75 anys després que les tropes feixistes entressin a Barcelona, els seus hereus ideològics fan un congrés (com no, a l’entrada de la Diagonal) i criden als quatre vents que els catalans no podrem votar si volem o no volem ser independents. Mal que els hi pesi, avui ja no poden intimidar-nos ni decidir per a nosaltres.

Sota la fotografia, podeu llegir com ho va viure Ernest Hemingway. Avui també és un dia adequat per recordar la figura de Miquel Serra i Pàmies, l’home que va evitar la destrucció de Barcelona.

bombardejos barcelona

During the last fifteen months I saw murder done in Spain by the Fascist invaders […] You see them do it in Barcelona where they bomb the workers’ quarters from a height so great it’s impossible for them to have any objective other than the blocks of apartments where the people live. You see the murdered children with their twisted legs, their arms that bend in wrong directions, and their plaster powdered faces. You see the women, sometimes unmarked when they die from concussion, their faces grey, green matter running out of their mouths from bursted gall bladders.

You see them sometimes looking like bloodied bundles of rags. You see them sometimes blown capriciously into fragments as an insane butcher might sever a carcass. And you have the Italian and German murderers who do this as you hate no other people  […] Before Teruel, there was the murderous bombing of Lleida. Afterwards there was the horror de Barcelona and the daily raids on the coastal towns between Valencia and Tarragona. Later the Fascists bombed the town of Alacant, not the port, and killed over three hundred people.

Still later they bombed the market place of Granollers, far from the war or any war activity and murdered hundreds more. They murder for two reasons: to destroy the morale of the Spanish people and to try effect of their various bombs in preparation for the war that Italy and Germany expect to make. Their bombs are very good. They have learned much in their experimenting in Spain ant their bombing is better all the time.

Ernest Hemingway, 1938