The dictator chose the site during a hike in the Sierra with General Juan Moscardó. Its proximity to El Escorial monastery, the historic resting place of Spanish kings, was no accident. Franco had hoped that work on the project would be finished by April 1, 1941, the anniversary of his victory in the civil war, but the paid labor provided by construction companies San Román, Huarte (now OHL), and Banús could not complete it in time. As a solution, the “Redemption through Labour” scheme deployed republican prisoners as slaves on the construction project. With their involvement the complex was finally finished in 1958, after a more than seventeen-year delay.
Now Spain’s new Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez is seeking to end the basilica being used as an apologia for the Spanish genocide. His Socialist Party (PSOE) government has promised to remove both the remains of Franco and those of the 1930s Falangist leader José Antonio Primo de Rivera before the end of the summer. The idea is turn the complex into a site of historical memory and reconciliation. Since the transition to democracy in the late 1970s, the PSOE has spent more than twenty years in power without daring to pull down this symbol of the fascist triumph. The speed of their announcement has surprised many, coming less than a month after taking office, but it seems designed to take advantage of the current weakness of the right-wing Popular Party (PP) after the fall of Mariano Rajoy. Founded by seven Francoist ministers, the PP are the political heirs to the dictatorial regime and have repeatedly obstructed attempts to gain justice for victims of his regime. [...]
As I approach Franco’s tomb an assemblage of fresh flowers lies on top. Those nostalgic for the days of fascism crowd around the grave, mixing with the tourists. A Japanese group visiting the abbey concentrate on the frescos in the cupula, ignoring the vigil at the grave of a dictator. But then an older man beside Franco’s marble tablet breaks the mirage, giving a military heel followed by a fascist salute. It encourages another man, who kneels and begins to pray beside the grave, then stands up and raises his hand to the sky. He remains standing for a few seconds, then bends to kiss Franco’s name carved in stone. Throughout this scene, the volunteer responsible simply repeats to the visitors that no photographs are allowed. I sit down on the ground in a corner, trying to gather my thoughts and write a few lines. The volunteer rebukes me, “Have some respect,” and tells me I can’t write here. Everything in this aberration is a metaphor for Spain.
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