Greek mythology tells that Sisyphus was condemned to ceaselessly push a rock to the top of a mountain, from which the stone would fall again under its own weight. His punishment, that of carrying out a useless task, was worse than oblivion or banishment, because even Sisyphus himself in his ignorance thought he was carrying out an enterprise worthy of the mandate of the gods. The sentence included the frustrated deception of believing that everything made sense, that he would find a reward when the rock finally rested on the top of the mountain. Imagine Sisyphus going down the slope to start again, focused on making this time the definitive one.
Coalición Canaria in Lanzarote is angry and upset because Fernando Castro Borrego's book was not distributed when they, former inhabitants of the Island Government Council, deemed it appropriate to do so. They express their discomfort as best they can: by posing as martyrs, becoming false champions of freedom of expression, or even denouncing in those media that continue to laugh at their jokes (luckily, less and less) a Judeo-Masonic conspiracy orchestrated by a foundation that serves sour milk, a cyclist who got a flat tire, the brother-in-law who tells anecdotes on Christmas Eve, and I don't know who else. Grotesque.
They, who persecuted Cabildo workers for opposing their patrimonial and territorial excesses, those who used the Cabildo's resources to give a Chavista kick in the door to a private company, those who intimidated all those who did not want to accept the schemes that the regime provided, those who ended up leaving the institution's prestige summarized in embarrassing judicial accusations.
The disguise of suffering activists for Human Rights is tremendously large for Coalición Canaria with the recent curriculum they have behind them. Honestly, no one imagines that Pedro San Ginés has changed his flowery and remembered dictatorial tics in the government, for an affiliation sheet of Amnesty International and the little fist raised. It doesn't work.
The real reason why Coalición is like this is because they see one of their main objectives during their years in office truncated: the emptying of Manrique's figure and the lamination of his historical projection as a Lanzarote hero.
Manrique continues to be the antithesis of the model of compulsive consumption of territory and nature that has been fueled within Coalición for several decades. The myth of Manrique and his legacy, impregnated in Lanzarote society, are the greatest counterweight faced by the political-business cartel that wanted to turn, and still longs to, this island into a disgusting theme park. Because it is unmanageable, the figure of César, especially his political variable, which they try to hide through boring harangues, generates uncontrollable spasms in Coalición, materialized in melting public money in a celebration festival that ended up being a requiem, or in now releasing the black habit and the ax to become penitents before the general laughter.
There is frustration, and I understand it humanly. Coalición, in its mentioned and obsessive company of disfiguring the island that we are through manipulating the figure of César and his legacy, has been left alone, if anything with Podemos. Gone are the forced applause in El Charco de San Ginés that pretended to disguise as adhesion the blackmail of a frightened civil society, and only in the privacy of a few is remembered that feeling of impunity that no longer exists. The time when heads were cut off with a whistle or with disastrous smear campaigns led by locals and strangers, has passed.
Now there is only the noise of a former president who resolves his wounded ego through tantrums in the plenary sessions, publications on social networks of very dependent independents, and some supposed theorist, very controversial in the Academy, eager to get his dose of protagonism through what remains of a regime in its death throes.
The worst came when Sisyphus realized that whatever he did, the rock would always fall once it reached the top and he would have to lift it again fruitlessly. Once aware that his mission was a punishment, he did not flinch, nor did he sadden, he learned to find the ignorant pleasure of pushing a stone uphill. The great tragedy is not his physical suffering but the smiling acceptance of his destiny, Sisyphus was happy with his miserable and absurd destiny.
