On a May morning in 2021, the Spanish city of Ceuta woke to a scene that seemed pulled from a nightmare or a newsreel from another century. Thousands of people were out in the water, swimming, clinging to breakwaters, wading through shallow tide pools, their clothes soaked and heavy, some carrying children on their shoulders. They were not tourists. They were migrants who had crossed from Morocco into Ceuta, a tiny Spanish enclave on Africa’s northern coast, in a single overwhelming wave. In just a couple of days, several thousand people entered, many of them young men, some of them children, all of them exhausted and desperate. The city’s infrastructure collapsed under the strain. Locals barricaded doors, shops closed, emergency workers scrambled to find space in gyms and warehouses. The world looked on with alarm and uncertainty. At the time, it was natural to assume that this was another Moroccan pressure move, a deliberate loosening of the border control to punish Spain for its diplomatic decisions. But in the months and years that followed, the Spanish Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez began to tell a different story, one that was both more complicated and more disturbing. He did not blame Morocco. He blamed Russian and Israeli disinformation campaigns for creating the crisis, for destabilizing Spain, and for turning Ceuta into a battlefield of lies. Both countries, predictably, denied any involvement.
To understand why his claim mattered, you need to remember the raw reality of those days in Ceuta. The enclave had always been a symbol of Europe’s awkward relationship with Africa, a little Spanish outpost on the cliffs of the continent, surrounded by Morocco and looking across the Strait of Gibraltar towards Spain. For years, border changes were quiet and controlled, a matter of gates and papers. But in May 2021, the old order broke apart. According to reports, Moroccan border guards seemed to stand back or look away as hundreds of young people squeezed through gaps in the fencing, climbed over barriers, or simply walked around the rota, the metal border gate, at low tide. The Spanish police were badly outnumbered. By nightfall, the streets of Ceuta were filled with people who had no water, no food, no shelter. The Red Cross and the army distributed supplies, and local families brought blankets and clothes. At one point, Spanish soldiers were seen carrying exhausted migrants, wrapping them in towels, and placing them on stretchers. The photographs were impossible to ignore. Yet even as the emergency unfolded, the argument about who was responsible was already taking shape. Morocco’s government did not admit to opening the border, but its tone was sharp, and its diplomacy had been escalating for weeks. The underlying cause was Spain’s decision to offer hospital care to Brahim Ghali, the leader of the Polisario Front, a movement that Morocco considers a separatist threat. Morocco saw Spain’s move as an insult and an interference in its national affairs. The mass migration, many observers believed, was Morocco’s answer.
After the dust settled, the numbers were staggering: at least eight thousand people crossed into Ceuta, perhaps more, though some returned voluntarily or were sent back within days. Nearly two thousand people remained in Spanish facilities, and among them were more than a thousand unaccompanied minors. This created a separate crisis, a long legal and humanitarian struggle over whether Spain could return children to Morocco without their parents. Human rights groups filed complaints. Spanish courts overturned some deportations. In Ceuta, the atmosphere was tense and volatile. For many ordinary Spaniards, the crisis was a warning that migration could be used as a weapon, not just by smugglers or criminals, but by states. So when Sánchez spoke out, he was speaking to a frightened and confused nation. He insisted that the crisis could not be blamed on Morocco, at least not in the way people assumed. Instead, he said, there was a coordinated disinformation campaign, governed by Russian and Israeli intelligence or sympathizers, designed to destabilize Spain and Europe. The details were vague. The claim was surprising. Russia, he argued, had an interest in undermining the European Union and in creating chaos on its southern frontier. Israel, he suggested, had its own strategic reasons for inflaming tensions in the region. Both countries, of course, rejected the accusation outright. Russian officials called the statement absurd and unfounded. Israeli diplomats dismissed it as a strange fantasy. But the prime minister did not back down. For him, the Ceuta crisis was no longer a simple border problem. It was a digital battle, a war of narratives, and Spain was the target.
There is something deeply human about wanting to find a single, hidden architect behind a sudden disaster. It is reassuring to believe that the chaos was not spontaneous, that someone, somewhere, pulled the strings, because that implies the chaos can be understood and stopped. Sánchez’s theory did exactly that. It made Ceuta not a symptom of poverty, inequality, or failed borders, but a carefully designed trick, a piece of psychological warfare. There may be some truth in it. Social media certainly hummed with false reports, manipulated videos, and inflammatory messages during the crisis, and neither Russia nor Israel is innocent of running information operations abroad. Moscow, in particular, has used migration as a geopolitical tool in the past, exploiting European divisions and amplifying anti-immigrant sentiments. Israel, too, has been accused of disinformation in various international contexts, though usually in relation to its own conflicts. But the problem with Sánchez’s claim is that it was never backed by hard evidence, at least not publicly. The Spanish government did not release detailed intelligence reports or diplomatic cables to support its assertion. Instead, the story stayed at the level of accusation, a whisper of a secret campaign, a suggestion of foreign interference. That kind of story can be convenient, especially for a leader trying to keep a relationship with Morocco from falling apart while also showing the public that he was not naive. But it can also be dangerous. If the evidence is shaky, then the accusation itself becomes a form of disinformation, and the last thing Europe needs is another layer of lies in the midst of a migrant crisis.
The refusal of Russia and Israel to accept blame was not surprising. No country ever admits to running a disinformation campaign, especially against a European ally. But their denials, however strong, did not answer the deeper questions. Why would Israel, which had no obvious quarrel with Spain, want to destabilize a country with a large Muslim population and significant economic ties to the Arab world? What would Russia gain from making Spain angry at Morocco, when a fractured Europe is already useful to Moscow? The logic behind the prime minister’s claim was never fully explained. And in the absence of an explanation, many observers turned back to the simpler explanation: Morocco did it. Not because of a Russian or Israeli plot, but because Morocco had a clear motive, a clear means, and a clear history of using migration to pressure European governments. The fact that Sánchez refused to blame Morocco, and indeed later changed Spain’s position on Western Sahara, supporting Morocco’s autonomy proposal after decades of neutrality, made many people suspicious. It looked less like an intelligence breakthrough and more like a diplomatic settlement. Spain needed Morocco’s cooperation on border control. Morocco wanted Spain’s support on the Sahara. The Ceuta crisis, whichever way you read it, gave Rabat a kind of leverage. By blaming Russia and Israel, Sánchez could avoid admitting that a neighboring state had successfully manipulated Spain, and could also preserve the delicate friendship that was so crucial for trade, energy, and security. This is not to say that his claim was entirely fabricated. But as a human story, it is the story of a leader choosing a mysterious enemy over an inconvenient neighbor, and of a public left with more questions than answers.
What should we make of all this, sitting far away from Ceuta, reading the headlines and shaking our heads? The first thing is to remember the people at the center of the story. They were not pawns in a game of spies and influence. They were human beings, fleeing poverty, violence, and hopelessness. They crossed the water because they believed that even a Spanish encampment is better than the life they were leaving behind. Some of them were children, alone and terrified. The men and women of Ceuta, who saw their streets flooded with strangers, also deserve compassion; they did not ask to become a fortress gate for Europe. The crisis was a test of solidarity, management, and truth, and by many measures it was failed. But even now, with all the rhetoric and the denials and the counter-accusations, the deeper lesson is still clear. Disinformation is not only something Russia and Israel do to Spain, or Morocco does to Spain, or Spain does to its people. It is a symptom of a global system in which the truth is often the first casualty of politics. The Ceuta crisis was real, with real tears and real pain. It should not be weaponized by anyone. If Sánchez has proof of Russian or Israeli interference, the world deserves to see it. If he does not, then his story is just another rumor, floating in the same sea the migrants crossed. In the end, the sea does not care who issued the disinformation. It cares about who drowns, who survives, and who is left to remember. What we owe those who crossed the water is honesty, not fantasy, and a commitment to build a more just world, where no one has to swim through the cold ocean to find a home.