Ferment in Franco Spain:
The Prospects of the Opposition
Twenty years ago, on March 28, 1939, Madrid fell to Franco’s armies and Spain’s short-lived Republic came to an end. In three years of civil war marked by intervention by Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, and Soviet Russia, a million people were killed, and many more millions (Spain’s population then was about twenty-six million) were maimed or wounded. Tens of thousands of Republican militants fled the country; other thousands were imprisoned for long terms. The spiritual and physical exhaustion following that conflict has been chiefly responsible for the social peace of the last two decades. During these years, Franco shifted from alliance with the Axis powers, to isolated neutrality, to military cooperation with the United States; he transformed a fascist regime into a reactionary absolutism, buttressed by the army and the Roman Catholic Church; and he moved from “corporative” economic schemes, to encouragement of private business, to a corrupt form of statism. Hatred of Franco’s regime was general, but the fear of another civil war restrained the men and women who witnessed the carnage of 1936-39.
The army, the Church hierarchy, and the land-owning grandees won the civil war, and rule Spain today. Among the defeated there remains a feeling of profound failure. One Catalan Socialist told me: “Our lives stopped with the end of the Republic. We have been dead souls since Franco took over. Our failure leaves a scar that can never be healed.” When I invited a Spanish intellectual couple to an elegant Madrid restaurant, the wife (a novelist whose books are refused publication) looked around at the porcine rich men and their vociferous wives, and said: “I feel exiled in my own country. This is not the Spain we dreamed of in the 30′s.”
Yet a new generation has grown up in Spain, and the traveler soon senses the gulf between those young men and women under forty and their elders. The first decade after the civil war was marked by spiritual lassitude. Then, as the international isolation of Spain came to an end, “reformist” tendencies slowly emerged among the lesser government officials and especially in the universities—whose teachers were responsive to the critical spirit of the postwar students. In the early 50′s, such men as the poet and one time Falangist, Dionisio Ridruejo, a former Minister of Education, Joaquin Ruiz Jimenez, and Madrid University Rector Pedro Lain Entralgo began to urge social reforms and a slow transition to civil liberty and constitutional government.
Franco made little response to these proposals. In the fall of 1955, however, numerous minor incidents attested to the restive-ness of Spanish youth. When Ortega y Gasset died, one thousand Madrid university students paraded at his funeral, bearing the placard: “To José Ortega y Gasset, Spaniard, philosopher, and liberal.” In February 1956, there were three days of violent skirmishes between students and armed Falangists on the university grounds. Hundreds of students were at first arrested; about twenty remained in jail. The following month, a group of older state officials and intellectuals were arrested, charged with the organization of resistance groups and the editing of clandestine leaflets. Jose Maria Gil Robles, who had headed the rightist Catholic party under the Republic, appeared as their defense counsel. This old-line conservative, who in his time had done much to pave the way for Franco, now declared: “When a regime denies its citizens the normal means of expression, they have the right to resort to whatever means are within their grasp.”
As a result of such incidents Franco in 1957 reshuffled his government, downgrading the Falange and giving great power to the Catholic Opus Dei. But student unrest has continued, and has gained the support of more and more of the respectable older citizens. In January and May 1958, for example, the police rounded up large groups of students as “Communists” or “Socialists.” A petition in their defense was signed by twenty-five priests, including Franco’s own chaplain. One of the priests told me that the arrested students were in fact liberal democrats, some of them practicing Catholics. Last November, there was a new wave of arrests in Madrid, Barcelona, and San Sebastian, this time aimed at older intellectuals and middle-class people.
Yet it is among the young people that open resistance first appeared, and it is they who seem most eager for immediate change. Young people in Madrid and Barcelona today seem as Americanized in their fashions and behavior as those in Paris, Rome, and Hamburg. Old family ties are being loosened, the rigid morals of the Church are dissolving, thousands of cars and buses cross the Pyrenees daily, bringing cosmopolitan tourists and their ways to Spain’s great cities. But Madrid and Barcelona, which are modern-looking cities with great new luxury apartment dwellings, are not typical. The rest of the country has just begun to experience the industrial revolution; Spain, Portugal, and Greece are the poorest countries in non-Communist Europe.
The enormous Iberian plateau, scorched by a broiling sun, lacks adequate rainfall, and the irrigation system is primitive. Tractors and threshing machines are practically unknown. Men, women, children, and skinny burros till and harvest the land much as they did in the days of the Moors. There are poor, small farms in the north, but agriculture in the south is dominated by the great latifundia, worked by peones and braceros who must struggle to earn 50 pesetas ($1) a day. More than 1.5 million Spaniards are landless agricultural laborers, and they form at least 40 per cent of the farm population in such areas as Andalusia, Toledo, and Valencia. The great estates which they till are owned, for the most part, by the old grandees (the Dukes of Alba and Medina Celli, the Duchess of Montoro, etc.), who refuse to use tractors or modern harvesting methods because they think this would produce unemployment and peasant unrest.
Spain is not the fertile France of the 18th century or the rapidly industrializing England of the 19th. A simple agrarian reform that distributed the land among the peasants would not provide the individual farmer with enough good soil. Spanish agriculture today barely feeds the country’s rising population, and it would take years for new machinery and fertilizers to begin to boost production substantially. Moreover, new industries are not at hand to absorb the surplus farm population; indeed, Spain exports seasonal workers and miners to France and the Low Countries.
The urban population is somewhat better off than the peasantry, though white-collar employees usually have to hold two or three jobs to make ends meet. Per capita income in Spain is $346 a year (as compared to about $250 before the civil war), but figures are deceptive because of the rising inflation since 1951. There is little doubt, however, that the skilled industrial workers and miners in Asturia, Bilbao, Barcelona, Madrid, and Estramadura have improved their standard of living; their progress has not, by any means, matched that of workers in, say, West Germany and Northern Italy, but it is tangible.
Because of this relative prosperity, and because the most militant working-class leaders either died in the civil war or went into exile, the numerous strikes which have taken place in Spain have not had a political character. There has been little contact between the workers and those intellectuals, officials, and students who comprise the “political” opposition to Franco. Some of the workers’ economic gains have resulted from the initiative of the Falangist-controlled trade unions, and thus the workers fear a monarchical restoration, which seems the immediate aim of Franco’s middle-class critics. In this respect, the situation suggests that of Argentina during and after the Peron era, when the mass of workers were unsympathetic to the intellectuals, businessmen, and army officers who finally unseated the dictator.
Bankers and businessmen are, indeed, among the chief critics of Franco, and the main source of their discontent is the atmosphere of favoritism and corruption which pervades the Spanish economy. As in Argentina, Yugoslavia, and elsewhere, a “new class” of managers, directors, and bureaucrats has emerged which derives its economic privileges from politics. Some leading members of this class are Franco’s relatives; his brother Nicholas, for example, is president of the local Renault plant and numerous other corporations. Import licenses, which must all be cleared through government officials in Madrid, are a large source of corruption. There are also contrived “shortages” of coffee, sugar, potatoes, from which blackmarketeers with government connections profit. A “financial scandal” last fall revealed that high government officials were among those Spaniards who had deposited nearly $400 million in Swiss banks alone.
In speaking with the Spanish intellectuals who are Franco’s chief critics, one immediately becomes conscious of a trait that is almost part of the national character, a disregard for the details of material reality that is at once Spain’s eternal charm and its tragedy. A postwar slang expression, gana, conveys this quality. The word can be translated as pleasure, fancy, caprice. Its spirit is personalist, non-conformist, anti-bourgeois. Cada uno hace lo que le da gana: each man must behave according to his own gana. On the dark highway, a cyclist rides without night lights: “No me da la gana”—I don’t feel like having them! A fisherman on the Costa del Sol takes a sunbath at midday when he could be fishing and getting a catch.
Competitive business, rush, the tension of work hardly seem to exist in Spain. The middle classes still cling to their long siestas after lunch and their ceremonious dinners late at night. Among the poor, the holy day of every saint and all the feastdays of the Virgin are celebrated with great ceremony, both the evening before and the day itself. The bullfights, held every Thursday and Sunday, also take up two full days each: the day before in betting, and the day of the fight itself in watching the corridas.
The Spain of the mid-20th century, is not, of course, the Spain of El Greco or even of Goya. It has had a minority tradition of liberal dissent since the French Revolution, a tradition which created the Republic of the 1930′s. Even today, the land produces not only philosophers and avant-garde poets but technicians, statisticians, and even child psychologists. Yet, in speaking with Spanish intellectuals and political figures, you begin to realize how much of the country’s medievalism has survived. In many ways, the pragmatic spirit of the modern West, with its respect for fact, experiment, and compromise, has only begun to take hold.
“We have always been vague, abstract, mystical,” I was told by Professor Enrique Tierno Galvan, a sociologist who is one of the country’s few realistic political thinkers, “but forty years under the influence of our great teacher Ortega, who brought German philosophy here, made us even more so. Everything became ambiguous. Catholicism is ambiguous—everyone goes to church, but few really believe in it. Everybody talks against Franco, but few are ready to act against his regime.”
Poetry and literature remain the vehicles of political protest, as is often the case under a repressive regime. “Poetry meetings,” organized by Ridruejo and Lain Entralgo in various parts of Spain, have served to draw dissident intellectuals together. Each Wednesday evening at the Insula Library in Madrid, writers and intellectuals, young and old, gather to discuss literature, art, philosophy, and—inevitably—politics. And almost any day, around café tables in Madrid, Barcelona, Santander, and Seville, writers, poets, critics, and artists discuss, till the early hours of the morning, the latest ideas of Paris, Rome, New York. The atmosphere resembles that of Russia a half-century ago, and of Eastern Europe between the two world wars.
The leaders of the Spanish intellectual community, who must be classed as moderates in Western terms though they are considered rebels in Franco Spain, are still under the philosophical influence of Miguel de Unamuno and Ortega y Gasset and their living descendants, Salvador de Madariaga and Dr. Gregorio Marañon. But their philosophies, which are removed from any sort of concern with social and economic realities, fail to address themselves to Spain’s basic question: how to modernize this medieval authoritarian society. Many Spanish intellectuals today, like Tierno Galvan, are attracted to the pragmatic and empirical philosophies of the Anglo-Saxon countries; others look to Marxism. An impressive group of young Catholics are followers of Jacques Maritain; others are influenced by the philosophers Julian Marias and José Luis Aranguren, who preach a “revolutionary Christianity.”
Nevertheless, the Spanish intellectuals as a whole seem romantic and imprecise in their approach to social problems. Most of them view the conquest of power as almost the sole political issue, and resist practical questions about what they would do to raise living standards and modernize the country if they had power.
“We need institutes and research organizations,” Tierno Galvan told me, “to study our social and economic problems in a scientific, practical way; to study the agrarian problem, the social structure of the working class and white-collar people, and so on. We have never done anything along these lines, and most of our people don’t know how to go about it. Our universities are too old; they do not care about such things. Nobody has a plan for any of these things except the Communists.”
On the land question, for example, the Communists advocate collectives. The liberals are divided. There are those who believe in agrarian reforms to promote the growth of an independent class of small farmers, others who believe in voluntary cooperatives; still others believe that the land problem will only be solved through rapid industrialization. Not only are the non-Communists divided among themselves; but their division is emotional, rooted in their ideological taste rather than in a pragmatic knowledge of the needs and possibilities of Spanish agriculture. And, if a practical spirit does not emerge in consideration of economic issues, its moderating effect can hardly be felt in the discussion of such explosive non-economic issues as clericalism, which has been synonymous with Spain since the Inquisition.
Roman Catholicism has always stood at the center of Spanish society. If today there is any hope for the Spanish future, it lies in the schism which has at last appeared within a Church which for centuries identified itself with privilege and reaction. The hierarchy, for the most part, continues to collaborate with Franco to an extent that embarrasses even the Vatican. But there is a new and very different spirit among the younger clergy.
The leaders of the Spanish clergy believe they have “saved” Catholicism three times in the last four hundred years: from the Reformation, from the French Revolution, and from socialism in the days of the Spanish Republic. Having performed such historic feats, the Spanish hierarchy is largely undisturbed by the postwar rise of Christian Democratic movements in Western Europe. Traditional Spanish Catholicism is exemplified by the Spanish landowner who heard a professor at the Catholic University of Sevile quote Pope Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum, recommending distribution of land among the peasants. “If such are the ideas of the Holy Father,” cried the landowner, “then I shall become a Protestant.”
The Church monopolizes Spain’s educational system, and, as in feudal times, the Church and the monastic orders own and run large estates, students’ hostels, and schools of every conceivable kind. Some of the orders—the Jesuits, Dominicans, and Franciscans particularly—are rich enough to control the economic life of whole regions, such as Castile. They are building new monasteries, churches, and schools equipped with all the latest conveniences; low-cost housing is not being built. An enormous Benedictine monastery, with a private bath for every cell, has been constructed in the Guadarrama mountains, overlooking the Valle de los Caidos; it will stand just below Franco’s intended resting place, the national Civil War Memorial, in which all the dead of the war are now being buried, and which is topped by a gigantic marble crucifix visible all over Castile.1
The most recent bulwark of Franco’s regime is the Opus Dei, which its critics describe as a reactionary Catholic lay masonry. Its guide is a book called Camino (“The Way”) by Father J. M. Escriva, which urges members “to restore to Spain her ancient grandeur of saints, wise men, and heroes.” The book stresses the Caudillo theme: “Leaders! . . . make your will power virile so that God makes you a leader . . . you are made to lead. . . .”
Opus Dei is most interested in monopolizing Spanish intellectual life. It already controls the Spanish academy of arts and sciences, the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones, and its strong representation in the government since 1957 has given it a decisive role in the censorship. Religious censorship in Spain is even more thoroughgoing than political censorship. The Syllabus of Errors is seriously observed. Bookstores are prohibited from carrying Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason or Unamuno’s Tragic Sense of Life and The Agony of Christianity, although such books can be had under the counter. The censorship goes far beyond politics and philosophy; creative writers often produce two versions of the same novel, an authentic one and one that will pass the clerical censor. The latter version must be skillful, indeed. One young writer who described the awakening of a young girl, and her joy at watching the sunrise, found his manuscript red-penciled with the comment: “A young Spanish girl, on arising, kneels and prays to the Holy Virgin.”
Yet Spanish Catholicism is no longer monolithic. At the recent College of Cardinals, the Spanish Primate, Dr. Enrique Play Daniel, refused till the end to vote for Cardinal Roncalli (by common report the candidate of “liberal” France), but the Cardinals of Tarragon and Santiago did on the last ballots contribute to the majority which chose him as Pope John XXIII. Among the vocal or silent critics of Franco’s regime are clergymen as highly placed as the Bishop of Saragossa, and the Abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Monserrat, Father Aureli M. Escarre. (I name these two because they have already been identified in the public press as critics of Franco; there are others, whose names are best withheld.) Men of this stamp are seriously concerned about the consequences of the Church’s close alliance with Franco’s dictatorship. “If we are killed and our churches and monasteries burned again,” one high clergyman told me in the shadow of his medieval cathedral, “we will have only ourselves to blame. We will deserve it because we have done nothing to avoid it.” Another told me he expected “terrible days.”
The younger clergy are more than fearful. They are opposed to Franco, and many do not hesitate to call themselves revolutionaries. I met such young priests and monks in village parishes, in the towns, and on the university campuses of Madrid and Barcelona. They have read Marx as well as Maritain, and in their homes I often met young socialists and even anarcho-syndicalists.
The young prelates accuse the Church hierarchy of abandoning the most elementary Christian ideas, and consider Spain’s ecclesiastical institutions antiquated and corrupted by petty politics. They further condemn the Church hierarchy for its behavior under the Republic. Unjustified fear of liberalism, they say, led the Church to consistent disloyalty to the secular state and produced the great Spanish “division.” Had the Church worked for moderate solutions within the secular Republican framework between 1931 and 1936, there would have been no civil war. The young priests rejected the view, held by Madariaga and other exiled moderates, that the Church legitimately feared persecution by the Spanish left. No, the young priests told me; the Church and the army from the start viewed the Republic as their enemy and forced the Republic to fight them. Some of these priests are willing to countenance the expropriation of the Church’s great wealth and an end to its monopoly of the school system.
These young priests, however, form only the left wing of dissident Catholic opinion in Spain. They are supported by most Catholic social workers, who have encountered the bitter anti-clericalism of the poor and hope to persuade the workers that Christianity can promote social justice. Their heroes are the frequently arrested law professor Jiminez Fernandez, an authority on agrarian reform, and the Jesuit Father Llanos, who is considered a kind of Spanish Abbé Pierre. The centrist Catholics are grouped around Gil Robles, who hopes to restore the monarchy and to establish a broadly-based, middle-road Christian Democratic party. The leader of the dissident Catholic right is the former Foreign Minister, Martin Artajo, who associates with such people as Otto Hapsburg and is detested by the center as well as the left-wing Catholics, and by the youth. Still farther right, of course, and most powerful of all, are the hierarchs who support Franco and encourage Opus Dei.
The intersection of dissident and pro-Franco feeling in the Church is illustrated by a recent incident. When a factory in Campozano (Santander) fired a number of workers without compensation, the parish priest appealed for contributions to help the needy workers. The Bishop, with the government’s blessing, dismissed the priest as a “Communist” and sent him to a monastery.
Franco, I was told by two bishops who know him intimately, views his subjects with pessimism. Contemptuous of his colleagues as well as opponents, he thinks he alone can subdue the passion of the hombre della calle, the man in the street. Moderate reform, he believes, would spawn social conflict, arson, and mass murder. Although he once promised to retire, he now intends to rule the rest of his life. He is now sixty-six and in good health.
Franco’s methods are those of a canny medieval monarch rather than those of the charismatic 20th-century dictators. Spanish intellectuals like to quote Ortega’s description: “a dictatorship sweetened by corruption.” Although his efficient police force is organized on the Himmler model, Franco distrusts mass terror and refuses to make martyrs of his opponents. First, he tries to buy them off. If that does not succeed, he arrests them; if prison fails to change their outlook, he threatens them with an “accident.” Dionisio Ridruejo told me that when he first became dissillusioned with Franco’s regime, he was offered a job as cultural attaché in the United States, at a salary of $2,000 a month. He refused, was arrested, then released with a warning that an “accident” might follow. In 1958 he was arrested again and brought to trial. An overflow crowd of more than five hundred people packed the streets outside the court—a clear manifestation of solidarity with the “Spanish Djilas.” Inside, however, the state prosecutor, who had originally asked for an eighteen-year prison sentence, now recommended an eighteen-month term. Ridruejo then was granted the benefit of an amnesty proclaimed on the coronation of the new Pope. The emotional tension subsided.
On Franco’s death, the Council of the Realm is empowered to choose a new chief of state, either a prince of royal blood or another Spaniard at least thirty years old. The understanding is that the Council would choose either Don Juan Bourbon y Parma, son of Alfonso XIII who was deposed in 1931, or his young son Don Carlos, who is being trained in Spanish military and naval academies. Don Juan lives comfortably in Estoril, Portugal, on a handsome allowance from the Spanish government and advises his followers to be patient. He is regarded, even by monarchists, as unintelligent and lacking both force and charm.
Whoever becomes king—so go the plans of the government—the army would be empowered to continue Franco’s policies. The Spanish army, a frustrated force which has lost all its foreign wars since the decline of the Spanish Hapsburgs in the 17th century, traditionally directs its strength against the native intelligentsia. Under Franco, army generals and colonels hold lucrative positions in the central and local governments. Officers’ salaries have been raised, barracks rebuilt, army installations modernized. A recent law enables higher officers to retire with full pay at any age and gives them statutory priority in filling government or private jobs; they can thus draw two full salaries at the same time. And, though there may be new ideas among the younger officers, such generals as Jorge Vigon, often mentioned as Franco’s likely heir, believe that only a “traditional,” clerical, anti-democratic monarchy can save Spain from the baneful influences of the West.
Elsewhere within Franco’s regime there is little material for alternative leadership. The Spanish Cabinet contains no independent personalities; the ministers are treated like errand boys. In February 1957, for example, Artajo, who had been Foreign Minister for eleven years, was dismissed by the Minister for the Presidency, Luis Carrero Blanco, in a two-minute telephone conversation. Received by Franco three days later, he was told: “Thank you for the services you rendered to Spanish diplomacy,” and that was that. The Cortes, a legislature with five hundred appointed deputies, also exists on Franco’s sufferance.
Largely because there is no recognized moderate leader within the ruling framework in Spain, an immediate restoration of the monarchy seems the main hope of Franco’s liberal opponents. But there are monarchists and monarchists. General Vigon heads one monarchist group, the Action Española, which expects a restoration to provide legitimacy for the continuation of Franco’s policies; Vigon’s closest collaborator is Marquis José Ignacio Valdiglesias, another close friend of Otto Hapsburg. There are also monarchists in the Opus Dei organization (like Calvo Serer), who hope that a monarchy will continue them as leading forces in the Spanish government.
Finally, there are the independent monarchists who regard a restoration as the first step toward a more liberal, constitutional regime. Many monarchists of this type have rallied behind the Unión Española, a coalition backed by several leading industrialists whose chief intellectual spokesmen are Ridruejo and Tierno Galvan. They have obtained the cooperation of Gil Robles and also of Fernando Alvarez de Miranda, who is Spain’s principal advocate of European federation. Although a few anarchists and syndicalists have also backed this group, the Socialists have remained aloof. The party’s leaders in exile, Indalecio Prieto and Luis Araquistain, are hesitant about collaboration with men who opposed the Republic. The workers generally fear a monarchy supported by leaders of private business.
Nor does there appear to be any link between the Unión Española and the students. Though some of the most popular professors in Spain support this group, the students themselves are more radically inclined, and also much readier to collaborate with the Communists. The latter, of course, are the chief advocates of a “broad, united front,” and their gift for clandestine operations enables them to become leaders in such fronts.
Always the best organized group under a dictatorship, the Communists in Spain receive aid and direction from the powerful sister party of France, which ships in literature, money, and personnel. On one level, the Communists are aiming to capture the widespread nationalistic spirit which is directed against the United States. At the same time, they assert that only Communism can modernize Spain. They are using all the old familiar stratagems, including sending ideologists to the prisons to recruit other prisoners for the party. The jail at Burgos, I have been told, is Spain’s equivalent of the Royal Yugoslav penitentiary at Mitrovica, where the Communist prisoner Moshe Pijade during the 1930′s set up a celebrated “Communist university.”
The growth of Communism in Spain is to a large extent a measure of popular disillusion with the Western powers and particularly with the United States, which has collaborated with the Franco government for the past six years. The most visible result of that collaboration is a vast improvement in the Spanish road system, which has opened the door to more than a million tourists.
Since 1953, the United States has given Spain $350 million in arms; provided $895 million in various forms of economic aid (including $351 million in surplus commodities and $100 million in foodstuffs distributed through Catholic charities); and spent $400 million on the three huge air bases which will ultimately become the property of the Spanish state. Even more important, perhaps, the manner in which Americans live on their bases, and the vacations taken in Spain by increasing numbers of British, French, and Italian workers and lower-middle-class people, have furnished a powerful contrast to Spain’s archaic social order.
But the positive values of U.S. aid are not recognized by the Spanish people, partly because the Franco regime never gives it any credit, partly because much of the aid has been siphoned off at the top, and partly because the American propaganda agencies defer to Franco. As a result, the Spanish people resent the presence of American soldiers on their soil, blame the inflation on American spending, and believe that America “keeps Franco in power.”
Much of their criticism is quite unfair. Between 1945 and 1953, when the Spanish-American military alliance was signed, Spain was quite free to rid herself of Franco, but did not do so; instead, the Spanish people drew closer to Franco out of national pride and resentment of the United Nations blockade. But it is true that the U.S. government has gone beyond diplomatic politeness in dealing with Franco. The late Secretary of State Dulles personally visited the dictator on several occasions, and expressed warm feelings toward his regime. U.S. Ambassador John Davis Lodge has been even more explicit in his praise of Franco. At the same time, no member of the U.S. diplomatic-military-economic establishment in Spain has made the slightest contact with even the most moderate critics of the regime.
This seems to me as unfortunate as the similar refusal of the U.S. legation in Budapest to make contact, between 1952 and 1956, with the dissident Communist intellectuals grouped around Imre Nagy. For, sooner or later, peacefully or violently, the Franco regime will pass from the scene, and the West will have to deal with at least some of the men it now treats as pariahs. A failure to establish friendly relations with the Catholic, liberal, and socialist critics of Franco today, is, in a sense, the equivalent of the “non-intervention” policy the West pursued during the Spanish civil war; it will benefit chiefly the Communists.
When World War I broke out, Prince Kropotkin was asked by friends why he was sure that a Russian revolution would result. “Why,” he replied, “because everybody expects one.” Despite the contradictions which plague the Spanish opposition, the measure of the seriousness of the situation today is that, two decades after the civil war, there is again talk of revolution.
1 A mountain of granite had to be excavated to build this memorial, which will cost more than $200 million and has provoked widespread grumbling. Friends and relatives of the fallen soldiers, who for the most part had been buried near their home communities, objected strenuously to the disinterment of their dear ones.