I attended my first bullfight at Las Ventas, the iconic bullring in Madrid, out of curiosity. Like many tourists, I wanted to experience an authentic piece of Spanish culture, drawn by stories of bravery, pageantry, and tradition. I had heard that bullfighting was an integral part of Spanish history, a respected art form, and a spectacle of courage. But I didn’t fully understand what I was in for until I sat in the stands and saw it unfold.
The event began with much fanfare, setting a grand stage for the matador’s entrance. His traje de luces, or “suit of lights,” glittered under the sun as he strode confidently into the ring, greeted by cheers and applause. The atmosphere was intense, a strange blend of festivity and gravity. The crowd’s energy was palpable, and for a moment, I was swept up in it, intrigued by the pageantry.
Then, the bull charged into the ring—a powerful, muscular animal with an undeniable presence. As it moved, its eyes seemed to scan the arena, as if taking in the strange environment and the throngs of people cheering above. The matador engaged the bull, moving gracefully, taunting and leading it through the ring. At first, I thought I was witnessing a skilled and respectful dance between man and beast, an exhibition of power and control. But as the fight progressed, I realized this was far from an even match.
In the moments that followed, the matador began to tire the bull out, drawing it into a series of maneuvers, each one more exhausting than the last. The animal, once full of energy and strength, began to slow, panting and stumbling as it bled from wounds inflicted to weaken it. It became painfully clear that the bull didn’t stand a fair chance; it was simply fighting for survival against an opponent equipped to guarantee its death. The result, I saw, was inevitable and always the same.
…True strength lies in compassion. Choosing to walk away from traditions that inflict suffering reflects our growth as a society.
Then came a shocking turn. With a sudden burst of strength, the bull lunged forward, striking the matador in the face. The crowd gasped, frozen in shock. Blood streamed from the matador’s face as he staggered back, yet he maintained his composure, embodying the stoic bravery expected of him. But that wasn’t the image that stayed with me. What haunted me was the moment that followed: a brief, bloody stare-off between man and bull, both wounded, both locked in an intense gaze. The bull’s eyes seemed to convey something I hadn’t expected—a mixture of fear, defiance, and even desperation.
In that silent, agonizing stare, I found myself sympathizing more with the bull than the matador. I could no longer ignore the fact that this animal had been forced into a situation where its defeat—and death—were certain from the beginning. The crowd roared again as the matador delivered the final blow, but the applause seemed hollow to me, disconnected from the life that had just been taken in the dirt of the arena.
As I left Las Ventas that evening, I felt conflicted, sad, and disappointed. I had come to experience a piece of culture but instead found myself questioning it. The spectacle was designed to glorify bravery and tradition, yet all I could see was suffering, not just for the bull, but for the matador himself, who faced life-threatening danger for a form of entertainment.
My experience at Las Ventas has made me reconsider the value of tradition when it involves cruelty. Bullfighting may be woven into Spanish culture, but so much has changed in our understanding of animal welfare. We now know that animals experience pain, fear, and suffering, and yet, we cheer as they’re forced to fight to their deaths in events like this. Watching a bullfight has convinced me that tradition alone isn’t a good enough reason to keep supporting practices that cause suffering. Especially when they are avoidable and not essential for our survival.
…The beauty of culture is in its ability to evolve—let’s leave behind practices that harm animals and focus on traditions that inspire respect and kindness.
If you’re considering attending a bullfight, I encourage you to think about what you’re supporting. The spectacle may be deeply rooted in history, but it’s also a form of entertainment that hinges on the suffering of animals. By choosing not to attend, we can help shift the cultural narrative toward compassion and perhaps find new ways to honor Spanish history—ways that respect both life and tradition.
Leaving Las Ventas, I felt that witnessing a bullfight once was enough for a lifetime. Now, I find myself hoping that one day, events like this will become part of the past, allowing future generations to celebrate a culture that values both heritage and the humane treatment of all beings.
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