I pondered on the last day of Hispanidad that what I like the most about being Spanish is that here no authority or situation forces you to be a patriot. The same is not the case in all countries. There are those where you have no choice but to say that you respect your flag and learn the anthem in case it starts to sound anywhere, for example in a stadium, don’t go looking like an idiot while 200,000 people hum with the face of a dead soldier . There are countries where, in fact, it is mandatory to sing the anthem in schools. That Spain is so lazy with patriot cards could be my only reason for becoming one.
With the World Cup and with the approval of gay marriage (two championships that Spain won), I was close. Fortunately, 2017 arrived with its overdose of flags. The vaccine inoculates the inactivated virus and generates an immune response, and this is what happened to me that year. If there was any hint of nationalism or patriotism in me, it disappeared on that strenuous date. The credit went to Puigdemont, that broke the test tube and spread the banderile passions throughout Spain. It turned out that the Catalan passion and spanish passion they were little distinguished. Of that gastric fluid Abascal fed, which now goes around the provinces saying who is good and bad Spanish, as Puigdemont does with the Catalans.
I like being Spanish if nobody forces me to raise my fist, or wave my arm
I like being Spanish precisely because of how lazy they give me Abascales and Puigdemones, without realizing it, leafing through Carandell to reflect on the authentic, reading Olmos to reflect on the shabby, looking at Berlanga to reflect on the endless grotesque, fanned out by the windmills, or by the last of Sergio del Molino. I like being Spanish if nobody forces me to raise my fist, or wave my arm: doing nothing. The truth is, there are not too many countries where doing nothing makes you an exemplary aboriginal, but here it is. Spanishize more to take a nap Than hitting voices at a Vox rally.
Watching patriots lose their papers is my compass. Example: I saw in Barcelona, on October 12, a demonstration going down the Ramblas on the way to the statue of Columbus. They were protesting against Hispanidad and against Spain, so I knew quickly that they were all patriots. About what? Of something. I went to browse and there was no surprise: flags. There were Andean, Bolivian, Aztec, and also a lot of stelae. What did he tell you? There is no patriot who does not efforts to detract from the homeland of another, and so Pablo Iglesias he put on a stick when he thought he saw a republican flag in the sky over King Felipe VI. Because if Spain is full of something, to our misfortune, it is patriots who believe otherwise.
The case of Iglesias, a patriot of a Spain with a purple trim, is, like the case of the patriot Abascal or that of the patriot Puigdemont, proof that patriots tend to be patriots only on one side, of a vision or faction of the homeland. A) Yes, Instead of unifying, they separate and split the countries, either due to territorial issues or ideological pedigree, and they value others as good or bad natives according to the degree of resemblance they bear with themselves. We are precisely the others, the de-patriotized among so much patriot, who we consider so “ours” Falangist Rafael García Serrano who likes Abascal like the red Alberti who likes Iglesias or the Catalan Calders who likes Puigdemont. Without the myth of the bearer Spain, everything is ours, even Kátia Guerreiro, who is Portuguese.
Given the hoaxes that are circulating, I have to categorically deny any implication on my part that the Eagle Patrol has painted the republican flag in the sky of Madrid 😇 pic.twitter.com/X74qD4VNyd
– Pablo Iglesias 🔻 (@PabloIglesias) October 12, 2021
In this demonstration on October 12 that I was telling you, by the way, I was also thinking something else: that today you can be a patriot of so many new flags that soon neither countries will be needed. One can be one of the autonomous communities, the provinces, the cities, the gender, the sexual orientation, the ideology, the dead languages and even the race, that concept as nineteenth-century as the nation. There are even patriots of themselves and no one else, egopatriots, we will say, The danger of those of us who are free! Because it is common for one to flee from one Ithaca and end up, without realizing it, muddy in another.
And I was also thinking about something else, in the demonstration, I say: that Spain has done very well without patriots for the past 40 years. Here we have prospered more thanks to the European Union than to stabilization plans and swamps. The politicians and businessmen who turned us into a developed country were experts in avoiding fortunes to third countries, So the last thing you could call them is patriots, but how much good they did the homeland. What auditoriums, what roads, what democratic elections! In fact, in Spain patriots proliferate when money runs out, in moments of panic and agony, in serious crises: they left in 1898, in 1931, in 2021 … Bad sign the patriot in Spainlike the low-flying rook.
Rodrigo Alés. Miami
Anyway. Samuel Johnson said that patriotism is the refuge of scoundrels. The phrase has been used a lot, Juan Bas came up with an excellent novel, but it is no refuge, on the contrary! If patriotism were a refuge we could drift overhead, absentmindedly, whistling, without some guy with a Braveheart painted face starting to yell at our ear with a pole in each hand or worse, a vuvuzela. Seeing the climbers who manage to become famous with flags, I would rather say that patriotism is the springboard of the scoundrels.
And I already say, I don’t care what flag you put in their hands, what color is the patriotic heartburn, that Calleja used to say. Someone who believes that the land they were born in is better than the land foreign patriots were born in tends to be wrong, because only one could be right, and I highly doubt that is the case. The proof that patriotism is a bit gratuitous is that there are also patriots in Somalia, just as passionate as those here, so puffed up with pride, so bellied. But the problem is not Spain, not Moldova, not even Somalia. The problem is the heart: the biggest scoundrel. Whoever married a monstrosity said at some point “I do.”