Can it be written that Sánchez deals with blood, that he stains the recent memory of our democracy, that he prostitutes our system for a handful of votes, those necessary to continue in the photocall that La Moncloa has become? The journalistic norms recommend firmness but always with moderation, that if the message must arrive clearly, it should do so in terms of political and professional correctness. My apologies go ahead for what I typed and what remains to be typed in this column, which is the opinion of a pen that has known ETA’s terror very closely, has felt its bombs, known the threats of a hitman who told me that my pen terrorism would pay
with my blood and has cursed each one of the hooded men who attacked his cousin, among others, when he was just a tadpole.
Look, that everyone manage their pain and their ability to forgive as they please, all that was missing. Who are we to tell the victims and their relatives how to do it, are we going to get exquisite now when we twist the memory of fifty years ago and throw away and treat the victims of the day before yesterday as plague-stricken? Yes, those that now annoy so much what Sánchez and his henchmen cunningly call the architects of a peace project. Which one? You are so vomitively cowardly that you use linguistic meanders to dress up an uncomfortable, disgusting and as execrable truth as your moral chameleon of political puppeteers. Yours is the marketing of our worst memories and regrets, of the historical heritage of a country, of which you should be the safeguard and custodian so that the flame never goes out, so that as a cliff it remains chiseled in each public square that during the years of lead some put the nape of the neck and others, vermin, wielded the weapon.
It’s true, we are very tiresome, the crooked line of your obscene show of butchers presented as peacemakers and victims mistreated as if they were to blame. I write from the rage of a memory that I don’t erase because among other things I don’t want to, I refuse. The image of my aunt as a pieta, counting her son’s extremities, celebrating with us through the window of that hospital that my cousin was miraculously whole. Bah, Sánchez, simple and annoying memory, one more among hundreds, right? Insufficient of course to spoil the party, the barbecue at the Palace with your colleagues to whom you give doctrine and give jobs at the expense of ours.
Yes, I know I shouldn’t but here are the reasons to write what I think about Pedro Sánchez. You see, in something I differ from that guy, I write what I think, I don’t lie.