In Madrid, the capital, where last Thursday morning’s horrible "terrorist" bomb blasts ripped train coaches apart and killed 199 commuters – men, women, children and babies in three train stations (gravely injuring another 1,400) – an angry and determined multitude of 2.3 million demonstrators paraded, although drenched by incessant downpours, holding flickering candles under their soaked umbrellas, the Madrileños expressed their solidarity and their condemnation of terrorism.
"ETA NO!" Placards proclaimed, echoing signs on buildings on which Spain’s flag colors of yellow and red, with black wreathes of ribbon (cordones negros) were put to signify the nation’s grief.
The Basque separatist terrorists, ETA in acronym, have killed more than 800 in their rampage of bombings, assassinations and murders – 183 in their past 13 years alone. Thursday’s death toll was the most cruel and shocking, because the bombers’ targets were totally indiscriminate. Four trains were ripped apart in different locations within ten minutes of each other.
A letter sent to an Arabic-British newspaper late Thursday night tried to claim responsibility for the outrage in the name of the Abu Hafs al-Masri Brigades, a branch of al-Qaeda – but few believes it here, including President (Prime Minister) Jose Ma. Aznar and Interior Minister Angel Acebes, although both were careful not to completely absolve the Muslim terrorist movement.
Friday night’s surging crowds continued to chant, "Quien ha sido?" (Who did it?) followed by a wrathful "Asesinos!" (Assassins!). There was no doubt they were referring to ETA. It was not a good day, I’ll have to ruefully admit, to be a Basque in Madrid last Friday night.
When you consider that Madrid’s population is just three million, to have 2.3 Madrilenos pouring into the streets, jamming avenues, broad boulevards, and parks – a heaving sea of umbrellas and indignant, prideful, weeping humanity – you better believe that everybody in that metropolis turned out to demonstrate.
Some cried out, "No esta lloviendo – El Cielo esta llorando!" (It is not raining – Heaven is crying!). Nothing is more poetic and steeped in passion than the Spanish language. Last Friday night, in Madrid, marchers were cheering, "Hoy, somos todos Madrileños! Somos todos Españoles!" (Today, we’re all Madrileños! We’re all Spaniards!") It was an expression, from the heart, of a mounting spirit of solidarity – no more "regionalism" to split this politics-wracked nation apart.
The elections due today will be affected profoundly. But it is not my intention to engage in punditry or crystal-ball gazing.
Let me just say that to be in Spain, in this poignant moment – to witness this "coming together", to glimpse the bravery and pain, the outpouring of national spirit is to feel privileged and somehow ennobled.
All day Thursday, after coming from the carnage of Zona Cero, which is what they’re now calling the wreckage and devastation of the Atocha central station, which lies in the heart and center of Madrid, this writer saw thousands lining up at vans marked "Donaciones de Sangre" (blood donations) to donate blood for the wounded and the dying, as well as clinics and hospitals. Flowers and candles were being placed at the Atocha, the Pozo and Santa Eugenia stations where the "Goma Dos" explosives, in 10 different explosions, had created such havoc and gore. Prayers were being said everywhere. Volunteers were queueing up to offer their services. Taxi drivers were offering free rides to the families of the victims as they searched for their loved ones, whether still living or already dead.
It was also admirable on the part of the authorities – within hours of the tragedy – to get the trains back on track and running. A nation fighting back, refusing to be cowed, vowing justice and retribution.
And Friday night, Spaniards marched. In Barcelona, Spain’s second city – where the Catalans, too, are restive – 1.3 million demonstrated in "solidarity", unity and support, sharing the grief, holding up the ideal of one Spain. They were in the streets in Valladolid, Zaragoza, Oviedo, Valencia, Sevilla, Santiago de Compostela (up north in Galicia), Santander, Toledo, Pamplona, Teruel, Alcala de Henares – a roll call of Spanish cities. Even in Bilbao, in deepest Euskadi.
In Madrid marched the powerful and the poor, unified in their sorrow – Crown Principe de Asturias, Prince Felipe, his sisters, the Infantas Elena and Cristina (the first time royalty participated in such demonstration), President Aznar, European Commission President Romano Prodi, Prime Minister of Italy Silvio Berlusconi, Prime Minister of France Jean Pierre Raffarin, Prime Minister of Portugal Manuel Durao Barroso, Germany’s Foreign Minister Joschka Fischer, Laila Freivals of Switzerland, Louis Michel of Belgium, Mohamed Bernaissa of Morroco, the Ambassadors, including our own Ambassador Joseph Delano "Lani" Bernardo y Medina, even Gaspar Llamazares of the Communist Party, now euphemistically named the Izquierda Unida (United Left), labor leaders, professors, students, workers.
Dramatically banner-headlined Italy’s Corriere Della Sera yesterday in Milan: LA VOCE DI TUTTA LA SPAGNA: ‘ASSASSIN’ (The voice of all Spain cries out: ‘Assassin’).
ETA has sent out messages denying the deed. Nobody accepts the alibi. The Al-Qaeda begs to be blamed. Who knows? Still, nobody believes the Muslim terrorist brag – till now.
In a European Union, which condemns the death penalty, some voices in Spain are already beginning to ask whether the "death penalty" ought to be restored.
Our own fatality was young Rex Reynaldo Ferrer who had boarded his train that fateful morning enroute to Atocha station. He had boarded at Torrejon de Ardoz, where he and his parents lived at No. 2-A Maestro Caballero street. His train was pulling into Estacion Atocha when his coach exploded. Backpacks. That’s where the 10 explosives which had blown up coaches in succession had been planted.
Rex, aged 21, had been born on September 27, 1983, in Santiago, Isabela, and emigrated to Spain with his parents more than eight years ago. He had been on his way to an Iglesia ni Cristo (INC) prayer-meeting in the Plaza de Spagna, not far from Atocha, that morning. Indeed, he had attended a meeting in that same church hall the night before.
Rex’s father, Arturo D. Ferrer, and his mother, Anita, and his sister had searched for Rex all day – finally, finding his broken body among the dead so carefully arranged. His face had been mutilated, so they were not sure. According to the Embassy officer who accompanied them, an uncle urged government attendants to turn the body over. "Why?" One of the officials inquired. With an exclamation, the uncle exclaimed: "It’s Rex!"
How had he known? There was a small tattoo at the base of the young man’s neck. In Spain, bagets or young people often playfully place tatuajes or tattoo marks by esculpida artists on themselves.
In this case, it was a sad mark of recognition. But Rex had been identified.
What can we say to assuage the grief of this hardworking young Filipino’s parents and family? That he was on his way to prayer – and now, he’s with our Almighty Father, close by his throne.
Adios at Mabuhay, Rex. Dios iti cumuyog!