How EL PAÍS reported on the 1981 coup attempt in Spain

Borges wrote that “any life, however long and complicated it may be, actually consists of a single moment — the moment when a man knows forever more who he is.” Perhaps this statement applies not only to people, but also to newspapers; if so, EL PAÍS knew forever who it was during the afternoon and evening of February 23, 1981.

The coup attempt of February 23rd is the founding myth of Spanish democracy; like any myth, it is woven from lies and truths, facts and fantasies, the main one being that it was an operetta-like coup, almost comical or grotesque, poorly prepared, largely improvised, and lacking the slightest chance of succeeding. This is nonsense. The coup of February 23rd can only seem comical because, as Woody Allen famously said, “tragedy + time = comedy”; and it can only seem grotesque because, once the attempt failed, the scene of Lieutenant Colonel Tejero brandishing his service pistol in the Congress chamber, with his patent leather tricorn hat and bushy mustache, seems straight out of a Luis García Berlanga film (or a García Lorca poem written by the Álvarez Quintero brothers): the perfect, anachronistic, and caricatured embodiment of Spain’s dark past. Great lies are made from small truths: it is true that the coup was poorly prepared and largely improvised (very few people knew in advance how, where, and when it would unfold); but it is false that it had no chance of succeeding. On the contrary. At half past six that afternoon—when Tejero and his Civil Guards seized the Congress and kidnapped the Government and the members of parliament gathered in the chamber to elect the second president of the democratic era, and almost simultaneously, Captain General Milans del Bosch declared a state of war in the Valencia military region and rebelled against democratic legality, waiting for his colleagues to imitate him and for the rest of that substantially Francoist army to join the rebellion—everything seemed ripe in Spain for the coup’s success. A coup that would cancel the fledgling democracy and inaugurate something different: not a military dictatorship similar to Franco’s (as Tejero dreamed), nor a dictatorship propped up by the king like Primo de Rivera’s (as Milans dreamed), but rather a coalition government presided over by a military officer who, also with the monarch’s approval, would transform democracy into a semi-democracy (as the ultimate leader of the coup, General Alfonso Armada, dreamed). Two reasons above all explain why the country seemed ripe for the victory of the coup plotters: the first is that, after a period of political consensus driven by the urgency of dismantling the dictatorship and building democracy, since 1979 Spain had been experiencing a period of great dissent, extreme political polarization, and a general sense of disarray, accelerated by the progressive discrediting of [then prime minister] Adolfo Suárez and his governments; The second reason is that, after a few years of enthusiasm for democracy, the country was experiencing a period of disillusionment caused not only by governmental chaos, but also by a brutal economic crisis and rampant terrorism (especially from ETA, which in 1980 claimed more lives than in any of its 58 years of existence). Given this situation, it is not surprising that many, both in Spain and abroad, did not oppose some kind of correction to democracy (which is why the U.S. State Department did not initially condemn the coup and labeled it an “internal matter”); nor is it surprising that, when the coup was finally launched, very few were willing to put themselves at risk for democracy.

Among them was EL PAÍS. We have numerous accounts of what happened at the newspaper during those crucial hours; the most useful is that of its editor: a testimony that can be supplemented with others, but which no one has denied or corrected in its essentials.

That afternoon, [Juan Luis] Cebrián arrived at the newsroom later than usual; it was an afternoon without newspapers: at that time, no print newspapers were published on Mondays (only the Hoja del Lunes published by the provincial press associations). Cebrián had just come from celebrating his partner’s birthday, and at 6:30 p.m. he was interviewing a prospective contributor to the newspaper when he was informed of what was happening in Congress. His office immediately filled up: in addition to Ortega Spottorno, Polanco, and the managing editor, Javier Baviano, it got crammed with deputy directors, news editors, reporters, and representatives from the administrative and sales departments. “General Milans del Bosch’s proclamation declaring a state of war and rising up in treason against the State had already been made public,” Cebrián recalled 15 years later. “There was no doubt, then, about the magnitude and nature of the coup, and news was reaching us that a column of armored vehicles was advancing toward the newspaper building, whose doors we had closed, prohibiting access to anyone who wasn’t an employee. A heated discussion was taking place inside my office. Some preferred to wait and see, while others wanted to publish a special edition as soon as possible. There were those who pointed out that it would be difficult to sell, since all the newsstands were closed. The idea of ​​distributing it with volunteers raised fears that someone might be injured or arrested for doing so. In the midst of the debate, which was tense and passionate, as befitted the situation, we understood that the only possible course of action was to behave as journalists: to try to get an edition out as soon as possible—and especially before the soldiers arrived, if they were going to occupy us. Absolutely everyone, from Ortega and Polanco down to the least qualified person present, supported the decision, regardless of their individual opinions. Everyone pitched in to help right away.” So Cebrián went down to the newsroom in his shirtsleeves and announced to the numerous journalists present: “Everything is clear here: there’s a coup d’état going on, and we’re going to publish the newspaper.”

This is what happened. At 10 p.m. that night, as the streets across the country emptied and a fearful silence descended, and as other newspapers and institutions—from political parties and unions to business leaders and the Episcopal Conference—fell silent, awaiting developments, EL PAÍS published an emergency edition. It consisted of a mere sixteen pages. The front page was dominated by a colossal headline flanked by a photograph of the Congress building: “Coup d’état,” it read. “EL PAÍS, with the Constitution.” Below, amidst a still scant, partial, and fragmented account of what had transpired in Congress, was the editorial, written by Javier Pradera and edited by Cebrián: “Long live the Constitution!” it was titled. The purpose of that edition was unequivocal: it was to resist the coup, to help thwart it. Everything indicates that, to whatever extent, it achieved its objective: copies of EL PAÍS arrived very soon at Congress, the military officer in command of the troops that cordoned it off, General Sáenz de Santamaría, managed to introduce some copies into the occupied premises, several kidnapped lawmakers claim to have seen rebel civil guards with the newspaper in their hands, including Lieutenant Colonel Tejero himself, and some Madrid residents began to glimpse the hope that the coup could fail by listening to the headlines and editorial of the newspaper, or part of the editorial, being spoken by the announcer of Radio Madrid.

What did that text say? Read almost half a century later, four things stand out in particular. The first is the categorical condemnation of the coup at a time when everything indicated that the coup was going to succeed. “EL PAÍS comes out in defense of the law and the Constitution,” it said. “The rebellion must be stopped; its perpetrators arrested, tried severely, and condemned as an exemplary lesson for history.” The second is the call to citizen rebellion in defense of democracy, which did not materialize: “Spaniards must join the great national and international protest and mobilize, by all means at their disposal, the popular will in defense of legality.”* But the most striking thing—the truly chilling passage—has the unmistakable scent of a farewell, as if the editorialist harbored the conviction that democracy was about to be defeated once again in Spain and had decided that, precisely because these might be the last words he would write in freedom, he was going to write them with his boots on: “Whatever happens in the coming hours or days, whatever happens to those of us who remain faithful to the Constitution and the current legal framework, both born of free elections and the will of the Spanish people, the coup plotters are condemned by History, by ethics, and by the oaths of honor they so readily swear and so rarely keep.” Winston Churchill observed that courage is the essential virtue, the basis or foundation of all other virtues, the one that makes them all possible; he was right: whoever defends freedom practices a virtue, but, given certain extreme circumstances—a coup d’état, for example—if that person lacks the courage to defend freedom, they end up defending slavery in practice. There is no doubt that, during the afternoon and evening of February 23, 1981, EL PAÍS demonstrated the necessary courage to defend freedom to the very end; nor is there any doubt that on that day it truly earned its title as the newspaper of democracy.

Furthermore, it may be surprising that, in that first editorial, EL PAÍS was quick to accuse Adolfo Suárez, then acting prime minister, of “lacking courage”; this is the fourth striking thing about the text, especially when one recalls the image of Suárez that afternoon in the Congress chamber, alone in his blue presidential seat while the bullets of the coup plotters whizzed around him and all the other ministers and members of parliament present—all but two: General Gutiérrez Mellado, Deputy Prime Minister, and Santiago Carrillo, Secretary General of the Communist Party—sought refuge under their seats. Although, in the end, perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising: especially in recent years, EL PAÍS had been very harsh on Suárez, to the point that at times its criticism bordered on personal animosity, if it didn’t openly cross that line. It is worth noting, however, that from the fourth edition of the newspaper, published at four in the morning, the allusion to the president’s lack of courage disappeared, and that three days after the coup the newspaper contained a full retraction: “Adolfo Suárez […] displayed an undeniable act of bravery and identification with his political figure by remaining upright in his seat while the seditious insurgents fired their machine guns. And, if at first we did not say so, due to the confusion of the news that was arriving, it is well worth pointing out today that Adolfo Suárez was, in our opinion, up to the task.”

Seven editions of the newspaper were published during those terrible hours, from the first at ten o’clock on the night of the 23rd until the last at noon on the 24th. From the second edition onward, published at one in the morning, the successive headlines were identical: they deliberately foreshadowed the defeat of the rebels (“The attempted coup d’état, on the verge of failure”). Also from the second edition onward, the newspaper changed from the scant sixteen pages of the first to the usual sixty or more, which included, apart from increasing information about the coup and its protagonists, content of all kinds, including García Márquez’s weekly column, this time titled Remedies for Flying. Likewise, the editorial’s title changed from the second edition onward (“With the Constitution,” it now read, less vehement), but from the third edition, its place on the front page was taken by a summary of the king’s televised address, in which the monarch appeared at 1:14 a.m. rejecting the coup attempt and endorsing democracy: “The Crown defends the Constitution,” it said. Aware that the monarch was playing a fundamental role in the coup’s failure, among other reasons because he was the only one who could ensure its failure, the newspaper’s editorial, from two in the morning onward, praised him unequivocally: “The defense of the Constitution and the current legal order has had in the king its most resolute and admirable champion.” Whether out of their own conviction, or following instructions from the king and the government of subordinate politicians appointed by the king, from the third edition onward the editorials continued to call for the citizens’ defense of democracy, as they had done from the beginning. However, they introduced the essential nuance that this defense should be carried out “without appeals at this time to general strikes or mass demonstrations that would further destabilize the country, especially when the lives of the politicians in this country still hang in the balance, at the mercy of a few fanatics.” The last edition of the newspaper was published at noon on Tuesday the 24th and carried on its front page a relieved headline confirming the defeat of the coup: “The Government and members of Parliament released after a pact with the rebels.”

And so it all ended. Years later, Juan Luis Cebrián visited the Swedish Prime Minister, the socialist Olof Palme, in his official office. Palme knew Spain well; he had demonstrated in the streets of Stockholm against Franco’s dictatorship and had been a mentor, or one of the mentors, of [former prime minister] Felipe González. While talking with him, the journalist noticed that one of the pictures hanging on the walls of the room was a reproduction of the front page of the special edition of EL PAÍS from February 23, 1981. Palme was assassinated shortly afterward, while walking with his wife in Stockholm, but he too came to feel that, in Spain, EL PAÍS was the newspaper of democracy.

*Very little thought has been given to this blatant fact (or perhaps it has simply been swept under the rug): the almost nonexistent public reaction against the coup. Aside from the widespread disillusionment with democracy, the still very vivid memory of the 1936 coup, the war, and the dictatorship undoubtedly kept people confined to their homes. But the lack of democratic enthusiasm was undeniable: in the second half of 1976, shortly after Suárez came to power, 78% of Spaniards preferred that political decisions be made by representatives elected by the people, and in 1978, the year the Constitution was approved, 77% defined themselves as unconditional democrats; but, according to the Metroscopia Institute, by 1980 barely half of Spaniards preferred democracy to any other form of government: the rest were undecided or indifferent, or even supported a return to dictatorship. The first two pieces of information come from Manuel Torcal Loriente, ‘The origin and evolution of support for democracy in Spain’, Spanish Journal of Political Science, no. 18, April 2008, p. 50; the third, from Joaquín Prieto, EL PAÍS, 28-10-2007.

[In Spain, ‘El periódico de la democracia’ can be purchased at newsstands from May 3rd. It will arrive in bookstores on May 7th. If you wish, you can tell us where you prefer to reserve it. If you prefer a newsstand or bookstore, click here. If you prefer online, click here. In the Americas, the book will be distributed in bookstores and online starting in May.]

Translated by Avik Jain Chatlani.

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