Maite looked around. She found herself kneeling on the floor of the Registry Room, in the very corner where she and Kepa had touched hands just before they had been thrown back in time. Kepa was kneeling next to her, dressed in the much more casual clothes he had put on that morning. Maite could swear that the people in the museum behind her were in exactly the same positions they had left them.
“What happened?” asked Kepa.
“I don’t know. I guess, when we touched that zatia, we somehow collected it and the time bubble literally popped, sending us back here.”
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!
“Where is the zatia then?”
Maite shrugged. “Maybe inside of us, like the ones that Marina gave us?”
“I guess we’ll have to ask her,” replied Kepa. “Whenever we see her again.”
“It seems that, because she had no family here, no connection to this time and place, she wasn’t able to find us, to help us.”
“But de Lancre already knew us. How did he know who we were? Did he see us when we were in that cave?”
Maite shook her head. “I suspect that, even though this was the first time we met him, it wasn’t the first time he had met us. From his perspective, according to his timeline, we met before. As we jump through time, our timelines aren’t straight lines anymore and they can cross in strange ways.”
Suddenly, Maite squeezed Kepa’s hand. “Blas!” she exclaimed. “He… he was dead. de Lancre killed him!” Tears began pooling in her eyes.
“But, the bubble,” replied Kepa, panic rising in his voice. “Shouldn’t it have undone itself when it popped? When we got the zatia?”
Maite’s body shook. “Ez dakit. I don’t know.”
Kepa pulled out his phone and did a quick search. “Blas… Telleria…” he mumbled as he typed. “Here!” he said as he passed the phone to Maite. “I think everything is ok.”
Maite read a brief biography of Blas Telleria that Kepa had found on a website from a museum in Idaho. “He made it to Oregon and started a family there,” she said. She sighed as her shoulders relaxed. “You were right, the bubble popped and things happened as if it had never existed.”
“Are you two ok?” said a voice from above them. They looked up and saw Edurne, her face etched with concern.
Maite looked at Edurne and then at Kepa. She smiled. “Yes,” she said as she stood. “Yes, I think so.”
In the movie adaptation of JRR Tolkien’sThe Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, there is a scene in which the city of Gondor is being attacked and, to summon help, the so-called warning beacons of Gondor are lit. These are a series of outposts scattered across mountain peaks that are set ablaze, the fires signaling that Gondor needs help. It is a pretty cool scene, as the fires alight in turn, sending the distress call over vast distances. It turns out that, in Bizkaia, there was a real system of fires and horns on five mountain peaks to announce to the people that the General Assembly was going to meet.
Image from a poster announcing the 2014 Deiadar Mendien Eguna. Image from alpino-tabira.org.
Since the Middle Ages, to announce the General Assemblies of the Lordship of Bizkaia (Bizkaiko Jaurerriko Batzar Nagusietara) held in the Gernika Assembly House, bonfires were lit and horns sounded from five of the prominent peaks of the province. These deiadar-mendiak or montes bocineros are Kolitza, Ganekogorta, Gorbeia, Oiz and Sollube.
Kolitza, with a height of 883 meters (2896 feet), represents the region of Las Encartaciones or Enkarterri. Kolitza is famous for being the home of the Hermitage of San Roque and San Sebastián, first mentioned in 1111, though the current building was built in the 13th century.
The mountain closest to Bilbao, Ganekogorta stands at 999 meters (3277 feet). This mountain saw the birth of Basque mountaineering. The first mountaineers of Bizkaia, who founded a group in 1870, were known as ganekogortos. On September 30, 1914, Ganekogorta also saw the beginning of a unique challenge in which a group of climbers committed to climbing 15 peaks in 15 months.
Gorbeia is the highest of the five peaks, reaching 1482 meters or 4862 feet. In 1899, Pope Leo XIII called for crosses to be erected on the highest peaks in Christendom. A cross was raised on the peak of Gorbeia in 1901, but within a month of its inauguration, it fell. A second cross was built in 1903, but winds knocked it down in 1906. A third cross, shorter in design, was built in 1907. Its base straddles the border between Bizkaia and Araba.
Oiz stands at 1026 meters (3366 feet). The north slope of Oiz is home to the Monastery of Zenarruza. Oiz was also believed to be one of the homes of Mari, the Earth-goddess of Basque mythology. It was said that she moved every seven years between Oiz and Anboto and whichever place she called home enjoyed better weather and harvests. Oiz was also the scene of tragedy when, in 1985, a flight from Madrid to Bilbao hit an antenna on top of the mountain and crashed, killing all on board.
The last, and the shortest, of the deiadar mountains is Sollube, reaching only 684 meters (2244 feet). Sollube was the scene of a major battle in the Spanish Civil War. The Battle of Sollube, in May of 1937, lasted ten days and resulted in more than 1000 deaths.
Since 2004, the 25th anniversary of the reformation of the General Assembly of Bizkaia, the mountains have again come alive. Every year, on May 8, celebrations revive this tradition. Groups have also created foot races between the peaks – the Bocineros/Deiadar Xtreme – to mark the importance of these mountains to the traditions of the province. The longest race, which touches each of the five peaks, is 200 km – 124 miles – and lasts 56 hours.
Maite grabbed Blas’s hand and pulled him out the door, Kepa holding it open as they rushed by. He followed them as they ran down the hall.
“What do we do?” yelled Kepa. “We can’t just keep running and hiding forever. And I don’t think de Lancre is going to stay down for long.”
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!
“Ez,” replied Maite. “We just need a little time to think.”
“We can run back into the main hall. Surely, he wouldn’t do anything with all of those people.”
Maite shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on it. He’s hellbent on getting that zatia. I don’t think he would hesitate for an instant to kill every person up there to get it. And, besides, if what Marina said about the time bubbles is true, it wouldn’t matter who he killed. Once the zatia is recovered, it would pop as if it never happened.”
“Hori da! That’s it!” exclaimed Kepa. “We just need to take the zatia ourselves.”
“Noski!” echoed Maite. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
They felt more than saw the air around them crackle. Electrical sparks ran down the walls past them, suddenly coming together in front of them, forming a wall of electricity. The three of them stopped running and turned. de Lancre, his body crackling with electricity, was floating down the hallway toward them.
A deep growl shook their bones. “Give me that suitcase.”
“Inoiz ez!” yelled Blas, clutching the suitcase defiantly against his chest. “Never!”
“Then I will take it from your cold dead fingers!” bellowed de Lancre as his body flew down the hallway, charging at them.
Blas turned and thrust the suitcase into Maite’s hands. “I don’t know what is going on, but if you can stop him, do it.” He then turned back to face de Lancre and, with a roar, rushed at the oncoming form of de Lancre.
“Ez! No!” yelled Kepa as Blas launched himself at de Lancre, planting his shoulder into de Lancre’s sternum as he tackled his foe. Blas screamed as the electricity coursed through his body, as de Lancre scraped his back with his talon-like fingernails, but he held fast.
“Bizkortu! Hurry!” yelled Maite as she dropped to the ground, ripping open Blas’s suitcase. Together, Maite and Kepa threw aside the few possessions Blas had brought from the old country – a few changes of clothing, his Bible, a few pieces of dried meat, and a small knife.
“Begira! Look!” said Kepa. Underneath it all, they found a small locket that glowed brightly. Maite picked it up and opened it. Inside was a picture of Blas on one side and, on the other, a young woman, her beautiful face smiling back at them. A small glowing sphere of light rose out of the opened locket and floated in front of Maite and Kepa. They looked at one another and reached for it.
“No!” screamed de Lancre as he threw Blas’s burnt and lifeless body aside. He raised his hand, electricity coursing through his fingers. A bolt of lightning erupted from his palm just as Kepa and Maite touched the zatia floating in front of them. The room erupted in a blinding white light, followed by an almost deafening pop
This article originally appeared in its Spanish form in El Diario.
Mary Sala poses for the 1940 University of Nevada yearbook, as a member of the Senate of the Student Association. A year later she will witness the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
War was inevitable. The United States – despite its “neutrality” and even without considering the huge supply of raw materials and war machinery it would send to the United Kingdom in the near future – was the only country capable of standing in the way of Japan’s expansionist wishes. In February 1940, in a gesture that did not go unnoticed, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered the transfer of the entire Pacific military fleet from their naval bases in California to the Naval Base at Pearl Harbor, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu, a movement that was seen by Japan as a serious and potential threat to its interests.
“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.
Japan aspired to be the leader of a new political order in Asia at the cost of seizing the British, French, Dutch, and American colonial territories, and thus extending, without hindrance, its influence in the rest of Southeast Asia. And as such it was recognized by the western powers of Germany and Italy through the Tripartite Pact of September 27, 1940. Previously, after the fall of France into the hands of Nazi Germany, Japan had invaded French Indochina (Vietnam) on September 22, 1940. As a reaction, the US suspended all exports to Japan, including oil, which accounted for 80% of the total obtained by the country of the Rising Sun. The situation was critical and the only solution was to neutralize the US on its way to the Dutch East Indies, which held significant oil reserves that could feed its insatiable war economy.
Some thirty ships, including six aircraft carriers with 420 aircraft on board, and 16,000 men from the Imperial Navy of Japan, crossed about 5,600 kilometers (3,500 miles) of the Pacific Ocean, undetected, with the aim of ending the meddling of the United States with a preventative attack that would theoretically mean the end of its fleet on the West Coast [1].
Without warning, on the morning of Sunday, December 7, 1941, Japan launched 353 aircraft from its carriers in two waves of attacks. These air raids were supported by two heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, two battleships, eleven destroyers, and 35 submarines. Within just a few hours, Wake Island, in the US, was in turn also razed. On Wake Island, there were seven Basque-American workers, hired by the Morrison-Knudsen engineering company of Boise, Idaho, who were paradoxically building military defenses against a possible Japanese attack.
“WAR! OAHU BOMBED BY JAPANESE PLANES,” announced the Honolulu Star-Bulletin newspaper on its front page of the first extra edition of the same day, December 7, 1941
The American defenses of Pearl Harbor, taken by surprise, offered little resistance to the incessant aerial bombardments. Barring extraordinary instances of heroism, American military and civilians were stunned bystanders of the chaos and catastrophe unleashed by the Japanese. Their placid lives had turned into a nightmare. They had unwittingly become historical witnesses to the unwanted involvement of the United States in the Second World War (WWII). Among them we have been able to identify six people of Basque origin who experienced it first hand. They are Mary Sala, the brothers Fermín and Alfonso Aldecoa Arriandiaga, Leandro Urcelay Llantada, Gregorio “George” Ascuena Monasterio, and Domingo Amuchastegui Guenaga.
Mary Sala, born in 1920 in Ely, Nevada, to a Nafarroan father and a Quebecer mother, who died when Mary was 6 months old. Unfortunately her father died in 1928, leaving her and her older brother, John, orphans at only 8 and 10 years old. Without a relative, the authorities decided to send them to an orphanage in Ogden, Utah. Fortunately, a neighbor in Ely, the Behe Nafarroan Catherine Mong Bercetche, married at the time to another Behe Nafarroan Louis Harriett (they will later separate), decided to adopt them and raise them together with her other two children, Emile Josephine and Louis Genty “Shanty.” It would be at the University of Nevada, in Reno, from where she will later graduate, where Mary met her future husband Mitchell Anton Cobeaga Laca, born in 1917 in Lovelock, Nevada, to Bizkaia parents. Mitchell, commissioned as a lieutenant in the Air Force in May 1940, married Mary in April 1941, was destined for a post at the Hickam Air Force Base, Honolulu, on the island of Oahu, as a pilot of the 19th Bombardment Group, assigned to the mythical Boeing B-17 “Flying Fortress.” At that time, the command decided to transfer the group to the Philippines to improve its air defense in the Pacific, a move in which Mitchell participated. He was on a transfer flight to the US when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The Hickam base was completely devastated, killing 189 people. Young Mary, four months pregnant and from her home in the port, was a privileged witness of how Japanese aviation attacked the North American fleet; the ship bearing the name of her home state – the USS Nevada – was the only battleship to get underway that day, although it was hit by a torpedo and no fewer than six bombs, eventually sinking in the port.
Her brothers John and Shanty later served in the Navy in the Pacific Theater of Operations during the war. Her husband Mitchell continued his military career until his retirement in 1968 with the rank of colonel, having also participated in the Pacific front during WWII, and later in Korea and Vietnam. Mary passed away at the age of 76 in Las Vegas, Nevada.
The brothers Fermín and Alfonso Aldecoa, born in Boise in 1915 and 1918 to Bizkaian parents, were in Honolulu working for the aforementioned Morrison-Knudsen company in its main office in Pearl Harbor doing accounting work. Morrison-Knudsen had been contracted by the US government to develop different naval military projects, including at Pearl Harbor, Midway, and Wake Island. Fermín, 26, had arrived in Honolulu from San Francisco, California, aboard the SS Mariposa in September 1941, while his brother, 23, had arrived in April on the SS Lurline. Hawaii, an exotic and distant island in the Pacific, seemed to be the ideal place to take a job, with a salary that was almost double what they would receive in Boise. Their experiences would be unforgettable, but for a very different reason, as they witnessed the hecatomb caused by the Japanese attack.
After two years working at Pearl Harbor, the Aldecoas returned to Boise. Fermín retired as chief accountant at Morrison-Knudsen’s Boise headquarters after 39 years of service, passing away in 2006 in his hometown at the age of 91. Alfonso also retired from Morrison-Knudsen and died in Eagle, Idaho in 1995.
Photograph of Gregorio “George” Ascuena (right) during his subsequent stay in the Philippines after its liberation.
Leandro Urcelay was another witness to the attack on Pearl Harbor. Born in Barakaldo, Bizkaia in 1896, he had arrived at the Port of New York in 1919. He made Massachusetts his home, where he married an Azorean, having two children. A merchant marine by profession, and an excellent make of ship models, he had been recruited as an agent of the United States Secret Service and sent on his first mission to Pearl Harbor a few days before the tragic events. The nature of the enigmatic man from Barakaldo’s mission and his service to the US government is unknown. He passed away in Miami, Florida at the age of 82.
Lastly, we find the young recruits Gregorio Ascuena and Domingo Amuchastegui stationed on Oahu. They were born in 1918 in Gooding, Idaho, and in 1923 in McDermitt, Nevada, respectively, both of Bizkaian parents. Gregorio Ascuena was an inexperienced Marine who had only been in the Corps for a few months. He had enlisted in February 1941, being stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Ewa, seven miles west of Pearl Harbor. This airbase holds the sad record of having been the first military installation attacked during the aerial bombardment, having occurred two minutes before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Despite the desperate defense carried out by Gregorio and his companions with the weapons at their disposal, the 48 airplanes that were at the airfield were destroyed or disabled. The sailor Domingo Amuchastegui was also a newcomer. At just 18 years old, since November 25, 1941, he was part of the crew of the submarine support ship USS Pelias, docked in Pearl Harbor. During that fateful morning, the Pelias managed to successfully shoot down a Japanese torpedo plane and seriously damage another.
Domingo passed away at the age of 54 in Medford, Oregon, while Gregorio passed away at the age of 88 in Mountain Home, Nevada.
The Amuchastegui brothers pose together in their army uniforms. All of them served in WWII. From left to right: Julián, Domingo and John. Courtesy of Janet Amuchastegui.
The attacks carried out during those two interminable hours concentrated their entire arsenal on the airfields and the cruise ships, captive in their own docks. 2,403 Americans were killed, including a hundred civilians, and about another 1,200 were wounded. The attacks destroyed 169 Army and Navy aircraft while another 159 were damaged, while only 19 ships were damaged, including eight of the battleships. Only one auxiliary ship and two battleships, the USS Oklahoma and Arizona, were totally destroyed. 1,177 men died aboard the Arizona, almost half of the total human losses. Japan lost 129 soldiers, 29 planes, and 5 small submarines.
The Japanese attack momentarily paralyzed the US fleet, facilitating Japan’s territorial expansion across the Pacific. Twenty-four hours later, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Wake Island, Guam and Midway, it was the Philippine archipelago’s turn. Japan soon had in its possession, among others, Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Burma and the Netherlands East Indies, coveted for their precious natural rubber and petroleum. Thus, Japan broke the oil blockade imposed by the US since the end of 1940, and was able to replenish its needy civil and military industry. However, the American aircraft carriers were intact, while most of the damaged ships would be repaired between 1942 and 1944, progressively going into active service.
The Honolulu Star-Bulletin announces the declaration of war against Japan in its last issue of December 8, 1941. “FDR [Franklin D. Roosevelt] Call Attack Upon Oahu ‘Infamous Treachery.'”
President Roosevelt requested an immediate declaration of war. On December 8, 1941, in his speech to Congress entitled “December 7, 1941 A Date Which Will Live in Infamy,” he called for a state of war to be declared between the United States and Japan. He was blunt :
YESTERDAY, December 7, 1941 a date which will live in infamy the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan. […] No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. [2]
The slogan “Remember Pearl Harbor” would be followed by “America will never forget,” linked to the attack and subsequent invasion of Wake Island. On December 11, 1941, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States. More than 16 million Americans – including hundreds of Basque origin – would join the Armed Forces during World War II. Pearl Harbor symbolized the dramatic awakening of a military giant, asleep until then.
Following the attack on December 7, 1941, the slogan “Remember Pearl Harbor” called upon millions of Americans to defend their country. National Archives and Records Administration.
The Basque survivors of Pearl Harbor – the Aldecoa and Urcelay brothers – were called up in 1943. The eldest of the Fermín brothers would serve as an investigator in the Army’s Counterintelligence Corps in the South Pacific. Alfonso served in the Air Forces in Europe as a radio operator aboard a B-24 bomber. Urcelay, 47, was assigned to the United States Naval Construction Battalions, the “Seabees.” Lastly, Amuchastegui continued to serve on various Navy ships throughout the Pacific, while Marine Aviatior Ascuena would fight in Luzon, Philippines; for his actions beyond duty he received the Silver Star. It is the beginning of the legacy of the “Fighting Basques.”
[1] Prange, Gordon W., 1910-1980, Donald M. Goldstein and Katherine V. Dillon (1981). At dawn we slept: The untold story of Pearl Harbor. New York: McGraw-Hill.
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
Articles selected for publication will receive a signed copy of “Basque Combatants in World War II”.
[1, 2, 3] Steve Ranson interview with Gary Parisena on April 18, 2019. “Final farewell for Nevada World War II veteran”. Lahontan Valley News for The State.
We often associate prehistory with caves, with literal cavemen and cavewomen who sought shelter from the elements and predators within the safety of chasms and grottos. The Basque Country, a place where mountains meet the sea, is full of caves, caverns, and subterranean tunnels. These natural shelters have played a huge role in the history, mythology, and religion of the Basque Country.
Some of the prehistoric art within the Santimamiñe cave; image from Jerry Portwood’s site.
Of course, the Basque Country is famous for its prehistoric caves, the cave art that has been discovered within them, and what all of this tells us about the prehistoric history of the area. Perhaps the most famous is Santimamiñe, located in the Urdabai reserve in Bizkaia. It was discovered in 1916 by a group of kids. With cave paintings depicting bison, horses, deer, goats, and brown bears, the evidence points to human inhabitance about 13,000 years ago.
However, there are caves with even older evidence of human existence in the Basque Country. In a study led by Blanca Ochoa published in the journal Antiquity, the researchers describe the discovery of 17 new caves containing art between 20,000 and 40,000 years old. These new caves are important because the art they contain represents two different styles, suggesting the region was at the border between two different cultures. And, in a paper led by Diego Garate in the journal PLoS ONE, other researchers found carvings dating 25,000 years old in caves in Aitzbitarte that are stylistically similar to those found in other parts of Europe, suggesting that the prehistoric inhabitants of the Basque Country were not as isolated as previously thought.
Caves also feature heavily in the stories and myths of the Basque Country. There are lots of stories connecting various caves and chasms to specific houses and even kitchens throughout the Basque Country. These houses, once believed to connect to a vast underground system of tunnels, provided special connections with mythical beings and the spirits of ancestors.
Mari, the mythical Basque Mother Earth figure, is said to dwell in caves. Her dwellings are scattered throughout the region, in every province of the Basque Country. The Basajaun, the lord of the forest, also often makes his home in a cave, as do the Lamia.
Finally, caves have also played a more recent role in religious life. Hermitages dedicated to numerous saints, including Saint Thyrsus, Saint Barthélemy, Saint Raymond Nonnatus, Saint Marina, and Saint Adrian, are found in caves across the landscape. For example, in Aralar, there is a sanctuary dedicated to Saint Michael which used to be the home of the Herensuge, the mythical Basque dragon. There is a hole, said to connect to underground caverns where victims were offered to the Herensuge. There is a custom for pilgrims to stick their heads into that hole while praying, which protects them from headaches during the coming year.
“He’s still in there, mad as hell. I only slowed him down a little. Where’s Blas?” asked Kepa.
Maite grabbed Kepa’s hand and pulled him down the hall. “I stashed him in one of the side rooms so I could come back to help.”
They ran down the hall. “He knows us,” said Kepa.
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!
“What?” yelled Maite. “How?”
“I don’t know, but he said something about ‘last time.’”
“I bet it’s the time travel. This is the first time we’ve fought him, but maybe it’s not the first time he fought us.”
As they reached the end of the hall, which forked both left and right, they heard a rumbling sound, almost like a growl, come from behind them. They turned, looking back at where they had just come from, just in time to see the door to the laundry room blast off of its hinges and smash into the opposite wall. They stood there, stunned, as they watched de Lancre, literally floating above the floor, emerge from the room and turn towards them, fury in his eyes. His hands glowed as sparks flew between his fingertips.
“How dare you!” he bellowed, his voice causing the walls to shake as his body floated down the hall towards them. “You insignificant worms! You dare challenge me?”
He raised his hand, the sparks growing more intense. Kepa pushed Maite aside as he himself fell to the floor just as a bolt of electricity shot from de Lancre’s hand and fried the wall behind where Kepa had just stood just seconds before.
“Run!” yelled Kepa as he looked back up at de Lancre. The man’s face was twisted in rage as he approached. Maite ran down the hallway to the left.
“Yes, run!” screamed de Lancre. “Run, so I can hunt you down. So I can sear the flesh from your bones.”
Kepa dove to the right as another bolt of electricity scorched the tiles where he had just been lying. He scrambled to his feet and ran down the right hallway, hoping to draw de Lancre away from where Maite had gone. As he ran, he turned to look down the hall behind him. His heart sank as he saw de Lancre turn toward the left, down the hallway that Maite had disappeared in.
“Madarikatu! Damn it!” cursed Kepa as he turned and ran back the way he had come. He chased de Lancre down the hall and around a bend. As he turned the corner, he saw Maite, maybe thirty feet ahead of de Lancre, push open a door and enter a room. “What is she doing?” he thought, panic filling him. “She’s trapped!”
He pushed himself, running as fast as he could ever remember. His lungs were burning but he was gaining on de Lancre. “Ez!” he screamed as de Lancre burst through the door Kepa had seen Maite enter. A few moments later, he was at the door, dreading what he might find on the other side. As he pushed it open, he saw de Lancre, his back to the door, approaching Maite, who was pressed against the far wall.
“Where is he?” hissed de Lancre. “Where is that Basque bastard? Where is the magic he carries?”
“Hemen naiz!” yelled Blas as he jumped out from behind a partition and flung his suitcase as hard as he could, smashing it into the back of de Lancre’s head. de Lancre’s body crumpled to the floor.
Jean Borotra was a man of contrasts. One of the best tennis players in the world, he played with Kings and won a total of 19 Grand Slam titles. He fought in both World War I and II against the Germans, but was also a commissioner in the Nazi-collaborating Vichy government in France. He made a daring escape from a German prison to help liberate his fellow prisoners. And, he was an international spokesman for fair play in sports.
Jean Laurent Robert Borotra was born in Arbonne, just outside of Biarritz, on August 13, 1898. As a child, he played soccer, rugby and pelota. It wasn’t until after World War I, when he was 20 years old, that he started playing tennis seriously. He received an engineering degree from L’Ecole Polytechnique in 1922 and was constantly juggling his engineering and tennis careers.
He was one of the “Four Musketeers,” four Frenchmen who came to dominate tennis in the 1920s and 1930s. Borotra himself won four Grand Slam singles titles in France, England, and Australia. He barely missed out on a career Grand Slam, losing in the finals of the US Championship to fellow Four-Musketeer René Lacoste, who later developed the Lacoste clothing line, famous for the green crocodile that came from his nickname. Borotra reached as high as number 2 in the world rankings. He was also the first person from a non-English speaking country to win at Wimbledon, in 1924. He was still playing doubles matches in his 60s.
Borotra’s nickname, the Bounding Basque, came from his energetic play, particularly his attacks on the net. He had an improvising style, was known as a great volleyer, and kept up a pace that wore his opponents out. He wore a blue beret – a txapela – while playing and had a presence that captivated audiences. He was famous for conceding disputed points to his opponents. When his play took him into the stands, he would kiss the hands of the women he found. His valet would give flowers to the women who asked for his autograph.
During World War II, he served as a captain in the French Army and later as General Commissioner for Education and Sports in the Vichy government. In 1942, while trying to escape to North Africa to join Allied forces, he was arrested by the Gestapo. He was pumped full of “truth serum” and then taken to a concentration camp where he was put in solitary confinement for six months. He stayed there until the King of Sweden Gustaf V, a tennis fan and an acquaintance, at the behest of Lacoste, intervened. Borotra was eventually taken to the prisoner of war camp at Itter Castle.
He was a key figure in the Battle of Castle Itter, the only known battle in World War II in which American and German troops fought together. Borotra leaped the castle walls and ran through a gauntlet of SS checkpoints to deliver a message containing details of the enemy’s positions to a relief force. He then asked for an American uniform and joined the force to free the prison.
Later in life, Borotra founded the International Fair Play Committee, dedicated to promoting sportsmanship internationally. The Jean Borotra World Fair Play Trophy is given to athletes who have sustained a career of fair play.
On the other side of the door, Kepa saw the two men struggling for the suitcase. Blas was lying on the ground while de Lancre was hunched over him, his knee in Blas’s chest as he tried to wrench the suitcase from his hands. Both men looked up as the door smashed open. Kepa let out a primal yell as he charged, throwing his body against de Lancre, knocking him off of the much younger man. Somehow, Blas kept his grip on his suitcase as de Lancre was violently torn away from him.
“Presaka!” yelled Kepa. “Hurry! Get him out of here!”
Maite rushed to Blas’s side. “Lagunak gara,” she said as she knelt beside the young would-be sheepherder. “We are friends. Goazen. Let’s go.”
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!
She helped Blas to his feet and they dashed out of the room.
de Lancre bellowed in rage. “You again? I thought I took care of you last time! This time, I will make sure you die!” he screamed as he launched himself against Kepa. Though de Lancre was much older than Kepa, his strength was remarkable. Kepa could only guess that he had somehow magically augmented it. The wind was forced out of Kepa’s lungs as de Lancre buried his shoulder into Kepa’s stomach.
“You fool!” de Lancre yelled as he stood over Kepa, who tried to catch his breath. de Lancre raised his head, almost as if he was sniffing the air. A twisted smile spread across his face. “Marina isn’t here, is she? She can’t save you this time.” He grabbed Kepa’s hand, his eyes fixated on the glowing spot in the middle of Kepa’s palm. Kepa tried to pull it back, but was still too weak to offer much resistance.
“You’ve saved me the trouble, boy, of finding you and your magic,” said de Lancre with a sneer. “I’ll just take that for myself.”
He placed a claw-like hand above Kepa’s palm, his long fingernails digging into Kepa’s flesh. As they penetrated Kepa’s flesh, they began to smoke and then catch on fire. de Lancre quickly pulled his hand back as he screamed, flailing his hand as the fingertips burned. Kepa simply looked at his hand in amazement as blood trickled from five small cuts around the edge of his palm.
His breath returned, Kepa scrambled up to his feet as de Lancre waived his good hand above his burning hand and the flames were extinguished. The older Frenchman glared at Kepa with murderous intent. “You will pay for that, you wretched dastard,” he snarled as he took a step closer to Kepa. “You will beg for mercy as I watch your limbs slowly rip from their sockets.”
He creeped closer as Kepa stepped warily back, his hands feeling the counter tops behind him for something, anything he could use as a weapon, his eyes fixed on de Lancre. Kepa’s hands found something large and metallic. He grabbed it and threw it at de Lancre, who batted the metal tray aside.
“You’ll have to do better than that, boy” said de Lancre with a twisted smile, his eyes alight like a cat teasing its prey. He charged as Kepa’s fingers grasped a wooden handle. He swung the object – a brush – as hard as he could at de Lancre’s head, smashing the brush into the side of this temple. de Lancre screamed as he fell to the ground, blood flowing from between his fingers as he held his head.
Kepa rushed from the room and nearly collided with Maite as he burst into the hall.
Pedro Oiarzabal has traveled the world, taking the pulse of Basque diaspora communities across the globe. In normal times, he can often be found at Basque festivals, talking to everyone he can, to understand what being Basque means. Currently, he is the co-lead of a project that aims to document the stories of Basque veterans of World War II. In this interview, Pedro discusses the evolution of Basque identity, the origin of his own interest in the immigration experience, and how Basque groups have used technology to keep connected during the pandemic.
Buber’s Basque Page: Pedro, while many know you through your various efforts to document the history of the Basque diaspora, there are likely a few who do not, so let’s start with an introduction. Who is Pedro Oiarzabal?
Pedro Oiarzabal: First of all, thank you Blas for your time and for the opportunity to share with you my thoughts and work on the Basque diaspora.
Pedro J. Oiarzabal was born and raised in Bilbao and has spent much of his life between the Basque Country, Ireland, and the United States. He holds a PhD in Basque Studies-Political Science from the University of Nevada, Reno. He is the Director of Social Innovation Research at Arima Social Lab. His research examines the interaction of diaspora communities with information and communication technologies, with particular emphasis on the Basque case. Among his publications are Gardeners of Identity: Basques in the San Francisco Bay Area (2009), Diasporas in the New Media Age: Identity, Politics, and Community (2010), and The Basque Diaspora Webscape: Identity, Nation, and Homeland, 1990s-2010s (2013).
I am just an ordinary person, quite fortunate to have a great family and wonderful friends who have always been behind me, supporting all my endeavors. I was raised in a happy home filled with love. Our parents instilled in us the ethics of work and the love for learning. They did everything for us so we could reach our dreams. For that, I will always be in debt to them.
BBP: Much of your professional work has focused on the diaspora. What attracted you to this specific subject?
Pedro Oiarzabal: At home, we grew up listening to stories about our relatives emigrating to Cuba and Mexico… In fact, my grandfather, my mother’s dad, left the farmhouse – the baserri – and made a new beginning in Madrid, Spain, where my mother was born; though, she grew up in the family’s baserri and was educated in Bizkaia. My great-grandfather, on my father’s side, also left his hometown in Gipuzkoa and made Bizkaia his new home. So, the narrative of migration has been a part of my entire life. My interest for the subject, for learning about our common history of migration from a family level to a macro level, has always been there. I also left my hometown of Bilbao when I was 22 years old to continue my university studies, which led me, years later, to the Center for Basque Studies at the University of Nevada, Reno. There, I obtained my PhD degree with the subject of the Basque diaspora and the Internet, opening up a new and exciting subfield in Basque Studies.
BBP: When I last interviewed you in 2006 (https://buber.net/Basque/2020/11/25/an-interview-with-pedro-oiarzabal/; we are getting old!), one of the questions we discussed was the evolving view of Basque identity. During the course of your career, how have you seen what it means to be Basque change or evolve?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Indeed, time has gone by since then, which means that we are still here enjoying another conversation on the meaning of Basque identity and its underlying factors. We are not the same as we were 14 years ago and for sure we will not be the same for our next talk in the near future. Similarly, our sense of individual and collective Basqueness has also been evolving with the pass of time. What I have learned in my studies during all those years is the growing importance that the emotional aspect of identity is gaining, particularly within the realm of the Basque diaspora. New Basque diaspora generations across the planet are increasingly relying on their Basque identity’s emotional side, which goes hand in hand with the prolific use and display of Basque symbols.
Pedro giving a talk at the Basque Cultural Center for the Basque Educational Organization’s Cultural Day (San Francisco, CA, 2019; his last time in the US for now). Photo taken by Philippe Acheritogaray.
BBP: Can you elaborate on this point a bit? When you say that the emotional aspect of identity is growing, what aspect is then diminishing? Do you see the attachment to symbols overall positive, or is there some level of superficialness associated with it?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Anthropologists such as William Douglass and Lisa Corcostegui already expressed their concerns over the increasing dependency of symbols to elaborate different aspects of Basque identity in the diaspora and as you said the somehow superficialness associated with it. They talk about Basque diaspora identity in terms of becoming “more show than substance.” For instance, Basque Argentinean Mikel Ezkerro and Basque American John Ysursa, both historians, advocate for the importance of educating new generations. Basque children and teens may become masterful dancers but ignore why they dance what they dance. On St. Patrick’s Day, everybody is Irish, right? If you wear green, drink “green” beer (something unheard of in Ireland) etc., etc., does it make you Irish? Is this what the Basque diaspora is heading to? So, this takes us back to square one: What is today’s meaning of Basque identity in the world?
BBP: How do we avoid becoming a group, a culture, that is more show than substance? Are there examples you’ve seen, either in the Basque diaspora or in the broader immigrant communities, where people have been able to keep a real connection with their culture?
Pedro Oiarzabal: There are good examples of efforts carried out by Basque diaspora communities worldwide that continuously counteract the dangers of becoming more show than substance, by, for instance, teaching the language, culture, and history; organizing summer camps for their youngest members; collecting oral testimonies and local histories; and hosting public lectures and cultural tours in an attempt to educate and enhance the knowledge about all things Basque. Diaspora communities and their institutions are constantly struggling to survive and keep their traditions alive. Particularly, the pandemic and its consequences have really tested the Basque diaspora associations’ capabilities for survival. Many have passed this “stress test,” others without any external help will fail and may never recover. All those activities require resources. The cost of becoming a “show” is higher than the cost of keeping the “substance” behind the show. Can we afford to lose for good a single diaspora association?
BBP: Another question we discussed back then was the role of the Internet in helping groups such as the Basques maintain their identity. Do you think that promise has been largely fulfilled, or have important opportunities been missed? Has your view of the Internet and its role in maintaining identity changed over the years?
Pedro Oiarzabal: The result of my work demonstrates that the promise has been fulfilled, though unevenly. If not all, nearly all Basque diaspora clubs in the world have a presence in multiple platforms on the Web. The majority has really taken advantage of the opportunities offered by those platforms, and particularly by social network sites. Some others remain disengaged.
I think that physical confinement as a result of the pandemic – if anything positive has come out of this terrible situation – has helped many individuals and organizations at home and abroad to rethink and somehow renew their relationship with the Internet, the Web, and the social network sites. For instance, many Basque diaspora associations around the world have rediscovered the usefulness of those technologies in order to keep alive their social and cultural agenda, but 100% online. For some clubs this has been nothing new, for others it has been a new experience. Anyhow, the Basque diaspora nowadays is also an effective community, largely based on the Web and its social network sites.
Pedro interviewing Frank Yraguen, with his wife Rosie, at their home in Elko, NV in 2015. Photo taken by Anita Anacabe.
BBP: Your current project, “Fighting Basques,” focuses on the contributions of Basques in the diaspora to the efforts of World War II. How did this project arise? What drew you to this particular historical era?
Pedro Oiarzabal: The research project “Fighting Basques: Memory of World War II” was created by the Basque non-profit historical association Sancho de Beurko in 2015 with the goal of studying the Basque participation in the Allies side during WWII. Though I was involved from the very beginning with the project, my role was just as a consultant. Later on, the association offered me to lead the research project as co-principal investigator with Guillermo Tabernilla, founder of the association and a military specialist. By then, research had been completed regarding Basque involvement with the United Kingdom, Free France, and the Soviet Union during the last world war. Right now, under the auspices of the North American Basque Organizations, we have focused on Basque America’s contributions to the war efforts. So far, we have completed research in 33 States and Puerto Rico, with the result of writing up nearly 900 biographies. We are constantly publishing original articles on Basque WWII veterans on our blog, which you kindly translate for us, and we are producing a short documentary film on Basques in the US Marine Corps.
For being our “greatest generation” little academic attention has been given to our Basque veterans. Most history books had never recorded the involvement of Basques and Basques Americans in WWII under US leadership. This research project is a window through which to explore not only the military side of those men and women of Basque origin, which by itself is already good, but also to learn about their individual and family biographical histories. In a way, we will be able to study the migration and settlement history of hundreds of Basque families across the country from the mid-19th Century to post-WWII.
BBP: Is there a particular story that you found particularly inspiring or surprising?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Most, if not all, of the histories that we help to identify and make visible through the “Fighting Basques” project are perfect material for any Hollywood epic movie on WWII. It is difficult to just talk about one or another particular hero. We have Basque veterans in every single branch of the US Armed Forces and in every single Theatre of Operations throughout the world. For being a small ethnic community, the Basques had played a significant role in WWII. Our case study may help not only to educate our communities but for other researchers to learn about other migrant communities’ participation in the last world war.
Pedro being interviewed by Vanessa Sanchez for EITB in 2013, for his book The Basque Diaspora Webscape.
BBP: What other aspects of the Basque diaspora are you currently studying?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Beyond “Fighting Basques,” which takes most of my time, I continue conducting research on the Basque diaspora and its projection to the Web, with particular emphasis on the social network sites. Right now, I am looking into Instagram to find out how the Basque diasporans perform their identities and sense of belonging.
BBP: A big change in the Basque diaspora, at least in the United States, is the cutoff of the flow of immigrants from the Basque Country to the United States. In real ways, the direct connection we in the United States have with the Basque Country is being lost. How do you think we can best keep the relationship alive, even strengthen it?
Pedro Oiarzabal: For decades, many social scientists have called for the defunction of Basques at home and abroad, but we are still here. And there is no evidence suggesting that we will not be here in a near future. Basques are constantly leaving their home country but not in big numbers and not for exceptionally long time. In the US, it is quite common to hear among Basques that they are a “dying race.” It is perfectly understandable. The last migrant generation is disappearing and there are no newcomers (in massive numbers) for the past fifty years. The chain migration that began over a century ago has been broken. That direct connection that you mentioned is indeed (partially) lost. However, it has been somehow replaced by temporary visitors, family, personal and professional short stays in the Basque Country, educational exchange programs such as USAC, cultural and musical tours, mus tournaments (one of the most important transnational cultural programs of the Basques nowadays), mass media, the Web and its social network sites. It is up to us to keep those relationships alive, to keep our culture alive.
BBP: In many ways, 2020 was a lost year, with lots of plans and opportunities postponed or outright canceled. What are you most looking forward to in 2021, in terms of your research and travels?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Regaining a certain degree of “normality” would be a great step forward in our part of the world. Obviously, this would entail the physical participation in international academic gatherings and field research, which I miss the most. I am always open to new ideas, projects, and collaborations with private and public institutions, with a special emphasis on community-based work. Unfortunately, we live in a quite uncertain time, and it is not clear when this “normality” would be fully back. Maybe, it will not happen until the end of the year. So, for now, I will continue to take part in virtual conferences, while I am planning new venues of research maximizing the resources that exist on the Web.
BBP: Do you have any parting thoughts as we conclude this discussion?
Pedro Oiarzabal: Financial resources aside (which are always of great need), my work on the Basque diaspora has mostly been possible because of the active participation of individuals and associations, including the North American Basque Organizations, through the worldwide diaspora for which I am extremely grateful. Also, I would like to thank you for your time and for allowing me to discuss my research with you. Eskerrik asko bihotz bihotzez!
Lots of stories describe how humans discovered the elements of civilization. We have fire because Prometheus was able to steal it from the gods. And such stories about the theft of fire are particularly common, with Rabbit or Coyote stealing fire in the Americas, Prometheus stealing it for the Greeks, and Pkharmat of the Vainakh peoples bringing fire to humankind. And it isn’t just fire. The Hebrew Book of Enoch tells of the fallen angel Azazel teaching people, amongst other things, the ways of metalsmithing. All around the world, there are stories of characters that help civilize people, that teach us how to tame nature. For the Basques, this hero is San Martin Txiki.
One rendition of San Martin Txiki, the trickster, with his boots full of grain, by Iñaki Sendino. He has a few other cool drawings of Basque characters.
San Martin Txiki was the first to bring wheat to people. He climbed up to a cave where the Basajaunak, who knew how to cultivate wheat, lived. He bet them that he could jump over their piles of wheat more gracefully than they could. Of course, they jumped over the piles with ease and grace, not touching a grain of wheat. When San Martin Txiki jumped, he fell in the middle of the pile. But, he had worn extra large boots that filled up with grains of wheat when he fell in the pile, which he then brought back to the people.
Similarly, he tricked the Basajaunak to learn to make a saw. The Basajaunak already knew the secret of making a saw. San Martin Txiki had his servant announce to the Basajaunak that he too had made a saw. Bewildered, they asked if he had seen the leaf of a chestnut tree as inspiration. The servant replied no, but conveyed this information to San Martin Txiki who was then inspired to make a saw. The Basajaunak snuck in at night to see Txiki’s work and tried to destroy the new saw by bending the teeth back and forth, but this actually made the saw better.
He did the same thing to learn how to solder iron, by having his servant announce that he had done so and then having the Basajaun naively reveal the secret: sprinkle clay water on the iron. In some stories, it is the Devil that he tricks, not the Basajaun, as when he learned (again, via his servant) that he needed the sturdy alder as a shaft in his mill, not the weaker oak.
In Basque mythology, it is rare to have stories about saints, where saints are the hero. Those stories that do exist revolve around a saint helping locate a hermitage. The stories about San Martin Txiki are the only ones featuring a saint-hero. The other element of his stories that is unique is the special role of the Basajaunak. Usually, they are depicted as wild men linked to nature, not to agriculture and industry. That is, most of the time, they are more wild than humans, not less. That they play this role of being civilized in these stories suggests a more complex origin.
Further, the stories of San Martin are unique to Europe. While one might be tempted to look at the Greek stories of Prometheus as potentially connected, that hero stole from the gods and was punished for it. San Martin Txiki stole from the local wild men and was never punished. One possible connection that explains all of the curious attributes of San Martin Txiki is with Scandinavian mythology.
In Scandinavian mythology, giants are not simply dumb brutes who terrorize humans, as they are in, for example, Celtic mythology. They are ingenious but naive, masters of technology but easily tricked. Further, one of the Norse gods, Thor, always has servants in tow when interacting with the giants, be it Loki or Thialfi. It is often Loki or Thialfi that trick the giants so that Thor can best them, in much the same way that San Martin Txiki uses his servants. This doesn’t prove that the stories of San Martin Txiki have a Norse origin, but this is the best link between those Basque stories and any others in Europe. So maybe San Martin Txiki is an ancient Basque-ization of Thor, or maybe Loki. Or maybe it is the other way around?
