The Fight Over Bullfighting

It was 4:30 in the afternoon on January 28. A crowd of 42,000 people was gathered in La Plaza México, a stadium in Mexico City, Mexico. They started whistling restlessly. They had waited since May 15, 2022, for bulls to return to the world’s largest bullfighting arena. There had been 624 days of legal challenges. Now they faced one last delay because of the hundreds of protesters outside.

When the afternoon’s three matadors and their bullfighting teams finally emerged to salute the fans, the crowd erupted in cheers. Then, at 4:58 p.m., the first bull charged out and raced around the ring.

Over the next two and a half hours, fans cheered and jeered. They shouted “olé” and smoked cigars. Many ate grilled meats and chips. They watched five bulls die with swords plunged into their spines.

“To see it here—the ‘olé’ and how the plaza rumbles—it’s indescribable,” says Erik Reyes, 30, a Mexico City resident who was in the stands.

But the excitement in the arena has been matched by the commitment to ban bullfighting for good. Bullfighting spread to the Spanish colonies in Latin America in the 1500s. The practice has been at the center of a major legal fight over its return to Mexico City, the largest bullfighting city in the largest bullfighting nation in the world. That battle has come to symbolize a larger war between tradition and changing views on animal cruelty.

Animal rights groups have petitioned courts to end bullfighting. They argue that bulls should receive the same legal protection as other animals in Mexico and that the “degrading” treatment of bulls was harmful to society. They convinced a federal judge to suspend bullfights at La Plaza México in 2022.

The Mexican Supreme Court temporarily lifted the ban in December 2023, while the merits of the case are decided. But the ongoing legal fight has thrown the future of bullfighting in the country’s famous arena into doubt.

Outside the stadium that Sunday, tensions were high. Before the bullfighting had begun, more than 300 protesters stopped traffic around La Plaza México. They were carrying signs, banging drums, and chanting. One sign read: “It’s not art. It’s torture.”

Some protesters spray-painted “murderers” on the arena’s walls and tried to pry loose a gate as police officers in riot gear held it up. They threw water and trash at the officers and mobbed fans headed in to watch.

“No one who goes to a bullfight comes out a better person,” says Jerónimo Sánchez, an animal-rights activist.

But inside the arena, rallying cries erupted all evening from the stands: “Long live La Plaza México!” and “Long live the liberty of the bullfights!”

Some protesters spray-painted “murderers” on the arena’s walls. Others tried to remove a gate as police officers in riot gear held it up. They threw water and trash at the officers. Fans were surrounded by the protestors as they headed into the stadium to watch.

“No one who goes to a bullfight comes out a better person,” says Jerónimo Sánchez, an animal-rights activist.

But inside the arena, rallying cries erupted all evening from the stands. Fans shouted “Long live La Plaza México!” and “Long live the liberty of the bullfights!”

Bullfighting has declined steadily over the years because of bans and growing opposition. Traditional bullfights still take place in five countries besides Spain and Mexico: France, Colombia, Venezuela, Peru, and Ecuador.

Mexico’s first recorded bullfight happened in 1526, according to a national bullfighting organization. Since 2013, 5 of Mexico’s 31 states have prohibited bullfights. There are still 326 active arenas.

Mexico City’s arena is the country’s leading economic engine for bullfighting. In a typical year, La Plaza México hosts up to 30 bullfighting events, says Mario Zulaica, a former bullfighter and the arena’s director. He adds that the venue employs 2,000 people. It also provides income for thousands more who work at nearby restaurants and at ranches that supply the bulls.

The arena is also the premier stage for advancing a bullfighter’s career.

“You’re putting your life at risk to create art and create something magical,” says José Mauricio. He’s a 40-year-old Mexican matador who has been severely injured during his 19-year career. His injuries include being gored and breaking his ribs and his wrist.

Another bullfighter, Paola San Román, 29, adds that bullfighting at La Plaza México has been key to highlighting “this tradition and this culture.”

When he got the news of the suspension, Zulaica was in Spain trying to hire bullfighters for his arena.

“It hit me like a bucket of cold water,” he says.

It makes sense to Zulaica that the courts have for now allowed the contests to continue.

“Someone cannot be so intransigent that they don’t see that there were 40,000 attendees who showed that bullfighting is more alive than ever,” he says.

But for the protesters outside the arena, bullfighting’s popularity isn’t an excuse for what they see as cruelty.

“No animal should suffer,” says Shantel Delgado, 30, a vegetarian dressed during the protest as a bull covered in red paint. “They all deserve respect like us humans. They can have jobs another way.”

José Saborit, the director of a national bullfighting organization called Tauromaquia Mexicana, says workers in the industry care for the bulls, raising them for years and breeding them, with only a small percentage of a mother’s calves eventually being killed in an arena. But he acknowledges the mounting pressure of the opposition to it in his country.

“If we want a world of prohibitions and moral imposition, then bullfighting is at risk,” he says.

Zulaica says he understands that younger generations may be more conscious of the treatment of animals.  But, he adds, “we’re convinced that in a modern and diverse Mexico, we should aspire to a society of liberties, of respect, and, more than anything, of tolerance for all cultural expressions—independent of personal tastes.”

José Saborit is the director of a national bullfighting organization called Tauromaquia Mexicana. He says workers in the industry care for the bulls. They raise them for years and breed them. Only a small percentage of a mother’s calves are eventually killed in an arena. But Saborit acknowledges the growing pressure of those opposed to bullfighting in his country.

“If we want a world of prohibitions and moral imposition, then bullfighting is at risk,” he says.

Zulaica says he understands that younger generations may be more conscious of the treatment of animals. But, he adds, “we’re convinced that in a modern and diverse Mexico, we should aspire to a society of liberties, of respect, and, more than anything, of tolerance for all cultural expressions—independent of personal tastes.”

Critics see the fact that bullfighting has resumed as a setback for animal rights. But they may be empowered by past success.

Sánchez is the director of Animal Heroes, a group that started a “Mexico Without Bullfighting” campaign six years ago. He says “political willpower” propelled the banning of bullfighting in some states.

Sánchez says he’ll never forget the way a bull cried after being stuck with banderillas—barbed darts that draw blood and anger the animal—at a bullfight when he was a teenager. He says his organization wants Mexico’s Congress to permanently prohibit the practice nationally. It’s wrong to have standards for how to slaughter a pig, yet allow bullfighting to continue, he argues.

“We see it as an anachronistic spectacle,” he says. “The new generations, when bullfighting is prohibited in all the world in a few years, will look back in astonishment.”

Reyes, the spectator from the January bullfight at La Plaza México, whose grandfather took him to watch his first matador-bull face-offs, says he knows bullfighting isn’t for everyone and concedes it’s probably on the way out.

“I’m not against it dying,” he adds. “It’ll die sooner or later. But I’m against it being prohibited when there’s still a certain following.”

The reopening of La Plaza México ended raucously. Andrés Roca Rey, a Peruvian matador, struggled to kill his second and final bull of the night with a sword. He left the ring to a chorus of boos. As the stands emptied, the bull was taken back into the corrals, where it was killed and then prepared to be eaten as meat.

The streets around La Plaza México still teemed with life. People filled food stalls. Others ordered beers from nearby convenience stores to keep the festivities going. And they’ll keep doing it—until told otherwise.

Reyes, was a spectator at the bullfight at La Plaza México. His grandfather took him to watch his first matador-bull face-offs. He says that he knows bullfighting isn’t for everyone and recognizes it’s probably on the way out.

“I’m not against it dying,” he adds. “It’ll die sooner or later. But I’m against it being prohibited when there’s still a certain following.”

The reopening of La Plaza México ended wildly. Andrés Roca Rey, a Peruvian matador, struggled to kill his second and final bull of the night with a sword. He left the ring to a chorus of boos. As the stands emptied, the bull was taken back into the corrals. It was killed and then prepared to be eaten as meat.

The streets around La Plaza México were full of life afterward. People filled food stalls. Others ordered beers from nearby convenience stores to keep the festivities going. And they’ll keep doing it—until told otherwise.

James Wagner covers Latin America for The New York Times.

James Wagner covers Latin America for The New York Times.