When I finally emerged, I had a completely different understanding of what had been going on in this region after the Civil War ended. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the violence and ruthlessness that the guerrillas and the Guardia Civil had both used on each other and the populace, and particularly by thinking of what it must have been like to live here then. The idea that people could make political decisions and choose a side was naïve. Here there had been a history of general illiteracy, working long hours for landowners for a return that allowed survival and little more for most, and years of a Civil War that the nation was exhausted from. 5000 people, fleeing from towns and villages being attacked by the Franco led Nationalists and making their way to Republican areas, were gunned down from the air by the Germans, who were assisting Franco. What sort of sense would someone make of waking up to find that working hard, minding your own business and going to church was suddenly irrelevant to your house being burnt, or to paying for an act someone else in your village had committed. After the war had finished, Communists in Madrid, supported and led by Soviet Communists, trained a guerrilla force whose role was to continue the fight and to raise up a rebellion among the people. They were convinced that the allies would support them, for after all they were fighting fascism and a regime supported by Hitler, and they had given much support to the French when they were occupied by the Germans. Spain remained ‘neutral’ throughout the Second World War, while clandestinely assisting the Germans, who had supported Franco to gain power. The allies had some incentive to assist against Franco so that he would not be able to provide a pathway and air bases for the Germans in Spain, but a deal was made between the British and Franco that if there were no bases for Hitler, that there would be no interference in Spain's internal affairs. Maybe the Communists didn't know this, or maybe they just kept thinking that they would be supported, but in the end it was in 1953, years after both wars, that the guerrilla war in Andalucia was finally abandoned. There was a colossal legacy of death, destruction of lives and families, bitterness and division. After Franco died and Spain became a constitutional monarchy, an amnesty was created which meant that there would be no investigation of acts committed during the Civil War and during Franco's regime, and that no crimes would be prosecuted or perpetrators brought to justice. Life was to go on as if nothing had happened, but of course at a deeper level, that was impossible. Schisms too wide had been created, which families are carrying down the generations.
On the way to Frigiliana, Jane and Brian stopped twice – once to put rubbish in the bins which mark the change in the time zones from the modern areas closer to the coast to the more traditional areas closer to Competa. The second stop was so that we could marvel at the idea that you could run a goat farm on a very steep hillside, and also at the state that it was in, given its very public position and the contrast it created to the beautiful mountains.
Our trip to Frigiliana, the village at the heart of the accounts in 'The Two Fires', was so much richer for the small amount of reading that I had done. As we walked the bright and light streets and passed landmarks such as the barracks of the Guardia Civil and the church, I told Keith of the acts that had happened there and in the villages and mountains round about. The book is based on research that used official and media records as well as the oral histories of people who took part in the guerrilla war, or who were children at the time and whose families were involved. There would have been many, many more if they had been recorded before old age claimed those who survived, but maybe it is only the changing law and the passing of time that enables people to speak.
No one dared to stand up to either group, since to defy a guard or a guerrilla would be to condemn yourself or your family to death. Oppression led to people joining the guerrillas since life in the village was made impossible by the guards and soldiers who were controlling everyone, especially if you were suspected of supporting the guerrillas. Once in, any change of heart or suspected change of heart brought death. People were killed by both sides to teach the populace lessons, and guerrillas kidnapped people for ransoms to pay for their needs. If the family or the village couldn't raise the money, the person was killed to encourage future ransoms to be paid promptly. Both sides killed innocent people if they didn't or couldn't do what they wanted in providing information or supplies. Three young men were murdered by the Civil Guards and their bodies were dumped in the cemetery. Apparently many people in the community were outraged because the young men had not committed any offences however people were afraid to express their opinions. The killings were considered by many to have been carried out to show the power of the Civil Guard and to intimidate the populace. The priest showed great courage in putting on his finest vestments, and marching to the cemetery where he held a full funeral service for the boys. Some townspeople dared to join him, and afterwards they were rounded up and beaten up by the Civil Guard. The Guards told the priest that he had to come to their barracks, but he refused. Imagine the tension – what sort of impression did it create to have a priest who firstly defiantly led the funeral and then who refused a summons. In the end the Captain of the Guard went down to see the priest and he is said to have given him a stern talking to. Not everyone was so lucky, and in reading the statistics and the personal records, it is clear that massacres were regular occurrences. The official records are appalling reading – killed when running away being sanctioned by law and so being used to cover up all sorts of things.
I sat in the Church of San Antonio where the altar piece was burnt and a butchery was established by Anarchists instead, during the Civil War. Completely restored, it hides its secrets. A display case held a macabre set of saints' heads that turned out to be masks for processional use. I looked at the old people sunning themselves in the square and wondered about the terror they may have experienced in their childhoods. I understood that the emphasis on the Arab heritage and on the three cultures from which the community grew, covered wounds too recent to acknowledge. There was nothing at all to tell us about what I had been reading. Perhaps there are some archives for researchers somewhere.
The three cultures, which I had guessed would be Spanish, Arabic and English (given the ex-pat numbers), turned out to be Islam, Christianity and Judaism. A sculpture included symbols for each, and required the viewer to walk around it to discover them all.
Emotionally if not physically exhausted, we left the oldest part of the village and headed down the hill to Nerja. We followed the road so it was not very beautiful and we had to be careful to be right over to the side. At one point we walked into a village and into another era, since a horse with a dog in its side basket was tied up at the shop, waiting for its owner to return. In another ten minutes we were crossing at a roundabout that is definitely in the present, with trucks and cars whizzing all around us.
The church of El Salvador had a sweet belén, and unlike commercial ones, it was waiting for baby Jesus to arrive on the 25th before he could be placed in the manger. Beautiful statues were mounted on platforms that must be how they are taken out and carried in processions. A poster said that it is not necessary to use a mobile phone to speak to God.
We wandered down to the beach, and then to the Balcon de Europa, which is like a plaza overlooking the sea but was a fortress in the ninth century. A tourist offered to take my photo beside the statue of King Alfonso XII, and Keith watched from afar, noting that I had broken a basic rule of not giving your camera to strangers. Luckily I still have my camera and a picture of me in royal, if metal, company as well.
Below all the official glory, a cove looked like a film set, with a blue doored fisherman's hut with part of it cut into the rocks, obviously still being lived in. Investigating houses in an estate agent's window showed us that they were generally much flasher and quite pricey.
We had an enjoyable ramble along the old fishermen's streets licking ice-creams, which was proof of the lovely mild weather we were enjoying. The bus back to Torrox gave us a little time there before Jane and Brian joined us for a Chinese meal, and we sat in the dying rays sun and read on, while Keith made some diary notes for me. At last it was getting cold and dark, so we moved to a coffee shop where we continued to ignore each other while I read more of the book on the post civil war period. We had a little hiccup in meeting up, since we were in one Chinese restaurant and Jane and Brian were in another, but once that was sorted, we had a lovely and relaxing meal. I asked Jane what she would put in a three culture sculpture if one of the cultures was 'the English' and she replied that it would have to be something that represented the class system, and definitely not the fish and chips that Keith suggested.
We blobbed out in front of a University challenge program, where it was difficult to understand the very complex questions, let alone know the answers. Mostly I read and at last I reached the section of oral histories. We would be leaving in the morning, so I read until I judged that I would be in migraine land if I kept going, and I wrote down all the details so that I can read on at some time in the future. This book has made a great difference to how I feel about and how I relate to this area, as if responding to picturesque and rugged beauty is enhanced by a greater depth of understanding of human experience here.
Our trip to Frigiliana, the village at the heart of the accounts in 'The Two Fires', was so much richer for the small amount of reading that I had done. As we walked the bright and light streets and passed landmarks such as the barracks of the Guardia Civil and the church, I told Keith of the acts that had happened there and in the villages and mountains round about. The book is based on research that used official and media records as well as the oral histories of people who took part in the guerrilla war, or who were children at the time and whose families were involved. There would have been many, many more if they had been recorded before old age claimed those who survived, but maybe it is only the changing law and the passing of time that enables people to speak.No one dared to stand up to either group, since to defy a guard or a guerrilla would be to condemn yourself or your family to death. Oppression led to people joining the guerrillas since life in the village was made impossible by the guards and soldiers who were controlling everyone, especially if you were suspected of supporting the guerrillas. Once in, any change of heart or suspected change of heart brought death. People were killed by both sides to teach the populace lessons, and guerrillas kidnapped people for ransoms to pay for their needs. If the family or the village couldn't raise the money, the person was killed to encourage future ransoms to be paid promptly. Both sides killed innocent people if they didn't or couldn't do what they wanted in providing information or supplies. Three young men were murdered by the Civil Guards and their bodies were dumped in the cemetery. Apparently many people in the community were outraged because the young men had not committed any offences however people were afraid to express their opinions. The killings were considered by many to have been carried out to show the power of the Civil Guard and to intimidate the populace. The priest showed great courage in putting on his finest vestments, and marching to the cemetery where he held a full funeral service for the boys. Some townspeople dared to join him, and afterwards they were rounded up and beaten up by the Civil Guard. The Guards told the priest that he had to come to their barracks, but he refused. Imagine the tension – what sort of impression did it create to have a priest who firstly defiantly led the funeral and then who refused a summons. In the end the Captain of the Guard went down to see the priest and he is said to have given him a stern talking to. Not everyone was so lucky, and in reading the statistics and the personal records, it is clear that massacres were regular occurrences. The official records are appalling reading – killed when running away being sanctioned by law and so being used to cover up all sorts of things.
I sat in the Church of San Antonio where the altar piece was burnt and a butchery was established by Anarchists instead, during the Civil War. Completely restored, it hides its secrets. A display case held a macabre set of saints' heads that turned out to be masks for processional use. I looked at the old people sunning themselves in the square and wondered about the terror they may have experienced in their childhoods. I understood that the emphasis on the Arab heritage and on the three cultures from which the community grew, covered wounds too recent to acknowledge. There was nothing at all to tell us about what I had been reading. Perhaps there are some archives for researchers somewhere.
The three cultures, which I had guessed would be Spanish, Arabic and English (given the ex-pat numbers), turned out to be Islam, Christianity and Judaism. A sculpture included symbols for each, and required the viewer to walk around it to discover them all.
Emotionally if not physically exhausted, we left the oldest part of the village and headed down the hill to Nerja. We followed the road so it was not very beautiful and we had to be careful to be right over to the side. At one point we walked into a village and into another era, since a horse with a dog in its side basket was tied up at the shop, waiting for its owner to return. In another ten minutes we were crossing at a roundabout that is definitely in the present, with trucks and cars whizzing all around us.
The church of El Salvador had a sweet belén, and unlike commercial ones, it was waiting for baby Jesus to arrive on the 25th before he could be placed in the manger. Beautiful statues were mounted on platforms that must be how they are taken out and carried in processions. A poster said that it is not necessary to use a mobile phone to speak to God.
We wandered down to the beach, and then to the Balcon de Europa, which is like a plaza overlooking the sea but was a fortress in the ninth century. A tourist offered to take my photo beside the statue of King Alfonso XII, and Keith watched from afar, noting that I had broken a basic rule of not giving your camera to strangers. Luckily I still have my camera and a picture of me in royal, if metal, company as well.
Below all the official glory, a cove looked like a film set, with a blue doored fisherman's hut with part of it cut into the rocks, obviously still being lived in. Investigating houses in an estate agent's window showed us that they were generally much flasher and quite pricey.
We had an enjoyable ramble along the old fishermen's streets licking ice-creams, which was proof of the lovely mild weather we were enjoying. The bus back to Torrox gave us a little time there before Jane and Brian joined us for a Chinese meal, and we sat in the dying rays sun and read on, while Keith made some diary notes for me. At last it was getting cold and dark, so we moved to a coffee shop where we continued to ignore each other while I read more of the book on the post civil war period. We had a little hiccup in meeting up, since we were in one Chinese restaurant and Jane and Brian were in another, but once that was sorted, we had a lovely and relaxing meal. I asked Jane what she would put in a three culture sculpture if one of the cultures was 'the English' and she replied that it would have to be something that represented the class system, and definitely not the fish and chips that Keith suggested.We blobbed out in front of a University challenge program, where it was difficult to understand the very complex questions, let alone know the answers. Mostly I read and at last I reached the section of oral histories. We would be leaving in the morning, so I read until I judged that I would be in migraine land if I kept going, and I wrote down all the details so that I can read on at some time in the future. This book has made a great difference to how I feel about and how I relate to this area, as if responding to picturesque and rugged beauty is enhanced by a greater depth of understanding of human experience here.
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