Reus: The Return

Part 1

I was nervously pacing up and down the platform as I waited for the train to arrive- I simply couldn’t stop fidgeting. I looked up at the clock and saw that it showed 10:25.

"It should have been here 5 minutes ago", I thought. Then the horn sounded out and relief washed over me.

The train to Reus had arrived and I was going back to my ancestral home.

As I boarded the train and it started to move, I looked out the window and was enamoured by the view of the Catalan coastline. The turquoise blue of the Mediterranean blended perfectly with those white sands; all of it surrounded by stunning cliffs and coves.

There aren’t many places in the world that are more beautiful than Catalonia. Aside from the beaches, there is Barcelona, which should really be considered a world- wonder because of its stunning modernist architecture created by artists like Antoni Gaudi and it's impossible to forget all the little towns on the coast that have become a favourite place for retired people from all over the world.

But I was going somewhere that many tourists never even thought about visiting. The lack of travellers meant that the carriage was full of Catalans and not a word of English was being spoken.

Even, the train cut through the land like an unwelcome visitor. I had really entered into true Catalan territory.

As we approached the station, I saw the sign that indicated Reus and butterflies filled my stomach; It wasn’t a dream, I was here.

I quickly disembarked the train, left the station and started heading towards the center of the city.

I couldn’t help but notice just how quiet and peaceful it was. Simply put, life seemed to be lived at a slower pace here.

Even though it was a Saturday afternoon, the streets were deserted. The only things outside were the hundreds of Catalan flags hanging from the balconies.

As I got closer to the center, an old building made me stop in almost a stunned silence. It was the Hospital de St Joan. It was here in 1934 that my grandfather was born and his father before him and probably generations of Marti’s took their first breath in this very building.

But that tradition was broken in 1936 when the Republicans surrendered Barcelona to Franco.

Too many people are woefully ignorant about the Spanish Civil War which was the first victory for Fascism and a prelude to World War II.

It all started when a left-leaning Republican government came to power with the support of Socialist and Communist parties. This provoked a coup by the Spanish military generals who were expelled from the country for this action.

However, led by General Francisco Franco, the Nationalists, who were fascists, engaged in a bloody war that involved indiscriminate bombings and the routine rape and murder of civilians whose cities they occupied.

While the Republicans were abandoned by the international community (except for legions of volunteers from places like Canada and the United States and some military support from the Soviet Union), the Nationalists were heavily supported by Hitler and Mussolini who provided them with weapons and men.

When the Republicans fell in Barcelona, Franco started arresting members of that government. Among them was Joan Marti Ollé, my great grandfather. A true believer in collectivism, he had been assigned as one of the food distributors when Franco had Barcelona under siege. He never took a crumb of food more for his own family than what was allowed; in his mind, there would have been no greater act of selfishness.

With my great-grandfather arrested, Maria Marca Nolla, his wife knew that it was only a matter of time before Franco came for the rest of his family. Women were typically raped, then shot by a firing squad. Children were not spared either, according to Spanish Civil war expert Paul Preston.

So in late January 1936, my great grandmother and her two sons, Antoni (my grandfather) and Joan II fled the country on foot and made their way to France.

Barcelona being bombed by Nationalists. Photo by: Photo 12/ Universal Images Group via Getty Images)

The town of Guernica is destroyed by bombs. Photo by: Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty Images

They were part of La Retirada (The Retreat) which consisted of nearly half a million refugees fleeing from Spain into France.

Their journey was anything but easy as they were required to cross the Pyrenees Mountains in the middle of winter. My grandfather contracted pneumonia which meant he could barely walk, so his mother carried him to France.

As for my great-grandfather, after his arrest, he was chained to a ship and sent to an Algerian prison camp along with 2638 others. Franco hoped that the harsh African conditions would kill them off and many did tragically die.

Other camps were set up mainly by the French government to contain the people who managed to cross the border. They lacked basic human necessities such as running water or shelter and nearly 15000 refugees died in a period of 6 months, according to Preston in his book Doves of War, Four Women of Spain.

But Ollé made himself a promise to never be broken by Franco and despite inhumane conditions in Algeria, he survived.

After 4 years of almost impossibly extreme hard labour in stifling hot African conditions, Ollé was allowed to rejoin his family in France. But the dictator had taken their citizenship; my family was all now stateless.

That was the moment that their connection to Reus was broken and I’m the first descendant of Ollé that stepped foot here since 1936.

It’s been 83 years, but one of us did return.

Defeated Republicans journey into France.

Left Photo by: STF/AFP/Getty Images

Right Photo by: Keystone-France/Getty Images

Refugee camp set up by the French government. Photo by: Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images

As I wandered the streets of Reus, I stumbled upon the main market- It’s everything you could imagine. Vendors were yelling their prices; customers were haggling and there was tons of street-food for sale.

But what catches my eye is the sheer number of children playing amongst the stalls- without a single care in the world. I couldn't help but wonder if my grandfather ever had an opportunity to enjoy himself here.

Antoni Marti Marca was someone whose childhood was stolen by Franco. After the family arrived in France, they were allowed to settle in Toulouse, a small French city. But, the locals were anything but welcoming.

School was a time when Antoni would be mercilessly bullied by French children who would often call him a rat because that was what he represented as a refugee to them. They’d also throw rocks and other items at him and his brother; there was hardly a day when he came home without bruises or cuts.

Eventually, they would settle in and the bullying died down, but further tragedy was to strike for my grandfather.

After constantly coming up with shortness of breath at 23, he visited a doctor who told him some grievous news.

The pneumonia that had affected him during his family’s flight from Franco had been left untreated for too long. His heart was slowly failing.

Old age was out of the question.

This all comes back to me as I watched the children play and slowly tears built-up for a man that I never even knew.

I quickly left the market so people didn't wonder why I started crying and headed up the street to an ally where I let my emotions get the better of me.

My grandfather Antoni Marti Marca

There I continued my reflection in solitude while sitting on a bench. After nearly 20 years in France, the government decided to deport my family. Poland is one of the only countries that agreed to accept them.

Everything seemed to be going well in Poland. My great-grandfather famously said that his time in this country was the first moment in his life where he felt accepted. My grandfather started to get treatment for his condition and things seemed on the up.

But happiness can only last for so long.

My great-grandmother is diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer and she died shortly after; Maria Marca Nolla was 55-years-old.

Antoni is stricken with grief. Being extremely close with his mother, he is hit hard by this and he blamed himself for having her carry him across the mountains during their escape. He also lashed out at his father for not taking more food for his family during the siege (he was partly in charge of food distribution.)

Joan, who loved his wife more than life itself, is extremely hurt by the accusation and arguments enter the household often ending in fists slamming on the table from pure passion.

Antoni descended into a depression. He always painted as a form of relaxation, but now his art takes a dark turn. He used black as the primary colour in his painting and seemed lost.

My great-grandfather Joan Marti Ollé

Left: Antoni's painting before his mother died.

Right: Antoni's painting after his mother's passing.

Then he meets my grandmother and she pulls him out of his misery. For about ten years, the two seem happy until illness seriously starts affecting Antoni again.

In 1975, there is a celebration as Franco dies and the family hopes they can regain their lost Spanish citizenship.

And after over 20 years of being stateless, they got it back.

But Franco made his presence felt on that paper. His coat-of-arms is still used and the bureaucrats refused to acknowledge the Catalan spelling of ‘Joan’ and instead made it clear that my great-grandfather will only be known as ‘Juan.’

As soon as he got his passport, Antoni was desperate to return to Reus, but his health wouldn’t allow him that final journey.

In 1982, his father dies. The old Catalan fox does win that final battle against Franco though, outliving him by nearly 10 years- he’s buried in Poland, the country where he finally felt like a human.

In 1984, Antoni's heart fails; he was only 49 at the time of his death. His life was filled with depression and only had fleeting moments of happiness.

My whole Spanish family are victims of Franco’s fascism that will never be recorded in the statistics.

My great-grandfather's passport confirmation. Franco's symbol is in the top-left and the bureaucrats call him Juan (traditional Spanish) instead of Joan (traditional Catalan.)

I slowly picked myself up off the bench and decided to find the center of Reus in a bid to escape the ghosts of my family's past.

I make a few turns and I arrived; for a moment, I’m stunned. The whole square is covered in pro-independence material. There are flags, ribbons, and signs in almost every single location that I looked. I slowly realized this is the evolution of the same Catalan resistance that Joan Marti Ollé fought for all those years ago.

And now, even with Franco dead, and democracy returned, Catalans are still protesting the central government; so much so that they want a complete separation from the state. The city of Reus has made that position clear, this square is their message to the world.

And it’s not just Reus, recent polls show that nearly 50% of people here want to be an independent country.

But what is driving this movement? And why do they want independence so badly?

I know that I owe my great-grandfather the answers to these questions.

Two of the buildings in Reus' main square

Click: Learn More About The Present Situation in Catalonia