Education in the 1940s: "If they found you were dirty, they'd hang a band around your neck."

PalmIn the 1940s, education was heavily influenced by the early years of Franco's regime and by an outdated legal framework: the Moyano Law (1857), which remained in force until 1970. The school system was authoritarian and focused on memorization.Spare the rod and spoil the child.—as the former Education inspector and writer, Pere Carrió, recalled—, with unique manuals and rigid contents dictated by the national questionnairesReligion occupied a central place, and subjects such as Formation of the national spirit They reinforced the slogans dedicated to José Antonio Primo de Rivera and Francisco Franco.

Furthermore, education was segregated. Boys and girls studied separately and received different training, with greater emphasis on domestic tasks and morality for girls, and a more academic or professional orientation for boys. Everything had to be taught in Spanish, and control over the teaching staff was strict, because controlling the school was a way to guide the thinking and values ​​of an entire generation. We put a face and a vision to that educational decade through the stories of a married couple who experienced it firsthand. This is how each of them tells it:

Antònia Humbert, Palma (1936) - Escola Sagrat Cor

The year was 1940. I was four years old, and every morning my mother took me to the Sagrat Cor school, the one for the poor girls. Because there was another one, also called Sagrat Cor, for the rich girls. I remember her hand squeezing mine and my heart racing. Everything seemed immense to me. The classrooms, with their waxed wood, were a world apart. That routine shaped my early years.

We didn't know much about the rich girls' school. We called it the boarding school because some of the girls slept there. We imagined them in spotless uniforms. We could never go in. At our school, every morning we opened the balcony, unfurled the flag, and sang the anthem. Discipline governed every gesture, and everything had to be clean. Occasionally, we were given powdered milk. And once a week, we were made to clean the classroom until it was spotless. Good behavior was rewarded with an honor ribbon. But if they found you dirty, they'd hang a ribbon around your neck as punishment.

Classrooms with enormous student-teacher ratios

In class, there were about forty dolls, separated by age. We wore uniforms, and although we had to speak Spanish in class, we spoke to each other in Mallorcan. I never saw anyone get hit. In fact, we had a special nun, Mama Martín, an older woman, sweet and affectionate, who always loved me very much. Although studying was difficult for me, I learned to read. I've never been much of a reader—in fact, I've only read one book in my entire life—but that learning stayed with me forever.

Once a month they took us to the boarding school to go to Mass. It was the only time we were around the wealthy girls. The differences were obvious: the clothes, the cleanliness, the way they moved, the way they spoke. Afterwards, we went back to our school and hardly ever went out. At most, we went to a nearby pine forest, to the area where the Juaneda clinic is today. The rest of the time we did housework and received basic education.

The Sacred Heart neighborhood church, which was in the building that Mata de Jonc occupies today, is part of my fondest memories. Before Christmas, we took baskets of fruit to the nuns. Sometimes the priest came and gave a short sermon, with a voice that commanded silence. Despite the discipline and harshness of the post-war period, I was happy. But the fear was always there. Invisible, constant, like a shadow that never completely left you. If I compare it to now, there was too much control back then. Today, too much freedom.

Francisco Tomás, Palma (1938) - Son Espanyolet National School

My first school was almost home, on Mazagán Street, run by the nuns. But my real education began when I was six, at the Son Espanyolet National School, right in the middle of the Franco dictatorship. The headmaster, Don Miquel Deyà, commanded respect. He was demanding, fair, and energetic. When the inspector arrived, we all stood up and fell silent. Discipline set the rhythm of each day, like a ritual no one dared break, with a National Catholic undertone that permeated everything.

There were about forty of us in class. In winter, the small wood-burning stove produced more smoke than heat. The smell of burning wood was everywhere, and sometimes the classroom became almost unbreathable. We dressed as best we could. We shared books, supplies, and even clothes with our siblings. We weren't given food, like we are now, but we did get powdered milk, and that was a small treasure.

Teachers with a republican philosophy

We could speak Catalan because Don Miquel was a Catalan nationalist, which got him into trouble. He wasn't just any ordinary man. There were other teachers who also left a mark on me, like Joan Santaner, who had suffered through the war and the purges. With him, we didn't just learn subjects; we learned to understand the world and to think for ourselves.

Our school had been a Republican school, opened in 1933. When the Nationalists came in, they changed the headmaster, but the school community resisted. I wasn't a brilliant student, quite the opposite. At 14, my father asked me if I wanted to continue studying or work. I chose to be a blacksmith, at a time when iron was scarce.

Years later, we continued to meet with Don Miguel and former students. I remember once he said that men descended from monkeys. I replied that we didn't descend from monkeys, because monkeys descended from trees. We all laughed together. The scene perfectly encapsulates the camaraderie that existed. Don Miguel insisted that we explain what we had understood, not simply repeat it from memory, which wasn't common practice at that time. The games in the classroom, the shared laughter, the smoke from the stove, and those first lessons are still a treasure to this day. He was a person who was easy to love. When he worked at the Council, the students would go to the station to find him; they wanted to be with him.

I have fond memories of my school days. We were all equal; there were no differences in the classroom. We had a happy childhood. But there was also fear. I remember it perfectly. When I went to meetings with Don Miguel, my father told me not to go, that anything could happen. I would reply, "Father, we don't talk about politics." But he was afraid. We knew, for example, that three brothers had recently been executed in Inca. How could we not be afraid?

*Text prepared from the testimonies of the interviewees