The Cowardice of the Emperor

The president appeared before the Senate as if he were wearing the invisible robe of his own impunity. But we all saw him naked.

Pedro Sánchez appeared before the Senate last week over the Koldo affair. It was, in theory, a session to clarify political responsibilities. But what we saw was not transparency, but an exercise in evasion. A president who speaks without saying anything, who answers without responding, who hides behind the phrase that perfectly sums up his way of governing: ‘I do not recall.’

Again, and again, and again.

Until those three words became the portrait of a Spain tired of hearing lies.

Sánchez did not come to offer explanations, but simply to get through the session. He showed the arrogance of someone who believes himself above public scrutiny. And in doing so, he revealed himself for what he truly is: a naked emperor who still believes his invisible robe dazzles others. But no one is fooled anymore. We all saw it. We all understood.

The mantra of “I do not recall”

Saying ‘I do not recall’ is not merely an evasion; it is a cowardly way of denying reality without lying outright. He takes no risks, neither affirming nor denying: he simply hides. Whoever says it is not seeking truth, but impunity.

And if he truly doesn’t recall, then he is incompetent. Because a president who ignores what happens in his party, in his government, and in his own family cannot remain in office.

Either he lies or he does not govern. In both cases, the result is the same: a country without leadership and with a power emptied of responsibility.

Cowardice in Spain is no longer an accident: it is a system.

It has become a habit.

We see it in his partners who call themselves brave while fleeing through the back door. In the separatists who escaped in a car boot. In those who once called themselves revolutionaries and now live off parliamentary blackmail. And in the terrorists who shot their victims in the back because they never dared to look them in the eyes.

All share the same root: fear, cowardice, and contempt for the truth.

The clown of the circus

During his appearance, Sánchez described the Senate committee as a ‘circus’. And he was right, though not in the way he thought: in that circus there was only one clown, and he was sitting at the podium.

For insulting the Senate is to insult the democracy that sustains you. And doing so with a self-satisfied smile is not courage; it is fear disguised as arrogance.

That attitude does not stem from bravery, but from panic—panic that the narrative will collapse, that people will see what is obvious: the invisible robe does not exist.

We all saw it: answering without answering, hiding behind technicalities, laughing at an entire country. And yet, there are still those who applaud him, like the courtiers in the tale, pretending admiration out of fear or convenience.

A lie always needs accomplices.

The limit of the farce

Sánchez is not the first cowardly president, nor will he be the last. But he symbolises, more than anyone, this era of Teflon politics, where nothing sticks and everything is justified. Once, decency required resignation; today, shamelessness is rewarded.

A lie is applauded if said calmly.

Arrogance is mistaken for leadership.

And meanwhile, public dignity dissolves.

The saddest thing is that this cowardice is not only his; it belongs to the entire system. No government can survive on lies without the passive consent of its citizens.

Each ‘I do not recall’ echoes in millions who repeat ‘it makes no difference; they’re all the same’. And that resignation is the worst form of complicity: that of a people who stop demanding truth.

In the end, Andersen’s tale repeats itself. The emperor parades, the people stay silent, and only a few dare to speak.

But every farce has a limit.

One day, someone—a journalist, an MP, or an ordinary citizen—will again say the obvious: ‘The emperor has no clothes.’ That day, applause and polls will not matter. What will matter is that someone, at last, had the courage to speak the truth.

And perhaps then we shall remember that in Spain one does not govern with words, but with honour.