The final day of Chatarrero
My hands are clenched with rage. It's difficult to write this email, but I can't wait any longer to tell you the story of Chatarrero.
He was an ash-coated bull who spent his early years in the pastures of Lanzahíta, Ávila, until a Catholic charity paid to see him tortured and killed in Pamplona.
Yes: the organizers of San Fermín's bullfights are a Catholic foundation funding their activities through the blood of innocent animals like Chatarrero.
On an ordinary day, a truck arrived and confined him to a dark, suffocating crate. That moment marked the last time his hooves would touch grass or breathe fresh air.
After a 450-km nightmare of sweat and terror, Chatarrero reached the Gas Corrals alongside others. There he'd spend nearly a week on sand and straw soaked with urine and feces. The acidic air tormented him. Fear permeated the space - unfamiliar noises, no escape.
One night without warning, they forced him to run uphill amid screams, shepherd's staffs, and streetlights toward Santo Domingo slope. Agitated, restless, sleepless... he didn't know that dawn would mark his final day.
His executioner, a Colombian bullfighter, was likely sleeping soundly in his hotel at that very moment.
Early that Saturday, at 8 AM sharp, an explosion of gunpowder began the ordeal. Steer were stampeded to provoke chaos, and he ran after them. His only defense was flight.
His number 19 marked him in the crowd, seared into his hide. He stumbled twice. Each fall scraped his flank against stones. Half a ton of weight on legs not made for hard terrain. Runners surrounded him - shouting, slapping, terrifying.
He only sought an exit, a path back to Ávila's hills.
When the arena gate closed behind him, the world turned cruel and yellow. The sand burned beneath his hooves. The stench of old blood, sour wine, and fear. They confined him to a dark pen - a death row inmate awaiting afternoon. He didn't eat or drink.
When you're exhausted and terrified, time warps. They led him down a tunnel he mistook for freedom. Was it over? Emerging into light, he faced a roaring crowd stretching to the horizon. Nowhere to hide. No escape.
Suddenly, an armored horse emerged with a monster on its back. The lancer drove his pike deep. Scorching pain tore through Chatarrero's neck. Blood gushed hot. He tried goring the horse, lowering his head, but the agony intensified.
When that stopped, came the banderillas.
Four harpoons pierced his back, tearing flesh to prevent healing. The arena roared "olé!". Chatarrero tried kneeling, exhausted. Where were the hills now? The wind through trees? Only the matador's steel muleta glittered ahead.
Bullfighter Juan de Castilla's sword found his spine. Metallic cold pierced his lungs. He collapsed but his heart beat on. They took their time. They always do.
In a final surge of agony, Chatarrero charged and made his tormentor flee. For one instant, he believed he might survive.
He gasped at the crowd: thousands seeing "art" where only suffering existed. Where there is only suffering.
The bullfighter returned and plunged his sword through Chatarrero's lungs. Blood flooded his airways until he choked, vomiting blood... a macabre spectacle applauded by fans, revealing the worst of humanity.
A dagger handler crept close and severed his spinal cord, immobilizing him for dragging from the arena. Not to end his suffering, but to stop his thrashing as he still fought for breath... for life.
His final breath mixed blood, dust, and sand as they bound his legs. In that moment, Chatarrero ceased being an animal and became meat. €3 per kilo. For the bullfighting industry, it's only money and numbed empathy.
I refuse to let Chatarrero vanish as a statistic or butchered meat. We owe it to him to remember.
We fight daily to prevent his story from repeating... to see the individual behind the thousands suffering yearly.
Today his gaze haunts me. Those dark, wet eyes seeming to ask "why?" as the sword struck. So I beg you with rage and hope: don't let his suffering be forgotten.
Every euro removes a brick from the bullring walls. A step closer to ending this hell of sand and blood.
Help us stop this dehumanizing tradition.
