One of Us

My bit on the ongoing creep of 'one of us' thought here in Spain and around the world in the next stage of the Camino a Ítaca. Read the English below or click over to the original published in el Hoy. Tambien se puede ver el original en castellano abajo en PDF.

I have to admit that I didn’t even know that something like Eurovision even existed until I had actually lived in Spain for a few years. When I did finally discover it though, it was like a revelation. It was as if I had discovered the secret root of all of the stereotypes propagated for the past thirty years about the ‘old continent’ in Hollywood movies and TV. You had everything to choose from, morose Germans dressed in black bouncing away totechno beats, angry-looking yet somehow friendly Finns, playing actual instruments, growling over a death metal dirge and at least one retro-traditional, uncomfortable looking outfit that has not actually been seen in its home country in at least 150 years. I had found the secret source of inspiration that comedians like Mike Meyers and Sacha Baron Cohen had been drawing from without ever having to move from their sofas.  

My discovery came long after Eurovision was popular enough to launch the careers of singers like Spain’s own Julio Iglesias or give bands like ABBA the chance to change the meaning of Waterloo forever. It was at the turn of the century and just before the massive shift towards songs in English took over the competition. A move that turned the once popular show into something that now vaguely resembles cruise ship entertainment with unfamiliar accents trying to sing vaguely familiar sounding words. But even still, there is something endearing about Byelorussian Butterflies, bearded drag queens from Austria and transgendered women dressed as birds from Israel. It was all so exotically European that I felt like the Griswolds discovering an mysterious continent from my own sofa.

But wait, Israel? Had I missed something? Wasn’t this competition about Europe? I’ve seen the Caucasus from the southern side, crossed through the Urals and sailed across the Bosphorous and am pretty sure that, no matter how strong their lobbies are, Israel is at least a thousand kilometres south of Istanbul. They can be guests along with Morocco, Australia and other countries beyond the continent, but by definition, they can never be one of us.

One of us, a phrase that’s increasingly heard in these dark days of identity politics. Times when groups from both extremes of the spectrum gather around a diaphanous concept of shared identity while inflating differences between one of us and lo nuestro (ours) from those who don’t belong to the tribe. It’s a much darker nationalism than the spandex outfits of Eurovision. I’ve never shared the aversion that many Spaniards have for their flag, but I do have to admit that some of the flag waving last Monday carried portents of danger ahead.

What do people waving fascist flags really want? A return…but a return to what? Are the the poor souls floating across the Mediterranean an invasion designed to steal their jobs and weaken their healthcare? Or is it that a fellow ‘patriot’ is outsourcing them? Is the evil-empire Soros gang really coming to implant chips in our brains, burn down churches and eviscerate ‘our’ religion? Or is the bronze-age faith really something as European as the Israeli women dressed as birds? Something about as much ‘ours’ as Ralph Lauren, ironed Levis and made-in-China flags.

The next time lo nuestro comes up, take a minute to reflect on just how ‘ours’ it really is.

Bring on the Buddha

Christ the king, Swiebodzin, Poland

This week's Camino a Ítaca reflects on giant Buddha's and takes us to a frozen, muddy field in western Poland to see a Marvel-inspired Jesus. Read the original Spanish piece here or the English below. Tambien se puede ver el original en castellano abajo en PDF.

I first caught a glimpse of it beyond the dormant fields and stands of naked poplar trees as the train sped towards its birthplace in neighbouring Germany. It was a speck of rare whiteness that contrasted with the perennial grey that blots out the sun during the long northern European winters. The barrenness of the landscape seemed indecent, almost obscene without a white blanket, but since the climate began to change, only rarely do the fields get dusted in white.  

An hour earlier we had escaped the acrid, coal-flavoured air of Poznan for the fresher, albeit bitingly cold wind of the small town of Swiebodzin in western Poland. Our goal was to get a closer look at that white speck. The idea was hatched the previous evening over a dinner of Ukrainian pierogis and wine from La Mancha. We were going to take an hour-long train ride out into the Polish countryside and look deeper into the national psyche.

It was a good thing I had spotted that speck from the train because as we stepped off into the cold, there were no indications telling us which way to go and no one to ask on the deserted streets. We crossed over the tracks and headed in the general direction towards what I thought I had seen. After all, if it really was as big as they say, it should be easy enough to spot.

Smaller towns here are mostly made up of detached homes interspersed with Chruszczowka  or soviet-style apartment blocks. Outside the main squares though, finding a bar or cafeteria to ask for directions and a fortifying nip is almost mission impossible.

A break in the trees on the left and across a muddy field, there it was. A 400 tonne statue, perched on a man-made mound and standing in a familiar pose, arms outstretched as if to embrace the Tesco supermarket across the road.

This was no Christ the Redeemer. The Girl from Ipanema definitely didn’t come to mind and the sounds I heard in my head were more like martial Wagnerian marches. Its gargantuan,  chiselled and squarish body, combined wth the slight scowl on its face, didn’t exactly radiate peace. It's look gave off something else, like the hint of a warning. The only identifying mark beyond its stance was the three-metre-high gold lamé crown festooned with crosses. This Christ wasn’t patterned after El Greco, Raphael or even Warner Sallman’s 20^th century kitsch, this is more Marvel comics.

But that’s exactly why we had come. The odds of a St. Paul in Damascus moment for either of the non-believing brothers were slim if not impossible from the start. We were pilgrims of another sort. We had come precisely to see why someone would spend millions of euros to build, what is contentiously, the tallest statue of Christ in the world. A giant elephant with its back turned to the main motorway to Berlin in what amounted to the middle of nowhere.

The only other soul around was a man on the other side of the road selling fireworks in the lead up to New Year’s Eve. So, as we sheltered from the wind eating our sandwiches we had luckily packed, I reflected on the recently announced news that Caceres was soon be home of a giant Buddha. Road to Damascus moments or their equivalent Bodhisattva’s will surely be few but what about hipsters making pilgrimages from Lisbon, Madrid and beyond? One thing’s for sure, they’ll be able to find a bar on their way.