned with a couple of cups of coffee, a few breakfast sandwiches, and a few pastries. “I couldn’t find any bollos de mantequilla, but hopefully these will do.”
“Mil esker, Kepa!” They sat on the small sofa on the other end of the hotel room as they ate. “So, what are you going to do while I’m on campus?”
“That’s a good question. I didn’t get a chance to look at what there is to do here in Berkeley. I guess I’ll just wander around a bit, see what there is to see.”
“I’ve heard they have some nice gardens here.”
Kepa shook his head. “That really isn’t my kind of thing.” He paused. “But, after being surrounded by so many people in New York, it might be nice to get away from people.”
“How about we plan on doing the gardens tomorrow then? Unless you want to get away from me too?”
“Ha! Ez, ez. You are the last one I want to get away from.”
Maite finished eating. “I’m going to finish getting ready,” she said as she stood. She grabbed her clothes off the bed and headed to the bathroom as Kepa continued sipping on his coffee.
She emerged a few moments later. Kepa hadn’t seen her dressed up like this before, in a professional capacity, and he found her stunning. She had opted for a pantsuit and pulling her hair back into a bun. Her make-up was understated, accentuating her natural beauty. She stepped into the middle of the room and did a slow twirl. “What do you think?”
“Ederra,” replied Kepa. “Simply beautiful.”
Maite blushed as she grabbed her bag and stowed her computer and power cord inside. “Do you care to walk me to the campus, jauna?”
“I would be delighted,” replied Kepa as he grabbed his coffee and followed Maite out of the room.
The campus was beautiful, with large ornate and imposing buildings separated by fertile green lawns. A white clock tower pierced the sky in the distance.
Maite pointed. “The physics building is next to that tower.”
“It’s an impressive campus,” said Kepa. “I can see why you want to come here.”
“It’s not really about the campus. It’s about the people. Some of the greatest minds in physics have studied and taught here.”
“And you’ll be next.”
Maite let out a nervous chuckle. “We’ll see.”
As they approached the entrance to the building, Kepa reached out for Maite’s arm. He looked her in the eyes. “You will do great, I know it.”
“Mil esker, Kepa,” said Maite with a smile. “I’m so glad you are here with me.”
“Me too, and when you are done, we’ll celebrate.”
“Sounds good,” replied Maite as she gave Kepa a small kiss on the cheek and passed through the doors, turning one last time to wave.
Professor Begoña Echeverria is no stranger to Buber’s Basque Page. Back in 2014, she wrote a guest column describing her use of song to teach elements of Euskara. However, that is only one of the myriad of activities she is leading to not only promote but also to understand Basque language and culture. Her play Picasso Presents Gernika is currently making the virtual rounds, and we’ll discuss that soon in a separate post (though you can find more information about the next screening here). In this interview, we delve into Begoña’s latest book — “Witches” and Wily Women — where she examines the place of the feminine in Basque language and culture. Begoña recently gave a presentation to mark the launching of her book, and another is coming up on April 7 — check here for details (registration required).
Buber’s Basque Page: Both of your parents were from the Basque Country but you grew up in the United States. What was it like having Basque as your first language? When did you realize that not speaking English at home was unique?
Begoña Echeverria: Speaking Basque at home — and with my aunts and uncles when we visited them on Sundays — just seemed normal to me. I don’t recall thinking it was odd or anything while I was in school, and I didn’t really get that Basque itself was an unusual language until I got to college. My friends would overhear me speaking in Basque to my parents on the phone (back in the day when you had to go down the hall to use a payphone), and ask me questions about it that I couldn’t necessarily answer. Like how old the language was, or why it sounded so different from languages they knew.
Begoña Echeverria is the daughter of Basque immigrants to southern California. A native Basque speaker with a PhD in sociology, she is a Professor at UC Riverside’s Graduate School of Education. Her research on Basque language, culture and identity has been published in academic journals in education, sociolinguistics, anthropology, history and folklore. She is also a singer-songwriter with the Basque-American trio, NOKA (www.ilovenoka.com), which has performed over 60 concerts domestically and internationally. Her historical novel, The Hammer of Witches, loosely based on the 1610 burnings of Basque “witches” from the Baztan Valley in northern Spain from which her family hails, was the Historical Novel Society’s Editor’s Choice for May, 2015. Other creative works include her docudrama Picasso Presents Gernika, which considers the fate of Basque refugees after the bombing of Gernika in 1937, as well as the artistic journey of Picasso’s anti-war masterpiece, Guernica. (A film screening of the play will be streamed on April 24, 7pm).
BBP: When did you first visit the Basque Country? What was your first impression of the land your parents came from?
Begoña Echeverria: We visited as a family over the summer when I was six; I turned seven while we were there. I remember playing with my cousins, running around their farmhouses, chasing the chickens (my siblings and I each had our favorites). I have very fond memories of getting to know my extended family, and I still remain close to my cousins there. I have family on both sides of the border, so I spoke to all my relatives there in Basque, as it was the only language we had in common.
BBP: Your book, “Witches” and Wily Women, and much of your research focuses on the place of the feminine gender in the Basque language, the concept of “noka.” What is the importance of “noka” in the Basque language and culture?
Begoña Echeverria: The Basque language (“Euskera”) has no “she” or “he,” or “el/le” “la” (as in Spanish or French). It’s completely gender-neutral except for the second person singular pronoun, hi. The ‘noka’ forms indicate that the addressee is female, while the ‘toka’ forms signal that the addressee is male. (These forms are so old, readers will have to forgive Euskera for conceptualizing gender in binary terms.) But while noka and toka are linguistically equal in that they occupy the same place in the language, I have shown in my research that they are sociolinguistically unequal — noka is often considered rude or disrespectful, has no unambiguously positive associations in the culture, and is disappearing from speech at a much faster rate than is toka. I believe that this is emblematic of the male bias in Basque society as a whole, where men are celebrated as the main protagonists in history and the producers of culture, while the accomplishments of women are overlooked or unknown. The loss of noka also deprives Basque speakers of the opportunity to address women and girls with as much linguistic richness as they do boys and men, which is an inequity in and of itself. But by focusing on texts that use noka (as my book does in examining biblical materials, folklore and song since the 16th century) we uncover images of the “feminine” that are not otherwise obvious — images of women and girls playing active roles in their own lives and in Basque culture, telling tales we don’t normally hear — that enrich all of us. We also learn that women have played active roles as creators of Basque culture; about a third of the folklore and song texts were written by women, but their names are usually just put in the footnotes or omitted altogether.
BBP: In the presentation you gave at the launching of your book, you described how “noka” had been vilified, particularly as compared to the masculine equivalent “toka,” and that much of that could be attributed to how the Basque translation of the Catholic Bible portrayed “noka.” How did the Protestant treatment differ from the Catholic version?
“Witches” and Wily Women can be purchased at basquebooks.com.
Begoña Echeverria: It was quite a shock for me to learn not only that the two religions used pronouns differently but that Protestants published the Bible in Basque centuries before Catholics did. The Protestant Queen Jeanne d’Albret of Navarre commissioned Joanes Leizarraga to translate the New Testament in 1571, and the Protestant convert Pierre d’Urte published a fragment of the Old Testament around 1700. I came across the d’Urte Old Testament on a library shelf when another book I was looking for was missing, and I noticed right away that the pronouns were ‘wrong.’ It was using noka and toka for all speech directed to a single addressee, regardless of the social status of the people in the conversation: between God and Eve, Abraham and Sarah. This use of the familiar to address God (as in prayer) or between spouses is almost unheard of today. Then I looked through Leizarraga’s New Testament, and noticed the same pattern there: Jesus used noka/toka with God the Father, but also with the Virgin Mary, the Samaritan Woman, Mary Magdalena, and his Apostles. Noka is used for every kind of interaction: positive, negative, everything in between. In contrast, the first Catholic Bible wasn’t published until 1865, when L. L. Bonaparte (Napoleon’s nephew) commissioned Jean Duvoisin for the task. And it uses noka exclusively for very negative purposes: only in the Old Testament, when God is condemning a city or country for disloyalty, personified as female, using violent or sexualized imagery.
BBP: To what extent are these differences due to the different outlook between Protestantism and Catholicism, versus each individual translator’s relationship with the Basque language?
Begoña Echeverria: Good question. I wondered that myself, but as I don’t have a time machine (or do I?) to see how the translators spoke in their daily lives, I compared other texts that they translated, and I found that the pronoun differences definitely had to do with theology rather than personal preference. Leizarraga, for example, uses the formal pronoun (zu) in thanking Queen Jeanne d’Albret, who commissioned him to translate the New Testament, which suggests he felt that the use of noka with an actual female monarch was inappropriate, even though his text uses noka to address every single female character, regardless of status. Similarly, Pierre d’Urte published a grammar in addition to the Old Testament fragment, and he uses zu in addition to hi (the familiar pronoun) in sample dialogues he includes. As for Bonaparte, his preference for zu follows the pronominal tradition established in Roman Catholic texts going back to the 17th century. Zu is used almost all of the time; hi is used only for very negative interactional purposes, like when the mob mocks Jesus on the cross, or Jesus casts out a demon from a possessed person. The only use of noka I found was from Axular’s Gero from 1643, when God uses it to chastise a lazy person’s soul, which is addressed as if it were female. A negative precedent for noka, indeed.
BBP: In your presentation, you noted how there is an effort to create a gender-neutral versus of the familiar pronoun. Would it be easier to just ‘lose’ gender completely in the language? What, in your opinion, would be lost if Basque became truly genderless (losing both noka and toka)?
Begoña Echeverria: Much research has shown that whenever gender matters in a society or culture, that will be reflected in (and reinforced) by the language. So the answer is not to keep or get rid of noka and toka, but to create a Basque culture that is more gender-equitable that can support a gender-equitable language, whatever its pronouns are. Most Basque speakers do not know or use noka or toka, but they still use language to construct gender identities or (re)create gender power dynamics. For instance, in my research many years ago I found gender differences in language use even among bilingual Basques: girls and women spoke Spanish or French in domains outside the home where boys and men often spoke Basque. This was not due to language ability — female speakers were as linguistically competent as male speakers — but to the social values ascribed Basque. In processes I discuss in my book, over time the Basque language and identity have been constructed in terms that favor male speakers, because Euskera is used in positively-valued male-dominated domains (rural sports like pilota, activities like bertsolaritza), so that speaking Basque also has connotations with rugged masculinity. But for female speakers, speaking Basque has not had such positive associations, and was actually used as an epithet. So girls and women, understandably enough, would speak Spanish and/or French at work or in social contexts outside the home to construct more positive “feminine” identities. This also made sense economically, as the more socially-mobile jobs for women required proficiency in languages other than Basque.
Even so, losing noka would be shame because it provides unique perspectives on the world that would be lost without it. As Euskera is a language isolate, there is no other language it could bequeath noka’s insights to, if noka itself were to disappear. The danger is not nearly as great with toka, as there are still many domains in contemporary life as well as the historical record to keep it alive.
Begoña historical novel, The Hammer of Witches.
BBP: Where is your research taking you now? What’s next?
Begoña Echeverria: Thanks for asking! I have a few projects in the works. I just started a collaboration with the Riverside Arts Academy called “Improving Literacy Using Music,” which we hope will ILUMminate (I can’t help myself…) ways to integrate music and perhaps other creative expressions into the K-3 curriculum in California. With Dr. Heather Sparling at Cape Breton University, I am co-editing a volume on “Music and Heritage Language Revitalization” for the Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development. With UCR colleagues Drs. Annika Speer, Bella Merlin and Richard Cardullo, I am conducting a workshop based on the film of my play Picasso Presents Gernika, which will be screened on Saturday, April 24, 7pm PST. (Visit here for more information.) Now that “Witches” and WilyWomen is done, I hope to take a closer look at Basque versions of global fairy tales like Cinderella and Rumpelstiltskin that use noka to see what perspectives and life lessons they might offer. I’m working with illustrator Lara Scott on a series of children’s books: Basque-ing in Numbers is currently available through basqueimports.com, and we hope to have Basque-ing in the ABCs available for Jaialdi, 2022. I also hope to have a Spanish version of my historical novel, The Hammer of Witches (basquebooks.com), loosely based on the 1610 burning of Basque “Witches” from Baztan, available by then. Right after finishing this interview, I will be revising the first draft of my historical novel in progress, Apparitions, which explores the supposed apparitions of the Virgin Mary to Basque children amid the political and religious tumult that preceded the Spanish Civil War.
BBP: What are your favorite places in the Basque Country? Your favorite things to do?
Begoña Echeverria: My favorite places are wherever my family lives, in Baztan and the countryside around Baiona. As for things to do: visiting, singing and eating with family and friends — preferably all at the same time — and communing with old Basque books in the archives!
BBP: Do you have any parting words before we conclude?
Begoña Echeverria: I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Basque immigrant communities for all their support of my various endeavors over the years — and to you, Blas, for your continued interest in my work. I am having a book talk through UC Riverside’s Center for Ideas and Society on Wednesday, April 7, 3pm PST [check here for details (registration required)] for those readers who can make it. But if there are Basque clubs or other groups out there interested in additional presentations on my book, I’d love to hear from you!: b.echeverria@ucr.edu.
Basque mythology is full of colorful characters and beings. With the dense forests that cover the imposing mountains rising from the sea, it should come as no surprise that the mythology features beings that dwell in those forest and are closely connected to nature. However, the Basajaunak — the wild lords of the forest — are a paradox wrapped in an enigma. While they are wild beings that almost embody the primal nature of the forest, they are also protectors of humans, especially shepherds. They are also repositories of knowledge, that humans have tricked to learn new technologies.
In one story, a group of four cowherds were watching their flock in Esterenzubi, on the border between France and Spain. When they slept, they would leave a ration of their food for Antxo, the local Basajaun, who would come and warm himself by their fire as they slept. One day, only the youngest left any food out for him and so Antxo, after eating his share and warming his body, took the clothes of the other cowherds. It snowed heavily that night and, upon waking, the three cowherds were dismayed to find their clothes missing. They begged the young boy to go find them, finally offering him a lame heifer as a reward. He found Antxo, who after some coaxing returned the clothes, but also gave the young man a hazelnut wand, telling the boy to hit the heifer one hundred and one times. The boy did, and the heifer eventually produced for him a herd of one hundred and one beautiful animals.
The Basajaun is covered in hair that falls to his knees, covering his chest and belly. He protects flocks from wolves and oncoming storms, announcing their imminence by shouting in the mountains. The character of the Basajaun sits on the border between nature and civilization. He is of nature, living in the forests, but he protects the shepherd from the worst that nature has to offer.
The Basajaun is a complex character, an amalgamation of many stories that have combined to create the being we know today. At least three main motifs coexist in the Basajaun:
The wild Basajaun, covered with hair, agile and vigorous, capable of running faster than wild beasts, wandering naked in winter or summer, never getting sick and feeding on forest animals and plants.
The shepherd, who helps human shepherds and collects their offerings (bread, milk, and warmth) in exchange for his help.
The victim of robberies perpetrated by malicious heroes such as San Martín Txiki or Haxerihargaitz; this last version is the owner of valuable riches or secrets.
Because of this synthesis of many stories over centuries, the character of the Basajaun is often contradictory. In some stories, he is a protector, defending the shepherds and flock from wolves and storms, in exchange for a small offering. In others, he steals from the shepherds and scares the sheep. In some, he is impervious to the elements, his hairy body protected from the cold, but in others he warms himself by the shepherds’ fire.
There are of course similarities and maybe even common origins with other beings in European mythology. There are beings that roam the Alps and the Apennines that teach humans important knowledge. And the Greek and Romans had deities such as Silvanus and Pan protected herds and promotes their fertility. However, any direct associations are, of course, lost to time.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
Getting to the hotel had been relatively painless. Their bags were on time — Maite was nervous that her suitcase would get lost and then she’d have nothing to wear for her interview — and the Uber they hired picked them up and took them straight to the hotel without incident.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” asked Maite as she unpacked her suitcase and made sure her clothes for tomorrow hadn’t gotten too wrinkled in transit.
“Something mellow?” replied Kepa. “How about a burger and a beer?”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“That sounds fine to me. Can you find something nearby?”
Kepa nodded as he pulled out his phone and searched for nearby pubs. “There’s one just around the corner,” he said. “It has four and a half stars.”
“Sounds good,” replied Maite. “I want to get back early and go through my talk one more time.”
“Don’t you have that thing memorized yet?” asked Kepa. “You’ve gone over it so many times.”
Maite replied with a sheepish smile. “I just want to do well. It’s a big deal.”
Kepa stood and walked over to Maite, putting his hands on the small of her back and pulling her close. “You are the smartest person I know. You’ll do fine.”
“But, what if I don’t get in? What then?”
“You’ll get in. But, even if you don’t, there are many opportunities for someone like you. You’ll be fine.”
Maite shrugged. “I guess. But, this is Berkeley.”
Kepa smiled. “You’ll do great things, with or without Berkeley.”
“Eskerrik asko, Kepa.”
“Ez horregatik,” replied Kepa as he pulled her closer and kissed her.
The pub was filled with people of all ages, from undergraduate students who were releasing some steam after some big test, to a group of graduate students who were huddled with their advisor, talking about their latest research, to a few older professors who had grabbed a corner table and were amongst the loudest in the pub as they discussed the day’s news.
Maite took a sip of her beer and, then, looking at Kepa, said “Isn’t this awesome? There is so much energy here!”
“I guess it has its own flavor of marcha,” replied Kepa with a smile. “Not quite the discotech, but still pretty lively in its own way.”
Maite gave him a playful punch in the arm. “You’re just disappointed there are no ladies dancing.”
“To this?” Kepa replied, absently waving his hands to indicate the alternative music that was playing over the speakers. “Nah. And, besides, you are the only one I want to watch dance.”
Maite blushed as she finished her beer. “Ready to go?”
Kepa downed his beer as well. “Yep, let’s get you some rest before the big day.”
Lunch atop a Skyscraper is one of the most iconic photographs ever taken. Taken in 1932, it features 11 men casually eating their lunch while sitting upon a crossbeam dangling above New York City. The photo was a publicity stunt, taken to promote the construction of Rockefeller Center. Even so, much about the photo remains a mystery: Who was the photographer? Who were those 11 men? This last question has spurred a lot of speculation. There is now enough evidence that the second man on the left, the one lighting the cigarette of his coworker, was a Basque from Bizkaia — Ignacio Ibargüen.
Lunch atop a Skyscraper, 1932; photo from Wikipedia.
Ignacio “Natxo” Ibargüen was born in Balmaseda on November 4, 1899, the sixth child of Ignacio Ibargüen Urrutia and Micaela Moneta Luzuriaga. He left home in 1919, heading for Argentina, possibly to avoid fighting in the Rif War. However, Argentina wasn’t to his liking, so he made his way to England, serving on an English ship. This took him not only to Bristol, where he made his new home, but to other ports around Europe, including in Russia.
In the early 1920s, Natxo made his way to the United States, where he met Esperanza Ojinaga. They married in the mid 1920s and had four children: Tomás, Shirley, Daniel, and Louise. The family made their home in New York City, in Brooklyn to be exact. Natxo died in 1957.
While it is now near-impossible to definitively prove who the men in the photo were, there is abundant circumstantial evidence that the second man from the left was Natxo. Other pictures were taken that day — one showing the group considering an American football and another where the guys are listening to a radio — that more clearly show a man who has been identified as Natxo. Natxo’s connection to the iconic photo was only realized when his son, during a trip to visit family in the Basque Country, saw a copy of the photo and told his Basque family that the second man was his father.
Of the 11 men, only a few have been identified with any certainty. The men on each end are thought to be immigrants from Ireland, though the last man has also been said to hail from Slovakia. At least one other is thought to be from Newfoundland while another is a thought to be a Native American from the Mohawk tribe. There is even doubt about who took the photograph — it was only in 2003 that Charles Ebbets was finally given credit. And, while it does seem reasonable to conclude that the second man is Natxo, there are other claims as to the man’s identity.
The photo itself has its own story. It was taken to advertise the new building. While the girder the men are sitting on hangs some 800 feet above the city, it was suspended directly above a finished floor, so any fall, while still dangerous, wouldn’t have taken anyone to the street. It was one of several photos taken that day but became famous when it was published in the New York Herald Tribune on October 2, 1932.
Primary sources: Harresi Kulturala Elkartea, who have a series of articles detailing what is known about Natxo and the photograph; Lunch atop a Skyscraper, Wikipedia. A special thanks to Koldo San Sebastian and Eneko Sagarbide whose postings on Facebook alerted me to this story.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The next morning, earlier than any of them cared for, Edurne took Maite and Kepa to the airport. Before they left, Maite slipped a note under Amaia’s pillow, saying goodbye and hoping to see her soon in the Basque Country. It was still dark out when Edurne pulled up to the airport.
“Are you sure I can’t help you carry your bags in?” she asked for the fifteenth time. “I can park in the garage.”
“Ez, ez, lasai!” responded Maite. “We got it! We don’t have that many bags.”
“Ok,” said Edurne, still unsure. She followed the sign pointing to departures and parked the car. As Kepa grabbed their bags out of the trunk, Edurne gave Maite a big bear hug.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“It was so good to see you!” she said. “We can’t let it be so long until the next time.”
“Ados,” replied Maite. “You have to come visit soon!”
“Well, if you go to Berkeley, you won’t be there for me to visit,” said Edurne with a smile.
A look of doubt flashed in Maite’s eyes. “That’s still a big if,” she finally said. “They may not accept me.”
Edurne let out a good natured laugh. “They would be fools not to. You’ll be the best thing they’ve seen in a while, I’m sure.”
She then turned to Kepa. “You take good care of her out there.”
Kepa smiled. “Oh, I will. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble, at least not until after her interview.”
Edurne gave Kepa a squeeze. “It was good to meet you.”
“Berdin,” replied Kepa.
Edurne gave Maite one last hug. “He’s a keeper, you know,” she whispered into her cousin’s ear.
Maite smiled as she whispered back. “I know.”
“Ikusi arte!” called Edurne as she climbed back into her car and drove away.
The flight to California was relatively uneventful. Maite claimed the window seat and put on her headphones, putting some final touches on the talk she was going to give as part of her interview. Kepa sat next to her in the middle seat. To his left, in the aisle seat, sat an older gentleman. Kepa had pulled out a book and had begun reading when the man interrupted him.
“Where are you from?”
“The Basque Country,” replied Kepa.
“Where?” asked the man.
“The Basque Country,” repeated Kepa. “In Spain. Why do you ask?”
“I just noticed that your book wasn’t in English, so I was curious. So, you are Basque?” he said excitedly.
Kepa nodded.
“I’ve heard about you guys! Aren’t you the long-lost descendants of Atlantis?”
Kepa sighed as he tried to explain the history of the Basques and the Basque Country, but every time he debunked one theory, the man brought up another.
“What about Adam and Eve? Isn’t Basque the language that was spoken in the Garden of Eden?”
“Aren’t you all really aliens?”
“What about being Neandertals? That one has to be true, doesn’t it?”
By the end of the flight, Kepa was wishing he had pretended not to understand English at all.
On the furthest reaches of Canada’s eastern coast lies Saint Pierre and Miquelon, a small group of islands just south of Newfoundland. A French Territorial Collectivity, the islands are the last remaining vestige of New France, at least in North America – the people are guaranteed French citizenship. However, perhaps more interestingly, if you look at their coat-of-arms, you’ll notice that the ikurriña is displayed prominently, a monument to the Basque history of the islands.
Humans have visited these islands for at least 8000 years, with the Beothuk and Paleo-Eskimo or Pre-Inuit peoples at least stepping foot on the islands, though it seems that, if they ever settled the islands, by the time Europeans arrived, there were no inhabitants. By at least 1517, Basque whalers, primarily from Donibane Lohizune (Saint Jean de Luz) and Ziburu, had found the islands and, alongside Normans and Bretons, began to settle the islands in the 17th century. Captain Juanes de Liçaurdi, commissioned by shipowner Adam de Chibau from Donibane Lohizune, established a fishing station in the south of the islands between 1602 and 1611.
The fishing industry, in decline throughout the nineteenth century, was revitalized by an influx of new Basques, who hailed primarily from Getaria (Ghétary-Bidart), Donibane Lohizune/Ziburu (Ciboure), Urruña (Urrugne), Hendaia (Hendaye) and Senpere (Saint-Pée).
The name Miquelon is thought to be of Basque origin, likely related to the name Mikel. Though, the true origin seems lost to time.
Even today, there are vestiges of the Basque history of the islands. Pelota is a popular sport, and the Basque cultural group on the islands – Zazpiak-bat – takes its name from the fronton on the island of Saint Pierre. Every year, the islands hold a Basque festival, featuring traditional dance and sporting events. There were even traces of the Basque language into the twentieth century.
As a final testament to that long Basque history, there are numerous Basque surnames associated with the inhabitants of the islands, names such as Amestoy, Bildosteguy, Doyharcabal, Errecart, Gastambide, Hiraburu, Iturbide, Jaureguiberry, Larranaga, Mendizabal, Oyarzabal, Puchulutéguy, Sabarotz, Telletchia, Uzandizaga, and Zagaramurdy.
During World War II, there was a bit of an international dust up when Free France, the French government-in-exile, under the orders of General Charles de Gaulle, took the islands from the Nazi-sympathizing Vichy government. The United States decried this use of military power in the Americas by a European force, contrary to the Monroe Doctrine, but the incident seems to have been just as suddenly forgotten.
