A Man Has Died! Cipriano Mera (1897-1975) : A fraternal and affectionate tribute

Albeit not unexpected, given the incurable disease afflicting him, the news of the demise of our much-loved comrade Mera left all of us who knew the man grieving and inconsolable.

Cipriano Mera Sanz was born in Madrid, in District V, Bellas Vistas, at No 6, Calle de Juan de Riscal, on 4 November 1897.

At a time when his name and his performance were widely known in our anarcho-syndicalist circles, I had the occasion to get to know and appreciate his magnificent qualities at first hand during the awful days of our wretched un-civil war.

The fortunes of the struggle placed me in Guadalajara from the beginning of 1936 up until early 1938. My mind teems with the indelible memories of those decisive times when his rectitude, morality and incorruptible character, his innate simplicity and natural self and kindness left their indelible marks; and, over and above the demands of the moment, there was his unshakable belief in the liberating anarchist ideal, essential to the creation of brand-new social structures wherein solidarity, fraternity and freedom might be a tangible reality for all human beings, regardless of sex, race or colour. He gave himself up body and soul to that ideal, helping to make it a reality right up until the end of his days, through his conduct, his presence and his meagre workman’s contributions. 

As I pen these brief lines in affectionate, heartfelt tribute to our unforgettable comrade Mera, allow me to bring up a fact that speaks to his soft heartedness and the grief it caused him to find himself obliged to order military operations that left hundreds of young lives brimful of health and eager to live, felled and mangled on both sides of the firing line due to the deadly weapons on both sides.

Right from the outset of the fascist military uprising which slid into a cruel civil war, the MUJERES LIBRES afforded its moral support and fellowship to the militias and their family members, making frequent visits and deliveries to the battle-fronts. I remember that on one such visit we, the comrades from the Madrid and Guadalajara Agrupaciones went to the Guadalajara front. We dropped off the victuals with the quarter-masters at the XIV Division’s headquarters, where Mera was commander at the time, and we felt eager to meet him.

- He has just left for the ‘Hide” – we were told – which somewhat flummoxed us, and the boys continued:

- If you hurry you’ll be able to catch him there. – 

At the same time, they pointed us in the right direction.  Off we went and as we neared the spot they had indicated to us, we could see him on his way back together with two comrades whose names escape me now, via a trail overgrown with flowering almond trees. On sighting us, he said:

- Hello! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you MUJERES LIBRES here?

- We’ve come to drop off a few items for the lads who told us that you were out here and we’ve come to greet you.  

And, without allowing him time to answer and stunned by the beauty of the countryside that met our eyes, I went on;

- But this is one wonderful spot. How beautiful! Such greenery! All these flowers! – I said, staring at his Divisional Commander’s uniform. 

And, as if he had seen right to the core of my thoughts, he replied in a deeply moved voice:

- Yes, compañeritas! The flowers blooming and brightening the fields and regaling us with their perfume, even as men, in the full flush of youth, are dying. What a ghastly paradox! Right? 

And, with a wave of the hand to disguise his emotion, he said brusquely:

- Come on now! Head back and tell the lads to let you have a cup of coffee; and off he scuttled with his two companions in tow.

We made our way along the defile which now struck me as in gloom. As we arrived, one of the officers who had been watching the scene from higher up, escorted us to a small room where there was a rustic table, a few stools and some crude mugs in which they served us our coffees. At the back of the room,  there was a locked door, through which could be heard the rattle of a type-writer and some morse code. I was transfixed, listening as I was thinking: orders going out of the forward positions where, even as we were quietly sipping coffee, the deadly weaponry on both sides of the trenches was surely and ruthlessly mowing down lives, even as women in the rearguard were busily at work, their minds on the loved ones the would never see again.

I could understand why Mera was deeply moved and his words were and are forever etched in my memory and I damn wars with all the force I can muster.

Today, Mera rests in a humble grave in the Boulogne-Billancourt cemetery in Paris, a long way away from the Madrid where he was born, but the memory of him lives on, immortal, in the hearts and feelings of those of us who knew him.

Maria S. Portales 

Mujeres Libres, No 46, 1976

Translated by: Paul Sharkey.