Exhumed and Expelled from the Valley of the Fallen

By XL3aMS1x, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0

Today the remains of former dictator Francisco Franco were evicted from a monumental complex known as the Valley of the Fallen and reentered in the family plot in the unincorporated village of Mingorrubio. Well, like Franco, I, too, was once kicked out of there—albeit living and breathing.

First a little background: the Valley of the Fallen is a national park about 50 kilometers outside Madrid, in the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains. The valley itself is a lovely place of woods and greenery. However, rising out of this natural beauty is the cold, gray Basilica of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen (Basílica de la Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caídos), which was carved out of a giant granite ridge as an ominous looking monument to the Fascists who won the Spanish Civil War. Construction began in 1941 and ended in 1959. Thousands of prisoners, including political prisoners, were forced to work on the site. At least fourteen of these were killed during construction and many others suffered injuries.

I visited the Valley of the Fallen with friends some years ago, on a sunny, spring-like February afternoon. There were hardly any other visitors that day, so we parked in the near-empty lot just beneath the basilica. One of the first sites to greet us as we got out of the car was an abandoned and tattered looking series of shops -- a souvenir shop, a post office and a cafeteria -- shuttered up with rotted wood, rusted metal and water-stained paper.

Undaunted by this dreary sight, we walked up the stairs to the giant esplanade lying in front of the basilica. As we did this, we received a brief respite from the gloom, as the views of the valley and towns in the distance were fantastic. But then we entered the basilica itself, first going through security checkpoints that just about rivaled anything in international airports.

Once inside the hall of the basilica, I felt a little overwhelmed by the literal and atmospheric darkness of the place. We walked down a lengthy corridor, which in reality is a tunnel, past foreboding sculptures and grandiloquent tapestries. At the end of it all, was an altar, and as we approached it, I separated from the others to walk on my own.

Unlike most churches, in this one visitors are allowed to walk up to and around the altar. As I circled it, towards the back I noticed flowers and candles sitting on top of a marker embedded in the ground. I leaned in closer to read the words written on it, and was surprised to see "Francisco Franco," and to realize that this was in fact the dictator's tomb. Indeed, so shocked was I by the location of respect that the grave had that without thinking I grimaced, let out a "Yuk!" and stomped one of my feet on it, as one would do to chase off a rodent.

Next thing I knew, two furiously gesticulating guards were running up to me, exclaiming, "¡Fuera! ¡Fuera! ¡Si no te gusta Franco, fuera!" ("Get out! Get out! If you don't like Franco, get out!") Two of my friends (including a Spaniard whose grandfather had been forced to work on the monument's construction) started arguing with the guards, but I had had enough and just wanted to get out of that dark hole. I agreed to leave, and my friends gladly joined me. It was with more than a little relief that I headed away from the dinginess surrounding the despot's tomb towards the bright sunshine and fresh air outside.

Although I have never had a desire to go there again, perhaps I will return once it is converted from an ostentatious tribute to one of Mussolini's and Hitler's cohorts into a true memorial to the Spanish Civil War.