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Remembering the Barcelona opening ceremonies

By Walter G. Meyer

February 20, 2006

San Diego--As I watched Olympic opening ceremonies from Torino, I got goose bumps and my eyes swelled with tears the same way they did when I was standing in the stadium on Montjuic in Barcelona in 1992. I still thrill to the memory of the hopes for world peace that we all embraced in that city for two weeks.

As the world descended on Italy for the Winter Games, the announcers talked about security and terrorism and fears for the safety of the Danish team—as though those young people are responsible for the sins of a cartoon editor. It is a different world than the one which came together in 1992.

When you are watching at home, the announcers go on about how many medals the US has won. At the games, it’s much less about the medals and much more about the camaraderie of nations. You sit next to people whose countries you couldn’t find on a map, then find a way to communicate with them and learn a little about their lives.

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Barcelona was even more of an international event. In LA, about eighty percent of the people I met were, not surprisingly, Americans. In Barcelona, about eighty percent were not Americans. I connected with people from so many places. My wall is still decorated with the silk scarf that a Korean woman gave me at the ping-pong match I attended. It has a ring of flags of all of the nations that participated and in the center is La Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s architectural wonder that is the symbol of Barcelona.

This may sound like hyperbole but it is not: I think the Opening Ceremonies of those games were the high point of the human race—certainly in my lifetime, probably in a century, possibly in history.

Remember when this was and what was going on in the world. The Gulf War had just ended. The Cold War was just over. The planet was closer to world peace than it had been in centuries, or has been since. For the first time ever, all 169 countries who are members of the Olympics came. For the first time in two decades, there were no boycotts.

South Africa was allowed back in after abolishing its racist policies. Both Koreas were there. Both Chinas. Germany competed as one nation again. All of the newly independent former Soviet Republics were there—Latvia, Kazakhstan and the rest, many so new they didn’t even have flags yet and just carried a generic white flag with the Olympic rings emblazoned on it. Serbia competed as an independent nation. Even Afghanistan, still winding down its war with Russia, sent representatives, though it had no athletes at the games.

You could feel the hope for world peace in the air.

An arrow lit from the torch was fired across the caldron to light the flame. After all of the welcoming dances and speeches, the parade of nations began. And it went on and on, longer than it ever had before with especially big rounds of applause for teams who had struggled to be there, like Iraq and Serbia.

After more than 9300 athletes had packed the field—more than had ever come to an Olympics before—the lights in the stadium were shut off. A taper was lit from the cauldron. We, the audience and the athletes, were instructed to get out the candles we had been given as we came in and the light from the Olympic flame was passed around the stadium, candle to candle. All of us sharing the same light.

Then a small spotlight hit the stage at the end of the stadium, not far from where I was standing. In the light was a boy, maybe 10 or 12 years old, dressed all in white. He began to sing the Ode to Joy (Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, fourth movement, lyrics by Frederich von Schiller). It was later adopted as the European Union Anthem. The fact that the words and music were written by Germans was not lost on the people in attendance. In Europe, where the Germans had caused two world wars in the century, even the Germans were singing of peace.

The young man sang the first verse in German with no accompaniment, just his beautiful, clear, alto voice. Three more lights hit the stage and Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras, and Luciano Pavarotti were there all dressed in white. Those three tenors sang the second verse, their voices blending with that of the young man. Then more lights hit the stage and an all-girl chorus, also garbed in white added their sopranos to the harmony.

Then they turned the lights back on, asked us to extinguish our candles, take the hands of the people next to us and join in singing the chorus, the words to which were then displayed on the giant screen in about 17 different languages. On the field, a scramble occurred as members of the two Korean teams sought out each other to hold hands. Members of the US team made their way to the Iraqi team to take their hands. The two Chinas embraced and the former Soviet Republics forged new bonds.

I didn’t see a dry cheek in the house as we all openly wept for the hope that was our future as the human race living in peace and harmony.

A beautiful silence followed as the accord settled over all of us. The only people who let go of the hands of their neighbors did so just long enough to hug or kiss them.

For perhaps fifteen minutes there was a near silence—no one dared disturb the peaceful feeling that had fallen over us. There were quiet murmurs of friendship and love, but like whispered greetings at a funeral in a cathedral no one wanted to ruin the mood.

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Then they announced the ceremonies were closed and asked us to leave. They usually make all of the announcements at the Olympics in three languages: French, which, in the nineteenth century when the games were resurrected was the international and diplomatic language (and the language of Olympic re-founder, Pierre de Coubertin); English which is the new international language; and the language of the host country which caused a controversy in Barcelona, where the locals insist they are Catalan and not Spanish, so they had to have four languages this time around. In all four languages they asked us nicely to leave. No one did.

People began dancing even though there was no music. There were outbreaks of huggings throughout the stadium the way fights will sometimes spontaneously erupt at 20 spots in the stands at a football game.

They again asked us to leave. In four different languages, alternating male and female voices. Again the only movement was more hugging and some more dancing. A little while passed and again they asked us to please make our way to the exits. No one exited. The announcement came again a few minutes later, this time made to sound more forceful and adding that they needed to get the stadium ready for the track and field events the next day.

This did nothing to dispel the crowd. So the police were sent for. They entered at the field level and lined the rim of the track, facing the stands. They looked helplessly at each other. No one wanted to be the first to swing his club. They looked at the fans and shrugged. At the risk of sounding like an old hippy, there was so much peace and love in the air, a violent act was impossible. Soon the police began dancing with the athletes. Spectators reached across the railing to hug the cops.

The PA announcers lost interest in what they were supposed to say and started sympathizing, saying things like, “We know you’re not going to leave, but we’d like to ask you again…”

After hours and the exhaustion that comes after a long session of lovemaking or a hike in the beautiful forest, a lull fell over the crowd. We were spent, hugged out and cried out, our emotions having hovered near nirvana for so long that when they announced the last subway of the night was coming, the crowd finally began to file out. Unlike the pushing and shoving that usually accompanies a stadium exodus, this was the nicest, most orderly group I’ve ever been a part of. Even getting on the subway, it was unlike any rush hour I’ve ever seen. There was no anger or hostility. Treating those around them like their invalid grandmother. “Please, you go first.” “No, you first.” “Please sit, I’ll stand.”

We all knew we could make that feeling last. As the games wore on and controversy began, some of the love dissipated, but we all still had hope.

Now, a short fourteen years later, the games began with a world already stressed and hopeless. I hoped as I watched the ceremonies on TV that some of that peaceful joy will again work its magic and find its way home to countries that badly need it, including our own.

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Walter G. Meyer is a freelancer in San Diego who has found time to write a few books when he isn't too busy writing about anything just about any topic from local baseball to endangered sea turtles. waltergmeyer.com