Lorraine Williamson
Few countries carry their past so close to the surface. In Spain, wherever you stand — a busy plaza, a remote olive grove, or a roadside in the countryside — you are never more than 50 kilometres from a mass grave. The new interactive Mapa de Fosas confirms what families of the disappeared have known for generations: the earth beneath us is stitched with thousands of burial sites from the Civil War and Franco’s dictatorship.
What makes this reality even more striking is its proximity to everyday life. Graves lie under car parks, beneath school playgrounds, on farmland, and inside cemetery walls. In Carboneras, Almería, the town furthest from any grave, the nearest site is still under 50 kilometres away. There is no corner of mainland Spain untouched by this buried past.
A Country Turned Into a Cemetery
Between 1936 and the early years of the dictatorship, Spain became a landscape of forced silence and rapid burials. Historians estimate around 140,000 people were executed by the insurgents and Francoist regime, and more than 49,000 at the hands of Republican forces. The killings did not stop at the end of the war — repression continued into the late 1940s and 1950s, leaving almost 6,000 known graves scattered across one in every three municipalities.
Most victims were never formally buried. They were executed beside village walls, in ravines, fields or local cemeteries. No coffins, no names, no farewells — only coordinates remembered by neighbours who whispered them to their children.
A Family Story, Not Just History
For tens of thousands of families, this is not the past but an open wound. Many still search for fathers, grandmothers, brothers and daughters who vanished without trace. Until the year 2000, very few graves had ever been opened. That changed in Priaranza del Bierzo, León, where the first scientific exhumation took place — a turning point for Spain’s movement for historical memory.
Since then, more than 17,000 bodies have been recovered. DNA testing has allowed only around 700 to be identified. Over 11,000 remain in shallow graves, caves or beneath modern structures — buried without names and without justice.
The Map That Makes Silence Impossible
The publication of the Mapa de Fosas, an interactive digital map, has transformed public understanding. Instead of numbers in books, it shows dots across the country — more than 6,000 mass graves — reminding viewers that mass violence was not confined to battlefields but present in small villages, churchyards and town outskirts.
For relatives, the map is proof that their stories were not imagined or exaggerated. It offers visibility, recognition and a starting point for legal and moral responsibility. It also exposes how close Spain still lives to its buried dead — literally and politically.
Graves Beneath Roads, Homes and Public Squares
Excavating many of these graves is immensely difficult. In some towns, victims lie beneath highways, new housing developments or municipal parks. To reach them would mean tearing up entire streets or relocating cemeteries — a costly and politically sensitive task. In other places, graves sit inside private land or sacred church property where permission is withheld.
Despite these challenges, some excavations have revealed the true scale of what lies beneath. In Málaga’s San Rafael cemetery, 2,840 bodies were uncovered — the largest mass grave in Western Europe. In Seville, at Pico Reja, more than 1,700 victims have been exhumed so far.
The Andalucian soil of memory
Andalucia holds some of the most symbolic sites of violence. In Órgiva (Granada), locals believe up to 5,000 people were executed. Near Madrid, Paracuellos de Jarama contains an estimated 3,000 to 5,000 bodies. In Paterna, Valencia, 152 burial pits have revealed more than 2,200 fusilados. These places draw relatives, historians, and school groups — part memorial, part archaeological trench.
No longer invisible
The United Nations urged Spain in 2014 to identify all victims and guarantee the right to truth and reburial. Progress has been slow and uneven. Some regional governments actively support exhumations, others block funding or avoid involvement. Meanwhile, survivors are ageing. Every year, more sons and daughters die without finding their parents.
But the earth keeps pushing stories upwards. Bones surface after heavy rain. Farmers strike metal with their ploughs. A map fills with red dots. Spain’s hidden mass graves are no longer invisible. The question now is whether the country will choose remembrance or allow silence to settle again.