In an age marked by democratic erosion in multiple regions of the world, a historical and moral thread runs through acts of resistance that are not always loud or violent, but often deeply civil: the simple decision to refuse. A long reflection published by El País revisits moments across the 20th century and beyond in which individuals, newspapers, and intellectuals chose to say no to authoritarian pressure, revealing how cultural memory and journalism have repeatedly served as instruments of democratic survival.
The piece opens with a scene from Nazi Germany in 1936, when Hitler’s regime was already consolidating its power and reshaping daily life through fear and conformity. Greetings, symbols, and even private relationships were regulated under ideological pressure. In that environment, refusal became dangerous. Yet resistance sometimes appeared in minimal gestures, such as not performing the Nazi salute. The photograph of August Landmesser, a German worker who crossed his arms while his colleagues raised their arms in salute, has since become an enduring symbol of civil disobedience. His personal story, later reconstructed by his daughter, reflects the high cost of dissent: persecution, forced military service, and ultimately death in war.
From this historical foundation, the narrative expands to another form of resistance: the role of journalism in moments when democratic institutions are under direct threat. El País recalls its own defining moment during the attempted coup of February 23, 1981 in Spain, when armed forces occupied parliament and political uncertainty gripped the country. While tanks moved in Valencia and armed officers held lawmakers hostage in Madrid, the newspaper made the decision to publish a special edition despite the unresolved outcome of the coup. As former director Juan Luis Cebrián later explained, the choice was guided by a professional imperative rather than political calculation: to act as journalists and publish the news while it was still possible to do so.
That decision, as later reflected in historical accounts, turned the newspaper into a symbol of democratic resistance. The edition circulated while the outcome of the coup was still uncertain, reinforcing the idea that press freedom is not only a right exercised in stability, but also a responsibility carried under pressure. International precedents are also invoked, such as the Washington Post’s publication of the Pentagon Papers and its confrontation with the Nixon administration during the Vietnam War. In both cases, journalism functioned as a counterweight to state secrecy, even at the risk of legal retaliation.
The article then moves from institutions to individuals whose moral choices defined resistance in more personal terms. One of the most prominent examples is the French historian Marc Bloch, who combined academic brilliance with active participation in both World Wars. Expelled from his academic position under Vichy’s antisemitic laws, Bloch joined the French Resistance, where he was eventually captured, tortured, and executed by the Gestapo in 1944. His life illustrates how intellectual work and political resistance can converge, particularly when authoritarian regimes attempt to control both knowledge and identity.
Within this historical framework, El País also highlights the moral ambiguity of those who collaborated with authoritarian systems without necessarily embracing their ideology. Figures such as Jérôme Carcopino, a respected historian who served in the Vichy administration while applying antisemitic laws, are presented as examples of how institutional loyalty can override ethical judgment. The concept of the Mitläufer, or “those who go along,” is introduced to describe individuals who do not actively support authoritarianism but enable it through compliance. This grey zone of participation, the text suggests, is essential to understanding how oppressive systems function at scale.
The reflection extends into postwar and modern Europe, where resistance takes more complex and internal forms. Intellectuals such as Dionisio Ridruejo, a former Falangist who later became a critic of Franco’s dictatorship, are presented as examples of ideological transformation and moral rupture. Similarly, political figures such as Adolfo Suárez are described through the lens of what German writer Hans Magnus Enzensberger once called “heroes of withdrawal”: individuals who dismantle systems of power from within rather than confronting them externally. In these cases, resistance is not defined by opposition alone, but by the capacity to abandon earlier positions in favor of democratic renewal.
Throughout the narrative, El País emphasizes that resistance is not limited to moments of open confrontation. It can also take the form of intellectual dissent, editorial courage, or even cultural expression. The Spanish poet Raimon’s song “Diguem no” is cited as a symbolic reminder that refusal itself can be a political act. In contexts where authoritarian tendencies resurface, such cultural references serve as a bridge between past and present forms of civic courage.
The text ultimately argues that contemporary threats to democracy, though different in form from those of the 20th century, still rely on similar dynamics: normalization of fear, erosion of pluralism, and pressure on institutions that produce independent knowledge. In this sense, journalism, academic inquiry, and cultural production remain essential spaces of resistance, even when their influence appears limited.
By revisiting historical cases of refusal and moral courage, the article suggests that democracy does not only depend on institutions, but also on individual decisions made in moments of pressure. Whether in a German shipyard in 1936, a Madrid newsroom in 1981, or the clandestine networks of occupied France, the act of saying no has repeatedly functioned as a small but decisive interruption in the logic of authoritarianism.
