In a move that has left both the Vatican’s PR department and the Canary Islands’ tourist board in a state of mild panic, Pope Leo XIV has decided to grace the archipelago with his holy presence. The official line: to ‘spotlight’ the migrant crisis on Europe’s frontier. Unofficial line: someone clearly forgot to tell him the sangria season is over.
Let’s be clear: the Canary Islands are where Europe’s conscience goes to die. A sun-soaked morgue for the dreams of thousands who brave the Atlantic in boats that make corks look seaworthy. And now, the Bishop of Rome, in his pristine white cassock (dry-clean only, probably), plans to wade into this human soup with a smile and a blessing.
I can see it now: Pope Leo, standing on a beach in Tenerife, squinting at the horizon, while a PR aide whispers, ‘Remember, Holy Father, it’s a “migrant crisis”, not a “crisis of moral cowardice”.’ He’ll shake hands with a few survivors, nod gravely at a coast guard, and then fly back to his air-conditioned apartment in Santa Marta, leaving the rest of us to wonder if anyone actually gives a damn.
But let’s not be churlish. The Pope’s visit is a masterclass in political theatre. It’s the Vatican’s way of saying, ‘We see the problem, we care, now please don’t look at our money-laundering schemes.’ The real spotlight, though, should be on the EU’s response: a symphony of buck-passing and finger-pointing that would make a Brussels bureaucrat blush.
Meanwhile, the migrants themselves? They’ll be herded into reception centres that look like they were designed by a sadist with a budget. They’ll be processed, fingerprinted, and then, if they’re lucky, given a ticket to somewhere else. The Pope’s visit will change nothing, but it will make for some cracking photo ops. Expect headlines like ‘Pontiff Plucks Pebble from Strand, Calls for Solidarity.’
I’ll be there, of course. Not to cover the story, but to observe the spectacle. I plan to interview a seagull about its views on maritime law, and perhaps challenge a cardinal to a gin-drinking contest. My expenses will be epic, my copy will be late, and my liver will never forgive me. But someone has to document this circus.
So here’s to you, Pope Leo. May your sandals stay dry and your platitudes flow freely. And to the migrants: keep swimming. Europe’s conscience may be dead, but its bureaucracy is immortal.
