In 1940 Valencia, the Paterna cemetery bears silent testimony to a harsh chapter. On the back wall, a dated inscription recalls the executions: a regime’s vengeance that claimed dozens of lives. Pepa, left without her father, was eight years old when the family said goodbye in a prison yard. The 45-year-old farmer’s body was laid to rest among the 135 mass graves at the site, a grim reminder of the thousands who were killed under a repressive rule. One man named Leoncio Badía, a young Republican, endured years of punishment as a gravedigger between 1939 and 1945, a brutal era of reprisals. The memory of those buried and the living who mourned them is part of the story told by the town’s old records and the voices that still remember.
Two Valencians, through the published work El abismo del olvido, have helped bring this memory to the page. The graphic novel by Paco Roca and the investigative journalism of Rodrigo Terrasa illuminate the fate of Celda, Badía, Pepica, and the others who faced cruel treatment, concealment, and stubborn obstacles in the search for remains. The book appeared in bookstores on a December day to mark a broader awakening in collective memory.
As the decades pass, direct descendants of the victims fade from the scene while many mothers, women, and children who witnessed the dictatorship’s cruelty endure persistent barriers to recovering their relatives. The issue of exhuming Franco-era crimes remains deeply political, mirroring the ongoing debates around national memory. The persistence of unresolved graves signals a democratic anomaly when local burials are left unexamined. The reluctance to allow a daughter to retrieve her father’s remains is a sign that politics still shapes memory. The republic’s legacy was persecuted and buried with many of its stories, a suppression that persists in some circles. This perspective is echoed by Paco Roca, who also engaged with other historical and political narratives in his broader work.
Terrasa, in a video conference, supports the view that fear and years of terror gave way to deliberate silence. Even now, new film releases or historical books can trigger a sense of resurfacing conflict, leading some to fear rekindling old tensions as elections approach. The idea that memory becomes a political instrument is not new but remains a live concern for many readers and viewers.
The aim of recovering memory is not simply to reopen old wounds but to understand a part of the national history that shaped lives for generations
The creators highlight how personal stories intersect with broader historical forces. Pepica’s endurance, Badía’s quiet defiance, and the small acts of care—like preserving notes or protecting the remains—collectively illuminate the human costs of political repression. Their work shows how memory can be a pathway to dignity, offering a chance to acknowledge and honor those who died and those who survived.
Roca and Terrasa describe the translation of memory into art. The Abyss of Oblivion blends narrative fiction with investigative journalism to probe why some people dedicate themselves to restoring a sense of closure for families. The book asks hard questions about grief, justice, and the means by which a society can confront its past. The authors emphasize that memory is not only about sorrow but also about responsibility—how communities remember and how they safeguard the dignity of the deceased and their survivors.
They discuss the practical hurdles that families encounter in pursuing exhumations. Even when a location is known, bureaucratic processes, permissions from local authorities, and shifts in political will can hinder efforts. The story of Pepica’s long, determined search illustrates how memory work can require persistence and collaboration across generations. The act of exhumation becomes a way to restore missing chapters of a family narrative and to acknowledge the humanity of those who suffered.
Experts note that identifying remains through DNA is increasingly challenging when preservation is poor and when many descendants cannot be located. Still, the graves themselves speak through clues found in letters, personal items, and fragments that survive through time. The sentiment is clear: many families deserve recognition and respectful farewell for their loved ones. The story emphasizes the need for persistent, compassionate memory work, even when the political winds shift.
Within the broader landscape of memory policy, the discussion centers on whether official sites like the Paterna cemetery should become spaces of remembrance rather than neglected edges of history. The walls, the graves, and the surrounding landscape carry memories that warrant thoughtful, lasting acknowledgment rather than neglect or vandalism. The voices urging fair treatment for exhumations argue that a nation’s memory is healthiest when it holds space for all stories, including those of Republicans who suffered during the conflict.
The quiet, ongoing search for those who vanished
“And underneath the official niches and graves, a second, hidden record exists, containing the many names of the missing,” Terrasa notes. The map of Spain reveals many graves awaiting examination and many stories awaiting recognition. The conversation surrounding historical memory has shifted as political alliances shape how communities confront the past in Valencia, Aragon, and beyond. Critics argue that laws intended to safeguard memory have been rolled back in some places, prompting concern about how history is told in schools and public discourse.
Terrasa and his peers reflect on the current climate—how younger generations encounter memory, what they know about the era, and how the public understands the broader tragedies of the Civil War. They stress that memory should be a universal attribute of civil society, not a tool for partisan ends. The dialogue continues as communities weigh how best to honor the dead while ensuring future generations learn from history.
In the end, the narrative remains a testament to resilience. The people who fought, suffered, and resisted silence contribute to a collective memory that seeks justice and dignity for families who endured loss. The collaboration between Roca and Terrasa demonstrates how art and journalism can illuminate historical truth while inviting readers to engage with the past with empathy and curiosity.