The year 2025 marks the fiftieth anniversary of Francisco Franco’s death and the beginning of Spain’s transition to democracy (1975–82). The current Spanish government, led by Socialist Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez, has launched a series of events entitled 50 Años de España en Libertad (Fifty Years of Spain in Liberty) to commemorate the country’s transition from dictatorship to democracy. However, the anniversary has sparked a contentious debate in Spain, reflecting deep-seated divisions over how to approach this historical milestone. The conservative People’s Party (PP) and the far-right party Vox have boycotted the government’s commemorative events, accusing Sánchez of politicising history to divert attention from contemporary issues, including allegations of corruption within his administration. Notably, King Felipe VI did not attend the initial commemorative event, citing scheduling conflicts. Some have interpreted his absence as a deliberate political statement, given that his father, Juan Carlos I, became king of Spain thanks to Franco’s succession plan. Meanwhile, the families of Franco’s victims continue to seek justice and recognition.Footnote ¹ Recent exhumations from mass graves highlight ongoing efforts to address the atrocities committed during the dictatorship. These actions underscore the lasting impact of Franco’s regime and the importance of acknowledging this dark chapter in Spain’s history. The fiftieth anniversary of Franco’s death serves as a poignant reminder of Spain’s complex and often fraught relationship with its violent past.

The study of political repression during the Spanish dictatorship has generated significant scholarly attention over the last thirty years. Since the 1990s, historians – mainly from Spain – have produced extensive research to quantify repression, analyse its mechanisms and assess its broader impact on Spanish politics and society.Footnote ² Their work has focused on seven key areas: documenting and quantifying repression; understanding the mechanisms of repression; examining Francoist ideology and justifications for violence; assessing the social and cultural impacts of repression; comparing Franco’s repression to other dictatorships; debating memory, justice, accountability; and challenging Francoist narratives and myths. In connecting their research to the international context, many historians have emphasised the concept of The Long Civil War (1936–52), arguing that the logic of the Spanish Civil War extended well into the post-war period.Footnote ³ This framework challenges the notion of the 1940s as a true ‘post-war’ era, instead framing it as a prolonged continuation of wartime violence and repression. Most of the works analysed here examine the origins and development of these mechanisms of violence from 1936 to the 1950s, refining our understanding of how the Francoist regime consolidated power and restructured Spanish society.

In 2011, historians Gutmaro Gómez Bravo and Jorge Marco Carretero published La Obra del Miedo. Violencia y Sociedad en la España Franquista (1936–1950), a milestone in Spanish historiography, recently translated into English as The Fabric of Fear: Building Franco’s New Society in Spain, 1936–1950. This book is intellectually provocative in its exploration of the myriad, complex and interconnected ways in which the military coup of 1936 served as both the catalyst and long-term determinant of the many forms of terror, violence and repression that unfolded across Spain in the following decade and a half. The authors argue that both state-propelled and socially manifested violence were unprecedented in scale, in their functions and in their effects – particularly in the new social and political structures, meanings and emotions they generated. The book’s original contribution lies in its granular analysis of how these processes developed, not only in the immediate post-war period but also well beyond the 1950s. Through meticulous archival research and an innovative analytical framework, Gómez Bravo and Marco Carretero reveal that repression, propaganda and social engineering were not merely by-products of the regime but rather fundamental instruments in its state-building project. It marks a significant innovation in the study of Francoist violence by shifting the focus from mere repression to the analysis of fear as a structural tool for social construction. Unlike authors such as Paul Preston, Santos Juliá or Michael Richards – who focus on perpetrators, victims or the culture of trauma – this book argues that violence was not only a means of coercion but also a deliberate ‘work’ aimed at shaping an authoritarian society from the ground up.Footnote ⁴ The book is structured around a critical examination of how fear was institutionalised and operationalised as a tool of governance. It investigates both the immediate impact of the Spanish Civil War and the long-term efforts to reshape Spanish society in accordance with Francoist ideology. The authors contend that Franco’s regime relied not only on military and police repression but also on an intricate web of societal control mechanisms that permeated everyday life. One of the book’s most compelling aspects is its interdisciplinary approach. Drawing on history, sociology and political science, Gómez Bravo and Marco Carretero demonstrate that Franco’s use of fear was not simply a campaign of physical violence, but an all-encompassing project aimed at transforming both individual and collective behaviour. They explore various dimensions of fear, including psychological intimidation, political persecution and cultural indoctrination. They apply sociological theories of social control, obedience and collective behaviour to show how violence was not simply repressive, but also productive of a new social order. Fear is treated as a social relationship, not just a psychological state – a relational force that restructured daily life, institutions and hierarchies. Drawing on concepts akin to Pierre Bourdieu’s ‘Habitus’, the authors explain how practices of denunciation, silence and complicity became normalised patterns of behaviour embedded in Francoist society. By doing so, they move beyond the traditional focus on institutional repression to examine the social interactions and emotional responses that sustained the regime’s authority.

The book’s first section examines the mechanisms of repression during and after the Spanish Civil War. The authors provide a harrowing account of mass executions, forced labour and the prison system, highlighting how these instruments of terror extended beyond punitive measures to function as tools of social control. Crucially, they argue that repression was not merely reactive but proactive – it sought to pre-empt dissent and create a climate of submission. Drawing on previously underexplored regional archives and personal testimonies, the authors offer fresh insights into the lived experiences of those subjected to the regime’s terror. A particularly striking chapter explores the role of denunciation and surveillance in Francoist Spain. The authors detail how the regime encouraged ordinary citizens to act as informants, fostering an atmosphere of paranoia and mistrust within communities. This section aligns with scholarship on authoritarian regimes, which underscores the participatory nature of repression, demonstrating that fear was not only imposed from above but also reinforced by local actors.Footnote ⁵

Another key contribution of the book is its analysis of the ideological and cultural dimensions of fear. From a political science perspective, they reconceptualise authoritarianism as a regime that governs through not only coercion but also the production of ideological consent and cultural alignment. Building on frameworks of hegemonic power, the authors argue that Franco’s dictatorship was sustained by not merely violence and repression but also the construction of a moral and symbolic order that legitimised obedience. They examine the role of the Catholic Church, the education system and state-controlled media in shaping an ideological framework that linked loyalty to Franco with moral righteousness. The book’s later chapters explore the long-term effects of fear on Spanish society, arguing that Franco’s dictatorship did not simply suppress opposition but also actively reshaped social norms and behaviours. Through a combination of economic policies, social welfare initiatives and controlled modernisation, the regime sought to create a new citizenry – one that was disciplined, obedient and ideologically aligned with Francoist values. The authors discuss how this project unfolded in both urban and rural settings, demonstrating how economic and social policies were intertwined with strategies of control.

While The Fabric of Fear is an impressive work of scholarship, there are areas where further elaboration would have been beneficial. For instance, although the authors provide compelling evidence of the regime’s pervasive control, they could have explored the themes of resistance and resilience in greater depth. While fear undoubtedly shaped everyday life, it is also important to examine how individuals and communities navigated and, at times, resisted these oppressive structures.Footnote ⁶ Although the authors do not engage with them directly, key scholars such as Alf Lüdtke, Martin Broszat and Detlev Peukert have already highlighted this perspective in their work on Nazi Germany.Footnote ⁷ Despite these minor limitations, The Fabric of Fear is a major contribution to the historiography of Francoist Spain. By blending perspectives from political science, sociology and psychology, this classic work, published over a decade ago, offers a rich and interdisciplinary approach to the study of repression and political violence. Its nuanced exploration of fear as a state-building tool provides valuable insights for not only scholars of modern Spain but also those studying authoritarianism and state violence more broadly. The translation is a welcome addition for English-speaking audiences.

Among the book’s most original chapters is one on the role of porteros (doormen) in the mechanism of repression in Madrid between 1939 and 1950. Almost a decade later, Daniel Oviedo Silva’s El enemigo a las puertas. Porteros y prácticas acusatorias en Madrid (1936–1945) provides an innovative and highly original contribution to this historiography by examining the role of porteros as agents of surveillance and denunciation in Madrid during and after the war. In doing so, the book sheds new light on the everyday mechanisms of repression, complicity and social control within urban environments. At its core, El enemigo a las puertas explores the intersection between microhistory and authoritarian governance. Oviedo Silva argues that the figure of the portero – traditionally perceived as a simple custodian of apartment buildings – became an essential component of the Francoist regime’s machinery of repression. Drawing on judicial archives, police reports and testimonies, the author meticulously reconstructs the ways in which porteros participated in the identification, denunciation and persecution of suspected left-wing sympathisers.Footnote ⁸ The book offers an unsettling yet deeply insightful portrait of how ordinary individuals became key actors in the formation of a surveillance society.

The study is structured around several key themes that highlight the evolution of accusatory practices. The first section provides historical context on the role of porteros in Madrid’s social fabric before the war. While traditionally considered figures of authority within apartment buildings, their role was significantly amplified during the Spanish Civil War, when both Republican and Nationalist factions sought to control the urban population through networks of informants. The second section of the book delves into the mechanisms of denunciation that emerged under Franco’s rule. In Francoist Madrid, the figure of porteros represented a diverse and socially ambiguous segment of the working class, positioned at the intersection of domestic life and state control. While men made up the majority (around 70 per cent), particularly in middle- and upper-class buildings, doorwomen were more common in working-class neighbourhoods, often performing their duties informally or without official pay. Beyond their practical duties, doormen acted as social mediators and informal watchmen, possessing intimate knowledge of neighbourhood dynamics. During the Spanish Civil War and the early post-war years, many were legally compelled to cooperate with authorities – first Republican, then Francoist – though only a small number actively participated in repression. As such, doormen embodied a paradoxical role: both agents of surveillance and vulnerable subjects within the same repressive system, playing a key part in the everyday architecture of fear that underpinned authoritarian rule. Oviedo Silva carefully examines the motivations behind these accusations, which ranged from ideological commitment to opportunism, personal vendettas and even economic incentives. The detailed case studies illustrate how some porteros acted out of loyalty to the new regime, while others used their position to settle old scores or curry favour with the authorities. The author’s analysis goes beyond simplistic binaries of collaboration and resistance, revealing a complex web of social interactions where fear, coercion and agency are intertwined.

El enemigo a las puertas contributes meaningfully to the growing body of literature on the ‘grey zones’ of repression and complicity in Francoist Spain. By focusing on the figure of the doormen (porteros) and everyday practices of denunciation in Madrid, it highlights how ordinary citizens actively participated in and facilitated mechanisms of control, blurring the lines between victims, perpetrators and bystanders. This aligns closely with Claudio Hernández Burgos’ work on grassroots repression and local power dynamics, where he emphasises the bottom-up dimension of violence, Carlos Fuertes Muñoz’s work on how informal networks and individual agency shaped the functioning of the Francoist State, or Julio Prada Rodríguez and his work on how economic repression became a keystone of the social exclusion policies of the Franco dictatorship.Footnote ⁹ One of the book’s strongest contributions is its exploration of gender dynamics in the practice of denunciation. Oviedo Silva highlights how female porteras often played a crucial role in surveillance, particularly in monitoring single women or widows suspected of leftist affiliations. This gendered dimension of repression underscores how Francoist policies targeted not only political dissidents but also those who defied traditional social norms. Another compelling aspect of the book is its discussion of the long-term consequences of these accusatory practices. The Francoist dictatorship did not merely punish its enemies in the immediate post-war years; it also created a culture of suspicion that lasted for decades. Through the testimonies of survivors and the analysis of post-war legal documents, Oviedo Silva demonstrates how the fear instilled by such practices continued to shape social relationships and collective memory in Madrid well beyond 1945.

Methodologically, Oviedo Silva has unearthed a wealth of primary materials, including previously overlooked police records and judicial proceedings, to reconstruct the lived experiences of both accusers and the accused. His microhistorical approach allows for a granular understanding of repression at the street and neighbourhood level, complementing broader studies of Francoist violence. Despite its many strengths, the book raises some questions that could be explored further. For instance, while Oviedo Silva effectively demonstrates the role of porteros in Madrid, it would be valuable to compare these practices with those in other Spanish cities. Did similar networks of informal surveillance emerge in Barcelona, Valencia or Seville, or was Madrid’s case unique due to its political and geographical centrality? Overall, El enemigo a las puertas deepens our understanding of the micro-level mechanisms of Francoist repression. By focusing on a seemingly peripheral yet crucial figure – the portero – Oviedo Silva unveils the everyday dynamics of surveillance, fear and betrayal that shaped life under authoritarian rule.

Connected to the study of political violence is the idea, advanced by many authors – including several in this review – of the continuation of the logic of war beyond 1939. One key area in which this is explored is the history of counter-insurgency and the maquis, the armed resistance fighters whose activities began in 1936 and lasted until 1952. The guerrilla activity of the maquis in post-war Spain was concentrated mainly in mountainous and rural regions that offered favourable conditions for clandestine resistance. They were more prevalent in mountainous areas, such as the Pyrenees and the depths of Castile, as well as in areas of Andalusia, like Granada. The most famous are the maquis in the provinces of Aragon and Catalonia, who attempted to invade Spain in 1944 from the Valle del Aran, inspired by the liberation moment in Europe during the Second World War. The specifics of counter-insurgency efforts and the regime’s campaigns against armed resistance offer rich avenues for understanding the post-war period in Spain.Footnote ¹⁰ Two recent books examine episodes of counter-insurgency in Spain. Falsos Camaradas. Un episodio de la guerra antipartisana en España, 1947 investigates a particularly insidious tactic used by Franco’s forces to dismantle guerrilla resistance: infiltration and betrayal. Set against the backdrop of the late 1940s – a period when Franco’s regime was consolidating power while simultaneously combating guerrilla opposition – Falsos Camaradas explores the use of counter-insurgency strategies aimed at dismantling partisan groups from within. The book provides a case study of how Francoist operatives posed as sympathetic comrades in order to infiltrate guerrilla movements, ultimately leading to their exposure and destruction.

The book is structured in a clear and methodical way, beginning with a thorough contextualisation of Spanish guerrilla resistance in the 1940s. By employing infiltration and deception, Francoist forces were able to weaken guerrilla networks more effectively than through outright violence alone. Sánchez draws upon military records, secret police reports and testimonies from both victims and perpetrators to reconstruct how these operations were conceived and executed. The depth of documentation allows the author to present a compelling, richly detailed and analytically rigorous narrative.

One of the book’s most compelling aspects is its focus on the human cost of these infiltration tactics. Falsos Camaradas provides harrowing accounts of trust betrayed, friendships weaponised and the psychological toll on those who fell victim to deception. The narrative does not merely recount events but delves into the moral and ethical dilemmas faced by both the infiltrators and their unsuspecting targets. The reader is left to grapple with unsettling questions about loyalty, survival and the devastating consequences of state-sponsored subterfuge. Despite its many strengths, there are areas where the book could have gone further. While the author provides a detailed account of the mechanics of infiltration, a deeper exploration of the long-term effects on surviving guerrilla members and their communities would have been beneficial. Did these tactics lead to a decline in armed resistance, or did they provoke an adaptation in guerrilla strategies? Additionally, while Hernández Sánchez is meticulous in documenting state sources, a more extensive discussion of how the resistance itself perceived and responded to these tactics would have enriched the analysis. Another aspect that could have been further developed is the broader political and international context in which these events unfolded. The late 1940s were a critical period for Francoist Spain, as it sought to navigate its position in an evolving Cold War landscape. While the book primarily focuses on internal counter-insurgency, a greater discussion of how these tactics fit within Spain’s broader diplomatic and strategic calculations would have been useful.

Connecting to the broader European context, Hasta su total exterminio. La guerra antipartisana en España, 1936–1952 by Arnau Fernández Pasalodos offers a comprehensive and meticulously researched study of the counter-guerrilla war waged by Francoist forces against anti-fascist resistance groups. This book provides a critical and in-depth analysis of the methods employed to suppress partisan activities, shedding light on a lesser-studied aspect of post-war Francoist violence. By extending the timeline beyond the official end of the war to 1952, Fernández Pasalodos effectively illustrates that Francoist repression did not cease with military victory but continued through a prolonged and systematic effort to eradicate opposition. His work not only engages with the concept of the Long Civil War but also situates Spain’s counter-insurgency within broader trends in twentieth-century military doctrine, drawing comparisons with similar campaigns conducted in Nazi-occupied Europe.Footnote ¹¹

The book is structured into several thematic sections that trace the evolution of Francoist counter-insurgency tactics from the late 1930s to the early 1950s. Fernández Pasalodos meticulously reconstructs the military and paramilitary operations carried out against guerrilla fighters, commonly known as maquis, who continued to resist Franco’s rule in rural and mountainous regions. Utilising a wide variety of sources – including military reports, personal testimonies, police records and recently declassified documents – the author presents a detailed account of how state forces sought not merely to suppress but also to annihilate these resistance movements completely.

One of the key contributions of Hasta su total exterminio is its analysis of the organisational structure of the anti-partisan campaign. The book highlights the roles of the Civil Guard, military units and specialised counter-guerrilla squads in coordinating efforts to locate, infiltrate and eliminate partisan cells. Special attention is given to intelligence gathering, informants and psychological warfare, which played crucial roles in dismantling guerrilla networks. Fernández Pasalodos does not focus solely on the military aspect of the war against the maquis but also explores the impact of repression on local communities. The book documents how villages suspected of aiding the resistance were subjected to collective punishment, including mass arrests, forced disappearances and extrajudicial killings. For example, regions like Granada suffered significantly from these policies, a fact that is barely acknowledged in the historiography, which focuses overwhelmingly on Aragon in northern Spain. This aspect of the study underscores how Francoist repression extended beyond the battlefield and into the social fabric, fostering a climate of fear and silence that would persist for decades. By emphasising the socio-political dimensions of counter-insurgency, the book provides a nuanced understanding of the mechanisms through which authoritarian regimes maintain control over dissenting populations.

Rather than presenting the maquis as a uniform national movement, Pasalodos carefully examines the conflict through detailed case studies across specific regions. This territorial focus reveals the profound local variations in how repression was organised, how communities responded and how the relationship between guerrillas and civilians evolved. The regions that receive the most sustained analysis include Galicia, León and Asturias, Andalusia and the Levante-Maestrazgo area. In Galicia, Pasalodos emphasises the discreet and socially embedded nature of the resistance, with families offering shelter and support rather than engaging in open combat. This region allows him to explore how violence targeted networks of loyalty rather than military structures. In León and Asturias, the guerrilla serves as a central case study for understanding long-term armed resistance, logistical survival and state counter-insurgency strategy. These areas are particularly rich in documentation and illustrate how the conflict persisted well into the 1950s. In Andalusia – especially in provinces such as Granada, Jaén and Córdoba – Pasalodos examines the intense repression directed at communities with strong anarchist and communist histories. The analysis reveals how political memory and class identity shaped both guerrilla support and state paranoia. Finally, in the Levante and Maestrazgo (notably in Castellón, Teruel and Cuenca), the book highlights the importance of geography and ideology. Mountainous terrain and ideological militancy allowed the guerrilla to maintain a prolonged presence, which prompted increasingly brutal tactics from the Francoist state. What makes this regional analysis particularly innovative is its rejection of a monolithic view of the guerrilla struggle. Pasalodos shows that repression was not uniformly applied but adapted to local conditions – ranging from the dense social networks of Galicia to the ideological fortresses of the Maestrazgo. He demonstrates how fear, surveillance and collaboration operated differently from one village or valley to another, revealing the decentralised and situational nature of state violence.

Overall, Hasta su total exterminio is a landmark study in the historiography of Francoist Spain. Fernández Pasalodos reconstructs the state’s relentless campaign to extinguish armed resistance, offering fresh insights into the nature of counter-insurgency, state repression and the long shadow of authoritarian rule. Hasta su total exterminio makes a significant and innovative contribution to the study of political violence and repression in Francoist Spain by reframing the guerrilla conflict as a prolonged and systemic war that extended far beyond the end of the Spanish Civil War in 1939. Instead of treating guerrilla resistance as an isolated or residual phenomenon, the book argues that the Spanish state waged a sustained counter-insurgency campaign through to the early 1950s, with the same logic and brutality as wartime operations. This extended timeline challenges the conventional periodisation of post-war Spain and emphasises the continuity of repression as a foundational component of Francoist state-building. One of the most original aspects of the book is its polyhedral approach to violence, in which Pasalodos deliberately moves beyond simplistic binaries of victim and perpetrator. He reconstructs the war not only from the perspective of the guerrillas but also through the experiences of their families, rural communities and especially the Guardia Civil. By focusing on the guards themselves – often portrayed as monolithic enforcers of Francoist repression – Pasalodos reveals their social and institutional complexity. Many were underpaid, poorly trained and deployed in hostile environments with limited resources. His analysis humanises these actors without justifying their actions, emphasising that they were sometimes unwilling participants caught in the machinery of state violence. The book is essential reading for historians of modern Spain, political violence and military history, as well as for those interested in the broader themes of resistance and repression in twentieth-century Europe. Hasta su total exterminio offers valuable insights that extend far beyond the field of Spanish history, making it a compelling resource for historians interested in state violence, authoritarianism and post-conflict societies. One of the book’s central interventions is its reframing of guerrilla activity as not a marginal or residual episode but rather a prolonged insurgency met with counter-insurgency tactics comparable to those used in Eastern Bloc states, Fascist Italy or even occupied France. One of its most notable contributions is its detailed analysis of localised counter-insurgency. The book provides a case study of how an authoritarian regime conducts warfare through not only centralised commands but also dispersed, community-based mechanisms of repression. This approach will resonate with scholars working on rural policing, civil surveillance and state control in other authoritarian or colonial contexts, offering a comparative framework for understanding how violence becomes socially embedded.Footnote ¹²

Both this book and Falsos camaradas offer powerful insights into the mechanisms of Francoist repression and the state’s war against anti-Francoist guerrillas. They excel in detailing how the regime identified, infiltrated and dismantled resistance networks – particularly through psychological warfare, social control and institutional violence. However, one area where both books could be further developed is in their treatment of how guerrilla groups themselves responded to this repression. A closer examination of how resistance movements adapted, reorganised or failed under pressure would provide a more balanced and complete picture of the partisan war in post-war Spain. In Falsos camaradas, Hernández Sánchez compellingly documents the infiltration of the Communist Party’s networks in 1947, showing how Francoist agents posed as comrades and manipulated trust to provoke the internal collapse of guerrilla cells. While the case study is rich in detail, the analysis focuses primarily on how the state succeeded. There is less attention paid to how guerrilla groups attempted to cope with these betrayals – whether through internal reforms, altered tactics or changes in recruitment and communication. Understanding these responses would shed light on the internal tensions and strategic debates that shaped the fate of the resistance. Similarly, Pasalodos provides a sweeping and methodical analysis of counter-insurgency from the perspective of the state and local institutions. He demonstrates how repression operated at every level – from surveillance and denunciation to economic punishment and militarised violence. Yet while the book acknowledges the eventual breakdown of guerrilla organisation, it gives limited space to the processes through which guerrillas might have adapted to changing conditions. Finally, a more balanced approach that includes the internal evolution of guerrilla groups would also allow for useful comparative insights.

If the works analysed thus far emphasise the dynamics of violence from the beginning of the Spanish Civil War, Fuego Cruzado. La primavera de 1936, by Manuel Álvarez Tardío and Fernando del Rey, examines the months leading up to the war. The book focuses on the period from the victory of the Popular Front in February 1936 to 18 July, analysing the violence and political instability of the spring of 1936. The authors set out to challenge traditional historiographical narratives that emphasise the war’s structural causes, such as long-term ideological polarisation or economic crises. Instead, Fuego Cruzado directs attention to the micro-level dynamics of political violence, illustrating how tensions escalated due to a combination of radicalisation, breakdowns in law and order and factional struggles within both right-wing and left-wing groups. The book highlights how, by early 1936, the Spanish Republic was already experiencing unprecedented levels of political violence, which steadily worsened as both sides increasingly resorted to extra-legal means to assert dominance.

A major strength of the book is its use of a vast array of archival sources, including police records, judicial documents and personal testimonies, to reconstruct the period with remarkable precision. The authors paint a vivid picture of street-level violence, political assassinations and the general atmosphere of fear and instability that gripped Spain in the months before the military uprising of July 1936. Rather than treating violence as a mere symptom of broader ideological struggles, Álvarez Tardío and del Rey argue that it was an integral factor in shaping the events leading to the war. However, this interpretation is neither original nor uncontested.Footnote ¹³ Many traditional right-wing narratives have long argued that the Republic descended into chaos in its final months, justifying the coup of July 1936 as a necessary intervention. Yet, historians such as Eduardo González Calleja have challenged this claim, demonstrating that while there was indeed an unprecedented level of political violence, much of it was perpetrated by the far-right.Footnote ¹⁴ Moreover, it was the coup itself, rather than the preceding violence, that led to the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. The authors’ broad definition of violence – seeking to include ‘any form of violence’ – risks oversimplifying the complexities of political violence. Not all violence is political, nor can all violent acts be treated as equivalent in their causes and consequences.

One particularly illuminating section of the book examines the role of local actors in the violence of early 1936. The authors investigate how much of the political strife was not dictated solely by national leaders or ideological manifestos but was deeply rooted in local power struggles, personal rivalries and community dynamics. This microhistorical perspective helps to contextualise broader national trends within the realities of everyday political and social life. This approach connects with previous research by these authors and aligns with other scholars in this review, who have also emphasised the importance of studying local dynamics to understand broader trends in political violence – something previously highlighted by Fernando del Rey in his work on Solana (Ciudad Real).Footnote ¹⁵

The book is structured thematically, with chapters addressing different aspects of pre-war violence, such as political assassinations, strikes and protests, and the role of paramilitary groups. This organisation allows the reader to grasp the multifaceted nature of the crisis. The authors emphasise that political violence was not limited to any one faction; instead, radical elements within both the Popular Front and the right-wing opposition contributed to escalating hostilities. However, while reading the book, one gets the impression that the left, rather than the right, was primarily responsible for the violence. The authors overwhelmingly focus on the actions of left-wing groups while giving significantly less attention to those of the far-right. Furthermore, the book discusses the response of state institutions, arguing that they were often weak, divided and inconsistent, further fuelling the crisis by failing to contain the violence or by being perceived as biased towards one side. Yet, once again, right-wing figures such as José María Gil Robles, leader of the main conservative party, receive limited critical scrutiny.

As noted at the beginning of this review, the legacy of Francisco Franco’s dictatorship (1939–75) remains a deeply contested issue in contemporary Spain. While Franco’s regime was marked by repression and authoritarianism, the transition to democracy in the late 1970s was largely shaped by the so-called pact of forgetting (pacto del olvido),Footnote ¹⁶ which prioritised reconciliation over accountability. Sophie Baby’s Juger Franco? Impunité, réconciliation, mémoire is a timely and thought-provoking study that interrogates the historical and political consequences of this impunity. Engaging with legal, political and cultural discourses, Baby examines the long and controversial struggle to address Francoist crimes and the broader implications for transitional justice in Spain. The book is structured around three core themes: the historical roots and development of Francoist impunity, the political and judicial debates surrounding accountability and the role of memory in shaping contemporary Spanish society’s engagement with its past. Baby’s research is grounded in extensive archival work, legal documents and interviews with key figures involved in the struggle for justice. This methodological approach allows her to present a nuanced and multifaceted analysis that bridges history, law and political science.

One of the key contributions of Juger Franco? is its exploration of the legal and institutional mechanisms that have enabled Francoist crimes to remain largely unpunished. Baby traces the origins of impunity to the 1977 Amnesty Law, a crucial element of Spain’s democratic transition. This law effectively shielded individuals involved in Francoist repression from prosecution, reinforcing a culture of silence around state-sponsored violence. Sophie Baby situates Spain’s 1977 Amnesty Law within a broader transnational context, drawing clear parallels to processes of transitional justice in Latin America. Rather than treating Spain as an exceptional case, Baby argues that its experience belongs to a wider historical moment in which post-authoritarian societies across Europe and the Americas confronted – often uneasily – the legacies of mass violence and dictatorship. The book frames the amnesty as not a purely domestic political decision but rather a product of geopolitical pressures, Cold War dynamics and a global reluctance to pursue retributive justice in the interest of political stability. A central contribution of Baby’s analysis is her treatment of the Amnesty Law as a form of negotiated impunity, comparable to the pacts of silence or transitional compromises seen in countries like Argentina, Chile and Brazil in the eighties. In Spain, the 1977 law was promoted as a step toward reconciliation, but Baby demonstrates that it also functioned as a legal mechanism to shield perpetrators of Francoist crimes from prosecution. This mirrors the way Latin American regimes often secured their exit from power by extracting legal guarantees of immunity. However, Baby also shows how these arrangements were later challenged by social movements and international legal developments – including the arrest of Augusto Pinochet in 1998 – which in turn catalysed Spain’s own memory and justice movements.

A particularly compelling section of the book examines the role of the judiciary in perpetuating Francoist impunity. Baby details the numerous legal obstacles faced by victims and their families when seeking redress, particularly in cases involving enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings. She provides a critical analysis of the Spanish judiciary’s reluctance to engage with historical justice, even in the face of international human rights conventions. The book discusses the well-known case of Baltasar Garzón, the Spanish judge who attempted to investigate Francoist crimes but was ultimately disbarred, illustrating the deep entrenchment of impunity within Spanish institutions.

Beyond legal and political aspects, Juger Franco? also explores the cultural and social dimensions of memory in contemporary Spain. Baby examines the ongoing tensions between those who advocate for remembrance and justice and those who defend the transition-era consensus of silence and reconciliation. She investigates the role of historical memory laws, such as those enacted in 2007 and 2022, the excavation of mass graves since 2008 and the emergence of grassroots movements challenging the official narrative in the early 2000s and, especially, after the Indignados Movement in 2011. Through these discussions, she highlights how recent political movements in Spain have reinforced the fact that memory remains a contentious issue in the country’s democratic society, shaping politics, education and public discourse. Another strength of the book is its engagement with broader theoretical debates on memory and justice. Baby draws on the work of leading scholars in the fields of transitional justice and historical memory, situating her analysis within a global and interdisciplinary framework. Sophie Baby’s Juger Franco?’s most compelling section lies in how it deepens our understanding of Spain’s 1977 Amnesty Law as not a purely national phenomenon but also part of a global pattern of negotiated transitions from authoritarian rule. While many earlier studies treated Spain’s ‘pact of forgetting’ as exceptional, Baby situates it in direct conversation with the transitional processes of countries like Argentina, Chile and Uruguay, which adds to the collective work of Paloma Aguilar, Alexandra Barahona De Brito and Carmen González Enriquez that situates Spain in comparison to other international cases such as Central America, South Africa or Eastern Europe.Footnote ¹⁷ This comparative lens enables her to illuminate the shared dilemmas and tensions faced by post-authoritarian societies: the trade-offs between political stability and justice, the tension between legal immunity and moral accountability and the central role of civil society in preserving memory. She critiques the limitations of the so-called Spanish model of transition, questioning whether true democratic consolidation can be achieved without addressing the crimes of the past. Her argument is compelling and well supported by empirical evidence, making the book a timely contribution to both Spanish historiography and the study of post-authoritarian societies.

The book also brings legal history into dialogue with memory studies. Rather than treating justice and memory as parallel or separate domains, Baby demonstrates how legal frameworks – particularly amnesties – shape and are shaped by public narratives about the past. She highlights how law operates not only through formal institutions, but also symbolically, influencing which victims are recognised, which stories are told and how legitimacy is constructed. This dual focus on legal mechanisms and collective memory enables a more nuanced analysis of post-Franco Spain, where formal justice was denied, but memory politics remained intensely active. Another novel aspect of the book is its focus on transnational activism and legal borrowing. Baby traces how Latin American legal precedents, such as the trials of military officials in Argentina and the arrest of Augusto Pinochet, influenced Spanish judges, lawyers and memory activists. She shows how global networks of human rights advocacy and legal innovation flowed into Spain, inspiring efforts to challenge the Amnesty Law and reopen debates about Francoist crimes. This transnational perspective not only enriches the Spanish case but also contributes to broader debates about the diffusion of justice norms and the global circulation of memory practices. While Baby provides a thorough analysis of legal and political debates, a deeper examination of the perspectives of Francoist sympathisers or those who oppose historical memory initiatives would have added complexity to the narrative. Additionally, while the book successfully places Spain’s experience within a comparative context, a more detailed discussion of how Spain’s approach has evolved in response to international pressure – particularly from European institutions – would have been valuable.

Overall, Juger Franco? Impunité, réconciliation, mémoire is a timely book for scholars of contemporary Spain, transitional justice and historical memory. Baby’s research and incisive analysis shed light on one of the most pressing unresolved issues in modern Spanish history by connecting her analysis to legal studies and the context of the Spanish transition to those in Latin America. The book is a powerful reminder that the past is never truly past, and that struggles over memory and justice continue to shape Spain’s present and future. Sophie Baby provides a gripping and rigorously researched account of Francoist impunity and its lasting impact on Spanish democracy. Juger Franco? challenges readers to reconsider the narratives of reconciliation and transition that have long dominated discussions of Spain’s post-Franco era. By exposing the limitations and contradictions of the Spanish model of transitional justice, the book contributes to ongoing debates about memory, justice and democracy in contemporary Europe.

The period between 1936 and 1952 in Spain was marked by political violence and state repression, beginning with the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War and continuing through the consolidation of Franco’s dictatorship. The six books reviewed here expand our understanding of political violence and repression by examining the mechanisms, actors and consequences of state and paramilitary violence. Collectively, they provide a multifaceted perspective on how violence was used not only to achieve but also to maintain power in Francoist Spain.

These six books collectively offer a powerful and multifaceted contribution to the study of twentieth-century violence, particularly in the context of Spain, but with clear and meaningful implications for European and global historiography. They shed light on how violence is not only inflicted through direct military or police action but also woven into social, institutional and ideological structures. Each work, while focused on specific actors, regions or legal processes, advances the broader understanding of how regimes use fear, law and memory to build, consolidate and justify power. Together, these six books offer a rich, interlocking account of how violence, repression and memory functioned in twentieth-century Spain, with broader implications for understanding authoritarianism in Europe. Arnau Fernández Pasalodos’s Hasta su total exterminio reframes the Francoist counter-insurgency as a prolonged civil conflict shaped by regional dynamics and negotiated violence at the local level. Fernando Hernández Sánchez’s Falsos camaradas reveals how psychological warfare, infiltration and the manipulation of internal trust fractured resistance from within, highlighting the fragile nature of clandestine opposition. Gutmaro Gómez Bravo and Jorge Marco’s The Fabric of Fear advances a powerful theoretical model of repression as a formative, everyday force that shaped social norms and behavioural patterns through institutional fear. Daniel Oviedo Silva’s study of porters in El enemigo a las puertas adds nuance to this by showing how ordinary individuals, embedded in neighbourhood structures, could act as both enforcers and subjects of authoritarian power. Sophie Baby’s Juger Franco? shifts focus to the afterlife of repression, tracing how Spain’s 1977 Amnesty Law and the struggles over memory and justice intersect with global patterns of transitional justice, particularly in Latin America. Collectively, these works illuminate how political violence permeates legal systems, social structures and cultural memory, offering a deeply comparative and conceptually expansive framework for understanding the legacies of twentieth-century authoritarianism. Finally, Fuego Cruzado provides a controversial analysis of escalating political violence during the spring of 1936, before the breakdown of Republican legality due to the coup of July 1936 by the military figures like Mola, Sanjurjo and Franco.

Together, these books not only enrich our understanding of the Spanish case but also make important contributions to the broader historiography of twentieth-century violence. They illuminate the ways in which authoritarian regimes adapt strategies of repression to different contexts, how violence reshapes societies from the ground up and how the aftermath of that violence is navigated legally, morally and culturally. Their attention to local actors, institutional dynamics and long-term consequences offers a more nuanced and human-scale account of historical violence than traditional top-down narratives. Moreover, these works provide valuable comparative insights for scholars studying other European and global contexts. The themes they engage with – fear as governance, the banality of repression, the fragility of resistance, the politics of memory and the moral ambiguity of complicity – resonate far beyond Spain. They echo in the histories of fascist Italy, Vichy France, Stalinist Eastern Europe and post-dictatorship Latin America. By drawing out these connections explicitly or implicitly, the books offer a toolbox of conceptual and methodological approaches that can be productively applied to other settings.