Lorraine Williamson
How does a nation begin to repair a wound left open for nearly a century? That question hung heavily in the air as Germany’s president stood in Gernika and apologised for the 1937 bombing — the first time a German head of state has done so on Basque soil.
Frank-Walter Steinmeier’s visit marked a moment many thought might never come. Two days earlier, he paused before Picasso’s Guernica at Madrid’s Reina Sofía — a painting that has shaped the world’s memory of the tragedy. But in Gernika, among the streets rebuilt from ashes, the apology carried a weight no museum could replicate.
A town scarred by one of Europe’s first civilian air raids
Long before Gernika became a universal symbol of anti-war resistance, it was a thriving Basque market town caught in the upheaval of the Spanish Civil War. On 26 April 1937, the Condor Legion — a German unit supporting Franco — bombed the town for hours. High-explosive and incendiary munitions flattened homes, set fire to crowded streets and left hundreds dead.
It was one of Europe’s earliest sustained air attacks on civilians. The raid horrified international observers at the time, and its legacy has shaped modern debates on warfare and civilian protection ever since.
A solemn tribute among the graves
Steinmeier’s apology was delivered not in a grand hall, but in the quiet surroundings of Zallo cemetery. Alongside Spain’s King Felipe VI, he placed a wreath before the mausoleum where victims of the bombing rest.
The bell of San Juan de Ibarra — one of the few structures to survive the 1937 inferno — tolled through the silence. Its slow, resonant strike served as a reminder of everything the town lost that day.
From the cemetery, the delegation walked to Gernika’s Museo de la Paz, where Steinmeier acknowledged that the German air force committed “grave crimes” and that the pain “still lives on” in Basque families.
A message posted by the Casa de S.M. el Rey on X underscored the symbolic nature of the event. It noted that King Felipe VI accompanied the German president during the floral tribute and the minute of silence for the victims of 26 April 1937. Shared publicly, the post helped reinforce the idea that the ceremony was not merely a diplomatic duty but part of a broader effort to strengthen historical memory and mutual recognition between Spain and Germany.
Survivors bring the past into the present
Two survivors of the bombing attended the ceremony, transforming a diplomatic act into something far more human. Their presence underscored the urgency of this long-delayed acknowledgement: there are few voices left who lived through the smoke, panic and devastation of that afternoon.
For many locals, seeing survivors receive a personal apology from Germany added a depth that previous written acknowledgements — including a 1997 letter — could not match.
Political absences reveal unfinished tensions
Not everyone chose to attend. Several Basque political parties boycotted the event due to the presence of King Felipe VI, whose role still carries heavy symbolism in the region.
Their absence highlighted an uncomfortable truth: even gestures of reconciliation can become entangled in Spain’s unresolved debates about identity, autonomy and the legacy of the Civil War.
Why Gernika’s symbolism still matters
The attack on Gernika was more than a military operation. It was a testing ground for new tactics later used in the Second World War. It was a blow to Basque identity. And through Picasso’s Guernica, it became a global emblem of the brutality that civilians endure during conflict.
In Europe’s current climate — with the rise of extremist rhetoric and renewed anxieties about war — Gernika continues to resonate as a warning: memory fades easily, but the consequences of forgetting can be catastrophic.
A step towards reconciliation — and a reminder of Europe’s shared responsibility
Steinmeier’s visit represents Germany’s most direct and public acceptance of responsibility yet. It was a symbolic act, but also a necessary one: an acknowledgement of the suffering inflicted, and an effort to bridge the generational gap between trauma and remembrance.
For the people of Gernika, it offered validation. For Spain and Germany, it strengthened a long process of reconciliation. And for Europe, it provided a moment to reflect on why safeguarding democracy and historical truth remains essential.
Legacy and lessons for the future
Eighty-eight years on, Gernika stands rebuilt — but its memory remains a cornerstone of Europe’s collective conscience. Germany’s apology does not rewrite history, but it reinforces a commitment to confront it honestly.
As Europe navigates new political tensions, the message from Gernika echoes with contemporary relevance: civilian suffering must never again be dismissed as collateral, and the past must never be allowed to fade into silence.