This week marks a name change at Madrid’s busiest hub as it reopens under a new title: Madrid Puerta de Atocha Almudena Grandes. The city’s mayor, who did not attend the ceremony, did not complete the sixteen months following the municipal approval of a memory and commemoration resolution issued after the author’s passing. A street in Chiclana, overlooking the sea, is named to honor her memory.
Madrid also faced another setback. In Aravaca, a mural honoring Lucrecia Pérez, a Dominican woman murdered thirty years ago in what many view as Spain’s first hate crime with racist motives, was damaged. Four neo-Nazis, including a civilian security guard, targeted immigrants that night, ending Pérez’s life in the ruins of her nightclub. The tribute, removed in 2021 for supposed improvement work, was reportedly restored but then erased again by locals. Residents pressing for a more visible commemoration in this immigrant gathering point have pressed the city council to replace the tribute with a plaque at a roundabout, arguing that the location matters as much as any tribute itself. The call is for something more than a sterile marker; people insist that a tribute must carry the weight of place and memory.
Another reading of memory unfolds in a children’s book describing arrival. A Spanish translation was deemed unnecessary by readers, yet the book carries a quiet strength. It uses silence to invite readers to hear migration rather than simply read about it, turning absence of words into a soundscape of movement and belonging. The story follows an immigrant who leaves his homeland with unseen dangers shadowing him. The journey is long and uncertain, the goal always something beyond language, where every new sound and custom requires patience, courage, and often the generosity of strangers who themselves once crossed borders. Departure, arrival, and integration form a life cycle that can end in struggle, or in a new home found through perseverance and kindness.
The Australian illustrator Shaun Tan created this symbolic tale in 2006. His work, though rooted in a specific moment, carries the weight of timeless uprooting. The book frames migration as a universal experience where language barriers form walls that can be leapt when necessity pushes. It recalls Ellis Island, the historic entry point for millions seeking refuge in North America between the late 19th and mid-20th centuries. The narrative places a large harbor between old and new worlds, where two colossal figures welcome newcomers side by side. At the center stands a tall statue once sent by France to the United States as a symbol of liberty. The ship carrying the statue, Isère, arrived in New York in 1885 in crates that held a breakthrough in friendship between nations. This moment sits alongside a darker chapter in European history, when the Berlin Conference regionally redefined colonial borders. It is a reminder that acts of welcome exist beside episodes of conquest and control, and memory must hold both truths in balance.
The Statue of Liberty is described as a beacon facing outward toward Europe. Its seven-pointed crown symbolizes the seven seas and continents. The figure bears broken chains at its feet and bears the text of Emma Lazarus, a poet whose lines have long spoken to the hope of new beginnings for the displaced. The remarkable invitation reads like a promise to all who seek freedom from oppression. It calls out to the weary and the poor, to those worn down by storms and seas and fear, inviting them to come and find shelter and dignity. This emblem, both historic and alive, continues to speak across generations about welcome, resilience, and the ongoing search for a place to belong. This is the heart of the discussion about migration, memory, and how communities remember those who arrived seeking safety and opportunity. The dialogue remains open, and the story continues to unfold in cities across North America and Europe as new arrivals add their voices to the chorus of those who have walked similar paths before them. The telling ends with a promise of continuation, a reminder that memory is an ongoing practice rather than a fixed record.