Madrid's Thatcher Square Revives Spain's Historic Enemy Debate

Gullo and the Thatcher Square: Spain lost the friend/enemy notion

There is a square dedicated to Margaret Thatcher in Madrid. And there is a phrase by Marcelo Gullo that reappears whenever someone remembers it: Spaniards have lost the notion of who is friend and who is enemy. The coincidence explains why the issue has been open for almost five years without closing.

The reproach is not just about the plaque. It points to the idea that a capital that was the head of an empire dedicates public space to someone who, according to the most repeated version, delayed the celebration of the victory in the Falklands to coincide with October 12, the Day of Hispanidad. Thatcher functions as a symbol of something greater: the difficulty of looking at one's own past without the filter of London.

Blas de Lezo, Trafalgar and the Invincible: the accounts of the narrative

The terrain where the diagnosis becomes uncomfortable is that of the numbers. The narrative recovers Blas de Lezo, the naval officer who defended Cartagena de Indias and defeated the English fleet in the 18th century, and compares it with the statues that did occupy public space. It is recalled that in Colombia, when a real monument (not a toy) was erected for the naval officer, the then Spanish consul complained arguing that the United Kingdom was an ally.

The figures discussed regarding Trafalgar usually leave out the fine print. Spain lost five ships; the English lost their admiral and thirteen of their highest-ranking officers, but they scored the point. And the accounts of the so-called Invincible do not withstand the narrative: Spain would have lost 25% of its fleet, with no ship sunk in combat, while a year later Drake lost 23,000 men — mostly after landing in Lisbon — and 60% of his ships, from a fleet larger than Spain's.

These are figures that rarely appear in official balances. From there comes a suspicion that runs through the entire controversy: victory is not always signed by who wins the battle.

The French thesis: from Cervantes and Velázquez to nothing

The second front points to France. The repeated interpretation is that servility does not arise from national character, but from the arrival of the Bourbon dynasty. The argument, taken from authors such as Roca Barea, holds that Spain went from producing Cervantes, Lope, Calderón and Velázquez to producing little of note, and that it did so in the name of a France that, in the field of ideas, would have produced mostly demagogues.

The corollary is harsh: France, out of arrogance, would never have built a lasting empire, because to rule one must give something in return. And from the destruction of Spain in 1808, between Napoleon and Wellington, it is argued that much of Spanish politics and military worked for foreign interests, a pattern that would continue with the loss of Cuba in 1898 and with today's intermediaries.

Why is there a statue of Bolívar in Madrid?

The criticism gains strength when it points out the asymmetry. In Madrid there is a statue of Simón Bolívar in the Parque del Oeste, and another in Cádiz of General San Martín, two figures who fought against Spain. The argument is simple: if the criterion were not to honor those who fought against the country, half a dozen monuments would have to fall before the Thatcher plaque. Nobody mourns them.

On this double standard is built one of the most repeated accusations: the political and media elite has no historical compass, and its Anglophilia does not arise from ideological affinity but from pure convenience. For others, the problem is the opposite: rescuing grievances from three centuries ago as if London were today a threat is archaeology, not foreign policy.

From the 18th century to today's problem

The line is broken right here. One part argues that the real enemy is not England or France, but the Spanish political class itself, accused of betraying the national interest from both ends of the parliamentary spectrum. Another current places the focus on immigration control and border management, and reproaches those who discuss Trafalgar for looking to the past while ignoring present problems.

And a third way, the most pragmatic, rejects the dichotomy: it is not about declaring friends or enemies, but about calculating what can be gained from each ally. In the midst of all this, the anecdote of the Spanish consul in Colombia functions as a metaphor for a country that asks for moderation in front of the statue of a naval officer who won, not one who lost.

The figure is more disconcerting than the numbers. For almost five years, the issue has oscillated between the Madrid plaque, the statues of Bolívar and the narrative of Trafalgar, without anyone establishing a stable criterion on who is honored and why. That a naval expedition with much of the fleet lost is still counted as a stunning defeat summarizes the blockage: the problem is not history, but who signs it.