Growing up in Madrid, intense summer heat was nothing unusual. I quickly learned always to cross the street in search of shade, and never to be caught out in the sun at 3pm. But as a child in the early 1980s, I never felt dizzy after spending more than a few minutes outdoors, nor did I struggle to study or sleep at home because of the heat. Back then, air conditioning was a rarity, something only Americans had. But we were fine: the stuttering fan in my mother’s Ford Fiesta was enough to keep us comfortable on holiday escapes from the capital.
What is happening in Spain now goes far beyond discomfort. More than 1,500 deaths have already been linked to heatwaves this summer alone. Public-sector workers are collapsing from heatstroke on our city streets. Entire communities in the Madrid suburbs have been devastated by wildfires. On Monday, 198 weather stations recorded temperatures of 40C or higher. Following a record-breaking July, the first 20 days of August will probably be the warmest on record. Alongside housing, the climate crisis is Spain’s most visible and most persistent problem: every summer reminds us of this. You can’t ignore it, or escape it; so why are Spain’s politicians still so reluctant to tackle the climate emergency?
Fighting global heating is a worldwide challenge, but protecting populations against the consequences – with an awareness that Europe is heating faster than other continents – must also be a national and a local priority. Within Spain, the climate crisis too often becomes an excuse for superficial, party-political feuds. In the population at large, there has been years of broad popular consensus, but contrast that with Spain’s politicians, for whom the issue has become increasingly partisan, with the right and the left fighting over totemic policies about cars and bikes.
Even Spain’s centre-left coalition government, led by Pedro Sánchez’s Spanish Socialist Workers’ party (PSOE), has taken only modest steps to reduce emissions from industry and transport. And as they do on other issues, the socialists rush to point the finger at regional and local governments run by the conservative People’s party (PP), supported in some cases by the far-right Vox, which has pushed falsehoods and conspiracy theories about the climate crisis.
It is true that Spain’s regional and local governments, powerful and well funded, also bear great responsibility: for protecting the most vulnerable from extreme heat, adapting public spaces, planting trees and ensuring there is sufficient shade and water fountains. One urgent necessity is the creation of “cool banks”, especially for people in overcrowded and overheated homes, those with health vulnerabilities, the very young and the very old. Valencia has a network of these climate shelters, while Barcelona has mapped out hundreds of public spaces where people can escape the heat, from libraries to museums.
But too many local governments are still failing to provide respite. Madrid is among the worst offenders. Public cooling centres are almost nonexistent, and shopping centres remain the most common refuge. The capital’s conservative regional and local governments have been passive or even hostile towards public demands to reduce dangerous heat levels in neighbourhoods, with too few green spaces and too many cars. When Madrid’s city hall does spend money, it often misses the point: the most absurd example is Puerta del Sol, the central square that after months of renovation work still feels like a concrete frying pan all summer. Only after protests did the city council finally install a few flimsy shades, at a cost of €1.5m.
For those Madrileños who have the option, the traditional way to make August bearable has been to escape the city for the coast. My childhood memories of cooler summers visiting grandparents in northern Spain feel very distant now. The north still enjoys bearable nights and some rain in the summer, but heatwaves have become more frequent there too. The change is fast and visible, even in daily life.
This year in the Basque country, beach bathing has been repeatedly banned because of the portuguese man o’war, a creature resembling a jellyfish, but one that is much more toxic and dangerous. Once confined to warmer Atlantic waters, it has only begun appearing here in recent years. On a recent walk along San Sebastián’s beach, I spotted dozens, fortunately tiny, each circled in the sand to warn passersby. More medical resources and surveillance are now being devoted to this new threat – another example of the small everyday adaptations we are having to make.
The most dramatic consequences of the climate crisis make headlines around the world: the tragic deaths of workers in vulnerable jobs, picking fruit or cleaning streets, and wildfires killing people, destroying homes and even a Roman-era mining site – now a burned-out Unesco world heritage site. But across Spain, the signs are everywhere: crops ruined by hail, high-speed trains disrupted, and neighbourhoods baking in the heat.
This is the new reality we are living with. It has become a regular fixture in our calendars. A journalist colleague of mine observed earlier this year that the most important annual climate event for the media is not Cop, it’s the summer. It was February in the northern hemisphere, and he was already preparing their annual heatwave coverage. My newsroom in Madrid does the same, with ever more sophisticated data and analysis.
The frustrating question is why our politicians are still shrugging off this reality, as though it were just an inconvenience. How many broken records and how many heatwave deaths will it take to change this?