Spanish Civil War

Málaga to Almería: Remembering the Spanish Refugees of February 1937

~ Barbara Lamplugh ~ Leave a comment

Known as La Desbandá, the ten-day march I joined for a day this month, saw hundreds of people walking along the hard shoulder of the N340 highway and along beaches and footpaths on a 220km route along the southern coast of Andalucía. We were walking in the footsteps of the 300,000 refugees, two thirds of the population, who set out from Málaga and other towns and villages in February 1937 in the civil war that had followed the previous year’s attempted coup d’état. These refugees were fleeing the imminent arrival of Franco’s troops under General Queipo de Llano, whose terrifying threats were broadcast repeatedly on the radio. Their desperate hope was to reach the provinces to the east, still under Republican control.

The political and military leaders of the Republic had already abandoned Málaga and knowing the fate awaiting them, panicked families took to the road, carrying what they could, some with their mules or donkeys, many with babies in arms, small children, the elderly and the sick. Starving, crippled, exhausted, they trudged on, many barefoot with terrible sores on their feet. As they walked, bombs were rained down on them from German planes, from Spanish warships and from the tanks and troops of the Italian and Moroccan armies supporting Franco. At least five thousand died on the road, later renamed the ‘Road of Death.’ Some died from exhaustion, cold or hunger or from their wounds; many more from the bombing. Those who continued had to abandon not only their meagre belongings but also their dead, most of whom were children, the elderly and women.

Some were more fortunate, saved by the arrival of a Canadian doctor, Norman Bethune, famous for his pioneering blood transfusions, along with a battalion of the Republican army and two of the International Brigades, who gave some protection at the front and rear of the trail of refugees. A memorial plaque in Norman Bethune’s honour can be seen in Velez Málaga.

Marching in the Desbandá, an annual event since 2017, was an emotional experience. The terrors and physical hardships endured by the refugees in 1937 played constantly in my imagination. No way can the commemorative march be compared, but neither is it an easy walk. Those completing the whole distance march up to twenty kilometres a day, sleeping on the floors of sports centres along the route. Many of the hundreds of participants were in their sixties and seventies or older. Some had been among the refugees of 1937, small children at the time. Many others were the children or grandchildren of survivors and had family stories, moving testimonies of what happened to their relatives.

In one part of my novel, The Red Gene, English nurse Rose is working with some of the victims in a convalescent hospital in Murcia. She speaks of the trauma and suffering of the children and their mothers, the physical and mental effects of their experiences.

‘Franco, Señorita, Franco!’ The little boy clutched at Rose’s uniform as the air raid siren sounded its ominous screech. The children leapt out of their beds, running to her in terror. The nightmare of their retreat from Málaga was still with them. Rose could not erase from her mind the horrific scenes described by the mothers of these children – those who had survived. The nightmare of being attacked from air and sea, machine-gunned and bombed as they fled with what possessions they could carry on their backs or in overloaded carts. The nightmare of seeing men, women and children dead or dying in ditches, mules lying feet up in the air by the roadside.

Almería and Murcia were now swamped with refugees. Attempts to distribute them around neighbouring villages and set up children’s colonies had been partially successful. However, the local population had scarcely enough to eat and with such an influx, malnutrition was rife. Rose was horrified to see a four-year old boy with limbs no bigger than those of a six month old baby. Where there should have been muscles, repeated hypodermic injections had caused the most awful abscesses.

The purpose of the annual march is not only as a homage to the refugees of the Civil War but also to bring to attention this genocide, largely forgotten or ignored, and to demand justice and reparation for the victims. It was the first case of a deliberate and indiscriminate massacre of the civilian population, repeated numerous times since and now seen in the terrible genocide in Gaza.

This year the entire route of the Desbandá was declared a Site of Historical Memory. Too much of Spain’s history of atrocities has been buried and forgotten. In today’s world, threatened by the rise of fascism, nationalism and authoritarianism, it is vitally important that we remember and honour the victims so that such horrors are not repeated.

CHRISTMAS BLOG: WHAT CHANCE FOR PEACE?

~ Barbara Lamplugh ~ Leave a comment

Terrorist outrage followed by aggressive reaction in the form of a new invasion/war or the stepping up of one already in progress and more surveillance at home. The same pattern has been repeated so many times: 9/11 in New York, 11-M in Madrid (the one exception to the above in that Spanish troops were withdrawn after the election that followed), 7/7 in London, this November in Paris. Secrets of the Pomegranate focused on one of these events (the Madrid train bombings) and its consequences – for an individual family and in the wider political context. One of these consequences was the paranoia about Muslims – now whipped up to new extremes by Donald Trump, a serious contender for next US President.

The “war on terror” clearly hasn’t worked. As many people predicted, it has just created more hatred, more divisions, more radicalisation, as well as countless unnecessary deaths. The demonisation of all Muslims, supposedly ‘justified’ by the terror attacks, has made life even more difficult for the thousands of refugees fleeing wars created or sponsored by western countries.

When I first emigrated to Spain, people told me I was brave. Admittedly it was daunting to leave my family, job and home and head alone for a country where I knew nobody and had to start from scratch finding work and somewhere to live. However, I had a safety net; I knew I could go back if necessary; my journey wasn’t dangerous. I did not consider myself brave. The refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen and Eritrea, among other countries, are the brave ones, the ones who take incredible risks to secure a peaceful life for their families. After gruelling journeys, which a considerable number don’t survive, those who do may face intolerable conditions in camps and detention centres when they arrive. While some more humane communities – from the tiny Isle of Bute in Scotland to large countries like Canada – are welcoming them, others are treating them as a scourge and building fences to keep them out.

A major part of my next novel, The Red Gene, is set in the years after the Spanish Civil War, another war that created hundreds of thousands of refugees. When Franco’s troops marched into Málaga in early 1937, two thirds of the population fled – on foot or on donkeys, carrying what possessions they could – men, women and children, young and old on a sixty-mile trek to Almería, still held by the government. As they trudged along the road, they were machine-gunned and bombed from air and sea.

Two years later, with the defeat of the Republic imminent, 400,000 sought exile abroad, most heading over the border to France. There they were put in internment camps where, due to lack of sanitation and shelter, many died. Given the stark choices offered, some agreed to ‘voluntary’ repatriation, others were conscripted into the Foreign Legion or sent to military-style work camps. About 100,000 remained in the camps. Of those Republican soldiers or sympathisers trapped in Spain, vast numbers were executed, tortured, imprisoned or used as slave labour. Half the population lived in fear. Some hid for decades, separated from their families, too afraid to return home.

I recently read Dulce Chacón’s excellent but grim novel, La Voz Dormida (The Sleeping Voice), set in the same period just after the end of the Civil War. Like Secrets of the Pomegranate, it tells the story of two sisters and a baby. The pregnant sister is an inmate of Ventas, the women’s prison in Madrid, where she is awaiting her death by firing squad once the baby has been born. The ‘peace’ after Franco’s victory was not peace for all.

Christmas is supposed to be the season of peace and goodwill and we fortunate ones are busy sending cards and singing carols about just that, while celebrating the birth of a baby in a manger (there was no room at the inn for this family of Middle Eastern refugees). Unfortunately, for some the Christmas season just means more of the same: bombing and destruction; desperate journeys; miserable conditions in refugee camps.

Dare we hope for a more peaceful and tolerant 2016? I’d like to believe so. The spontaneous acts of generosity, kindness and empathy towards refugees from individuals, families and communities suggest that a better world is still possible. To quote  the Dalai Lama, “Great changes always begin with individuals; the basis for peace in the world is that inner calm and peace found in the heart of every one of us. Each of us can make a contribution.”