Leading private clinics in Gran Canaria are reporting the sudden disappearance of their Mauritanian patients. People who regularly attended oncology, cardiology, pediatrics, and nephrology clinics have had to interrupt their treatments because they simply can no longer travel: without a visa issued at the country of origin, it's not even possible to board a flight to the island.
The problem is not new, but it has worsened in recent months. What is described as an administrative logjam actually hides an uncontrolled system, where access to consular appointments depends more on contacts and digital maneuvers than on fair and open procedures. Some intermediaries appear to dominate the computer channels that should be public and accessible.
There, in Nouakchott, the right to set foot on Canary Island soil is raffled off like a corrupt lottery. Visas, that little piece of paper that says whether you're living there or not, have become a scarce commodity, and anyone who doesn't know the trick—or the one who handles it—doesn't get on board. It's that simple. There are no technical errors or bottlenecks here. What we have here is a digital mafia in slippers, operating in the wee hours like oxygen thieves. Want a date? Pay. Want to get in? Meet someone. Don't have any of that? You're screwed.
And while Madrid is playing dumb and Brussels is talking diplomatically about cooperation with the Sahel, in Las Palmas the lights are going out on the private healthcare sector, that sector that never asked for aid, that didn't appear on banners or attend rallies, but that provided jobs, treated bodies, filled beds, and collected taxes. All it asked for was to be allowed to work. And not even that.
“They came with their reports, their diagnoses, their euros in hand. They stayed three weeks, six months. Oncology, fertility, pediatric nephrology. They weren't illegal, they weren't poor, they weren't suspicious. They were patients. And they don't come anymore,” says a doctor in a wrinkled lab coat and a cracking voice.
But of course, who cares about that? Nobody. Because Mauritanians don't vote. And because the Canary Islands, except for mojito and flip-flop tourism, don't exist. And because visas are processed at the source, yes, but at a source where the Spanish State doesn't enforce order or will. And that, brother, isn't bureaucracy. That's abandonment. It's neglect. It's a Spain that goes around the world selling cooperation and giving away flags, but isn't capable of managing even a damn visa so a child can get their medical checkup on time.
The worst part is that all this is happening just as Pedro Sánchez sets foot in Mauritania, talking about an "African strategy," as if this were a game of Risk. What's he going to say? That private healthcare in Gran Canaria is dying because its consulate isn't up to par? That while he's being photographed with official smiles, doctors on the island are looking at their watches because no one is coming?
This isn't a system error. It's the system in its purest form. A system that neither sees nor hears nor responds. It's missing a golden opportunity for the Canary Islands to specialize in African health tourism. But no. Better to let it die, the Swedes and Germans will come along with the sunscreen.
Meanwhile, in Las Palmas' medical centers, the chairs remain empty. Appointments are canceled. Medical records are incomplete. The message is clear: if no one reacts, other destinations—with more respect, more vision, or simply more shame—will take over this flow of legal, solvent, and loyal patients that Gran Canaria has lost by looking the other way.
There are no silent victims here. There's institutional silence. And the private healthcare system, which keeps quiet because it's used to working, is already starting to get fed up.
