The bullfighter circles once, twice, and then moves in close—the bull breaths heavily, head drooping and legs trembling. In the epilogue of this traditional spectacle, the bullfighter pulls out a short sword and slides towards the bull’s spine. A stunned gasp sweeps through the crowd, and people hush in awe. In this brief silence, the ritual becomes unmistakably simple: a person ends an animal’s life in public.
Bullfighting has long been entwined with the cultural fabric of Spain and parts of Latin America, yet its prominence now faces modern challenges. Only one in 10 Spaniards have never attended a bullfight, but many of the largest rings in Spain now rely on tourists to fill their seats. If the practice is fading, why do debates over banning it still matter so much? The short answer is because the fight over bullfighting is not just about a spectacle in the ring; it is about what society thinks of itself.
It would be fair to assume that Spanish bullfighting is ancient; the matadors’ clothes resemble court dressing, and the ring resembles a Roman arena. However, the modern form of bullfighting actually took shape in 18th-century Andalusia and only later spread nationwide and abroad. The sentiment of antiquity is manufactured: the bullfighting industry has built a historical image to wrap a relatively modern creation in ancient clothing. Many pre-eminent 20th-century writers and artists helped to amplify this antiquated mystique. Picasso alludes to bulls and bullfighters in his art, while Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon depicts the ring as a theatre of courage and craft.
Yet, while Hemingway and Picasso have stood the test of time, bullfighting is increasingly controversial among Spaniards. In addition to ideological debates, the practice has been used as a weapon of regional politics. From 1939 to 1975, Francisco Franco, Spain’s authoritarian dictator, promoted ultranationalism and celebrated bullfighting as symbols of a single Spanish identity. Fights were broadcast throughout the country by state television, and the regime promoted it as national culture. In Catalonia, however, nationalists later framed bullfighting as a symbol imposed by Franco’s fascist regime and, by extension, by ‘Spain’ itself. The imposition of an ostensibly traditional Spanish ritual actually deepened Franco-era repression, which prohibited the use of the Catalan language and symbols in public. When Catalonia banned bullfighting in 2010, the move functioned less as an animal rights victory than as a declaration of distinct identity. Getting rid of what many regard as quintessentially Spanish helped say: “Catalonia is not Spain.”
Joan Puigcercós, president of Republican Left of Catalonia (ERC), has stated that the bullfighting ban makes Catalonia a distinct society, where this debate has produced social and political consensus that does not exist in Spanish society. Puigcercós frames the ban as an act of identity-building, marking Catalonia as distinct from Spain. By contrasting Catalan consensus with Spain’s lack of it, the ban shows that Catalonia does not share the Spanish cultural norm symbolized by bullfighting.
For Latin American countries, the story is quite different. In Mexico, the second-largest bullfighting country by number of bullfights, Mexico City lawmakers recently voted to prohibit injuring or killing bulls for sport, a move backed by President Claudia Sheinbaum. The animating issue in Mexico—animal welfare—differs from the primary issues in Spain. Mexican lawmakers are not attacking the practice itself but instead seeking to create a more humane form of bullfighting, with animal sensitivity at its center. Around Plaza México in Mexico City, the world’s largest bullring, the economic vibrancy of the bullfighting industry hums. Estimates suggest there are approximately 80,000 direct jobs and $400 million in economic activity attributable to the bullfighting industry nationwide. In Mexico, ethical reasons drive legislative change, but economic factors keep this practice alive.
The last part of this story is Cuba. Cuba was the first country in Latin America to host bullfights, but despite this long tradition, it was also among the first to completely ban the practice. The choice was both cultural and political. Abandoning bullfighting signaled a break with Spain and its colonial legacy. Throughout the late-colonial decades, Cuban nationalists increasingly portrayed bullfighting as a symbol of Spanish imperial culture—exactly the type of practice that a new nation should abandon. During the American military government (1899-1902), it issued a one-line order stating that “bullfights are absolutely forbidden in the island of Cuba”—a restriction that the Cuban Republic maintained after 1902. The outlawing of bullfighting in Cuba can be interpreted as a top-down move driven by US interventionist forces. If anyone failed to comply with the order, they were fined 500 Cuban pesos. In contrast to Spain and Mexico, there has never been a popular push to end bullfighting in Cuba. It was a statement about sovereignty and the redefinition of national identity after the empire.
Bullfighting, in both the colonial metropole and its affiliates, is under attack for distinct reasons. In Spain, the controversy centers on regional identity and the meaning of “Spain,” with bullfighting serving as a proxy for deeper regional divides. In Mexico, the shift is driven by ethical commitments to animal welfare, tempered by the economic systems built around the ring. In Cuba, the ban emerged from the desire to sever colonial ties and craft a modern, post-Spanish identity. In this light, debates over bullfighting are not truly about bullfighting. They are windows into broader questions: what a country remembers, who its laws protect, and how it balances heritage and harm. The ring serves as a stage for those struggles, and whether the practice survives, transforms, or disappears, the larger national arguments will continue to exist.