Spanish politics is a costume ball, and an absurd carousel. Since only the power, The decalogues of political values are a joke. What difference does it make to wear one t-shirt rather than another for a match? Because the important thing is to put the team in charge, and on Sunday at the aperitif of the gathering to have a bunch of applause coming out of nowhere. And that’s where we were when the main party supporting the government Spain will facilitate regulations that limit freedom of expression. Those of us who were children during the famous Parisian spring of 1968 have always dreamed of having lived this illusion that beneath the paving stones lay the sea and that imagination was on the verge of power.
There is nothing underground except muddy waters and fecal passages. And with maturity, we unfortunately see that the only imagination that strikes the BOE is the feverish fever of those who seize the door of the official car. How sad all this is, especially for all the inflated leaders of the progressive movement who applaud that the free press can be censored.
Dani el Rojo and Sartre would devote themselves today to reggaeton so as not to have to play the applause of this sad fandango. The civil society that was going to overflow the conventions and obsolete institutions, one of the strong ideas of the student May, is today a caricature shaped by television news and salaries. Let all the intellectuals line up and sing La Marseillaise together on the steps of the Moncloa.
The very fact that the issue has been raised and the fact that the group of thinkers and opinion leaders in this country have not been alarmed is shocking. Some seem to forget that the Constitution exists, that there are independent courts and that when the right to information is used illegally, it can be subject to civil or criminal prosecution.
To state and proclaim as a success of democracy by the so-called legatees of 68 an attack on the critical press makes us lose confidence in politics as we have known it until now. Machiavelli was an apprentice and artificial intelligence cannot save us, unless we believe in totalitarian utopias that are beginning to no longer be a prophecy. The One-Dimensional Man Marcuse was replaced by the electoral puppet. Or as Aute sang to Sabina, “friend of lost causes”since this month of May in Paris. Ours, without a doubt.
