A Harmony of Difference

Los Eslim Reloaded in la Calle Gerona, La Alquitara Festival de Blues Bejar Photo @Ruben Martin

In a world that often shouts about what sets us apart, there’s something quietly radical about embracing what brings us together. In this week's Camino a Ítaca a counterdance against the demagogues threatening to deport an imaginary eight million immigrants. 
From the rhythms of Castile’s town squares and narrow streets to the rare shared silences of Spanish bars and cafés, I’ve written a reflection two ways that celebrate the beauty found in difference...and the harmony that can emerge from it. They explore how diversity doesn't dilute identity but enriches it. It is a love letter to eight million reasons we might feel at home in a place not originally our own.
They're stories of music, language, and connection...woven from life here in Spain and wherever the Blues continues to tell its story.
Click over to read the version in English in the SUR in English or the Spanish version in the HOY.

Time to Get the Lead Out

They’ve turned “woke” into a punchline — something to mock, dismiss, or roll your eyes at. Why? Because it's easier to discredit the word than reckon with what it actually means.

“Woke” was never about arguing over coffee orders or policing T-shirt colors. It wasn’t about trends, lifestyle choices, or the internet’s latest moral panic. It meant being awake. Aware. Eyes open to injustice, ears tuned to warning signals. Watching out not just for yourself, but for others. Because danger doesn’t always knock — sometimes it creeps.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t about someone else’s rights, or problems that belong to other people in far-off places. What’s coming isn’t targeted — it’s sweeping. The erosion is real, and it’s accelerating. They're not just coming for "them." They're coming for you, too.

The forgetting is deliberate. The ridicule is strategic. That’s why remembering matters.

So best listen to Huddie Ledbetter , Lead Belly, who said it plain: ‘Stay Woke.’

Because they always come in the dark, and asleep is exactly what they’re counting on.

Click over to read more in my latest article at CounterPunch.

Poolside Austerity

Piscina natural (wild swimming hole) Villasbuenas de Gata

On Benches, Boulevards, and the Beauty of Belonging

One of the things I’ve always admired about life in Spain is how public public space truly is. A square is not something to pass through—it’s something to dwell in. A bench belongs to whoever needs a rest. A park, a pool, a plaza: these are shared extensions of daily life, not fenced-off amenities with wristbands and surveillance.

And most striking of all? There’s no shame in simply being there. No sideways glances. No sense that you’re “loitering.” That concept—so ingrained in Anglo-Saxon cultures—has never taken root here. Until now, maybe.

In my latest Camino a Ítica pieces, I reflect on the creeping encroachment of privatization into Spanish public life—how the very spaces that have long defined a more open, inclusive way of living are now being reshaped by the quiet return of austerity, market logic, and the ever-watchful eye of exclusivity. Read the piece in English in SUR in English or the Spanish version in the HOY.

Because once we stop noticing the velvet ropes going up around us, it might already be too late. (PDF en castellano abajo)

What If the Axis of Evil Served You Watermelon?

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness."
— Mark Twain 

Samuel Clemens, the master of irony, wrote this during his "Grand Tour" around the Mediterranean in the late 1800s. It's a truism that doesn't always stick — not everyone becomes wiser through travel. But even for the most seasoned travelers, the road can still deal out unexpected lessons in humility.
In this week's Camino a Ítaca, I revisit one of those personal lessons — a journey through Iran that served up reality in heavy, humbling doses. As the war drums beat louder and popular narratives cast everyone in ancient Persia as villains from that awful 300 movie, Twain's words feel more urgent than ever.
Click through to read the longer English version in Counterpunch or read the version in Spanish over at HOY. (PDF en castellano abajo)

How Pure Is Pure Enough? Asking for a Carpenter From Nazareth

God help us. The war drums are beating again. Somewhere between the tortilla and the gazpacho, the far-right guardians of Spanishness are having a collective nosebleed — purity tests for everything from ham to human beings. I couldn’t sit idly by and watch the madness. No, I strapped on my battered typewriter and unleashed a column so dripping in irony it should come with a mop in this week's Camino a Ítaca.

Thus was born: “How pure is pure enough? Asking for a carpenter from Nazareth.” in the SUR in English.

It’s a short ride through cultural absurdity — a landscape where being “too foreign” is a sin, but eating a Big Mac while complaining about immigrants is perfectly fine. If you’ve ever wondered whether your curry is unpatriotic, or if your neighbor’s flamenco isn’t pure enough to pass inspection — congratulations, you’re already in the story.

So pour a stiff drink, adjust your tinfoil hat, and click the damn link. The purity police are already watching — might as well give them something to read. Click over to read the Spanish version in the HOY or read below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Shit Floats

In this week's Camino a Ítaca a look at how mediocrity seems to rise to power here in Spain. This of course happens everywhere, but here in Spain there seems to be a particular subset of people whose sole ability is to play the system and reach the top without having any other discernible skills. They head an already disproportionate representation of the country. Where are the güiris in public office? Click over to read the Spanish version in the HOY or the English version in the SUR in English. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Kill it With Fire - The Boston Review

In my latest piece for Boston Review, I examine how Spain's far-right party, Vox, is actively working to rehabilitate the legacy of Francisco Franco. By revisiting the brutal events of the 1936 Badajoz massacre, the article explores how historical atrocities are being reframed to serve contemporary political agendas. This manipulation of memory reflects a broader global trend where the far right seeks to control narratives of the past to influence the present.
Read the full article here: "Kill It With Fire"

Half a Million Reasons

The Camino a Ítaca is in no way linear, it circles and loops and starts all over again. As spring turns Cáceres into the allergy sufferers nightmare, another event takes places, one that has been going on for more than thirty years. It's quasi-religious in the way that in some sectors it can't be questioned for fear of dispelling the myth that they seem to think we don't deserve. It's no longer the World of Plastic and Piss that I once wrote about, but the colonial tinge remains. The brand still takes the piss and gives nothing in return. Click over to read the original piece in Spanish in the HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

This wasn’t your typical, “Is everyone feeling alright? Let me hear you say, yeah!” It was more a plea than a rousing chant. Halfway through her set it sounded less like a chant than a last-ditch appeal to connect with the swelling crowd. She shaded her eyes against the late-afternoon Thursday sun, spun on her heel, artfully flicked the fringe of her dress and shouted, “I love the landscapes of this region, vamos Extremadura!”

Silence? No—its opposite.

Her heartfelt appeal was met with heroic indifference in the form of an incessant drone of humanity. Her words vanished into an insectile hum—cicadas fed through a distortion pedal and Marshall stack. She had hauled her art up from Andalucía only to meet a giant, collective mute button.

This was lip syncing in reverse. The performers were trying to sing, making every effort possible to connect with the audience. The band nailed every note, but the PA returned nothing except a muffled sludge—felt in the gut, unintelligible in the brain. The stage became a rolling Instagram backdrop for the considerable number of people who, despite the ban on the botellon, still seemed to think the stage was simply some sort of elaborate photocall for their corrillo selfies. Any hope of a real cultural exchange fell from the sky like strangled doves, the notes dying before they cleared the first row of concert-goers.  

Thursday’s sonic fiasco was merely prologue. On Friday evening, after a cursory sound-check during the break, the band struck up to welcome Africa’s premier diva, five-time Grammy-winning Angélique Kidjo. Draped in vivid African print, she strode to centre stage, leaned back, and loosed that titanic voice—only for the impotent mix to shrink it to a whisper. It was a Zoom call out of sync: her mouth moved, but neither the lyrics, the snare, the percussion, nor keyboards survived the journey across the plaza.

Those who cared about the music faced a no-win choice: wander the plaza in search of a sonic sweet spot that never materialised, or stand rooted in front of the stage, forced to watch Angélique Kidjo endure the slow humiliation of being reduced to lip-reading practice as her roar arrived as a rumour.

“WOMAD isn’t what it was,” you hear. How could it be? Thomas Wolfe was right: the road back home is closed for renovation. Thirty odd years have rewritten Cáceres and its people. The provincialism that was once turned on its head is now resigned. The franchises and outside world have moved in. The festival itself has been outsourced in layers, until all that remains of Gabriel’s founding vision is a logo rented by the hour.

The festival’s supporters cling to the brand like a VIP wristband—never mind that the bar ran dry years ago, terrified that any criticism might cancel Cáceres’ only mass gathering not dedicated to the celebration of death, be they prophets, virgins or bulls. If WOMAD really preaches tolerance and respect, it should start at the mixing desk and give the artists the basic courtesy of being heard.

If WOMAD can’t or worse, won’t fix the faders, perhaps it’s time to stop renting nostalgia and look beyond the franchise.

The Battle for History: Herodotus, Truth, and the Rise of Authoritarianism

Modern Herodotus

In this new essay I follow Herodotus—the world’s first fact-checker—into the twenty-first-century war over memory. Beginning with his insistence on weighing every side of a story , I trace how today’s strongmen —from Xi’s 2024 Patriotic Education Law to Trump’s “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History” order —use the same ancient playbook: rewrite the past, monopolise the future . Along the way you’ll meet Scythians hot-boxing hemp saunas, Artemisia out-sailing the Greeks, and museum curators battling Project 2025—proof that plural voices have always out-witted propaganda.
Click over to read it on ZNetwork.

Dear America, we’re just not that into you

In my latest piece over at rabble.ca, I explore how Canada's evolving relationship with the U.S. reflects much more than just political tension—it’s about identity, values, and what it means to forge a path forward in an increasingly polarized world. I take a hard look at the historical dynamics between our two countries and ask the question: can Canada offer a better example for the future?

The piece, Dear America, We’re Just Not That Into You, dives into everything from the rise of political extremism in the U.S. to how Canada’s commitment to solidarity, equity, and compassion could become a guiding light in these turbulent times. It’s a bold take on what might be next for our neighbor to the south and the role Canada could play in shaping a more hopeful future.

Grandpa's Newspapers

Nostalgia, memory, love: all powerful emotions. And what can trigger them? In this case, Pop Rocks exploding in a sensory sugar rush. In Spanish they call them Peta Zetas but it's a story that could easily be told in German, Russian, Romanian, Albanian or Cambodian. It's a story that will be told again in Argentina and in the good 'ol US of A. This week in the Camino a Ítaca, a disturbing memory of someone loved. Click over to read the original version in HOY in Spanish or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Bitten Tongues, Buried Truths

The Peta Zetas hit your tongue like a .44 magnum in a janitor’s closet—a chemical blast that made Sydney’s New Year’s fireworks look like damp sparklers in trembling hands. FACT: Even now, nearly fifty years later, just closing your eyes summons the ghost of that taste, and your taste buds explode.

It wasn’t just the sugar slamming your bloodstream with the raw voltage of a faulty electric chair in one of those backwards states where governors still get aroused signing death warrants—no, it was the savage anticipation that wrought your young brain. After a week of pure psychological warfare dished out by the penguin-suited masochists who made Dante look like a travel brochure writer, this was the reward.

But that torment was only half as excruciating as waiting for that dead-eyed priest to finish his cosmic threats about your immortal soul being flame-broiled for eternity, just for the audacity of thinking a human thought. But that was Grandpa's rule, man—that duplicitous rogue— No candy until after Sunday mass.

Sunday morning memories with your grandfather were like those Peta Zetas—intense, intoxicating, impossible to shake. These candy rituals became the scaffolding of love in your developing brain—twisted, perhaps, but genuine. Old men don't reveal themselves to children directly. They speak through rituals, through candies after mass, through calloused hands on shoulders. You hold these memories like delicate birds, afraid to squeeze too hard. Because while you were busy chasing sugar highs, he was feeding you something else entirely—stories.

They started sweet, those tales. Heroic yarns about order, discipline, the glory of the ‘before times.’ But bite down too hard, and the cracks showed. A sneer at the ‘weakness’ of democracy. A toast to men in crisp uniforms who ‘knew how to clean up the filth.’ By the time your tongue caught the sour beneath the sugar, it was too late—the aftertaste was already in your blood.

Funny, how the brain works. It lets you keep the warmth of his laughter, the wrinkled grip of his hand around yours, even as it tries to vomit up the rest. You can still taste the candy, yet you can still hear the sermons—both kinds. The ones from the pulpit, and the ones from him.

But time is a savage editor. The older you got, the more you noticed the newspapers he read and the hateful programs that droned through Sunday afternoons after church. The casual remarks about ‘those people’ that slithered into lunch conversations. A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory, especially when a civil war is concerned. We all hunt for rationales for believing in the absurd, some are just better at it.

Maybe that's what haunts you most about those Peta Zetas—not just their explosive sweetness, but how they represent your own complicity. Every Sunday you took the candy without question, building monuments of affection to a man whose ideological compass pointed straight to hell. Was your childish love blind, or was it bribed into silence for a few pesetas?

There's no neat resolution here, no morality tale with a tidy lesson. Just the wrenched reality that humans can simultaneously be sources of tenderness and vessels of hatred. Some memories remain fundamentally corrupted, like beautiful fruit grown in poisoned soil. Kundera warned that the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.

Ominously, it seems that many have willfully chosen the latter. In burying history, Spain doesn’t just forget its sins—it sugarcoats them, passing poisoned sweets to generations to come.