The Empire of Ashes

Today is October 12. The calendar calls it the “Day of Hispanity.” I call it the day of obsessive nostalgia, the black mass of an empire that only exists in dusty books and in the fragile dreams of wounded identities.

It disguises itself as a national holiday, but it is nothing more than a trick of cheap magic: turning genocides into heroic deeds, turning looting into glory, turning millions of deaths into pride. This is not memory: it is political necrophilia.

They say it commemorates the “union of peoples under Hispanity.” A lie. What it commemorates is the forced silence, the cut tongue, the imposed cross, the empty mine and the enslaved body. It is a narrative built not to remember, but to feel superior.

But who needs to feel superior in this way? Only those with such fragile identity that they must get drunk on myths in order not to face real problems. While people starve, while cities collapse, while the youth escapes… some prefer to wave a flag and dance on graves.

October 12 is the liturgy of a state that refuses to grow up. A state that looks backward with pride because it is too afraid to look forward with courage. A state that celebrates ashes while life slips through its hands.

So I say: there is nothing to celebrate. There is nothing in the pain of others that can ever be a source of pride. The future cannot be built with parades or flags. The future must be built with dignity — and dignity does not rise from the ashes of empire, but from the living memory of those who still resist.

Let those who shout “Viva España” today listen well: the echo of their voice is not the future. It is only the fading reverberation of a dead empire.