A Spectacle of Suffering

Tuesday, after returning from Morocco, I faced another cultural experience. One that I had not been looking forward to: the bullfight. Tuesday, October 12 is the National Day of Spain and marked the last day of the bullfighting season which begins in the spring. This cultural activity was included in my program. We were not required to go ... but our attendance was highly encouraged. I would not have bought a ticket on my own. But, as this even is included and paid for already, I decided to go. I did discuss it with my Senora, a real animal lover, beforehand. She hates it, but did go once. She says that she tries not to form opinions about things without trying them. It was for this reason that I went, despite my hesitations, to the Corrida de Toros.

It was awful. The Corrida de Toros involves 3 matadors, each with two rounds. That means 6 bulls. I tried to approach this with an open mind. But the first bull came out, this beautiful, strong animal. And I watched as he was stabbed to death. As horses drug his lifeless body out of the ring, I knew that this is tradition is something that I am totally against.

I will give you a dry description of the gory sport: A bull enters the ring. The matador's helpers make the bull run around (tiring him) chasing after their pink cloths. The bull is then stabbed twice by mounted men with long spears. They do not pierce deeply into the skin, only enough to bleed him and weaken him further. The bull is then stuck with as many as six wooden sticks with hooked ends that remain stuck in his back. in the final round, a matador comes out. He makes the weak bull chase his red cloth for about 5 minutes before stabbing him with a long sword through his back and down through the heart. If the heart is not pierced, the sword is removed and stabbed again (and again). When the bull falls, if he is not yet dead, he is stabbed in the back of the head with a small knife until he lies still. Horses are lead out to drag the body away. Only minutes pass before the next bull runs into the ring to face a similar fate. This happens six times.

During the match, one of the older Senoras must have noticed the repulsion on my face. "Oh, chica!" she said. She tried to console me by saying that these animals are "born for this" and without the Corridas, this class of bull would not exist. I was not consoled. I did learn that thankfully (at least) the bulls are cut up and sold to be eaten. The bulls tail is a special Spanish delicacy. This was the only redeeming fact I learned during the event. Mainly I witnessed the slaughter and was deeply saddened. I did stay the entire time, in an attempt to remain with an open mind. By then death of the sixth bull, my mind was entirely made up.

I am loving most of my cultural experiences here in Spain. However, this is one that is repulsive to me. I cannot support the killing of these animals for sport, no matter how deeply rooted the tradition.