More than a decade ago my eyes first met Spain. At the time I was a student learning Spanish at the Campus de Milan in the Universidad de Oviedo. The abundance of political graffiti that the university had obviously given up erasing was surprising to a young man who had grown up in the U.S. Representatives of multiple parties had made nighttime visits to the campus to paint slogans and symbols that seemed wonderfully European. The most repeated and therefore presumably fervent was graffiti representative of political extremes. It was easy to find communist and fascist sympathies decorating the walls of this university in northern Spain.
It did not take long to understand that these extremes were the inheritors of Spain’s civil war and dictatorship. As with most times when a society or culture goes to war with itself, the issues surrounding Spain’s disintegration in the 1930s continue to be largely unresolved and remain wedges as a superficially unified country remains philosophically divided in many ways. One need only point to the controversy surrounding civil-war era mass graves to demonstrate how easily and quickly it is possible to find a sensitive nerve.
The Campus de Milan houses the classrooms, library, and offices associated with humanities. The principal buildings are long, evenly-built structures that –while only three stories- present an imposing presence thanks to high ceilings and therefore great height. This feeling is augmented by the fact that the mustard-colored buildings are surrounded by open space. Originally used to house a dictator’s repressive military, these former barracks have been transformed and given an educational end.
This poetic evolution of something as static as a building is ironic. This strikes me as particularly poignant as many years later I once again visit the campus and newly discover manifestations of extreme communist and fascist political views. What adapts faster to a young and currently suffering democracy in Spain: its structures or the people who inhabit them?
It did not take long to understand that these extremes were the inheritors of Spain’s civil war and dictatorship. As with most times when a society or culture goes to war with itself, the issues surrounding Spain’s disintegration in the 1930s continue to be largely unresolved and remain wedges as a superficially unified country remains philosophically divided in many ways. One need only point to the controversy surrounding civil-war era mass graves to demonstrate how easily and quickly it is possible to find a sensitive nerve.
The Campus de Milan houses the classrooms, library, and offices associated with humanities. The principal buildings are long, evenly-built structures that –while only three stories- present an imposing presence thanks to high ceilings and therefore great height. This feeling is augmented by the fact that the mustard-colored buildings are surrounded by open space. Originally used to house a dictator’s repressive military, these former barracks have been transformed and given an educational end.
This poetic evolution of something as static as a building is ironic. This strikes me as particularly poignant as many years later I once again visit the campus and newly discover manifestations of extreme communist and fascist political views. What adapts faster to a young and currently suffering democracy in Spain: its structures or the people who inhabit them?
