Valle de los Caidos

My aim of this blog was to focus solely on modes of transportation, but I had an experience this weekend that begs to be written about, whether or not it involves transportation. Actually, I take that back. I felt like I was transported to an entirely different world—one of fascism, death, and creepiness.

On Saturday, I participated in one of the free weekend trips that the SU in Madrid program provides. We traveled to el Valle de los Caidos (the Valley of the Fallen), which is a monument to those killed in the Spanish Civil War—although only those who fought on the side of Franco—as well as the tomb that Franco built himself. Before we got there, I saw some of the prettiest land I’ve seen since I’ve been in Madrid. Located in the Guadarrama Mountains on the outskirts of the city, the bus ride to this site was gorgeous. Traditional Spanish houses with their typical red roofs, mountains of greenery and snow in the distance, and well-kept trees and plants lined the highway. When we got off the bus, the light scent of the surrounding pine trees uplifted my spirit and brought me momentarily into a feeling of tranquility. But that only lasted so long.

The bus had pulled up right in front of this monument that I consider a tribute to death and bloodshed. Our guide explained how this was one of the last standing monuments of fascist architecture left in the country. The entrance was a semicircle of arches and statues modeled after Michelangelo’s style of sculpture, with double bronze doors. Built directly inside the center of a mountain, the peak of the mountain was topped with a stone cross that our guide said was the size of three football fields. It was the most ominous, frightening cross I have ever seen.

Upon entering, I was confronted with a dark, gloomy cathedral that felt like a cave. After walking around for about 20 minutes, we sat down to experience a Catholic mass. I have never been to a mass before, but I would assume that this was not a typical one. The haunting echoes of the choir and organ against the underground walls as well as the shadows that bounced off the walls from the candles created an eerie ambience. At one point during the mass, the lights were shut off, and the only visible scene was that of the priests cloaked in purple and those in black standing around the table that held a giant crucifix. The organ had stopped, as had the singing of young boys of the choir. Lights shone from underneath the table, which cast light on the priests in a way that made them appear uncannily creepy.

As soon as the lights were turned back on, the choir and organ began their Gregorian-like chants once again. The altar boys began to follow the priests back to their seats, and the mass was soon over.

After this experience, we actually climbed up to the base of the overbearing 150km-high stone cross. Granted, the view was one of the most beautiful I’ve seen in my life. From the top of the mountain I could see the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the expansive courtyard at the entrance to the cathedral, and the expansive greenery of the nearby mountains. The statues of mythological figures surrounding the cross were the largest statues I have ever seen. Each one of their feet was probably bigger than my entire body. But I couldn’t get over the fact that this entire “monument” was built by and for the fascists. There are about 40,000 people buried there who were killed during the Spanish Civil War, but only those on Franco’s side. The monument was built by thousands of prisoners; the walls were basically built with blood.

I must say though, I am glad I went. It’s not every day that one can literally stand in the place where every November 20, the day that Franco died, Francoists and modern-day fascists gather to celebrate and pray. It’s not every day that you stand at the base of a 150 km stone cross. And it’s not every day you experience a Catholic mass literally inside a mountain.