For a few terrifying seconds on the cobbled streets of Pamplona, the spectacle stopped being entertainment and became reality. A runner was gored in the face as six terrified bulls thundered through the narrow streets during Spain’s San Fermín festival. Twelve others required hospital treatment after bodies tumbled into one another as panic spread through the packed course.
He has every reason to be terrified 💔🐂
— PETA (@peta) July 9, 2026
This was just taken in Pamplona, Spain, during the Running of the Bulls, a ritualized and horrific execution of bulls. Never support this — don’t attend in person and don’t engage online. pic.twitter.com/qYOyDxohVj
Predictably, headlines focused on the injured humans.
But perhaps the more important story is the one that repeats every single year: the systematic terror inflicted upon the animals themselves before they are eventually slaughtered for applause.
The annual encierro, or running of the bulls, has long been romanticised as a celebration of courage, Spanish tradition and masculine bravado. It is presented as a contest between man and beast. In reality, there is no contest. The bulls never volunteered to participate. They are chased, frightened, disorientated and driven through screaming crowds before entering an arena where, later that day, matadors slowly kill them in front of thousands of spectators.
When a bull finally fights back, as happened this weekend, newspapers describe it as an “attack.”
9 Injured at San Fermin's 4th Bull Run in Spain
— The Epoch Times (@EpochTimes) July 10, 2026
Nine runners were injured in the fourth running of the bulls at the San Fermin festival in Pamplona on July 10. pic.twitter.com/R2K2XoGcWc
Perhaps it is something far simpler.
Perhaps it is self-defence.
Every year, animal welfare organisations document the immense stress experienced by the animals. They are transported, confined, released into deafening crowds and forced to sprint on slippery streets while thousands of people deliberately provoke them. After surviving that ordeal, they are not returned to pasture. Their reward is death in the bullring.
There is no happy ending for the bull.
Only for the ticket holders.
Supporters argue that San Fermín is an ancient tradition stretching back centuries. But history alone cannot justify cruelty. Humanity has abandoned countless traditions once considered normal, from public executions to bear-baiting and cockfighting, not because they lacked cultural significance but because society decided suffering should no longer be entertainment.
Bullfighting increasingly belongs in that category.
Yet the mythology surrounding Pamplona remains powerful, thanks largely to two towering figures of twentieth-century culture: Ernest Hemingway and Pablo Picasso.
This year marks a century since the publication of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, the novel that transformed San Fermín from a regional festival into an international pilgrimage. Hemingway became captivated by the ritual, seeing in bullfighting an expression of courage, mortality and authenticity that fascinated him throughout his life. His vivid prose inspired generations of travellers to experience Pamplona for themselves.
But Hemingway’s romanticism has not aged particularly well.
Modern audiences are less willing to overlook the bloodshed in exchange for literary symbolism. What Hemingway described as noble confrontation increasingly resembles an elaborate ritual of animal abuse dressed in poetic language.
Picasso shared a similar fascination. Bulls, matadors and minotaurs became recurring symbols throughout his work. To him, the bull represented power, violence, sexuality and Spain itself. His paintings elevated the animal into myth while simultaneously celebrating the culture that condemned real bulls to agonising deaths in arenas.
The irony is striking.
The bull became immortal on canvas while remaining disposable in reality.
Neither Hemingway nor Picasso created bullfighting, but both helped embed it within global culture, making criticism seem almost like an attack on art itself. Yet appreciating their creative genius does not require endorsing every tradition they admired.
Great artists can also be wrong.
Today’s Spain is increasingly divided over the future of bullfighting. Attendance has declined significantly over recent decades, younger generations are less enthusiastic, and several regions have introduced restrictions or outright bans on bullfighting events. Animal rights campaigners continue to argue that cultural heritage should evolve alongside society’s understanding of ethics and animal welfare.
Saturday’s goring serves as another reminder that these spectacles are dangerous not only for the animals but also for the people who willingly place themselves in their path.
There remains an uncomfortable contradiction at the heart of the festival. Participants celebrate bravery while facing creatures that have already been sentenced to death regardless of the outcome. The danger to humans is real, but unlike the bulls, every runner chooses to be there.
The animals do not.
When a frightened bull lowers its head and charges, perhaps we should stop seeing revenge as savagery. Perhaps it is the inevitable response of a creature pushed beyond fear into desperation.
If San Fermín wishes to survive another hundred years, it faces a choice. It can remain frozen in a past that mistakes cruelty for courage, or it can preserve its music, pageantry, community and history while finally abandoning the bloodsport at its heart.
Until then, every goring will serve as a reminder that beneath the white clothing and red scarves lies an uncomfortable truth: the real victims are always the bulls, even when, for one brief moment, one of them fights back.
