77 Basque Mayors Brandish Sticks at Court

77 PNV and Bildu mayors raise makila at courthouse

Seventy-seven mayors from PNV and Bildu stood before the Palace of Justice in Bilbao with their makilas held high. In the center of the image is Juan Mari Aburto, mayor of the Biscay capital. The photo invites multiple interpretations, none innocent: for some, it is a ceremonial gesture of municipal identity; for others, it represents one branch of state power showing its stick to another.

The underlying issue cited is disagreement with judicial rulings regarding mandatory Basque language use. What causes discomfort is not the protest itself, but that this was an act with institutional weight, not a spontaneous outburst by four individuals. A mayor can disagree with a ruling; the question is whether they can display the symbol of their office as an argument.

Is a mayor’s makila a weapon?

Here lies the crux. The makila is the Basque mayor’s staff of command, the rod handed over with the office. It is also, essentially, a stick: the same object known in other traditions as the hanbo and used as a short weapon in Filipino eskrima martial arts. In the Basque Country, there exists makil borroka, or makila fighting, with codified techniques and dedicated schools, according to chronicles found in Larramendi’s Corografía de Guipúzcoa, Iztueta’s Gipuzkoako dantzak, and Arakistain’s El Basojaun.

Critics cite the Weapons Regulations and Article 4, which lists prohibited weapons, arguing that a stick with a spike on one end and lead weighting on the other is not merely decorative. The opposing objection does not deny the object’s materiality, but rather its classification: the staff of command is not a weapon, it is a symbol of political power, and those who carry it do not do so to strike. By that logic, they add, everything would be a weapon: a shirt can strangle, yet no one places it on that list.

There is a rhetorical exercise repeated in the discussion worth reading with distance: imagining a real assault with a makila in a non-vital area and asking how many blows are needed to admit it hurts. This is rhetoric, not jurisprudence, but it explains why the matter remains unresolved.

One power raises a stick before another

The fundamental reproach is not martial, but institutional. The comparison often made is that of a judge taking to the streets in robes to issue traffic fines because they dislike estimulante ilegal limits. From that perspective, the proper channel to challenge a ruling is an appeal, or perhaps a public explanation of dissent. Anything else falls, they say, into pre-incivil territory. The word used is threat, and the reasoning is symmetrical: if 77 organized people raise sticks in front of your door, you do not see a symbol.

There is far from consensus. In response, critics argue that police stations would be full of elderly people with walking sticks and Nordic walkers, and that confusing a staff of command with a weapon confuses the office with the tool. Others note, with electoral timing in mind, that the act aims to stage a showdown ahead of an election.

The staff as political liturgy has precedent

The gesture is not new. Some 200 pro-independence mayors traveled to Brussels with their rods to support a former Catalan president who remained outside Spain, and then the staff was read similarly: as a symbol of seized authority. The municipal staff already functions as prop for political staging in several territories, not just in the Basque Country.

This pushes part of the analysis toward comparing nationalisms: shared sticks, rods, and staging, with differences in degree. The discussion quickly escalates toward "they are all the same," which is convenient but explains little.

Under the staff, the Basque language

The institutional issue masks the linguistic one. Figures cited by critics of Basque promotion policies are uncomfortable for both sides: 17.5% of Basques speak Euskera at home daily, while around 60% of voters support parties seeking to maintain and expand its public presence. That gap between domestic use and electoral backing is at the heart of the conflict.

Also circulating is a case highlighted by media outlets aligned with the movement, involving a Health Councilor who has held office since 2002 without learning Euskera, with press headlines like Contempt for Euskera. There is also a deeper discussion about which variety is promoted: some argue that what is being pushed is not the inherited language but Batua, the standardized form, and that this distance helps explain the rejection.

With the figures on the table, the mismatch cannot be explained by sticks or mayoralties. And a loose detail remains: not a single specific court ruling allegedly motivating the gathering has been named. Seventy-seven makilas held high make a powerful image; the exact reason remains unnamed.