My grandfather and The Ifni War (1957): The Decline and Agony of the Spanish Empire

Charge of the 24th and 25th Colored Infantry, July 2nd 1898, depicting the Battle of San Juan Hill, a pivotal battle during the Spanish–American War. (Kurz and Allison/Wikimedia Commons)

There is a popular habanera in Catalonia that says, ‘My grandfather went to Cuba, on board of the Català, the best ship on the Navy of the Overseas Fleet’. The song, called ‘El meu avi’, was written exactly 50 years ago, in 1968, but the lyrics remember a much farther reality.

So the song follows:

‘When the “Catalan” set sail, my grandfather shouted: “Let’s go, guys, it’s really late!” Yet none of the brave men on board ever came back: The Americans are the ones to blame!’

There is no doubt nowadays that Catalans do not share any hatred or abomination towards the Americans, but the Spanish–American War of 1898 does certainly still provoke a little spite. It was then, during the long summer of 1898 when the Spanish political disputes, the officers’ excessive pride, and the estrange diseases of the Cuban forests destroyed forever the Spanish Empire.

In early 1939, after General Franco successfully conquered Spain beaheading the democratically elected 2nd Republic, and ending with any sight of freedom, the idea of a Spanish Empire had already been chiming in every Spaniard head since long before the Republic raised. The little colonial heritage that Spain had in its hands stretched meditatively in the burning sands of the Sahara; and among all these colonial possessions stood out one, rather by its relative isolation: the Province of Ifni, in the south of Morocco. The area, which had no strategic interest, burst into flames at the end of 1957. It was time for the last colonial war of the so called Spanish Empire.

At the end of Franco’s dictatorship, a group of certain Moroccan tribes, led by Ben Hammu, took up arms in the Sahara colony, claiming a land they considered theirs. At that time, my grandfather was doing the compulsory military service in Paterna, a small town on the outskirts of Valencia.

Although antimilitarist, he agreed to do the promotion test and was immediately promoted to corporal. In Vinaròs he used to till the land of his father, a Republican who died of illness within the Francoist side shortly before deserting. Although education in Spain during the dictatorship was of an ominous nature, my grandfather was allowed to study one more year than the Franco regime used to sponsor. It was for this reason that, to his surprise, he was sent to the topographical unit; he had achieved the highest mark in the Army’s mathematical examination.

Lagzira Beach on Ifni, a place were many soldiers went to hunt octopi and spend the long days of the desert. (Hugues/Flickr)

The military service was to last two years and, at the end of 1957, my grandfather just wanted to go home. Days before leaving for his home in Vinaròs, an officer appeared before him: ‘Corporal, you are going to Ifni’. My grandfather did not know why they were going to send him to Ifni, along with his 17th Artillery Regiment. In fact, he did not know where Ifni was. To be honest, nobody in Spain knew what was happening in Ifni. Franco assured from the beginning that Spain was not at war and that everything that was happening on the Moroccan border were skirmishes without bloodshed. The truth, much rawer, was that more than 50 men had just died in the dunes of the desert.

My grandfather was, hence, part of a totally unknown part of the History of Spain. He was one of the few hundred expedicionarios who, forced to leave their home, disembarked in Ifni in a total state of disorientation and disgust.

Unlike the habanera whistles, my grandfather did not travel on the best battleship of the Imperial Overseas Fleet, but had to spend days standing in the absence of bunks suffering from hunger and sleep. He disembarked on his birthday and, after months of fighting and without hardly shooting a bullet, he returned home on a painful journey. The war was over, and Franco had won it without the population noticing they were at war

My grandfather in Ifni, disguised as a Morrocan soldier, joking with his friends, 1958.

His story and that of many others died in oblivion and yet no one remembers the many men who, against their will, were forced to fight in a land they did not know by the ancient grandeur of an empire that had been dying for years. And I cannot stop remembering that distant Habanera while my grandfather tells me his stories about the desert dunes. And so, I cannot avoid changing the lyrics to our story: ‘My grandfather went to Ifni, on board of the Valencià, the worst ship of the Navy of the Overseas Fleet.’

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