Bullfighting

Traditions, traditions, traditions. I am thinking of the movie Fiddler On The Roof and the role that traditions have on human behavior. It’s amazing how many traditions we grow up with that feel “normal” – the way things have always been. It’s also amazing how a tradition that is loved, valued, and regarded by one person may look very different to another person new to those sets of values and traditions.

It was the summer of 1980. My husband and I had decided to go to the beautiful country of Spain for the very first time with our precious one-year old son. We had heard so much about the beauty and warmth of the culture, the friendly people, the culture of love, flamenco and tango dancers, and the romantic music. We needed a vacation badly and this was going to be our first long trip with our son. We hoped that he was ready for the experience.

We love to travel, and when we go somewhere for the first time, I feel so excited; I want to see everything that is unique about the place. I want to be with the local people, and experience their traditions as much as possible. I have always been fascinated by different cultures; the love and practice of traditions and rituals that people around the world have developed to honor milestones like a baby’s birth, weddings, rites of passage, funerals, and holidays.

My beloved husband calls me “The Crazy Tourist” when we travel. He has tried to understand and adjust to me when we travel. It seems that the dynamics are very strong, and I am somewhat out of control, always in a hurry to see and do everything! While he prefers to indulge in a good meal at a fancy restaurant for a couple of hours with a glass of wine, I’d much rather grab a quick bite to eat on the way to the next attraction. One can imagine how challenging it can be to keep harmony and balance between us.

Well, here we were in Madrid, with a one year old toddler who just started walking and was fascinated with his new ability to move independently. He wanted to show off; he would start walking like he didn’t know how to stop. He was such a cute toddler, and so friendly.  Many people stopped just to watch him. One time, when we were visiting a magnificent church, he suddenly walked up to a little girl, perhaps his own age, and kissed her. All of the tourists started taking pictures, fascinated by this little boy.

We wanted to “do as the Romans did” so we asked many people what the “must see” places to visit were. Everyone unanimously said that bullfighting was unique to Spain. In Farsi, the translation is “playing with the bull”, rather than fighting. All I knew about it was what I had seen in a couple of movies;, which focused on how brave the matadors were, facing this humongous beast with a piece of red fabric! In the movies, the bull always seemed very strong and aggressive. Hearing “Ole”, as the brave matador made his smooth, clever pirouettes to escape the horns of the bull. I was amazed by the training that the matadors went through, and that they pray each time they go into the arena asking God to protect them. I felt that they were such brave men to risk their lives every time, just to make a living.

Well, bull fighting was on top of the list of things to see. We signed up at our hotel, got tickets, and waited for the tour bus. We were very excited at the prospect of witnessing this unique tradition. I had also seen on TV that they let the bulls run on the streets, and people ran away from them or jumped into water, and some would get badly injured. I wondered how such traditions ever started, and what they represented. I knew that I was not willing to run in front of a bull, that’s for sure!

We got on the bus, and went to this huge stadium full of people. It was like a football game, here in the U.S. The families were joyful, buying food and drinks, getting ready for the big event. The stadium was round, and reminded me of the gladiators of Rome. The ceremony was fabulous with the music, flags, horses, riders, and especially the matadors with their very attractive costumes. Everyone stood up when they entered the stadium. For many Spaniards, the matadors were regarded as national heroes. Their rituals were beautiful. They paid respect to the audience, and got ready for the bull. A door opened, and a magnificent bull rushed into the middle of the field. The audience expressed their joy and excitement. I wondered what the bull was thinking and whether he had any idea what was going to happen. I sure didn’t know anything, and I didn’t have any expectations.

Several matadors on big armored horses circled the bull. When the bull charged towards one of them, the matador speared the bull in the back. Blood started flowing to the ground. I was shocked! This was not “playing”.  They were hurting the bull!  One after another, the matadors took turns throwing their spears in to he bull’s back while the audience cheered. I felt a knot in my stomach. I felt nauseous thought I was going to throw up. I imagined the pain of this magnificent creature. He had no choice. He was chosen for a show was expected to play his role.

The bull kept charging, getting weaker and weaker as he lost more blood. Then, the matadors entered on foot with their red capes and tried to attract the bull. I can still hear the chanting of the audience yelling “Ole!” I was so naïve; I was hoping that the show would end soon, but I was mistaken. When the bull was too weak to stand, he fell on his front legs. The matador bravely approached him with his long sword, and thrust it into the bull’s heart – an estocada. What a triumph. The audience gave the matador a standing ovation. Then, a big carriage came and dragged the lifeless carcass of that magnificent creature once around the stadium, and then exited. I felt a sharp pain in my heart.

I felt paralyzed. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. I felt sick to my stomach, was dizzy, and speechless. I looked at my husband and he looked pale too. I had to leave immediately. I felt angry with myself for being so ignorant. I couldn’t believe that we paid money to witness  and condone such a cruel act for sport. I soon learned that six bulls were killed in each show and the next one was going to begin soon.

We left immediately. We were disoriented and didn’t know exactly where we were or how to get back to our hotel.  We hailed a taxi and spent the entire ride back to our hotel in complete silence. We couldn’t even talk about it. The thoughts in my mind were interesting. I wrestled with my thoughts. On one hand, I couldn’t believe the cruelty and I wondered if animal activists had ever tried to do anything about this. On the other hand, I thought of the thousands of cows and other animals that are slaughtered daily for food, and why it was that I felt comfortable about going to the supermarket to buy meat. I knew that animals were slaughtered for my consumption, but had I done anything about it?  No.  I thought that I must respect this nation’s traditions. Perhaps there was some deeper meaning to bullfighting.  Surely the slaughter of an animal in such an unjust manner must be offset by some noble cause.  A rite of passage for young Spanish men perhaps?  Something!  It had to mean something that I was not aware of.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself to accept the tradition of bullfighting. Today, after thirty-four years, I still don’t understand the tradition.  The scenes of that event are still very vivid and disturbing. In that time, however, I have come to terms with the fact that my definition of cruelty is subjective and a product of cultural relativism and I have learned to become a compassionate witness when I observe such “cruelty.” I do my very best to withhold judgment in the face of behavior I don’t necessarily understand. My goal is to manage my reactions to them.  When I see cruelty (as I define it) in the world today in any form and forum – the sacrifice of virgins to please one’s god, honor killings, female circumcision, arranged underage marriages – I remind myself of the matador and the bull and that the story of life is told from many perspectives, often disparate.  If we can at least acknowledge the underlying belief systems that govern human behavior, we can perhaps have more compassion for the differences we perceive rather than a knee-jerk summary judgment.