In May 1937, nearly 4,000 children arrived in Southampton aboard the Habana, fleeing the horrors of the Spanish Civil War. Among them around 400 Basque children destined for Wales, a country with little direct connection to Spain but a growing sense of solidarity and humanitarian agency. My research explores how this moment in Welsh history became a powerful example of both compassion and contradiction. While many local communities rallied around the displaced children, the realities of welcome, integration, and eventual repatriation reveal a far more complex and often fragile response.
The bombing of Guernica in April 1937 sent shockwaves through Europe. Photographs of civilian devastation caused by German and Italian air forces supporting General Francisco Franco’s Nationalist uprising captured the attention of the British public. Although Britain maintained a policy of non-intervention, humanitarian efforts – coordinated by the National Joint Committee for Spanish Relief – led to the evacuation of Basque children from the Republican-controlled north of Spain. While the British government permitted their arrival, it did so under strict conditions: the children were to be maintained at no public expense and repatriated once it was deemed safe.
The decision to bring Basque children was politically loaded. These young refugees were not just seen as victims of war, but as symbolic figures in a broader ideological conflict. The press coverage in Wales reflected this tension. On one hand, local newspapers celebrated the children’s arrival in Swansea as a humanitarian act. On the other, reports were laced with assumptions about responsibility, worthiness, and social class. A South Wales Evening Post article described the children as ‘well-dressed’ and ‘polite’, implicitly reassuring readers that they were not only victims, but the ‘right kind’ of refugee.
In Swansea, the Basque children were housed at Sketty Park House, a Regency mansion temporarily transformed into a makeshift colony. Their arrival was chaotic – they turned up more than twenty-four hours ahead of schedule, prompting frantic preparations. Yet despite this, many locals responded with generosity. Fundraising efforts led by the Mayor of Swansea quickly raised hundreds of pounds. Volunteers offered clothes, books, and toys. The South Wales Evening Post carried images of smiling children, presenting a hopeful narrative of safety and second chances.
But behind the headlines lay deeper complexities. Personal testimonies from children and volunteers reveal the emotional scars carried from Spain. Rose Noriega, a local interpreter, described the children as ‘frightened’, ‘frail’, and haunted by the sound of aeroplanes. Another child recalled being assigned the number thirteen upon registration and crying out, ‘Nombre Malo! Nombre Malo’ (‘Bad Number’), revealing how superstition, fear, and trauma followed them into their new lives.
Integration varied widely across Wales. While Swansea’s Sketty Park colony maintained stability, other communities struggled. The Brechfa colony in Carmarthenshire became a flashpoint. Poor conditions, lack of supervision, and media sensationalism turned public opinion. One newspaper ran the headline ‘Basque Refugee Boys Use Knives – Carmarthenshire Night of Terror’. An incident involving vandalism and a confrontation with a local farmer was presented not as the action of traumatised children but as proof of political radicalism and danger. In contrast, children at Caerleon’s Cambria House were hailed as model guests. There, a Spanish-speaking director prompted cultural pride and encouraged positive community contact-leading to glowing local reports of performances of traditional Basque dance as well as a boys football team across South Wales.
Despite efforts to integrate the children, the question of their eventual repatriation loomed large. Originally promised to be temporary, their stay became increasingly politicised as Franco’s regime consolidated power in Spain. The Spanish Children’s Repatriation Committee, backed by pro-Franco elements in Britain, pushed for the return of the children – many of whom had no idea whether their parents were alive or where they were. Testimonies suggest serious safeguarding failures. One former refugee, Hermino Martinez, recalled how documents authorising his return were likely forged, and how his mother later confirmed she never signed anything. ‘They would have starved’ he said. ‘But her signature was forged’.
Even when genuine attempts were made to verify consent, the task was monumental. Families had often moved several times during the war. Some children were repatriated alone, met by no one at the border. Others were returned to guardians who had no legal or emotional claim to them. What began as a humanitarian effort ended, for some, in quiet tragedy.
Conducting this research, I was struck by the interplay between politics, memory and compassion. Swansea’s welcome was real – but was also conditional. Media narratives shaped who was seen as ‘deserving’, and integration depended on how well children conformed to local ideals. Oral histories brought these tensions to life in a way that no policy document could. Some testimonies were heartbreaking, others unexpectedly joyful. They revealed resilience, but also injustice, and made me think about the legacy of refugee history in Britain today.
The story of the Basque children matters because it challenges the idea that welcome is ever simple. Refugee experiences are shaped not only by violence and displacement, but by the attitudes of host communities, the prejudices of the press, and the politics of the moment. The Basque children came to Wales as symbols of war, but they stayed – if only briefly – as human beings who needed care, safety, and dignity.
As today’s refugee crises unfold across the globe, the events of 1937 remind us that the language of compassion must be matched by meaningful, sustained support – and that history is never just a story of the past, but a mirror to the present.
