In the corridors of Brussels -that hybrid ecosystem between technocracy, expensive coffee and measured-smile diplomacy- journalists talk. They always talk. And when they lower their voices in huddles, far from microphones and cameras, the tone is usually more revealing than any official press conference.
It is not necessary to be a journalist to perceive the buzz. It is enough to listen. Correspondents, both Spanish and foreign, agree on an impression that is no longer expressed with surprise, but with a mixture of resignation and sarcasm: with the Spanish Government, getting informed has become an exercise in archaeology. One has to excavate, interpret fragments, reconstruct contexts… and even so, the result usually resembles a hypothesis more than an explanation.
Some summarize it with irony: “when Spain speaks in Brussels, it does so better in English than in Spanish… and better for abroad than for home”. Others, more direct, describe it as a perfectly calibrated strategy: maximum international exposure, minimum domestic accountability. In any case, the conclusion is shared: the relationship with the press is not going through its best moment.
And that is especially noticeable where it should be most taken care of: in Europe.
Outside the M30
There are governments that appear, explain, and respond. And then there is the Spanish Government when it crosses the Pyrenees: it talks a lot, but not necessarily to whom it should.
In Brussels - that place where, in theory, an increasing part of national policy is decided - information flows with a peculiar inverse logic. The more important the meeting, the fewer explanations arrive home. The more relevant the decision, the more sophisticated the silence.
The result is a model that could be defined as soft information closure: asking is not prohibited, it simply becomes increasingly difficult to do so under useful conditions. There is no explicit censorship; there is something more effective: control of access, timing, and context. It is a kind of information diet: food is not eliminated, but the portion is reduced so much that one ends up malnourished without realizing it.
While other European governments detail positions, anticipate debates, and report to their parliaments, the Spanish Executive seems to have opted for a different strategy: communicating outwards and rationing inwards. Letters to international newspapers, carefully targeted opinion pieces for foreign public opinion, presence in global forums… all of this contrasts with an increasingly distant – if not directly harsh – relationship with the national press and with internal control mechanisms.
More Europe?
The paradox is evident: there has never been so much Europeanist rhetoric and, at the same time, so little political pedagogy about Europe within Spain. Brussels is constantly invoked, but Brussels is explained just enough. As if the European Union were a useful backdrop, but not a space that requires transparency.
The summits of Heads of State and Government are the perfect example of this choreography. In theory, these are key moments: economic decisions, strategic agreements, negotiations that directly affect millions of citizens. In practice, the scene increasingly resembles a theatrical performance of limited duration and a closed script.
The president appears - especially when the wind is in his favor and he can present himself as the leader of a European decision -, wraps himself in the agreement, nationalizes it and exhibits it as his own. But when that prominence is diluted - increasingly often -, when his room for maneuver in Brussels narrows due to a unilateral, scarcely communicative style based on faits accomplis intended more for internal electoral consumption than for consensus with his European partners, then his presence becomes more elusive. He appears - when he does -, makes a statement, summarizes and leaves. The questions - when there are any - sometimes seem like an ornamental element, a protocol concession rather than a real exercise of control. It is the political equivalent of those restaurants where the waiter recommends the menu of the day… but does not allow changes or questions about the ingredients.
Europe, in this sense, has become a perfect scenario: far enough away to dilute national media pressure, complex enough to justify opacity. An ideal combination for practicing what could be called selective transparency: what is convenient is shown, what is uncomfortable is omitted, and everything is wrapped in technical language that deactivates the interest of the average citizen.
In that context, the relationship with journalists not only cools down: it degrades. It is no longer solely about lack of information, but about attitude. The snubs, the evasions and, on occasion, the bad manners replace the normal interlocution in a mature democracy.
Albares appears
The case of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, José Manuel Albares, deserves its own chapter, almost like an involuntary masterclass on how to strain -to the limit- the relationship with the press without completely breaking it. His encounters with journalists have left scenes that, in other countries, would provoke more than institutional discomfort: they would raise eyebrows, headlines and, probably, some parliamentary explanation or other, while here they have been normalizing as one gets used to a constant background noise.
Evasive answers, barely disguised impatience, and a peculiar tendency to treat an uncomfortable question as if it were an impertinence or a breach of protocol define a style in which it is not so much what is said, but that refined art of saying nothing while appearing to do the opposite. And, as a less visible but more eloquent complement, come the calls, the discreet touches, the always opportune "suggestions" to certain media outlets to modulate the dissemination of information or soften uncomfortable approaches: nothing explicit, nothing easily demonstrable, but clear enough for the recipient. Thus, the uncomfortable question is no longer just evaded in public, but an attempt is made to neutralize it even before it exists, in a version of diplomacy where managing foreign policy seems to increasingly include managing who tells it and how.
In the corridors of Brussels, these types of attitudes do not go unnoticed. On the contrary: they are commented on, they are compared and, on occasion, they become the object of that acidic humor so characteristic of the guild. Because if European journalism has anything, it is memory… and a certain inclination to detect patterns.
And the pattern, in this case, starts to be clear: fewer questions, fewer answers, and more controlled narrative.
Fighting against disinformation?
All of this coexists, moreover, with an official discourse focused on the fight against disinformation. A laudable cause, no doubt. But also dangerously elastic. Because when power arrogates to itself the ability to define what is valid information and what is not, the line between combating hoaxes and controlling the narrative begins to dangerously blur.
The temptation is evident: if the problem is disinformation, the solution seems to be to centralize information. And if it is centralized, it is inevitably filtered. And if it is filtered, someone decides. And when someone decides what is told and what is not, we are no longer talking only about communication, but about power.
The most interesting -and worrying- thing is that this model does not need big headlines or obvious scandals. There are no media closures, there are no explicit prohibitions, there are no dramatic images. There is something much more subtle: a progressive erosion of control mechanisms.
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Spain, it is worth remembering, is not Hungary or Poland. We are not facing a model of open confrontation with the press. But we are also not in the club of countries where transparency is almost boring in its routine. We move, rather, in an intermediate zone, a kind of democratic twilight where the forms are maintained, but the substance begins to dilute.
And that is where the problem becomes more difficult to point out… and easier to ignore.
Because the Government speaks. It speaks a lot. It speaks in international forums, in selected interviews, in carefully chosen platforms. But speaking is not the same as being accountable. Communicating is not the same as explaining. And, above all, issuing messages is not the same as accepting questions.
Beyond sarcasm
In the end, the question is not whether there is information. There is. The question is who controls the flow, at what moment, and with what margin for reply. And on that terrain, the balance begins to tilt dangerously towards a model in which the journalist ceases to be an uncomfortable but necessary interlocutor… to become a dispensable element.
Perhaps that is why, in the circles of Brussels, irony has become the best thermometer. When journalists joke about how difficult it is to get answers, when they compare national styles with a certain reserve, when sarcastic commentary replaces serious analysis… it is usually because something is not working as it should.
And the worrying thing is not that jokes are made. The worrying thing is that it is no longer surprising. Because in a democracy, transparency should not be an optional virtue or a communication strategy. It should simply be the norm. And when it ceases to be, silence - however sophisticated it may be - begins to make too much noise.