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.

The Birth of a Civil War in Yemen in Counterpunch

Sana'a, Yemen

Over twenty years ago, I lived in Yemen. Decades later, I found myself receiving WhatsApp messages from friends and former students in Sana’a—as bombs rained down around them. Real-time updates from people I cared about, living through hell. That experience will never leave me.

What I didn’t expect was to see that same war discussed in a Signal group chat by U.S. officials—punctuated with emojis, fist bumps, and the tone of a frat party watching drone footage like it was Call of Duty.

This past Sunday, CounterPunch, one of the few American outlets with the guts to run it, published my longform piece:
👉 “Yemen in Flames: From Depraved Spectacle to Signalgate”

It’s a dark, sharp, and deeply personal chronicle of how Trump-era officials planned airstrikes on Yemen with the casual detachment of gamers, turning mass death into a grotesque kind of entertainment.

📌 From screenshots of chats to the dehumanization of entire populations, the piece shows how modern warfare has become performance art for sociopaths in positions of power.

📰 Read the full piece here:

The Great Unravelling

"For a moment, it felt like we had won. The bad guys were relics. Fascism was a lesson Spanish schools didn't teach, and liberal democracy was what all the cool countries were wearing."

The Camino a Ítaca climbs the Statue of Liberty this week for a look around to see what is left of something precious that we once took for granted. It's not gone...yet. But it is clear that what we once thought immutable is nowhere near permanent. This week in both English and Spanish. Click over to read the unravelling in Sur in English here or a slightly shorter version (word count issues) in HOY in Spanish here. (PDF en castellano abajo)

The Age of Mean

Ages rise and rot, and this one smells like cheap cologne, pancake make-up and cold, hard cruelty. The Age of Reason left town long ago, probably hitchhiking with Elvis, and in its place slithers the Age of Mean—petty, ugly, and proud of it. Welcome to the golden era of the selfish, the crass, the smug boor with a megaphone and a middle finger raised to anything resembling decency. In this week's Camino a Ítaca, a long, bittersweet gaze back to when empathy wasn’t a punchline, and "love thy neighbor" wasn’t just another blunt object for hypocrites to swing at their enemies. This piece, apparently too radioactive for an English-reading audience, fell victim to the silent chokehold of self-censorship. The shadow of Musk looms large, its stench thick and suffocating, proof that even across the Atlantic, the game is rigged, and the referees have left the building.

As one rejection email advised: "Thank you for submitting this to the Post-Gazette. It's not an article we can use, partly because we favor a cooler, more humanistic style (not referring to people as "slithering," for example)..." 

But then one light shone out of the cowed darkness. Rabble.ca took at chance. Click over and see what the fuss was about.

Globalization and its Discontents

I've been called a lot of things in my life. My surname alone has had people thinking that I'm from a lost tribe to an island in Japan. In this week's Camino a Ítica, the way my name can cause consternation among some. Life on the peninsula is no longer so monochrome, or monotheistic. Click over to read the English version on page 22 of the PDF in SUR in English or in Spanish in the HOY. (PDF en castellano abajo)

The line between continents blurs up here, lost in the madness of these mountains—great, hulking beasts with snow-drenched peaks, their ridges twisting like the spine of some prehistoric leviathan sprawled between the Black and Caspian seas. Less a boundary between East and West than a stone-fisted barricade between the East and the even more bewildering East.

For centuries, they’ve loomed like bouncers at one of history’s rowdier saloons, keeping the Indo-Europeans and the rough-and-tumble Caucasian and Turkic tribes apart. The Russians and Persians have played tug-of-war over this place for generations, and yet, in one of history’s great absurdities, these crags somehow manage to carve Orthodox Christian Georgia and Armenia away from the Muslim-majority north—except for Azerbaijan, which juts into the Caspian like a defiant middle finger.

We had left the sleepy village of İlisu in Azerbaijan and were hiking toward Russia, following the glacial Kurmukh-chai River as it cut deeper into the mountains, pushing forward with the simple plan of going as far as we could until someone in a furry official-looking hat stopped us.

Along the way, we met a shepherd who greeted us in a singsong Azeri. When it became clear we understood nothing, his wizened, weathered face darkened with suspicion before he switched to the language of the empire, the tongue of the Tsars. Still, nothing. Our blank stares unsettled him.

How could we not speak Russian? To unravel this mystery, or perhaps to confirm we weren’t extraterrestrials, he pulled out an old bottle of homemade honey vodka, still stamped with the fading letters CCCP and poured us each a stiff drink. Through wild gestures and, eventually, song, we pieced together his bewilderment: that someone might not speak Russian simply did not compute. It was as if we had told him the sky was not, in fact, blue. This did not fit in with his worldview.

I was reminded of this the other day while out for cañas. I don’t even remember how the conversation started, but at some point, one of the older parishioners of the bar looked over and said, “What kind of name is that? Troy? I mean, what’s it short for?”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I told him it wasn’t short for anything, it was just Troy.

“Impossible! That’s no name. There’s no San Troy. It must be short for something, like… Troncio.”

In no mood to argue, I explained that it came from the tragic city of Priam and turned back to my drink. But he wasn’t finished.

“Impossible! Troya would be female, and you have a beard!”

I tried to steer the conversation toward football or jamón, safe topics, national pillars, but no. He was deep in the trenches now, determined to restore order to a world where all proper names must have a saintly origin or at least a good Catholic ring to them.

Finally, he delivered his verdict. “You need a real proper name.” He thought for a moment, then grinned over his half empty glass of Veterano. “Something like… Manolo.”

“Sí, Manolo!” A name as sturdy as a pair of alpargatas, as dependable as a midday siesta. The matter was settled and he ordered another drink.

I nodded and accepted my fate. After all, at least he didn’t suggest Jesús.

Imagine if I had told him my surname?