Chueca: A Complex Site of Struggle

The previous article in this series on Chueca, Madrid’s historic gay neighborhood, examined its role in national politics and the apparent alliance between Spain’s left-wing and center-left parties and a particular brand of “pinkwashed” queerness.

It has become very clear that Chueca is a very complex site of struggle. It is not only a physical place– a neighborhood within a city– but also a theater where different ideologies play out. It is a contested site, one that right-wing extremists have violently attempted to undermine while parties like the PSOE (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party) lay claim to it as proof of their progressive politics. 

Is Chueca also a site of radical resistance? Is the counter-cultural queer struggle of 1970s and ’80s Madrid still alive? The quiet but subtly powerful presence of posters, stickers, and wall art strewn between the trendy shops and narrow streets make one inclined to say yes. The point, then, is that this struggle is one of many.

Defending anti-fascist memory

Demonstration in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol in support of the victims of Francoism. (Photo courtesy of Ayla Schnier)

On November 18, 2021, two days before the 46th anniversary of General Francisco Franco’s death, a group of demonstrators gathered in Madrid’s famous Puerta del Sol to express solidarity with and demand justice for the many victims of franquismo. Many of the demonstrators were older and had likely spent many years of their lives under Franco’s rule. Several of them carried the flag of the Second Spanish Republic and collages of victims’ portraits, including silhouettes labeled with question marks to symbolize the many unknown or unidentified victims of the Franco dictatorship. 

Some demonstrators spoke to the crowd through megaphones. One woman spoke of similar injustices in places like Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, and Peru and suggested that the victims of those coups and dictatorships and the victims of franquismo are victims of the same forces. At the end of one speech a call-and-response chant broke out. 

“¡Viva la República!” (“Long live the Republic!”)

“¡Viva!”

Demonstration in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol in support of the victims of Francoism. (Photo courtesy of Ayla Schnier)

Homophobia and fascism

It might be hard to see how a demonstration like this is connected with the colorful world of Chueca. But recognizing their point of connection is important. Homophobia is a crucial aspect of fascism. In fact, many of the thousands of victims of violence at the hands of Franco’s regime were persecuted on the basis of their sexuality. Recall, too, that many of the right-wing extremist protesters who violently descended on Chueca in September 2021 carried not the flag of the Second Republic, but the flag designated as the national flag of Francoist Spain. 

“Support Group / Néstor” (Photo courtesy of the author)

Manifesto of the “Apoyo Nestor” group. (Photo courtesy of @apoyonestor on Twitter)

During one of my walks through Chueca in the fall of 2021, I spotted among the many stickers that adorn Chueca’s walls, gutters, lampposts, and doors a simple black one that read “Grupo de Apoyo” above an image of handcuffed fists, and below it, “Néstor.” A quick internet search led me to the group’s Twitter feed on which they had posted its manifesto. Néstor participated in the Marchas de la dignidad (Dignity Marches), also known as 22-M, in 2014 as part of the ongoing 15-M movement which began in 2011 as a mass mobilization against economic austerity and corruption. According to Absolución Néstor and the support group, Néstor was wrongfully arrested and detained, and eventually sentenced to over three years in prison. The group claims Néstor was a victim of a “montaje policial,” or police set-up, in which he became a scapegoat to obscure the fact that the police had accidentally arrested the wrong person. 

The group’s demands are based on ending a long-held tradition of impunity, and they parallel other groups in Spain such as the collective Movimiento Antirepressivo de Madrid and Coordinadora Antifascista Madrid. Many of these collectives focus on opposing repressive laws and impunity, as is suggested also by a sign in Puerta del Sol during the November 2021 demonstration which reads “Against impunity: Solidarity with the victims of Francoism.” 

Connect histories, connected struggles

Perhaps there is a connection here asking to be made. Contemporary Spain is inevitably intertwined with its complex and deeply controversial political history. Many of those protected by impunity during and after the Franco regime were never held responsible for persecuting, beating, and killing, especially those who were targeted by discriminatory laws such as the 1933 “Law of Vangrants and thugs” and the 1970 “Law on Dangerousness and Social Rehabilitation.” These laws targeted the homeless, the mentally ill, the disabled, and especially homosexuals. Whether or not it was explicitly acknowledged during the demonstration on Puerta del Sol, the victims being advocated for inevitably included queer subjects of homophobic violence. 

The quiet existence of Grupo de Apoyo Néstor and others like it on the streets of Chueca serves as a reminder of historical continuity and of the contemporary manifestations of targeted violence. Though the police set-up that ensared Néstor did not appear to be based directly on his gender identity or sexuality, his case and others like it underscore the power of the Spanish carceral state to establish the social order and to stifle voices of opposition. 

For example, the current opposition by many political actors to the proposition of a ley trans (Trans Law) continues a tradition of the State using legislation to either persecute or protect those victimized by identity-based violence. For many, the opposition to ley trans signals a refusal to recognize the dignity and rights of trans people even as hostility toward them is increasingly exacerbated by the ultra-right. 

Grassroots and community movements are important because they seek alternative avenues for social change that are not necessarily State-centric. Underneath the gauzy, glittery facade that “mainstream” Chueca presents, still exists a devotion to transformative art and literature. Berkana, for example, is Chueca’s beloved LGBTQ+ bookstore, established in 1993, that claims to be the first bookstore specializing in LGBTQ+ culture in Spain and Latin America. 

Questioning state power

Flier by independent publishing company L’Ecume advertising novel Mátame by Vicente Drü. (Photo courtesy of the author)

One day, across the street from a jungle-themed gay bar called Lakama whose posters boast bronzed men with glistening abdomens, I spotted a flyer which appeared to be describing a book character and offered a QR code for those who wished to learn more. The QR code brought me to the website of L’Ecume, an independent poetry publisher and proponent of “incendiary literature.” The book character in question belonged to a novel called Mátame by Vicente Drü, in which protagonist Hugo is released from prison after serving over 20 years for a crime he committed at 13 years old. According to the synopsis, Hugo has learned from his experience that “The law does not impart corresponding justice.” Though superficially unrelated, the added layer of emphasis this flyer and its content provides to the conversation about state power and social struggle is hard to ignore.

It must also not be forgotten that plenty of collectives, organizations, and activists exist which are not directly affiliated with political parties or agendas. As noted in the previous article, Pride-related activities have become contested sites of struggle, especially in Madrid. Political parties like the PSOE, for example, attempt to ally themselves with a specifically performative version of Pride in the name of virtue signaling. Orgullo Crítico (Critical Pride) is one platform dedicated to maintaining an alternative version of Pride that is neither depoliticized nor institutionalized. In fact, with its anti-capitalist stance, it directly challenges an increased display of pinkwashing and rainbow capitalism. One of their central messages? “Pride is a revolt, not a celebration.” 

What these observations suggest is not that radical resistance is absent from Madrid, but that it is rather fragmented into struggles that run parallel to each other and occasionally intersect. Maybe true power comes from making new intersections. It might be that the objectives of young, militant activists resemble those of anti-Franco demonstrators, sometimes 40 or 50 years their senior, more than either group would have originally thought. 

Note: All Spanish texts have been translated by the author.