The Fountains of Silence(115)
It’s very difficult to explain.
It’s nuanced and complex for an outsider.
You just can’t understand.
Like the character of Daniel, I wanted to understand. I wanted to reciprocate the affection, comprehension, and compassion that the people in Spain had shown toward me and the history within my books. As my research progressed, I realized that the refrains were accurate. Not only is it difficult for an outsider to understand, I often found myself asking, “What right do we have to history other than our own?”
My previous projects have contained threads of my own personal family history, so I was able to write those stories from the inside out. When I began my research for what became The Fountains of Silence, I realized that if I wanted to write about Spain I’d have to write from the outside in.
So I studied the postwar intersections between the United States and Spain, examining the difficulties between two very different nations attempting to interact and cooperate while also pursuing individual goals.
How can they bridge the width to understanding?
I then pulled the focus tighter—hopeful young people from different backgrounds, desperate to cooperate, express love, and pursue truth, but fenced by culture and circumstance.
How can they bridge the width to understanding?
During my study and examination, the fragile tension between history and memory emerged. Some were desperate to remember and others were desperate to forget. I was haunted by the descriptions of the war—and also war after war. Hunger, isolation, fear, and the socialization of silence. Suffering emerged the victor in Spain, touching all sides and breaking many hearts.
History reveals that, amidst war, the highest tolls are often paid by the youngest. Helpless children and teenagers become innocent victims of wretched violence and ideological pressure. Some in Spain were orphaned or separated from their families. Others, like Rafa and Fuga, were sent to social aid “homes,” where they were fed a steady diet of torture. During the postwar period and dictatorship in Spain, young people were left amidst the wreckage to navigate an inheritance of heartache and responsibility for events they had no role in causing. The young adult narrative is what I chose to represent in the story—innocent youths who, instead of pursuing hopes and dreams, became fountains of silence.
Following Franco’s death in 1975, Spain began the herculean task of transitioning to democracy. In hopes of pursuing peaceful progress, an amnesty law was passed in 1977 that freed political prisoners and allowed those in exile to return to Spain. The law also granted impunity to those who may have committed or participated in crimes during the war and the dictatorship. The law paved the way for El pacto del olvido in Spain, the Pact of Forgetting.
Some historians have described the Pact of Forgetting as necessary for a smooth and peaceful transition. Others question the long-term effects of silence on historical memory, identity construction, and human dignity. Scholars question whether the absence of a common historical narrative creates painful obstructions of justice and trust.
Studies estimate that over three hundred thousand children in Spain were possibly stolen from their birth parents and transferred or sold to families deemed “less degenerate.” The adoptions and thefts began in 1939 and lasted into the 1980s. During and after the Civil War, some infants were taken as punishment to those who opposed Franco. In the postwar period, the thefts were seen as a way to “rehabilitate” children who had parents or grandparents with the “Red gene.” In later years, the stolen children were said to be part of a continued trafficking operation involving doctors and the Church.
Today, there are many wonderful groups in Spain advocating tirelessly for stolen children. The United Nations has urged human rights investigations. Some have suggested the creation of a special DNA database (as was done in Argentina for stolen children) to pursue truth and reunification. Although this is incredibly complex, I am confident that progress is possible. I am also confident that readers can be part of that progress—particularly young readers.
I am considered a “crossover” author because my books are read worldwide by both teens and adults. It will be the young readers who carry our fading stories, their associated challenges, and necessary dialogue into the future. I have every confidence that the young generation—a generation of empathy—will gently clean the wounds and work together toward strength and healing.
Every nation has scars and hidden history. When stories of historical conflict are read and discussed, we have an opportunity to be united in study and remembrance. In that way, books join us together as a global reading community, but also a global human community striving to learn from the past.
I extend my heartfelt gratitude to the people of Spain and the regions within its borders. Thank you for allowing me to study your history. My hope is that this novel might inspire others to conduct their own research in an effort to learn, grow, and build bridges that will endure the tests of time and historical memory. When that happens, history will no longer stand between us, it will flow through us.
—Ruta Sepetys
RESEARCH AND SOURCES
The research process for this novel was a global, collaborative effort that spanned eight years. That said, any errors found herein are my own.
My Spanish publisher, Maeva, connected me with people, places, and experiences to bring this story to life. Laura Russo simply went above and beyond. I am forever grateful to Maite Cuadros, Mathilde Sommeregger, Eva Cuadros, Rocio de Isasa, Sara Fernandez, Montse Vintró, and the entire Maeva and SGEL team.