The Gulf of Fragile Masculinity

It has begun, even on this side of the Atlantic. The pernicious slide into self-censorship has started to happen in the press. Lately I have been publishing my Camino a Ítaca articles in Spanish, as always, in the HOY but have also been publishing them in English in the SUR in English. But it seems that this week's was a step too far for the outlet in English and they decided not to publish it. 
True, it could be for other reasons, but unfortunately it seems clear that it was done not to rock the boat, precisely when the boat desperately needs to be shaken up. I'm afraid it's not coming, it's already here. Click over to see the Spanish version in the HOY, who were brave enough to publish it or read the longer, condemned piece in English below.

Rising up in the southeastern corner of Türkiye, the toothy Zagros mountains briefly zigzag like the hose of a hookah pipe down the partition dividing the Kurdish lands of Iran and Iraq. They then cleave through the eminent domain of the Ayatollahs until the chain withers out in the barren deserts bordering one of the world’s most vital sea passages, the Strait of Hormuz. From its southern flanks the arid plains of Marvdasht unroll like a dusty Persian carpet that blankets some of the most ancient settlements known to humankind.

Some 60kms to the northeast of Shiraz, a series of broken columns rise out of these plains, standing as a mute testament to the transience of imperial ambition. The pulse of history once beat here in Persepolis. The Achaemenid Empire ruled an estimated 44% of the population on Earth. Hollywoodized rulers like Cyrus the Great, Darius and Xerxes issued decrees from these ruins that were felt as far away as modern-day Crimea, Afghanistan and Somaliland.

Today only the wind polishes the bas-reliefs that lead up the grand stairway to the empty audience hall. Sumptuously robed figures from 23 nations are depicted bringing precious gifts in tribute to the absolute despot. Elaborate yet subjugated ambassadors frozen in stone while contributing the wealth of their nations to a deified foreign ruler. A ruler that himself would be subjugated in 330 BCE by another apotheotic King. A ruler named Alexander.

Fast forward to today and we see the return ofsupposed Roman salutes. There are rumors of gigantic orange phallus sightings around the world. Romanesque fetishes, erected in tribute to an autocrat promising a return to expansionism and greatness, no matter the conflicting reports given by the prostitutes and pornstars he paid off.

From the Casa Rosada to the Via Appia and the Calles Genova and, of course, Bambu, far right leaders and wannabe autocratical satraps are falling over themselves for the privilege to climb the White House steps and kiss the ring.

These sycophants will do anything to indulge the petulant tangerine tyrant, even if it means eschewing their national interests amidst his threats of protectionism and raised tariffs. They share a religious conviction that the Orange Clown’s return is a victory against wokeness and the perceived ills of empathy and political correctness. For them, only he can put the genie back in the bottle and time warp the West back 70 years to when everyone knew their place.

Back to a time when you could openly mock the disabled, when the only ‘good’ immigrant was one that didn’t dream of a day off, when women had to get their husband’s permission to get a passport and bled to death from coat hanger injuries in dark back rooms. A return to when it was socially acceptable to expound racist views and a time when the past was narrated as a single story complete with good white guys and bad dark guys.

But genies are non-returnable. Freedom once tasted isn’t so easily relinquished. The decent majority will realize that this movement wasn’t in fact about the price of eggs, but something much more sinister and this crass episode will just become another Darius in the dust.