Fly-Away Manual for a Shooting Star

Pedro Sánchez’s star — once brightly shining among the European progressive constellations — now appears caught in an irreversible spiral, drawn inexorably toward a political black hole. Like matter consumed by cosmic gravity, Sánchez and large swaths of the PSOE are being pulled into what will become a dark chapter in their history. The government spins around its own axis, hurled outward in every direction, ejecting pieces at high velocity or pulling collaborators into the gravitational centre only to send them crashing into each other like runaway particles. The result is the same: chaos bordering on collective hysteria.

In galactic terms, Sánchez is being dragged toward a black hole; in political terms, he is spiralling toward public ridicule. At this juncture, the president has only two paths left: to resist — like a star that merely delays its eventual collapse with absurd gestures — or to pursue another natural destiny: becoming a shooting star. Shooting stars, let’s be honest, are such precisely because they flee. You have to have a keen eye to see them, and then — suddenly — they’re gone, Pedro. Gone.

The best thing Sánchez could do is prepare something with style. It must not be ruled out. He has friends in places where there is still shade from the sun of “sanchismo.”

Of course, the idea of escaping might seem extreme for a European head of government. But Pedro was never exactly orthodox. He has always been, and remains, a sentimental anomaly: a prime minister who confuses authority with artifice, governance with algorithm, and foreign policy with the contacts list of José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero.

With the collapse imminent, the best Sánchez could do is flee with some dignity. He has friends in the Caribbean who have always managed to coexist with charming yet contradictory leaders. In Gaza, too, he could be welcomed as an authorized voice of lost Western progressivism. And in Venezuela, Zapatero already has a sofa ready. Nicolás Maduro — grateful for so many rhetorical omissions and functional silences — could arrange him an embassy, an NGO, or a television slot on Telesur.

Meanwhile, Sánchez’s political course runs contrary to that of his European counterparts. While the rest of Europe seeks to reclaim the political centre after the populist tide, he courts the ideological periphery with the enthusiasm of an adolescent. His alliances are not with Olaf Scholz, Emmanuel Macron, or the German Greens — they are with Carles Puigdemont, Arnaldo Otegi, Yolanda Díaz, and figures who, in any other democratic constellation, would not even enter the system.

This is no secret. Sánchez today is more isolated than the Voyager 1 spacecraft. And he does not yet know it — but even those closest to him already have evacuation plans.

In Spain, the worst is yet to come: desertions, abandonments, and revenge will accelerate. They have trodden on many toes and left many fingerprints on the glass of La Moncloa’s windows: signed many papers full of short words and long numbers — and they even recorded it all, or allowed it to be recorded. The evidence now piles up nearly as much as it did against Cristina Fernández de Kirchner in Argentina, a comparison drawn without intention to offend but to illuminate the parallel.

There are no narratives left that enchant. Masks fall, lines unravel, the troops disorder. Journalists are boarding lifeboats — for now rowing slowly so it’s not noticeable. There are ministers fighting among themselves, spokespeople stammering, and a widespread sensation that the president is no longer present — or worse: he is there, but it doesn’t matter.

The best option is to flee — and to do so swiftly and with courage. Flee, Pedro. Let the universe be gentle to you.