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Historic memory in Valdediós

Simon Manfield

For decades many families in Spain have been clinging to the hope that, one day, communal graves containing their relatives would be excavated. This would allow them the opportunity to reclaim their family member's remains and to give them the burial they deserve.

Generally, the problem has not been the location of the graves, as this has usually been known. The problem has been that, for many in Spain since the end of the Civil War (1936-39), it was, and often still is, easier to forget what occurred than to accept the truth. This denial of historical fact is not the product of ignorance, but the consequence of many decades of fear created by General Francisco Franco's oppressive regime. Suspicion and the threat of reprisal still exist in Spain, and it is often thought better to look to the future than to accept the past. This way of thinking is slowly changing.

Archaeologists working on a mass grave in Spain

The Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica (The Association for the Recovery of Historic Memory - ARMH), founded in 2000 by Emilio Silva Barrera and Santiago Macías Perez, has devoted itself to the recovery of 'the disappeared'. By enlisting the help of volunteers, the association has organised the excavation of many communal graves throughout Spain.

After reading an article about the excavations in Spain in the Guardian newspaper in March 2003 I submitted a proposal to the ARMH. If I were accepted, I could utilise my skills as an illustrator to record the exhumation process in much the same manner as war artists had documented action during the years of the Civil War. Most importantly however, perhaps this would enable me to produce a powerful collection of drawings as a visual record of a significant historical event. The proposal was accepted by the ARMH in June.

The excavation took place in Valdediós in the northern province of Asturias and commenced on the 15th July, running for approximately three weeks. The aim was to exhume a communal grave containing the bodies of twenty-nine employees of La Cadellada psychiatric hospital, victims of a murder perpetrated by the Navarrese nationalist regiment, IVth Arapiles Battalion no. 7, on the 25th October 1937.

In January of that year, driven from Oviedo by Franco's rebel attack, the personnel of La Cadellada fled the Asturian capital making their way to the abandoned monastery of San Salvador de Valdediós, a distance of some thirty kilometres. Under the administration of the Republican health service a temporary hospital was to be established in the monastery to treat the shell-shocked and battle-fatigued from the front.

I arrived in Valdediós in the afternoon of the 14th July 2003. Initially I was to be one of eight volunteers present at the excavation. As time passed more arrived: national and international volunteers, then archaeologists, photographers and documentary film crews. It wasn't until the twenty-eighth volunteer appeared that I realised the importance of this project. We commenced work in the morning of the following day. As the day progressed, a seemingly endless stream of visitors approached the site. For the duration of the excavation crowds of onlookers watched and waited; the curious, journalists from local and national newspapers and the victims' relatives.

"Visiting this site always makes me shudder," explained Josefina Nieto, who was only three years old when her mother, one of the nurses, was murdered. "For a very long time, I thought it would be better not to touch my mother's grave, with all these other people buried in it. But now, I consider this to be an unworthy resting place for my mother." Speaking in a low and gentle voice she added: "It would have been so much better if they had started searching for the corpses many, many years ago."

Visitors, such as Bernardo García, shared their recollections of Valdediós at the time of the murders: "I only saw the grave for a very short time. After that I ran away as fast as I could. Times were very dangerous". Others attacked the clay with a pick or shovel. It appeared to me that, after nearly seven difficult decades, the spirit in these people had resurfaced as they broke into the upper crust of the earth.

Three women watch the exhumation of the grave site

It surprised me that the political divide between left and right, so prevalent during the Civil War, was so tangible even today. The division that exists today is fundamental. Not only is it polemic but also demonstrably calculated and aggressive.

It has been claimed that the killings were carried out as an act of retribution. On the morning of the second day of the exhumation a large piece of card, tied to the gate at the entrance to the site, bore an anonymous handwritten message. It read: "Cuando termineis aquí buscais las tumbas de las víctimas de estos asesinos" (When you have finished here, look for the tombs of the victims of these assassins). At the bottom right hand corner, a drawing of a syringe. It is said that the nurses had been gradually killing the patients, who, it has been argued, were not psychiatric patients but wealthy landowners and members of the clergy, with injections of aguarrás (turpentine). Pilar, the monastery guide, confirmed the allegation: "That's why they were executed! Take a look at the cemetery in the village. The place is littered with their victims!"

A mechanical digger cut through the clay as visitors, relatives and volunteers watched with trepidation. The first of the bone fragments were scooped up by the digger and deposited beside the trench it had gouged. The volunteers began sifting and picking at the clay with their hands, removing the tiny shattered fragments and placing them in clear plastic bags. Esther Montoto, the daughter of one of the victims, watched silently. Any of these pieces could have belonged to her father Emilio. Esther broke down and wept.

At the end of the second week the extent of the carnage was exposed in the form of a shallow L-shaped grave. The most shocking aspect was not the elongated form of the grave itself, nor the victims' tangled remains lying as they had fallen, but the emergence of personal effects by their sides. These gave the unrecognisable bodies identity. Everyone worked or watched in a manner that was focused and respectful.

I was surprised by my feelings of impassivity. I did however, feel a great sadness for the relatives who witnessed the exhumation. One such relative, Antonio Piedrafita, was called by one of the archaeologists. The shattered skull of his father displayed what would identify him - a row of gold teeth.

Eighteen of a possible twenty-nine bodies were recovered and taken away for DNA tests at the beginning of August.

All who witnessed the uncovering of the grave in Valdediós will be affected by the event. For the relatives, who, for nearly seven decades, have been forcibly silenced, it has been a momentous achievement. An achievement many thought would never come.

On a personal level I have difficulty expressing how my involvement in this project has affected me. My participation has enabled me to produce a series of drawings of which I am immensely proud. However, that pride is shallow compared with the emotional effects of a nation coming to terms with a debilitating past. Spain has changed. Decades of latent grief are now unfurling. Beneath the grief lies a new determination.

A selection of Simon Manfield's drawings from Valdediós will be on display during A Sense of Place: regeneration. Delegates will also have the chance to talk to Simon about his experiences working with the community in Asturias.