1997


Miguel Ángel Blanco was born in Galicia but Basque Country considered him one of his children. Eager to make a change, he became a politician, for the People's Party. He was twenty nine years old. The 10th of July, he didn't get to work. This was not typical of him, he was extremely punctual.

It wasn't until radio station Egin Irratia received that call when Span started to worry.

«We demand our prisoners to be moved to Basque territory. If by 4 p.m of Sunday 12th the government has not met our demands, Miguel Ángel Blanco will be executed and his blood will be on your hands»

Spain was hugging himself, standing under the door, while José María Aznar remained sat at his desk.

"We made a pact, Antonio, we will not negotiate with terrorists" he told his nation, firm.

"But...they will kill him...I'm sure they will..." Spain muttered.

"We are looking for him. We won't let that happen...Go home, Antonio. Try to rest."

Rest...José María didn't really understand what being a nation meant. Millions of people were holding their breath, so he felt a great pressure inside of his chest, a lump in his throat. On his mind was the message wunnign in all of his territory, in every street, in every corner: 'Miguel, we are waiting for you'.

Spain sat on the sofa, after trying to sleep for a long time, and eventually picked up the phone.

"...Basque?"

"...You couldn't sleep either, huh?" his brother said at the other side.

"Are you okay?"

"No...I'm scared, Spain...For that boy..."

"...Everything will be alright, Basque, don't you worry."

"Those aren't men, they're demons...Do you think they'll let him go, even if the government did what they say?"

Spain didn't know what to reply.

The hours passed so slowly. Spain was told to calm down, distract himself, but all he did was watch the news, stare at the phone. The waiting hurt him as if every minute cut like a knife. In his mind was that photography of a young man and that desperate cry: 'Miguel, we are waiting for you'.

Hours became days—and when Spain realized, the deadline expired.

That night, as in anticipation, he didn't sleep at all.

He got the dire call at five in the morning.

A hunter had found Miguel Ángel in the open field, in Lasarte-Oria. He had been shot twice in the back of the head. When he was found, he was still alive...But there was nothing that could be done for him...

«We have just been confirmed...that Miguel Ángel has been killed»

The crowd gathered around the balcony let out a collective exclamation.

Inside of the building, Basque couldn't go out and say something to them. Spain saw him rush out of the room, lean on a wall and start bawling like a child. Spain approached to place a hand on his shoulder, tears running down his face. Just when he felt Spain's touch, Basque turned around and embraced him. In his arms, Spain let out all of his pain, the anguish he had been holding inside of his chest for three days.

"They are...they are...They are not my people! I have nothing to do with those murderers! I'm not..."

"I know...I know, Basque, I know..." Spain sobbed.

Basque's words became an outcry like Spain had never seen before, in the streets of Guipúzcoa, of all of the country.

"THEY ARE NOT BASQUE! THEY ARE MURDERERS!"

The people who once were afraid to face the terrorist now were not afraid to shout to their faces:

"DEATH TO E.T.A!"

"SONS OF BITCHES!"

It was something which concerned Spain and his siblings. There were no divisions. He, Basque and Catalonia shared their tears, stuck together.

"NOT TO E.T.A., YES TO BASQUE!"

The three of them were there to console the family, to receive Miguel Ángel's remains and bury them. They wore the blue ribbons they had been wearing during the kidnapping, they wouldn't take it off.

"¡MIGUEL! ¡MIGUEL! ¡MIGUEL! ¡MIGUEL!"

The members of Herri Batasuna were almost lynched by the crowd, but Spain managed to ease society, take all of that hate and do something good with it. He was in the head of the protests which filled his streets, along with his brother, because he was not to blame for what those people did in his name. He and his people became one single voice, which looked at E.T.A. to the face and shouted:

"ETA! HERE YOU HAVE MY HEAD!"

For a long time, all Spain was concerned about was chasing down those creatures (not men, but creatures). His people were getting killed, all because of a conflict him and Basque Country had. France and him worked hard on finding them and bringing them to justice. Also, his beloved neighbor visited his house frequently to cheer him up. "2000 is coming. The world is going to hell", he would often say, and the way he said it made Spain smile. Thanks to him, and Prussia's contribution, he didn't let himself fall into despair.

The new millennium came and Spain had the resolution of never losing sight of what was really important.

But it didn't start very well...


2001


Spain was playing guitar, playing a song from the 16th century, remembering the good old times...When he got the call. He got up quite lazily and answered.

"¿Diga?"

"Are you watching the T.V?" that was Prussia, and he sounded so excited.

"Nah, I spent the whole night hooked on this show, I-"

"Turn on the news!"

Spain gazed at the handset with an eyebrow raised. So he left it on the table for a second, walked to the remote and turned on the television.

«...against the World Trace Center of New York, causing great damage, as we can see, in the last stories of the building, in flames—attention! We have seen one of the impacts, we are receiving live from the American television broadcasting...»

"¡Me cago en la puta!" Spain exclaimed, wide-eyed. Now he knew Prussia was not excited, but disturbed.

"Did you see?! Did you see?!" he was saying when Spain picked up the phone.

"Yes, I am watching it! What the fuck was that?!"

"I don't know, but...Verdammter Mist! Are you watching it?! One of the towers is crumbling!"

Spain spent the whole afternoon glued to the television and with the phone in his hand. He tried to call England, but he didn't answer. He didn't bother calling America, he knew it would be useless. He did keep in touch with Prussia. It was him the one who finally gave him news.

"Germany has just spoken to England. America's in intensive care. His heart...just stopped."


Nobody remembered Canada, not even when he was there, near the door, with his arms crossed. Spain didn't even remember America had a brother. All of his attention was on England. He was pretty bad, obviously. As much as he complained about America being an ingrate and an idiot, as much as he held grudge about the way he left him after all he had done for him, he was still his little brother. Spain was convinced with little fear to be mistaken that America was once that one thing he loved more than himself; and there were things in life which were never gone completely.

Sat by his side, he offered his shoulder for him to rest. Not to cry, that was something England had evidently done in private—just so he knew he was there.

America was not a human, and he was strong, so strong, maybe stronger than many of them, he would make it. Still, such a big blow would have him in the hospital for some time.

What would happen when he came out? Spain wondered. He had heard one of the reporters from his house say that it was the beginning of a war; it was uncertain against who, but this would start a war. At that moment, he thought that that man was scarily right.


2002


"What...the...FUCK?!"

They had told him at first the situation was under control, then they admitted to him it was bad, but he couldn't have imagined it was that bad. When Spain got out of the car and walked to the shore, he placed his hands on his head.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no! My beach! My beautiful beach! Fuck!"

He cursed a little bit more. The Prestige, that big ship full of crude oil no one liked having near their beaches, entered the worst place possible, the Costa da Morte, which wasn't called the Coast of Death for nothing. It's hull cracked in two, and its content spilled. Thousands of tons of oil were blackening kilometers of littoral. Didn't he have a reason to curse like a sailor?

But there was a moment to curse, then he had to work. His people had already mobilize, it was his turn.

Since Portugal's and even France's coasts had been affected too, he was not alone. Wearing those white suits which soon turned black and masks, the three of them worked hard to get as much oil as possible.

"So" Portugal spoke, trying to make the task more bearable. "Do you guys know how euros work?"

"Nope. I still need someone to tell me how much everything is in francs" France admitted.

"I've had so many different systems and it never fails: once I get used to one, they change it" Spain commented. "Everything seems so expensive now..."

"Yeah. Oops!" France slipped and almost fell. "Putain..."

"I don't know about you guys, but I miss the times when we used wood and animal grease, and not this crap" Portugal complained, putting a good load of oil inside of the container.

His two partners agreed.

"By the way" Portugal said after a little pause. "How is America doing? After...you know."

"He's not okay, of course" France replied. "There is just one thing which prevents him from staying in his bed all day long: revenge."

"Sure..." Portugal nodded.

"He wants to make those terrorists pay. All he talks about lately is Al-Qaeda. I definitely prefer when he talked about movies and hamburgers...I don't know, but he's starting to scare me, how he's seeing enemies everywhere..."

"If they attacked you just like those people did, you'd get your tanks too, right?" Spain said to him.

"I'm just warning you guys to be careful with him. Our little boy just has no measure. He's young and acts like a child in many senses."

At that moment Spain's focus was on the black beaches and the dead birds, but years later he would think of France's words very often...


2003


"Chema...I'm...not really sure about this."

"Antonio, let me remind you something: allies help each other. You gave your word, now you have to do what you have to do."

Still, Spain traveled to the Azores unsure of what he was going to do. Portugal noted it as soon as he welcomed him.

"Did you eat something past the expiration date or what?"

"After what I saw in Bosnia I've had enough wars for the rest of my life...I really don't want to get involved in another one" Spain said to him. Portugal was once his husband and in a sense he was his brother. He knew he could tell him these thing.

"I have it understood that your boss had great interest in this meeting..."

"Well, him and I are having...discrepancies..."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Why is it so hard to find a boss who understands you...?"

"America and England are already here. Don't keep them waiting. Let's go."

He was taken to a room where said nations and their presidents were waiting. Some photos were taken, then the press followed their bosses while him, England, Portugal and America talked privately.

"Spain, you are a very helpful guy" America started saying. "You are very generous and like to make people happy."

"Where are you going with all of that flattery?" Spain interrupted him.

"You know Iraq is behind what he did to me and my people" America's expression turned serious.

"Well, her boss—maybe. But she...I don't think she's got something against you" Spain said.

"Oh, I assure you: she does. She wasn't sad at all when the World Trade Center crumbled, my people died and I was in the hospital for months. And I'd even say it's because I'm friends with Israel, but that's another story. Saddam, Iraq...It's the same. The thing is, she has weapons of mass destruction at home, and she doesn't want to admit it. Such weapons, in the hands of Iraq...That's a bit of a scary thought to me."

"...What do you think about this, England?" Spain turned his head to England.

If he was there, if he agreed with America...

England clasped his hands.

"It seems that Iraq does possess those weapons, and I don't think that's something any nation should have. We must make her understand the dire consequences they could have."

"And what if she doesn't understand?" Portugal wanted to know.

"We will have to convince her..." America intervened, crossing his legs.

"She has violated the pacts, that's the way I see it..." England argued.

"And you want me to participate..." Spain muttered.

"Portugal has already accepted" England said, and Portugal nodded.

"The UN will not support us publicly, but I've talked to Japan" he said, "and he told me, confidentially, of course, that we have the support of some of their members, him included."

"These are not times to be neutral, Spain" America said. "So if you have doubts..."

"I'm just tired of getting involved in war and death..." Spain said.

"Yeah, sure, you want to go back to your house, where the sun shines all the time, to drink sangría in a hammock. Well, sorry if I interrupted your placid life, I just thought we were friends and stuff, I thought you'd help me chase the people who hurt me, but, oh, well..."

"America" England interrupted his younger brother with a frown.

He got up from the sofa and crouched in front of Spain, to look at him to the eyes.

"I don't want to do this, either" he said to him, in lower voice, almost as if he wanted to speak to him confidentially. "But if we do nothing, something catastrophic might happen...This is not just a matter of vengeance. We just want to make sure that what happened on September 11th won't happen to anyone else."

Spain gazed at him, one of his best friends in the whole world. Then, he glanced at Portugal, who was sat with his arms crossed. And finally, America, who didn't even blink.

"...Okay..." Spain sighed.

Much was said and written about that meeting. Spain read in a newspaper that his president was called a traitor, and it was said that he had been forced to join America's group against Iraq, even people were demonstrating massively in the streets. But Spain felt he had made a mistake and there was no one else to blame but him.


2004


There was an exposition about Roman art in Seville, and Romano traveled to the city because he had contributed with a mosaic from his grandfather's treasures. Actually, Spain thought it was just an excuse to get out of his house a little and visit him, as much as Romano assured he only wanted to make sure 'his idiots' didn't ruin his nonno's legacy.

"You can't even make pasta right..." he said that night, when Spain cooked dinner for him. Still, he stayed in his house during those days and slept in his bedroom.

That Thursday, a sudden noise, of something breaking, made him jump.

"Coglione..." he grunted, burying his face in the pillow. "Spain! What the fuck! Are you juggling with the mugs or what?"

He tried to go back to sleep, but was unable to, so he eventually got up, grumbling.

"You clumsy idiot...Next time you come to my house I'll drill the wall while you're sleeping..."

But when he walked into the kitchen, he found Spain on the floor, with pieces of a mug around him, and his anger just evaporated.

"Spagna!"

07:37 a.m.


«E.T.A. has committed a massacre in Madrid, the bloodiest attack the group has ever done, to this moment it has caused one hundred and seventy three casualties and nine hundred injured. Five minutes have been enough for the terrorists to stain Madrid's morning with blood.»


Veneciano started his day with music in the radio. Following the tune whistling, he arranged all ingredients on the counter to prepare banana pancakes. It was then when the phone rang.

"Pronto? Ah, Romano, w-What? ...Romano, what's the matter, you..." His smile faded. "...What happened to big brother Spain?..."


«The Basque nationalism does not consider, even as a mere hypothesis, that E.T.A. is behind what happened today in Madrid.»


America sipped from a glass of water before clearing his throat and addressing the cameras, the Spanish people watching him.

"Spain is a good nation. A good friend. He doesn't deserve what happened to him. No one does. The attack on innocent people, workers, students, was horrible. Brutal. I am with you, Spain. I promise: I will help you find whoever did this and receive the punishment they deserve."


At that time in the morning, the trains from the city of Alcalá de Henares to Madrid were filled with sleepy people who had bills to pay, students who were on their way to college, people in hopes of getting a job. Death was traveling in those trains too, in the form of several backpacks filled with explosives.

Kilometers away from Madrid, in his home in Seville, the first explosion made Spain drop what he had in his hands. The second and third, one minute later, made him fall to the floor. A simultaneous explosion in another convoy in El Pozo made his heart stop.


"My specialists are available for Spain's government to...identify the corpses and find clues" Israel declared on television, almost by the time Ireland, president of the European Parliament, spoke:

"The European Union would like to condemn this disgusting act against our friend Spain..."


"It was...horrible...there was blood everywhere...some people fell to the tracks...Oh, God..."

"We have seen limbs a hundred meters away from the station, we have had to dodge them on the way here..."

"I want to go home...I want to go home!"

"The cell phones are ringing on the tracks, they're ringing all the time, all around the place, and I can't stand it..."


"In solidarity with Spain" Poland declared on the radio, "I declare tomorrow, March 12th, a day of mourning. And wish Spain he gets well soon..."

Portugal, on the other hand, chose to address his people and Spain's on the television.

"...A day of mourning, starting today..."

They indicated him that they had finished. It was now when he allowed himself to close his eyes and swallow.

"Mr. President, I'm going to Seville."

"...Of course..."

That was the medium Romania chose too to deliver his message.

"This is an incredibly sad day for me too because my children have died in those trains too. For them and our good friend Spain, all flags will be lowered to half-staff and March 14th will be declared a day of mourning in all my territory."


"What about our nation, Iker? Is he alright?"

"For what we know, he is still under intensive care. The last information we have is that his heart stopped and he is being stabilized."


The television cameras filmed how the Royal Guard started playing the anthem under England and his queen's supervision. Not his anthem, but Spain's.

The Queen turned her head to her nation and saw him covering his mouth.


"Is he still unconscious?"

France also wanted to make sure his orders were followed. He was given information from Lyon, Marseille, Niza and Toulouse, and he was seeing that all buildings in Paris had their flags half-mast. As soon as all arrondisements showed their respect for their neighbor, France got in the long distance train.

"...Sure, I know he can't die, but...Jesus, I am still trembling..." he admitted to Basque Country over the phone.


It was unlikely that it was Cuba's yelling what woke Spain up, but Spain opened his eyes at the same moment his little brother kicked the president out of the room.

"Alright, alright, calm down, Cuba."

"Calm down? Look at him! How can you tell me to calm down! That man is a liar, he cares more about votes than his own nation!"

"I know, I am angry too, but, please..."

"Cu...ba?"

Both Cuba and Germany turned their heads to the bed. Portugal, by his side, leaned on him.

"Antonio..." he smiled, seeing his slowly looking around him, at the people who filled the room in spite of the orders of the nurses.

"How are you, Spain?" Prussia asked, taking his hand.

Spain closed his eyes again and started to weep.

Everyone tried to save him as much pain as possible, hiding the news from him, the horrible pictures of people running in the streets, filled with blood splatters and dust, the pieces of metal and flesh in the tracks, the smoke, the tears. They tried to make him see the bright side, all the anonymous people who jumped in to help the injured, to donate blood, the Muslim community calling to action and condemning the terrorists. Catalonia and Basque Country had come to stay with him. Sweden and Morocco traveled to Spain's house to join the protests.

But a new scar appeared on Spain's chest, right in the heart. It looked like the train network map of Madrid—Spain would have laughed if he wasn't crying so often.

It took him time to leave the hospital. His heart recovered from the attack, but his mind took some more time. Romano prolonged his stay in the house, his brother joined too. Basque Country and Catalonia visited often, they would have stayed if the flat was big enough for the five of them. Spain didn't need to watch the news to know how many lives had been lost, how many dreams exploded that morning. He didn't need anything to burst into tears at any chance. Sometimes, he felt he was running out of air, he had sudden panic attacks, and the Italy twins had to hold him in their hands to calm him down.

The voters punished Aznar for what he did to their nation, and one of the first things the next president, José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, did after he was elected was to promise Spain he would be out of Iraq, whatever it took. When it was publicly announced that Spain would no longer intervene in Iraq's house, no one was surprised.

"France..."

France considered Italy had been taking care of Spain enough time, so he told them to go back home and offered himself to take care of him. Months after the attack, it seemed Spain was making a bit of progress, taking long walks with him around Seville, enjoying the displays of affection of his people, who stopped to pat his back and kiss his cheek. But things like those took time.

"Do you think Prussia's busy? Maybe he'd like to play strip poker or something. Last time we cleared him out, he might want revenge..."

"...Are you sure you...?"

"...Yeah...Enough crying...Life...goes on, I guess..."

France smiled faintly.

"I'm happy to hear that. For a moment I thought you'd..."

"Go crazy, start lynching Muslims and stuff? No. I...If...Look, I might have lost my mind for some time, but I am pretty aware of what happened around me, and I keep the good from this. You guys comforting me and stuff..."

Love. That was what mattered...

When the following year it was England's turn to be sent to the hospital, after Al-Qaida made him pay what he and his partners had been doing to Iraq, Spain made sure his Royal Guard played God save the queen. He would make sure England had a hand to squeeze and a shoulder to try on. Love was all that mattered...


Terrorism definitely bit Spain's ass by the ending of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st.

In 1997 E.T.A. kidnapped a young Basque city councilman called Miguel Ángel Blanco and threatened to kill him if their prisoners were not taken to jails in the Basque Country. There were tons of protests in the streets, the whole country followed this case with their heart on their throats. The government didn't yield and as a response Blanco was killed. There was a tremendous uproar, like Spain has never seen. If E.T.A. was seen like a bunch of monsters after the Hipercor attack, now the whole country was repulsed by them. Blanco's murder was the last straw, and since them the Spanish population has fought for E.T.A. to die. They eventually ceased all violence in 2011, but many of their members are yet to be found or have been freed from prison or in politics.

Then, in 2002, the year after 9/11 in the United States, Galicia suffered its biggest environmental disaster, when a ship filled with oil sank and all the waste practically destroyed 400 kilometers of littoral. It even affected our neighbors Portugal and France. Thanks to the hard work of volunteers from all of Spain and even out of the country, the beaches were cleaned, but the ecosystem is still damaged and responsibilities are still to be taken.

The following year, president Aznar met with Tony Blair and George Bush Jr. to join actions in Iraq concerning the famous 'weapons of mass destruction' supposedly hidden there, and Saddam Husein's collaboration with Al-Qaeda, responsible for the 9/11. The Spanish society was against getting involved, but Aznar sent troops anyway. In 2004 Al-Qaeda made Spain pay for that bombing several trains in Madrid.

At first, it was said that E.T.A. did it. They did plan to attack a train due to the elections, but were stopped and they confessed they wanted to make an impact after the events concerning Miguel Ángel Blanco's murder but they didn't do it. This caused a great controversy and the anger of Cuban and German politicians because the real authors of the attack were hidden for electoral reasons (the elections were to take place that Sunday) and it prevented other countries to be on alert. The Spanish people also felt betrayed, and changed their vote to socialist Zapatero, who took the troops out of Iraq.

The 11-M is considered the biggest attack to our country and the wounds are still healing. 202 people died and 1857 were injured. Many places in Madrid have a monument dedicated to the victims, including the train stations where they exploded: El Pozo, Santa Eugenia, Alcalá de Henares, and specially Atocha. If you ever take the train there, take a look 500 meters before you enter the station: you will see there are flowers in the fence, right where one of the bombs exploded. In Atocha there is also a big monument with the names of the people killed and messages of hope in several languages. Furthermore, in Puerta del Sol, next to the plaque dedicated to the heroes of the War of Independence in 1808 there is also one for those who helped the victims of this attack; and the Forest of Remembrance, with one tree for each victim, was built in the city. Two famous singers, Luz Casal and La Oreja de Van Gogh, made songs related to this: Ecos and Jueves, respectively.

Spain's reaction is based on the psicosis and fear Madrid's people lived those days. I won't forget the image of people suffering panic attacks when taking the train days after this.

Unfortunately, unlike the 9/11 and 7/7, which London suffered the following day, Spain's society didn't join together, but fractured...

Also, reference to the Bosnian War (1992-1995), to which Spain sent troops for humanitarian purposes.