How do you navigate the complexities of civil unrest without feeling like even more of a bumbling foreigner?
On a chilly evening in early October 2017, the usual anticipatory buzz of the guests I’d be leading on a Barcelona tapas tour was subdued.
It was only 8pm—time for drinks with friends on outdoor terraces in the centre of the city—but the streets were empty. Instead of drunken banter and street musicians, helicopters drowned out my explanation of the Santa Maria del Mar Cathedral. When a motorcycle roared past, a few guests visibly jumped.
Barcelona is the capital of Catalunya, one of Spain’s 17 autonomous regions. With its own language, economy, and cultural identity, there has always been a varying percentage of Catalans who seek independence from Spain.
Carles Puigdemont, the president of Catalunya, was about to present the results of the October 1st independence referendum and the entire region was gathered at screens in bars, plazas and living rooms in anticipatory silence. The referendum had been deemed illegal by the Spanish state, but was carried forward by the autonomous Catalan government. The polling had ultimately been marred by state-sanctioned police violence.
As Barcelona held its breath, Puigdemont announced the decision: Catalunya had become an independent state.
Audiences across Catalunya broke into cheers, but Puigdemont continued. “We propose that parliament suspend the effects of the declaration of independence so as to begin a dialogue [with the Spanish state],” he said. His speech was symbolic, firing shots in the air to see if Madrid would blink first. But without cultural context, my international visitors were bewildered by the standoff.
On the walk to the next bar, an American student approached me anxiously.
“I just started a study abroad program here. Now, I’m thinking I’ll have to go home,” she said.
I remembered my own arrival to a draughty apartment in central Barcelona three years before. I understood exactly how she felt. Finding somewhere to eat that isn’t a tourist trap is hard enough when the streets aren’t filled with protesters and police.
How can one even begin to navigate the intricacies of civil unrest in a new cultural landscape without feeling like even more of a bumbling foreigner?
Adventures in Guirilandia
Mireia Nadal Sales is a “cultural companion” in Barcelona for IES Abroad. Tasked with aiding students transition to life in in Catalunya, she mostly answers questions about buying metro passes and where to get authentic pa amb tomàquet (Catalan tomato bread).
But in the fall of 2017, amidst paralyzing strikes and wheat-pasted posters on every corner, Nadal asked her students “do you know what’s happening in Catalunya?”
Conflicts are less confusing when we understand one another as humans.
They didn’t and they’d been too afraid to ask. Again and again, Nadal sees her students stand back for fear of appearing ignorant, speaking English rather than risk mistakes in Spanish or Catalan, and spending their time in what she calls “Guirilandia": cultural experiences mass marketed for tourists like tapas, flamenco and sangria. (Guiri is a Spanish pejorative for foreign tourists).
But relying on familiar comforts only intensifies the unknown. When you’re in a new country and can’t understand the grave commentary of the newscaster on the crackly TV that everyone’s glued to, it can be utterly frightening.
I spent my first month in the city using the Internet at a bar under my apartment because we hadn’t installed WiFi yet. A retired doctor called Enric shared his evening tapas and spoke to me in English, French and Catalan, forgetting which I understood, but never in Spanish. With my new roommates, Sofia and Julia, I watched the September 2015 election of the parliament that would later orchestrate the October 2017 referendum. They tried to explain the ins and outs of the escalating independence movement and the indecisive election results.
“És complicat,” they said to my furrowed brow, as I tried to form a useful question in an unfamiliar language.
Sharing a language and breaking bread
It was clear that learning the language and gaining insight into the culture was key. I started to learn Catalan from local volunteers on the weekends. I asked new friends to show me their favourite restaurants and recipes. Devouring fresh bread is the same in every language—just like feelings of fear, embarrassment, and isolation. Conflicts are less confusing when we understand one another as humans, just as loneliness is less isolating when someone else is sipping a solitary beer in the bar under your new apartment.
Now, after three years of making panellets and polverons (traditional pastries) with local friends, and misadventures in living trilingually, Catalunya has become my home. It’s made recent tensions feel relevant rather than baffling.
Herding tourists on tapas tours through “Guirilandia” while passionate crowds bellowed Els Segadors (the Catalan national anthem) has been jarring at times. But as I’ve marvelled with politically dissatisfied Americans over the unity of Catalan protests or puzzled out the roots of the independence movement with Scottish secessionists as we decimated chorizo sausages, I’ve realized that I have a new cultural identity as well.
At a recent neighbourhood dinner sponsored by the local consortium for Catalan language, my elderly mentors reminded me of how far I’ve come. “Anyone can be Catalan; you just need to learn the language,” they said.