By Robert Low
Dolores chose the traditional escape route from her life as a skivvy: she got married at the age of 20. It was not long before she realized that she had exchanged one form of servitude for a worse one. Her husband was a miner called Julián Ruiz. He was not Dolores's first boyfriend; that honor belonged to a young metalworker named Miguel Echevarría, from the village of Matamoros. She liked him, but he appears to have been rather a shy young man, and he failed to press his suit with sufficient ardour for the headstrong girl from Gallarta. (In old age, she sometimes reminisced about him to her granddaughter Dolores, wondering aloud what her life would have been like had she married him. Sometimes she appeared to regret not having done so.) She dropped him, and Julián Ruiz came into her life. Julián was 20 when Dolores first met him, while she was only 15. He claimed she spotted him first: 'When I first noticed her, she had already noticed me. She was young, but I liked her a lot.' They first spoke to each other when Dolores obtained a part-time job at a cafe in Gallarta. They got on straight away.
Julián was an ardent member of the Socialist Party and heavily involved in political activity in the mines. Possibly because of this, possibly because they thought their daughter could do better for herself, and perhaps through a combination of both, Dolores's parents took against Julián and did everything they could to terminate the budding relationship. Dolores was still very religious and, like all Spanish girls of the time, paid great attention to what her parents told her. She and Julián only rarely managed to see each other. They told her he was a drunk and a gambler, much to his chagrin. 'The whole village knew I was the hardest worker there,' he said.
Possibly because of blacklisting at the mines, Julián went to work building a road in Aulestia. He missed Dolores badly and eventually wrote proposing marriage to her and urging her to ignore her parents he managed to convince them that he wasn't the bad lot they were making him out to be. Presumably Dolores had made her intentions clear too—and she generally managed to get on her own. The local priest took their side and advised her parents against preaching too much to her, on the grounds that such a stance would rebound against them. They relented, and after a five-year courtship, Dolores and Julián were married on February 15, 1916, in the church of Saint Anthony of Padua, Gallarta. It was the last time Dolores Ibárruri was to enter a church, for a religious service at least. Under Julián's tutelage, she swiftly rejected Catholicism in favor of revolutionary socialism and then communism
Marriage to Julián Ruiz was the start of Dolores's political education. She freely admitted that if it hadn't been for him, she might never have become a communist at all. He was never reluctant to take credit for converting his devoutly Catholic young wife to revolutionary politics. According to him, she was 'a girl who had only read novels.' But the reality of life as a miner's wife, combined with Julián's enthusiasm for the cause, gradually turned her into a left-wing zealot. 'I taught her, and she soon responded, with her steamy temperament, her zest, her ideas,' Julián reflected in old age. 'If it wasn't for me, she would never have been La Pasionaria.' I put the first books in her hands, and I opened her eyes. If instead of me, she had married someone else with other ideas, for example, very Catholic like her family, everything would have been different.'
Although Julián first implanted revolutionary ideals in her, and her natural rebelliousness welcomed them, disillusionment with him and the institution of marriage and the life he brought her also helped to shape Dolores as a political activist. Naturally, in the fashion of the times, she was a virgin when she married, as she indignantly insisted in a newspaper interview nearly 70 years later. She soon realized that she was not the type of woman who would long put up with the indignities that most of her contemporaries took for granted. She was one of those rare working-class women who sought liberation for themselves with little help from elsewhere.
In her autobiography, Dolores was brief to the point of reticence about her marriage: she could not even bring herself to name her husband. 'At 20, seeking liberation from drudgery in other people's homes, I married a miner whom I had met during my first job as a servant.' She made it plain that the marriage was not a success but gave little else away about Julián very much a Catholic, even if she had stopped going to church every Sunday, and it was difficult for her to break with everything she had believed with such fervor. It was not, of course, a society in which Catholic and Marxist thinking could coexist, as they can for many nowadays; for most devout Catholics, Marxism and socialism were then anathema, and were to remain so for many decades in Spain, as the Civil War was to demonstrate. Dolores gradually became enthusiastic about what she was reading. Socialism was not so much a creed which made sense of life as one which gave men and women like herself the means to aim at a better life for themselves. She devoured all the books she could lay her hands on in Somorrostro's Casa del Pueblo. She admitted to finding much of the local left-wing press hard going because of its leading style. It was not until she started on Marx and Engels that she felt she was getting somewhere She could never get enough to read: a contemporary woman remembered her walking slowly up to the mine where Julián worked, carrying his lunchbox, her head buried in a newspaper. It was unusual to see a woman act in such a fashion: she began to be talked about.
The Spanish Communist Party did not yet exist. For those attracted to revolutionary ideas in Spain before 1921, the choice was between the anarchists, who had deeper roots in Spain than anywhere else in Europe, and the socialists. Julián and Dolores belonged to the latter. The general political situation in Spain was one of deepening instability as several conservative governments battled to keep the lid on a rising tide of revolutionary violence, while an increasingly disillusioned army moved toward the center of political action. In this feverish atmosphere, the socialists had, in 1916, moved from their previously reformist stance to a much more aggressively revolutionary one, with a program that included the abolition of the monarchy and the army, the separation of church and state, and the nationalization of land. It was during this dramatic period that Dolores took the first decisive step from sympathetic onlooker to political activist by following her husband into the Socialist Party. She was never to look back.
The Socialist Party's rhetoric was taken very seriously indeed by its more militant members in the Basque country, who started preparing themselves for the armed insurrection they saw as imminent. A group of miners in Dolores's circle decided to manufacture primitive bombs, using dynamite stolen from the mines. 'I was an eager participant,' said Dolores. Having tested them and found that they produced a revolution. The same sort of thing was going on elsewhere, particularly among the Basques and in the tough neighboring mining region of Asturias. (Around the same time, Valentín González, known as El Campesino—the Peasant—who became a communist folk hero like La Pasionaria during the Civil War because of his military exploits, used dynamite stolen from an Estremaduran coal mine for his first guerrilla action, when at the age of 16 he blew up and killed four civilian guards.)
The national situation continued to deteriorate, but the summer of 1917 passed without the expected uprising, while the militants grew increasingly restless with the failure of the National Socialist leadership to take the plunge. Finally, in August, their hand was forced by a railway workers' strike. A general strike was called to support it, with socialists and anarchists united on the issue In the Basque country and Asturias, the strike was greeted by the Left, and particularly the miners, as the dawn of the revolution began. But the conservative government of Eduardo Dato met its uprising head and sent it into the army: 70 strikers were killed (mainly in Catalonia), the socialist strike committee was arrested en masse, and miners like those in Dolores's small group were left in disarray. To rid themselves of the evidence against them, they disposed of their bombs in a stream; Julián went on the run, hiding in a shepherd's hut. When the civil guard arrived at their home, Dolores refused to tell them where he was. To her fury, Julián gave himself up, on the advice of a socialist leader. He was imprisoned in Bilbao, while Dolores was left alone, with no means of feeding herself or her baby daughter. She just managed to get by, bartering her skills as a seamstress for milk for the baby, and helped by a gift of money from a group of Julián's friends. To visit him in prison, she had to walk the 10 kilometers to Bilbao along a dangerous cliffside path, holding the baby in one arm and a basket in the other. To save money, she refused to take a train for the last five kilometers. She moved back to Gallarta. Being closer to her family was, however, little help. Although she had a rapprochement with her mother, and her older sister Teresa continued to be loyal, her ties with the rest of the family had been severed with her marriage and were never restored. Her fortunes since then must have confirmed their worst fears for her.
But much worse was to come from their wayward daughter as far as Dolores's family was concerned. Events in Spain had been played out Against a backdrop of war in Europe and revolution in Russia, the Bolshevik Revolution of November 1917 had a galvanizing effect on the Spanish Left and on Dolores Ibárruri in particular. It is not hard to see why: she was a young socialist whose own rather pathetic involvement in an insurrectionary movement a few months previously had been a disaster: her husband was in jail, she had a baby, no work, and no money coming in. When she saw the newspaper headlines announcing the Russian Revolution, she was jubilant:
Instinctively, I knew that something immeasurably great had taken place. My thoughts focused on that far-off country, which, from that moment on, was to be so close to us. Two names were fixed in my consciousness, hammering at my heart and my brain: Russia and Lenin. My former sadness vanished; I no longer felt alone. Our revolution, the revolution which even yesterday we considered to be remote and beyond reach, was now a reality for one-sixth of the world.
The following year she acquired, virtually by accident, as these things often happen, the name by which she was to become famous: La Pasionaria. She was asked to write an article for a local miners' newspaper, El Minero Vizcaino (The Vizcayan Miner). She did so and cast around for a pseudonym (a sensible insurance against reprisals). As it happened to be Passion Week, she thought of the name Pasionaria, meaning passion flower, which according to legend opens to show the Passion and death of Christ. It was a brilliant choice, conveying as it does the sense of passion that characterized Dolores's whole life. The English-speaking world probably thought that the sobriquet meant 'The Passionate One'. The name certainly helped to create and then sustain the myth of the tireless fighter. Dolores Ibárruri might well not have had nearly the same worldwide impact without that simple, striking pseudonym.