Last Thursday's cinematic flood of migrants into Spain's north African enclave of Ceuta didn't just test border security - it gave Europe's far right a chance to dust off their alarm bells and ring them at maximum volume. EU leaders, never ones to miss a chance for a group project, swiftly blamed Spanish PM Pedro Sánchez's liberal immigration policies for the chaos. A letter, organized by Italy and Denmark and signed by 22 EU heads of government, argued that Europe must "[address] all policies that can serve as pull factors" - because apparently, regularizing a million undocumented migrants is like putting out a welcome mat for a stampede.
Sánchez, ever the diplomat, fired back, calling out the "prejudice, misinformation and attacks" from his peers. But his defiance, and Brussels' frantic attempts to look united, couldn't hide the fact that Spain was left to handle its southern border crisis in splendid isolation. Sánchez may have strutted on the world stage lately, especially with his opposition to the US war on Iran, but Ceuta exposed the shrinking room for his progressive foreign policy. And here's the kicker: Sánchez's cozying up to Morocco's repressive monarchy over Western Sahara sits awkwardly with his otherwise noble stances on Palestine, Ukraine, and Iran. Ceuta is where his values go to die.
This isn't the first rodeo on that militarized border. In 2021, after 10,000 mostly Moroccan citizens breezed in within 48 hours, the European Parliament passed a resolution accusing Morocco of using them as pawns to "exert political pressure against Spain." Last week's tragedy, which killed at least 141 people, bore the same hallmarks of coercive diplomacy. Reports of Moroccan border guards not only failing to resist but actively encouraging the crossing? That's straight from the playbook Morocco's been using for a decade: relax border enforcement when diplomatic tensions spike, watch the humans surge, and let the chaos speak for you.
So why the different tune this time? Because Europe's shifted right, and Sánchez is now the odd progressive out. Italy's Giorgia Meloni isn't alone in treating the crisis as a chance to push harder on migration. The internal divisions have just highlighted Europe's geopolitical weakness: facing what looks like a hybrid attack on a member state, the EU couldn't coordinate a unified response. Meanwhile, Sánchez's government was caught napping, perhaps overconfident after refusing the US access to its airbases during the Iran war. Prominent Republicans had already suggested Trump retaliate by backing Morocco's claims to Ceuta and Melilla. With US-Spain relations in the toilet and Morocco becoming Trump's BFF in the region, the regime in Rabat got the green light to poke the border again.
And Washington's meddling didn't stop at trade threats. The Department of Homeland Security, in a move straight out of a spy thriller, handed Spanish investigators messages from a cloned phone suggesting former PM José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero lobbied for a pandemic-era loan for an airline with Venezuelan ties. The political motivation was as subtle as a sledgehammer, and the ensuing scandal killed Sánchez's anti-war momentum, as Zapatero, a key ally, faced formal investigation. The Maga universe's pile-on over Ceuta suggests more political targeting ahead of Spain's next general election. Vox, Spain's fastest-growing party, polls in the high teens and remains uncritically pro-Trump, ready to partner with any rightwing alternative.
Sánchez, with that threat looming, has chosen pragmatism over confrontation with Morocco, sending most of the estimated 72,000 arrivals back within 24 hours. But this approach has a track record: the 2021-22 crisis ended with Sánchez abandoning Spanish neutrality on Western Sahara to back Morocco's autonomy plan. Last week's events suggest that accommodation didn't buy lasting stability. His leftwing coalition partner, Sumar, is pushing for a tougher stance, even refusing to co-host the 2030 World Cup with Morocco. Morocco's motives? Likely a mix of pique over Sánchez's visit to Algeria (their rival in Western Sahara) and a reminder that Madrid's north African policy dances to Rabat's tune on migration. Plus, there's the long game: advancing claims on Ceuta and Melilla, with the strait of Gibraltar gaining geopolitical importance.
At the crisis's peak, transport minister Óscar Puente posted that he wanted Spain to be "a sovereign nation in an interconnected world, not a subsidiary of Trump or Netanyahu." Sánchez has indeed been the most outspoken western leader against Washington, rejecting the 5% defence spending target, pushing to end the EU's association agreement with Israel, and courting China and the global south. It's not radicalism; it's a bet that Spain's future lies in adapting to new global economic powers rather than clinging to the old Atlantic order. Ceuta, however, is a stark reminder that such bets can go horribly wrong.