Why Europe’s Past Still Shapes Its Future

Michael Neiberg, historian who studies how Europe’s past continues to shape its present. (Image created with AI.)

Europe often presents itself as a continent focused on the future: open borders, shared institutions, economic cooperation, and democracy replacing centuries of conflict. Yet many of today’s political tensions — from the war in Ukraine to debates about migration and nationalism — are deeply rooted in Europe’s past.

That is the central argument of Michael Neiberg, an American historian at the United States Army War College and one of the leading experts on modern European history. In a recent lecture, Neiberg argued that Europe’s current crises only make sense when viewed through the long historical forces that shaped the continent.

His message is simple but powerful: history does not disappear. It remains visible in borders, political culture, economics, and even voting patterns.

Europe Was Built on the Collapse of Empires

Before the World War I, Europe looked very different from today. Much of the continent was ruled not by nation-states, but by vast empires such as the Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, Russian, and German Empires. These were multi-ethnic worlds where different peoples lived under the same imperial structures.

Then, between 1914 and 1918, all four collapsed.

After the war, European leaders tried to rebuild the continent around the idea of national self-determination: each people should ideally have its own state. But reality was far messier. Populations were mixed together, borders rarely matched identities, and millions suddenly became minorities inside newly created countries.

Neiberg argues that many of Europe’s current divisions still follow these older fault lines. Election maps in places like Poland, Romania, and Germany continue to reflect borders drawn generations ago. Even decades after the end of the Cold War, the old divide between East and West Germany remains visible in politics and economics.

History, in other words, leaves very long shadows.

The Optimism After the Cold War

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, many Europeans believed that history had entered a new phase. Liberal democracy and free markets appeared to have won decisively. Economic integration would make future wars unlikely.

Trade became the new foundation of European thinking.

Germany in particular believed that economic cooperation could transform former rivals into reliable partners. Russian gas would tie Russia to Europe. Trade with China would encourage stability and openness. Military confrontation increasingly seemed like something belonging to the twentieth century.

For a while, this vision appeared successful.

But Neiberg argues that Europe misunderstood its own history. Economic ties alone did not erase geopolitical ambitions or historical grievances. Russia did not become the predictable partner many hoped for. Instead, the invasion of Ukraine shattered much of Europe’s post-Cold War optimism.

The result is a Europe suddenly forced to rethink assumptions that had guided it for decades.

A Continent Rediscovering Hard Power

The war in Ukraine has pushed Europe back into questions many believed had been solved: territorial security, military power, and the possibility of large-scale war on the continent.

Countries such as Poland and the Baltic states warned for years that Russia remained a threat. Their historical experience under Soviet domination shaped a very different understanding of security from that of Western Europe.

Now much of Europe is moving in their direction.

Germany, long reluctant to think of itself as a military power, is rebuilding its armed forces and increasing defense spending. The idea that economic interdependence alone guarantees peace no longer feels convincing.

At the same time, Europeans increasingly wonder how permanent American support will remain. Photographs of European leaders discussing security without the United States — and American officials discussing Europe with Russia without Europeans present — have created unease across the continent.

Once again, history shapes perception. Europe remembers periods when American engagement weakened, and many now fear a return to a more distant and transactional relationship.

Migration and the Legacy of Empire

Neiberg also points to migration as another example of history’s persistence.

Many migrants arriving in Europe come from regions once ruled by European empires in Africa and the Middle East. In countries such as France, these historical connections still influence debates about responsibility, identity, and belonging.

Europe faces a contradiction: many economies need migrant labor, yet large parts of the population remain uneasy about rapid demographic and cultural change.

These debates are not only about economics or borders. They are also about the unfinished legacy of empire.

History Does Not Repeat — But It Persists

Neiberg is careful not to argue that Europe is doomed to repeat the past. History is not destiny. But ignoring history can lead to dangerous illusions.

One of the clearest examples, he argues, was the belief that post-Cold War Europe had moved beyond traditional power politics altogether. The assumption that trade alone would create stability now appears far less certain than it did twenty years ago.

For Neiberg, the challenge is not to become trapped in history, but to understand how deeply it continues to shape the present.

Europe may look modern and post-national on the surface. Yet underneath, the continent still carries the structures, memories, and tensions created by empires, wars, borders, and ideological struggles stretching back more than a century.

The past has not disappeared. Europe is still negotiating with it every day.

Further reading

• Michael Neiberg — Dance of the Furies: Europe and the Outbreak of World War I

• Michael Neiberg — When France Fell: The Vichy Crisis and the Fate of the Anglo-American Alliance

• Timothy Snyder — The Road to Unfreedom

• Mary Sarotte — Not One Inch: America, Russia, and the Making of Post-Cold War Stalemate

AI and the Coming Quantum Revolution

Image created with AI.

For years, quantum computing has sounded like something from science fiction: strange machines using the bizarre laws of quantum physics to solve problems beyond the reach of ordinary computers. Most experts believed practical quantum computers were still decades away.

Now, that assumption is beginning to wobble.

A recent scientific breakthrough suggests that the arrival of powerful quantum computers may come much sooner than expected. Even more striking: artificial intelligence played a major role in making the breakthrough possible.

For most people, quantum computing is hard to imagine. Ordinary computers work with bits that are either a 0 or a 1. Quantum computers use “qubits,” which behave according to the strange rules of quantum physics. In theory, this allows them to process certain kinds of calculations enormously faster than today’s machines.

The problem has always been stability. Quantum systems are fragile. Tiny disturbances can create errors, and researchers long believed that millions of qubits would be needed before truly powerful quantum computers became practical.

The new research changes that picture. Scientists found a method that dramatically reduces the number of qubits needed for error correction. In simple terms: the mountain of problems to solve suddenly became much smaller.

And AI helped them to do it.

Researchers used advanced AI systems to test enormous numbers of possible solutions. The AI combined existing mathematical ideas in unexpected ways and discovered new approaches that human researchers had overlooked. Some scientists involved admitted that without AI, they might simply have given up.

This is one reason the breakthrough has caused such concern in cybersecurity circles.

Much of modern digital security depends on mathematical problems that are extremely difficult for ordinary computers to solve. That is what protects online banking, encrypted messaging, passwords, military secrets, and large parts of the global financial system.

A sufficiently powerful quantum computer could potentially crack many of these protections far faster than current machines. Experts sometimes refer to the moment this becomes possible as “Q-Day.”

Nobody knows exactly when that day will arrive. Some researchers still believe it is many years away. Others now think it could come much sooner than governments and companies expected.

The fear is not only about the future. Intelligence agencies and criminal groups may already be collecting encrypted data today in the hope that future quantum computers will later be able to unlock it.

The story also points to something larger than quantum computing itself.

For decades, scientific progress was often limited by human time and human imagination. AI is beginning to change that. It is no longer just writing essays or generating images. Increasingly, it is helping researchers solve difficult problems in mathematics, chemistry, physics, and medicine.

That raises uncomfortable questions.

Human societies usually adapt slowly. Laws, education systems, political institutions, and public understanding often lag behind technological change. Yet AI may now be accelerating discovery in ways that compress decades of progress into just a few years.

The world has seen moments like this before. The Industrial Revolution transformed economies faster than societies could adapt. Nuclear physics changed global politics almost overnight after the Second World War. The internet reshaped communication and power structures within a single generation.

Quantum computing, combined with AI, may become another such turning point.

And as with earlier technological revolutions, the real challenge may not be building the machines themselves. It may be preparing society for what follows.

From Franco to Freedom: Spain’s quiet reinvention

Left: Francisco Franco lying in state after his death in November 1975. Right: Juan Carlos I in formal portrait shortly after becoming king. (Image created with AI.)

Spain’s transition to democracy is often told as a moment of rupture: dictatorship ends, democracy begins. I get the impression it all happened more subtle—and ultimately more interesting.

The story begins before 1975.

By the final decade of Franco’s rule, Spain had already begun to change. Economic growth, tourism, and urbanization created a society that no longer fit comfortably within an authoritarian framework. While the regime remained rigid, everyday life became more fluid, more connected to Europe, and less ideologically controlled.

When Franco died, the system did not collapse. It adapted.

Power passed to Juan Carlos I, and from there to a group of reformers willing to dismantle the dictatorship from within. Under Adolfo Suárez, political parties were legalized, elections were held, and a new constitution was drafted—all within a remarkably short period.

What makes this process distinctive is not just what changed, but what did not. Institutions were reformed rather than replaced. Many figures from the old regime remained in place. This continuity was not accidental—it was the price of stability in a country still marked by the memory of civil war and the threat of military intervention.

The result was a transition built on compromise.

That compromise proved both effective and incomplete. Spain avoided large-scale violence and established a functioning democracy, but it did so by postponing deeper questions about accountability and historical memory. The so-called “pact of forgetting” allowed the country to move forward, while leaving parts of its past unresolved.

Seen through this lens, the Spanish transition is neither a simple success story nor a quiet continuation of dictatorship. It is a negotiated reinvention—one that worked, but not without cost.

Further reading

• The Transition to Democracy in Spain — by José María Maravall

• The Triumph of Democracy in Spain — by Paul Preston

• Ghosts of Spain — by Giles Tremlett

• Helen Graham — author of several key works on modern Spain, including The Spanish Civil War

• Spain: Dictatorship to Democracy — by Raymond Carr and Juan Pablo Fusi

The Head on the Platter: A Story in Stone at La Sauve-Majeure

The Romanesque capital from Abbaye de La Sauve-Majeure showing the the story of the beheading of John the Baptist.

Walk through the ruins of Abbaye de La Sauve-Majeure (in Gironde, near Bordeaux), and you are led — almost deliberately — from one sculpted capital to the next. These are not random decorations. They are placed, selected, and meant to be seen.

Among them is a striking scene: a king seated at a banquet, a young woman dancing, and — at the centre — a severed head presented on a dish.

The abbey itself was founded in 1079, deep in what was then a vast forest east of Bordeaux. From this seemingly remote location, it grew into one of the most powerful Benedictine centres in Aquitaine. It controlled dozens of dependent houses and stood directly on one of the major pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela. Pilgrims passed through in large numbers, bringing not only devotion but also wealth and influence.

For these travellers, the sculpted capitals functioned as a kind of visual guide to the Christian world: stories, warnings, and moral lessons carved into stone. You did not need to read. You only needed to look — and to recognise.

This particular story would have been widely known. And it was not meant to comfort.

The ruins of Abbaye de La Sauve-Majeure — once a powerful Benedictine centre on the pilgrimage route to Santiago.

A promise that could not be taken back

The scene comes from the Gospel of Mark.

John the Baptist, a prophet known for speaking plainly, had publicly criticised King Herod. The king had married Herodias, the wife of his own brother — something John declared unlawful. It was a bold accusation, and a dangerous one. Herodias wanted John dead. Herod himself was more conflicted. He feared John, even respected him, and listened to him with a strange mixture of fascination and unease.

Then came the turning point: a feast held on the king’s birthday.

The court gathered, the atmosphere loosened, and Herodias’ daughter — later known as Salome — danced before the guests. Herod, pleased and perhaps carried away by the moment, made a public promise: she could ask for anything she wished.

She stepped away, consulted her mother, and returned with a request that must have stunned everyone present — the head of John the Baptist, brought to her on a platter.

The Gospel describes the moment with quiet precision:

The king was exceedingly sorry; yet for his oath’s sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. (Mark 6:26)

And so the order was given. John was executed in prison, his head brought in and handed first to the girl, then to her mother.

A warning in stone

Back on the capital, the entire story unfolds at once. The dancer is still in motion. The king is still at his feast. And already, the head is there — presented, unavoidable.

Medieval sculptors did not separate events into neat sequences. Instead, they compressed them, forcing the viewer to see how one moment leads directly to the next. Cause and consequence are carved into the same block of stone.

What gives the scene its lasting power is not only its violence, but its familiarity. Herod is not portrayed as a monster. He hesitates. He understands. And then he gives in — to pride, to pressure, to the expectations of those watching him.

For the monks of La Sauve-Majeure and the pilgrims who passed through, the message was clear. The greatest failures are not always acts of rage, but moments of weakness — when a promise, a reputation, or a room full of people becomes more important than doing what is right.

Nearly a thousand years later, the stone has weathered. The story has not.

A Pope in Exile: The Strange Story of Papa Luna in Peñíscola (Spain)

Statue of Pope Benedict XIII—known as Papa Luna—standing before the castle of Peñíscola, where he lived in defiance as a self-declared pope until his death in 1423.

On the Mediterranean coast of Spain lies the striking town of Peñíscola, crowned by a fortress that seems to rise straight out of the sea. At first glance, it looks like many other historic strongholds along the Spanish coast. But this castle holds an unusual story—one that involves not just kings and battles, but a pope who refused to step down.

Today, visitors strolling through the Plaza de Armas will find a bronze statue of this stubborn figure. He is known locally as “Papa Luna.” His real name was Pope Benedict XIII, and his story takes us back to one of the most chaotic periods in the history of the Catholic Church.

When the Church Had More Than One Pope

To understand how a pope ended up in Peñíscola, we need to step into the late Middle Ages. At that time, the papacy was not only a spiritual authority but also deeply entangled in politics, power, and wealth. In 1309, under pressure from the French crown, the papal court moved from Rome to Avignon—a period often referred to as the “Babylonian Captivity” of the Church.

Decades later, when Pope Gregory XI brought the papacy back to Rome in 1377 and died shortly after, the situation spiraled into crisis. Cardinals could not agree on a successor, and soon there were two competing popes: one in Rome and one in Avignon.

Europe split along political lines. Countries like England and much of northern Europe supported Rome, while France and parts of Spain supported Avignon. The unity of the Church had fractured.

From Two Popes to Three

Efforts to solve the crisis only made things worse. In 1409, the Council of Pisa attempted to depose both rival popes and elect a new one. Instead of solving the problem, it created a third claimant. For a time, there were three men claiming to be the rightful pope.

Finally, the Council of Constance (1414–1418) managed to restore a degree of unity. A new pope, Pope Martin V, was elected and recognized as the sole head of the Church.

All, that is, except one.

The peninsula of Peñíscola, crowned by its castle, rising from the Mediterranean.

The Pope Who Refused to Quit

Pope Benedict XIII—Papa Luna—refused to resign. Convinced of his legitimacy, he fled to Spain, where he found protection in the castle of Peñíscola. There, perched above the sea, he continued to act as pope.

For years, he held out. Even as most of Europe moved on, he retained pockets of support, particularly in parts of Spain and Scotland. From his fortress, he issued decrees and maintained the rituals of a papal court, as if nothing had changed.

It is a remarkable image: a lone pope, isolated on a rocky peninsula, defending not a city or a kingdom, but his claim to spiritual authority.

The End of Papa Luna—and an Unexpected Epilogue

Papa Luna remained in Peñíscola until his death in 1423. But his story did not end there. His remains were taken back toward his birthplace. Centuries later, in a twist that feels almost surreal, his skull was stolen around the year 2000. Eventually recovered, it now resides in Zaragoza.

Meanwhile, his legacy lives on most vividly in Peñíscola itself. The castle is still often referred to as “Papa Luna’s Castle,” and his statue watches over the square, a reminder of a time when even the papacy could fracture into competing realities.

Further reading

• The Western Schism (1378–1417) — Walter Ullmann

• The Avignon Papacy — Yves Renouard

• The Stripping of the Altars — Eamon Duffy

Europe’s Moment? Anne Applebaum’s Warning from Vienna

Anne Applebaum’s speech at Vienna’s Judenplatz, 14 May 2026 — YouTube video available online

Anne Applebaum — Pulitzer Prize-winning historian, journalist, and author known for her work on authoritarianism, the Soviet Union, and the future of democracy in Europe. Born in the United States and long based in Poland, Applebaum has become one of the leading voices warning about the return of nationalism, propaganda, and imperial politics in the 21st century. (Image created with AI.)

Standing beside Vienna’s Holocaust memorial on 14 May 2026, historian and journalist Anne Applebaum delivered a speech that felt less like an academic lecture and more like a warning to Europe.

Her message was simple but urgent: the peaceful and democratic Europe built after 1945 can no longer be taken for granted.

Applebaum reminded the audience that the European Union and the wider postwar order were created deliberately after the destruction of the Second World War. Europe’s institutions were designed not only to create prosperity, but to prevent the return of dictatorship, nationalism, and imperial conquest.

But many of the political ideas Europeans once believed had disappeared are returning. Applebaum spoke about contempt for democracy, ethnic nationalism, propaganda, and the search for scapegoats — ideas that Europe itself once produced.

The war in Ukraine stood at the center of the speech. Applebaum argued that Russia’s invasion is not merely a border conflict, but an attack on the postwar European idea that nations have the right to exist independently and that borders cannot simply be changed by force.

Perhaps most striking was her warning that Europe can no longer assume the United States will always defend the democratic order it helped build after 1945. Parts of the contemporary American political movement, she argued, increasingly see Europe less as a partner and more as a battleground in a wider ideological struggle.

Yet the speech was not entirely pessimistic. Applebaum insisted that Europe still possesses enormous strengths: stable institutions, rule of law, scientific knowledge, culture, and democratic traditions. The real question is whether Europeans themselves still believe in those strengths.

One line captured the evening perfectly. European civilization, she said, is not just “a backdrop for Instagram influencers.” Europe’s true inheritance also includes free speech, judicial independence, religious tolerance, and accountable government.

That may be the real challenge facing Europe in 2026: deciding whether its future will be shaped by fear and fragmentation, or by the democratic ideals it once rebuilt from the ruins of war.

The Manosphere and the Ancient Fear of Being Rejected

Image created with AI.

Evolutionary Success for Men Meant Being Desired

For most of human history, male reproductive success was highly uneven. Some men fathered many children, while others left no descendants at all. From an evolutionary perspective, this meant that status, attractiveness, reputation, and social competence carried enormous importance for men. Evolutionary success was not simply about survival. It was also about being desired.

Because women invest far more biologically in reproduction — through pregnancy, childbirth, and childcare — they historically evolved stronger incentives to be selective in choosing partners. This principle, explored by evolutionary biologist Robert Trivers, shaped sexual selection across much of the animal kingdom, including humans.

The peacock’s extravagant tail exists because peahens choose. The male performs because the female selects.

Seen from this perspective, much male behaviour throughout history begins to look different. Strength, courage, humour, intelligence, artistic talent, ambition, and wealth were not only tools for survival or dominance. They were also signals designed to attract attention and increase the chances of being chosen.

This gives the modern manosphere an interesting psychological dimension. Beneath the rhetoric of “alpha males,” dominance hierarchies, and “sexual market value” lies something far older and more vulnerable: the fear of not being desired.

That fear is ancient.

Human Evolution Rewarded More Than Dominance

But human evolution was never only about aggression or brute strength. Humans became successful because they evolved into intensely social and cultural creatures.

Long before modern civilisation, successful men were often not simply the strongest fighters. They were also skilled communicators, storytellers, musicians, reliable allies, humorous companions, and respected members of a group. Human attraction evolved within communities, not only through physical competition.

This is where the work of evolutionary psychologist Geoffrey Miller becomes especially relevant. In The Mating Mind, Miller argues that many uniquely human traits — humour, creativity, language, music, intelligence, and artistic expression — may partly have evolved through sexual selection. Humans impressed one another not only through physical power, but through displays of culture and mind.

In that sense, civilisation itself may partly be the result of people trying to attract one another.

This makes the manosphere strangely reductive. Despite constantly invoking evolution, much of it reduces human value to muscles, money, dominance, and manipulation. Relationships become markets. Women become ranking systems. Men become products competing for status.

Yet human history suggests something far richer. Women did not simply select for aggression. They also selected for empathy, trustworthiness, humour, emotional intelligence, and the ability to cooperate within a community.

The tragedy of the manosphere may therefore be that, while speaking constantly about evolution, it often ignores some of evolution’s most important outcomes: culture, cooperation, and emotional connection.

Algorithms and the Modern Crisis of Male Status

Modern technology has intensified these ancient anxieties in ways our ancestors would barely recognise. Human psychology evolved in small communities where status was local and personal. Today, social media and dating apps expose millions of men to constant comparison with global elites of beauty, wealth, and charisma.

Attraction becomes quantified through likes, followers, visibility, and matches.

Under such conditions, insecurity easily mutates into resentment. This may explain why so much manosphere content feels simultaneously aggressive and fragile. The performance of dominance often masks a profound fear of exclusion and rejection.

The louder the claims of control become, the more visible the insecurity beneath them sometimes appears.

The manosphere is therefore not simply a story about masculinity. It is also a story about what happens when ancient evolutionary anxieties collide with modern algorithmic culture. Human beings evolved to seek recognition, intimacy, and belonging inside relatively small social groups — not inside global digital arenas of permanent comparison.

The fear of being rejected may be ancient.

But so too is the human need for connection.

Further Reading

• The Mating Mind — Geoffrey Miller (2000)

• The Evolution of Desire — David Buss (1994)

• Natural Selection and Social Theory — Robert Trivers (2002)

• Behave — Robert Sapolsky (2017)

• Sex at Dawn — Christopher Ryan & Cacilda Jethá (2010)

• The Selfish Gene — Richard Dawkins (1976)

The Bronze Age of Iberia: Power, Crisis and Atlantic Trade

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When people think about the Bronze Age, they often picture the great palaces of Greece, the kings of Egypt, or the empires of the Near East. Yet on the far western edge of the Mediterranean, another remarkable experiment in power and society was unfolding.

Between about 2200 and 1550 BC, southeastern Iberia—today part of Spain—was dominated by a culture archaeologists call El Argar. For more than six centuries this society built fortified hilltop settlements, controlled regional economies, and developed one of the most complex political systems in prehistoric Western Europe. But just as suddenly as it rose, this system collapsed. The story of Bronze Age Iberia is therefore not just about metallurgy and trade. It is about the rise of power, the fragility of complex societies, and the networks that connected Iberia to the wider world.

The Rise of the Argaric World

Around 2200 BC, new settlements began appearing in the dry hills of southeastern Iberia. Unlike earlier Copper Age villages, these communities were carefully planned and often heavily fortified. Sites such as El Argar, La Bastida, and La Almoloya were built on defensible hilltops overlooking agricultural valleys. Massive stone walls, towers, reservoirs, and large storage buildings suggest that these settlements were not merely villages but regional political centers. Archaeologists believe that these hilltop sites controlled surrounding farming communities. Grain, livestock, and metal goods were collected and redistributed through these centers, creating an economy that was unusually centralized for prehistoric Europe. Burial practices reveal a society that was strongly hierarchical. Beneath houses and public buildings archaeologists have found graves containing carefully standardized sets of objects. Some individuals were buried with bronze weapons, silver ornaments, and elaborate pottery, while others received only a simple vessel—or nothing at all. This suggests a rigid social structure: a ruling elite, a middle stratum of workers and craftsmen, and a lower class that may even have included slaves. In fact, some archaeologists describe El Argar as the earliest state-like society in Western Europe.

Control of Land, Water, and Grain

The power of the Argaric elites appears to have rested on control over resources—especially food. The arid landscape of southeastern Iberia required careful management of water. Reservoirs, irrigation systems, and terraces allowed farmers to cultivate crops in a difficult environment. At the same time, grain—especially barley—became the dominant crop. Large storage jars found in settlements suggest that harvests were collected centrally, stored in fortified buildings, and redistributed by the ruling elites. In effect, grain functioned as a kind of tax system, tying farmers to the political centers that controlled storage and distribution. Over time this system produced increasing inequality. Wealth and power concentrated in a few dominant families whose authority was passed down through the male line. Women often married into other settlements, creating alliances between elite groups across the region. For several centuries the system worked. Argaric society expanded, settlements grew larger, and political control spread across much of southeastern Iberia.

A Fragile System

Yet the very system that allowed El Argar to flourish also made it vulnerable. The economy increasingly relied on large-scale barley cultivation. Forests were cleared to create new farmland, and soils were pushed to their limits in order to produce enough grain to support the centralized system. Unlike Egypt or Mesopotamia, Iberia lacked large river systems that could naturally replenish agricultural soils. Over time, the land became exhausted. Environmental stress may have worsened during periods of drought in the later Bronze Age. When harvests failed, the entire political system built around grain storage and redistribution would have been threatened.

The Collapse of El Argar

Around 1550 BC, the Argaric world came to an end. Many settlements were abandoned. Others show signs of destruction by fire, suggesting violent conflict. Yet there is little evidence for invasion by outside populations. Instead, the collapse appears to have been largely internal. As environmental pressures grew and agricultural production declined, the centralized system may have broken down. The elites lost their ability to control food supplies and labor, and the social hierarchy that sustained their authority dissolved. In the aftermath, the elaborate burial traditions disappeared. Monumental architecture was no longer built. Society reorganized into smaller, more egalitarian communities.

For centuries afterward, southeastern Iberia would not see a political system of similar complexity.

Iberia and the Atlantic World

Yet Iberia did not become isolated. During the later Bronze Age, communities along the western coast participated in an expanding maritime trade network that connected Portugal, Galicia, Brittany, Ireland, and Britain. Bronze swords, axes, and ornaments found across these regions share striking similarities, suggesting the movement of goods, ideas, and craftsmen along Atlantic sea routes. These networks linked Iberia to distant parts of Europe and laid the foundations for later Mediterranean trade.

By about 900 BC, Phoenician sailors from the eastern Mediterranean began establishing trading posts along the southern Iberian coast, attracted by the peninsula’s rich mineral resources. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in Iberian history—one in which the region would become a bridge between the Atlantic and Mediterranean worlds.

Lessons from an Ancient Experiment

The Bronze Age of Iberia shows that complex societies were emerging across Europe long before classical civilizations appeared. The Argaric culture demonstrated that centralized power, economic control, and social hierarchy could develop even in relatively small prehistoric communities. But its collapse also reminds us how fragile such systems can be. Environmental pressures, economic imbalance, and social inequality can undermine even the most sophisticated political structures.

More than three thousand years later, the rise and fall of El Argar still reads like a familiar story.

Further Reading

• Margarita Díaz-Andreu & Simon Keay — The Archaeology of Iberia: The Dynamics of Change

• Katina T. Lillios — The Archaeology of the Iberian Peninsula

• Barry Cunliffe — The Atlantic Bronze Age

• Vicente Lull — The Argaric Society

• Josephine Quinn — In Search of the Phoenicians

Map of Iberian Middle Bronze Age c. 1500 BCE. (Wikipedia)

The Return of Imperial Thinking

Jiang Xueqin (Image created with AI.)

For much of the 1990s and early 2000s, many people in Europe believed that history was slowly moving toward a more connected and stable world. Global trade expanded, borders became easier to cross, and wars between major powers seemed increasingly unlikely. Today, that confidence has largely disappeared.

Wars have returned to Europe and the Middle East. Energy security has become a strategic concern again. Artificial intelligence is beginning to reshape economies and political systems. And around the world, people increasingly speak the language of empires, spheres of influence, trade routes, and military power.

It is in this atmosphere that geopolitical commentator and educator Jiang Xueqin has found a large online audience. In a long and controversial interview, Jiang presents a sweeping interpretation of today’s global tensions. He argues that the United States, Russia, China, Iran, and Israel are all pursuing competing imperial visions, and that the world may already be entering a new era of global conflict.

Whether one agrees with his conclusions or not, the popularity of such arguments tells us something important about our time.

What makes Jiang’s worldview striking is not only its dramatic predictions, but also how deeply it echoes older ways of thinking about history and power. His analysis resembles the geopolitical theories that dominated much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries — a world in which great powers compete for control over strategic regions, trade routes, energy supplies, and military chokepoints.

In his telling, geography once again becomes destiny. Mountain ranges, ports, oil routes, naval corridors, and railways shape the future of nations. He describes the Strait of Hormuz, the Strait of Malacca, and the Black Sea not merely as locations on a map, but as pressure points in a global struggle for dominance.

This language would have sounded familiar to strategists during the age of the British Empire, the Cold War, or even the era of the Roman Empire. Civilizations rise and decline; powers seek control over resources; rivals form alliances to resist dominant empires.

Europeans know these patterns well because Europe’s own history was shaped by them for centuries.

Yet the appeal of such grand geopolitical narratives goes beyond strategy. They offer something emotionally powerful in uncertain times: a sense that chaos can still be explained. When inflation rises, wars spread, institutions weaken, and technological change accelerates, people naturally search for larger frameworks that make events feel understandable.

This is not new. During the oil crises of the 1970s, many people also feared the collapse of the global order. During the Cold War, millions believed nuclear conflict between superpowers was inevitable. In the 1930s, economic instability and political polarization produced competing visions of global destiny that reshaped entire societies.

What is different today is the combination of old geopolitical fears with entirely new technologies. Artificial intelligence, digital surveillance, and data-driven governance appear repeatedly in Jiang’s predictions about the future. He imagines a world where states increasingly monitor behaviour through digital systems and AI-driven analysis.

Again, whether these predictions are realistic or exaggerated is almost beside the point. The deeper issue is that many people increasingly feel that they are losing control over the systems shaping their lives.

At the same time, there are important blind spots in this kind of worldview.

The interview focuses overwhelmingly on military power, empires, strategic trade routes, and state rivalry. But some of the greatest forces shaping the twenty-first century barely appear at all.

Climate change is perhaps the most obvious omission. Rising temperatures, droughts, migration pressures, water scarcity, and food insecurity may ultimately transform societies more profoundly than military conflict. Demographic ageing, especially in Europe and East Asia, is another major challenge largely absent from this type of geopolitical thinking.

Even technology itself may reshape the world in ways that go far beyond military competition. Artificial intelligence could alter labour markets, education, healthcare, and social structures just as dramatically as it changes warfare.

History rarely follows a single grand plan. Empires rise and fall, but societies are also shaped by culture, economics, technology, religion, climate, and ordinary human adaptation.

Still, the growing popularity of voices like Jiang reveals something important about the mood of our era. After decades in which globalization seemed unstoppable, many people once again see the world through the lens of competing civilizations and declining empires.

For Europeans especially, this should feel strangely familiar.

Europe’s history is filled with periods when people believed they were living through the end of one order and the birth of another. Sometimes they were right.

Huelva: The Port Behind the Legend of Tartessos

A helmet, a painted bowl and the story of an ancient trading world

The Corinthian helmet found in the estuary of Huelva in 1930 — a reminder that this Atlantic port was already connected to the wider Mediterranean world over 2,500 years ago (Museo Arqueologico Nacional, Madrid photo by the Real Academia de la Historia).

It all began with a chance discovery. In 1930, during dredging works in the estuary of Huelva (Spain), a Corinthian bronze helmet emerged from the mud. For a long time, it was treated as an isolated object — a curiosity without context.

But Huelva is a city that hides its past well. Beneath its modern streets lies an ancient settlement that, as archaeological research shows, was already active around 900–770 BC . What first appeared as a single find now forms part of a much larger picture: a place where goods, people and ideas moved across long distances — and where even foreign styles, such as Greek pottery, were sometimes reproduced locally.

A port at the crossroads of worlds

Excavations have revealed thousands of artefacts — ceramics, tools and industrial remains — pointing to a settlement deeply embedded in long-distance exchange networks. Phoenician, local and Greek materials appear side by side, not as rare imports but as part of a continuous flow of goods and ideas.

The region’s wealth explains why. The nearby mining areas, especially Riotinto, produced vast quantities of metals, particularly silver. This attracted traders, craftsmen and specialists of all kinds. The archaeological record shows a community engaged in metalworking, woodworking and ivory processing, all tied to wider Mediterranean connections .

The Greeks would later call this place Tartessos, a name associated with wealth and distant trade. Whether myth or memory, the description fits remarkably well: a densely inhabited settlement, economically vibrant and outward-looking, positioned at the edge of the known world.

A Greek-style drinking bowl (kylix): objects like this travelled across vast trade networks, but some were also made locally in Huelva, showing how foreign traditions were adopted and re-created far from their origins (Museo de Huelva).

Objects that travelled — and were remade

The helmet is not alone. Greek ceramics — including finely decorated drinking vessels — have been found in significant numbers in Huelva. These objects are not just decorative; they are evidence of movement, exchange and contact.

What makes them particularly interesting is how they arrived. The archaeological context suggests that many of these Greek goods were not brought directly by Greek settlers, but travelled through Phoenician trade networks that connected the eastern Mediterranean with the Atlantic coast .

Yet the story goes a step further. Scientific analyses have shown that some of these ceramics, although Greek in style, were actually produced locally using clays from the Huelva region. This suggests that Greek craftsmen — or artisans trained in Greek techniques — were active here, reproducing familiar forms far from their original homeland.

Huelva, then, was not simply a place where goods arrived. It was a place where traditions were adapted and re-created. Not a Greek city, nor purely Phoenician, but a shared economic and cultural space in which influences blended. Everyday objects — a bowl, a cup, a helmet — became carriers of connection across vast distances.

From emporium to legend

Over time, this network weakened. Trade routes shifted, activity declined, and the once-busy port faded from prominence. What remained were fragments — buried in mud, scattered beneath the modern city.

Yet these fragments tell a clear story. Long before formal empires shaped the Mediterranean, there already existed a connected world of exchange, driven by resources, trade and human curiosity.

Huelva was one of its key gateways — the port behind the legend of Tartessos.

A Castle, a Knight, and Two Sisters (Baños de la Encina, Spain)

The ceramic tile (original and restored with AI) depicting the legend of Don Martín at the castle of Burgalimar (Baños de la Encina, Spain).

At the entrance of the great fortress of Castillo de Burgalimar, a ceramic tile tells a story. It shows a young nobleman defeated in battle, taken prisoner, and brought under the authority of the Moorish governor of Bury al-Hammam, the medieval name of this place.

It reads like history—but what follows belongs as much to legend as to fact. And like many stories along the old frontier between Christian and Islamic Spain, it begins in war and ends in something far more human.

A Castle at the Edge of Two Worlds

The castle itself is real, and remarkably old. Built in 967 AD under the Caliphate of Córdoba, it guarded an important route through the Sierra Morena. For centuries, this was a frontier zone. Control shifted back and forth during the long period we now call the Reconquista.

The story of Don Martín is usually placed somewhere in this unstable period, most likely between the 11th and 13th centuries, when clashes, raids, and shifting loyalties were part of daily life. Captured nobles were not unusual. They were valuable—politically, financially, and sometimes personally.

The Captive from Burgos

According to the legend, Don Martín, a young nobleman from Burgos—described as skilled in arms, but also in poetry and love—was defeated in battle and taken prisoner. He was brought to the castle and placed under the authority of its Muslim governor.

What followed is not a tale of chains and silence. Instead, Don Martín’s presence began to change the atmosphere of the court. He spoke, recited, and carried himself not only as a warrior, but as a cultivated man. In a world where refinement mattered as much as strength, this did not go unnoticed.

The governor had two daughters. And both, the story tells us, fell in love with him.

Love, Conversion, and Tragedy

The legend deepens here, moving from captivity to something more dangerous. Influenced by Don Martín—not only by his person, but by his beliefs—the two sisters are said to have converted to Christianity.

In the context of medieval Al-Andalus, this was no small matter. It was a direct challenge to family, authority, and identity. When their father discovered what had happened, his reaction was swift and severe.

The two young women were condemned. Like in other martyrdom stories of the time, their fate was meant to be final and exemplary: they were executed by being thrown into the water, weighed down so they could not survive.

The story does not always tell us what became of Don Martín. In some versions he escapes; in others, he remains a shadow at the center of the tragedy. What stays with you is not his fate, but theirs.

The castle of Burgalimar (Baños de la Encina, Spain).

A Story That Stayed Behind

There is no solid historical record of Don Martín or the two sisters. But that is not unusual. Across Spain, especially in former frontier regions, such stories were told and retold—blending memory, imagination, and place.

The tile at the entrance does not tell the whole story. It only gives the beginning: the defeat, the capture, the arrival at Bury al-Hammam. The rest lives in local tradition.

And perhaps that is enough. Standing before the massive walls of Burgalimar, built more than a thousand years ago, the story feels plausible—not because it can be proven, but because it fits the landscape. A fortress between worlds. A young nobleman far from home. And choices that, once made, could not be undone.

A Living Room Turned Museum: The Story of Maarten and Reina van Bommel–van Dam

The “Stijlkamer” at Museum van Bommel van Dam — a reconstructed living room where holograms of Maarten and Reina van Bommel–van Dam bring their shared life, collecting passion, and personal story vividly back to life.

Step into Museum van Bommel van Dam and you sense immediately that this is not a typical museum. The collection feels personal—less like a carefully constructed overview of art history, and more like a life lived with art.

That is exactly what it is.

Collecting What Moved Them

Maarten van Bommel (1906–1991), a banker, and Reina van Dam (1910–2008) collected art not by theory, but by instinct. They chose works that spoke to them—drawn by colour, material, or simply a feeling.

Over time, their home filled with paintings, sculptures, and objects. The result was not a neat, chronological collection, but something more interesting: a personal landscape of modern art, shaped by taste rather than rules.

A Gift That Became a Museum

By the late 1960s, their collection had outgrown their house. Instead of selling it, they made a remarkable decision. In 1969, they offered the entire collection to the city of Venlo.

The condition was simple: it had to remain together and accessible to the public.

Venlo accepted, and in 1971 the museum opened—built around a private collection, but carrying the spirit of the people who created it.

A Museum with a Personal Memory

One space captures this especially well: the “Stijlkamer,” a room that echoes the atmosphere of their own home. It reminds visitors that these works were once part of everyday life, not just objects on display.

That is what sets this museum apart. It is not only about art—it is about how art was lived with.

More Than a Collection

The Museum van Bommel van Dam remains rooted in that original idea. It continues to grow, but it still carries the imprint of its founders.

What began as a private passion became a public place—without losing its character.

Age, Youth, and the Unsettling: The Living Characters of Vic

La Vella, El Nen, and La Merma from Vic (Spain).

In the Catalan town of Vic, history does not sit quietly in museums. It walks the streets. During the annual Festa Major and other civic celebrations, towering figures—gegants—move through the medieval squares, carried from within by a single person. Among them, three characters stand out for what they suggest about time, community, and identity: La Vella, El Nen, and La Merma.

They are part of a long Catalan tradition of processional giants that dates back at least to the late Middle Ages, when such figures appeared in Corpus Christi processions. In Vic, documented giants appear from the early modern period onward, with many current figures created or restored in the 19th and 20th centuries as part of a broader revival of Catalan cultural identity.

La Vella: A Face Shaped by Time

La Vella—“the Old Woman”—is instantly recognizable. Her lined face, slightly stooped posture, and deliberate movement set her apart from more regal or heroic giants.

She does not represent a specific historical figure. Instead, she embodies something more universal: the accumulated weight of memory. In Catalan festive culture, figures like La Vella often serve as reminders of continuity—of knowledge passed on, of traditions maintained not by institutions but by people.

When she turns slowly in the square, guided by the unseen carrier inside, the effect is almost theatrical. Yet nothing here is staged in the modern sense. The dance follows fixed rhythms, learned and repeated over generations. La Vella’s presence is not about spectacle alone—it is about recognition.

El Nen: Tradition Renewed

Where La Vella moves with gravity, El Nen—“the Boy”—brings lightness. His figure is smaller, more agile, and often positioned in ways that suggest movement and curiosity.

In practical terms, he reflects the evolution of the gegants tradition itself. Over time, many towns introduced smaller figures—gegantons—that could be carried by younger participants. El Nen fits into this development: he makes the tradition accessible, ensuring that it is not only preserved but actively continued.

Placed alongside La Vella, he creates a quiet but clear contrast. One looks back, the other forward. Together, they turn a procession into a story about time.

La Merma: The Uneasy Presence

Then there is La Merma, the most ambiguous of the three. Her exaggerated features and slightly unsettling expression place her outside the more familiar categories of noble, peasant, or child.

Figures like La Merma appear in several Catalan towns, often linked to older carnival traditions where distortion, satire, and inversion played a role. Rather than representing a clear social type, they introduce tension—an element that does not fully belong.

In Vic, La Merma’s exact origin is less clearly documented than that of other giants, but her role is evident in practice. She disrupts the visual harmony of the group. She draws attention not through beauty or grace, but through difference. If La Vella offers continuity and El Nen renewal, La Merma reminds us that every community also defines itself through what stands at its edges.

A Tradition Carried from Within

To understand these figures, it helps to look beyond their appearance. Each giant is carried by a person hidden inside a wooden frame, balancing weight and movement while following the music of gralles and drums. The dance is learned, physical, and precise. It is not improvised.

This matters. Because what you see in Vic is not a performance created for visitors, but a practice maintained by local groups—often for decades, sometimes within the same families. The giants are repaired, repainted, and occasionally replaced, but the roles remain.

That is what makes La Vella, El Nen, and La Merma more than decorative figures. They are part of a system of shared memory. They appear at specific moments in the year, move in known patterns, and carry meanings that are not formally explained but widely understood.

Walk through Vic during a festival, and you do not just see history. You move through it—alongside an old woman, a boy, and a figure that does not quite fit, yet clearly belongs.

Isabella and Ferdinand: Power, Faith, and the Birth of a Global Empire

Isabella & Ferdinand. Image created with support of AI.

It is easy to imagine great rulers as people destined for power. Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon were not. They grew up in a world where authority was fragile, loyalties shifted quickly, and survival depended on reading people as much as events.

Isabella, born in 1451, spent much of her youth watching from the sidelines of a troubled court. Her half-brother, King Henry IV of Castile, struggled to control the nobles who surrounded him. Decisions were contested, promises broken, and factions constantly formed and dissolved. Isabella learned early that power was not something you simply held—it was something you had to claim, justify, and defend.

Ferdinand, born a year later, faced a different but equally complex reality. The Crown of Aragon was not a unified kingdom, but a collection of territories, each with its own rules and interests. His father ruled through negotiation as much as authority. Ferdinand grew up learning how to manage competing forces, how to adapt, and how to make the best of imperfect situations.

When the two married in 1469, it was not a fairy tale beginning, but a calculated decision. Isabella needed support in her uncertain claim to Castile. Ferdinand brought military strength and political skill. Together, they formed a partnership that would prove far more effective than either could have been alone.

Claiming Power, Not Inheriting It

When Henry IV died in 1474, the throne of Castile did not pass smoothly to a single heir. Instead, it opened a struggle. Isabella moved quickly. She had herself proclaimed queen before her opponents could organize, turning uncertainty into momentum.

War followed. Supporters of her rival, her niece Juana, challenged her claim, and Castile was drawn into conflict. During these years, the nature of Isabella and Ferdinand’s partnership became clear. Isabella presented herself as the rightful ruler who would restore order and justice. Ferdinand worked behind and alongside her, securing alliances, leading troops, and keeping their fragile coalition together.

Their success did not come from overwhelming strength, but from coordination. Isabella’s sense of legitimacy gave their cause a moral foundation; Ferdinand’s pragmatism made it workable in practice. Together, they turned a contested claim into a stable rule.

Even then, what they ruled was not “Spain” as we think of it today. Castile and Aragon remained separate, each with its own laws and institutions. What Isabella and Ferdinand created was not a single state, but a functioning partnership between two crowns. They ruled together, but differently—Isabella focusing on internal order in Castile, Ferdinand on diplomacy and war.

Their strength lay in that balance.

Faith, War, and the Turning Point of 1492

One of the great projects of their reign was the final phase of the Reconquista—the centuries-long effort to bring the Iberian Peninsula under Christian rule. By their time, only one Muslim kingdom remained: Granada.

The war for Granada lasted ten years, from 1482 to 1492. It was not just a military campaign, but a way of reshaping their kingdoms. It united competing nobles behind a common goal, strengthened royal authority, and reinforced their identity as defenders of the faith. Isabella saw it as a religious duty; Ferdinand as a strategic necessity. Together, they sustained a long and demanding campaign that ended with the surrender of Granada in 1492.

The victory was decisive. It marked the end of Muslim rule in Iberia and earned them recognition as the “Catholic Monarchs.” But it also deepened their commitment to religious unity within their realms. In the same year, Jewish communities were expelled, and mechanisms like the Inquisition became more central to enforcing conformity. Faith and power had become closely intertwined.

Yet 1492 was not only about looking inward. It was also the moment they began to look outward.

In that same year, they agreed to support the voyage of Christopher Columbus. His proposal—to reach Asia by sailing west—was uncertain and risky. Isabella hesitated, weighing the costs and the unknowns. But the timing mattered. With Granada conquered, they had the opportunity to expand their influence beyond Iberia. They were competing with Portugal for trade and territory. Columbus offered a chance, however uncertain, to gain an advantage.

The result was transformative. What began as an experiment opened the way to entirely new continents. Spain would soon become the center of a vast overseas empire. Isabella and Ferdinand had not set out to create a global empire, but their decision placed them at the start of one.

Family, Fragility, and a Lasting Legacy

For all their achievements, Isabella and Ferdinand never escaped the uncertainties they had known in youth. Their greatest concern became succession. They worked carefully to secure their dynasty, arranging marriages for their children across Europe. But their plans unraveled. Their only son died young, leaving their daughter Joanna as heir.

Joanna’s position quickly became complicated. Reports of emotional instability—whether real or politically exaggerated—made her vulnerable. After Isabella’s death in 1504, Joanna became queen of Castile in name, but power was contested. Ferdinand, now both father and political actor, chose stability over sentiment. He continued to govern, while Joanna was increasingly pushed aside.

The system Isabella and Ferdinand had built—so dependent on their cooperation—proved difficult to sustain without them. Factions formed, alliances shifted, and uncertainty returned.

And yet, their impact endured. They had restored royal authority in Castile, completed the Reconquista, and set Spain on a path beyond Europe. Most of all, they had changed the direction of their kingdoms—from inward struggle to outward expansion.

They did not create a finished nation. What they created was momentum.

A cautious young woman who learned to wait, and a pragmatic prince who learned to adapt, found a way to turn instability into opportunity. In doing so, they not only reshaped their own lands, but helped open a new chapter in world history.

The Man with the Anchor: A Story Carved in Jaén

A dramatic detail from the choir stalls of Jaén Cathedral: Pope Clement I is thrown from a bridge with an anchor around his neck, a reference to his martyrdom in the late 1st century after exile to the Crimea on the Black Sea.

Walk into the choir of Jaén Cathedral and your eye is drawn, sooner or later, to a small but striking scene. A man is being forced from a bridge. Around his neck hangs an anchor. Below him, the water churns. The figures pushing him lean forward with effort; there is no hesitation in their movement.

It is a moment frozen in wood—but it tells a story that began almost two thousand years ago. The man is Pope Clement I.

A Leader in the First Century

Clement lived in the late 1st century (around 35–99 AD), at a time when Christianity was still a small and often mistrusted movement within the Roman Empire. He is traditionally regarded as one of the earliest leaders of the Christian community in Rome—often listed as the fourth bishop of Rome, after Saint Peter.

This was not yet a powerful institution. On the contrary, Christians were viewed with suspicion because they refused to participate in Roman religious rituals tied to loyalty to the state. For someone in a visible leadership role, that made life dangerous.

Exile to the Edge of the Empire

According to early Christian tradition, Clement’s influence led to his arrest during the reign of the Roman emperor Trajan (98–117 AD). Instead of being executed in Rome, he was banished to the distant region of the Crimea, on the northern shores of the Black Sea—then a harsh and remote frontier of the empire.

There, he was put to work among prisoners, many of them condemned to forced labour in quarries. Yet exile did not silence him. Clement continued to preach and support those around him, and his presence reportedly strengthened a growing Christian community even in these difficult conditions.

The Anchor and the Sea

For the Roman authorities, this was the opposite of what exile was meant to achieve. Rather than disappearing, Clement had become a source of influence far from Rome.

The response was final. He was condemned to death in a way that would leave no trace. An anchor was tied around his neck, and he was thrown into the sea to drown—most likely sometime toward the end of the 1st century, around 99 AD.

This detail—the anchor—is what fixed his story in memory. It became his unmistakable symbol, allowing people to recognize him in art across Europe, even centuries later.

A Story That Reached Jaén

The carving in Jaén is part of that long journey. By the time these choir stalls were created, likely in the early modern period, the story of Clement had become part of a shared visual language across Catholic Europe. Artists did not need to explain it. A man, an anchor, and water were enough.

Even today, without knowing the name, the scene remains powerful. It shows a moment of force and finality—but also something else: the attempt to silence a voice by removing it completely.

Yet the story endured. From Rome to the Crimea, and from there across Europe to places like Jaén, it survived not just in texts, but in images—quietly carved, waiting to be understood.

The Steenen Trappen: A House of Stone and Memory in Roermond

De Steenen Trappen, Roermond (The Netherlands).

In the Neerstraat, in the heart of Roermond, stands a building long known as De Steenen Trappen—the Stone Steps. It is a façade that suggests permanence and authority. And for centuries, it has carried both.

From Elite Residence to Children’s Home

The story begins not with children, but with status.

The main house was built in 1666, shortly after the devastating fire that burned down most of the city center. It was built as a grand double residence in Maasland Renaissance style. Behind its symmetry and heavy construction lies an even older history: this part of the city has been inhabited since at least the 12th or 13th century.

In the late 19th century, the building took on a new role. Around 1875, it became a convent for the Sisters of the Poor Child Jesus, and from 1908 onward it functioned as a children’s home—the phase that still defines how many people remember it.

De Steenen Trappen, former girls’ orphanage in Roermond (The Netherlands). Image based on an image from “Limburgse Genealogie Wiki”.

Inside the Walls

Official records describe the function of the building. Personal memories describe its atmosphere.

People who entered the complex recall a sober and enclosed interior, dominated by dark wood and heavy construction. Movement inside was restricted; parts of the building felt unstable or off-limits. It was not a place one casually visited.

More striking is its reputation. For many, especially as children, the building inspired unease or even fear. Stories circulated, but rarely positive ones. The sense of a closed world—of things happening out of sight—remains part of its legacy.

Some recollections hint at a strict and austere regime:

• children wearing hand-me-down clothing

• daily routines shaped by discipline and labour

• a distant, rule-driven environment

These are fragments rather than full accounts, but together they suggest a life that was structured, controlled, and not always gentle.

A Complex Transformed

The physical complex did not survive intact.

In the 1950s and 1960s, large parts were demolished or radically altered. Older buildings—some dating back to the period after the 1665 fire—disappeared. New structures replaced them, including a flat building along the Paredisstraat. Even the convent chapel was reduced largely to its front façade.

By the time the nuns left in 1994, the site was a mix of historic fragments and later additions, much of it standing empty.

From Institution to Housing

The redevelopment that followed reshaped the area once again.

Through a process of renewal and new construction, the complex was converted into a residential zone:

• The main building and the chapel façade were preserved

• Surrounding structures were rebuilt or replaced

• Around 75 apartments were created, partly within the old fabric, partly new

The inner courtyard—once closed and inward-looking—became a network of small streets and shared spaces. Shops were added at ground level, with housing above.

What had been a secluded institution became part of the open city.

What Remains

Today, “De Steenen Trappen” is no longer a convent or a children’s home. Much of the original complex has vanished or been transformed.

And yet, the place still carries its past.

Not only in its architecture—the thick walls, the layered construction—but also in the way it is remembered. The building stands as a reminder that history is not just what survives in stone, but also what lingers in memory.

In Roermond, “De Steenen Trappen” is still there. The stories behind the building is harder to see—but not entirely gone.

Further reading

• Stichting Ruimte, Ruimtelijk, March 2001 (article on De Steenen Trappen)

Can the World Contain the Andes Hantavirus Outbreak? — An Update

Image created with AI.

What makes the current discussion around the Andes hantavirus so unsettling is not just its lethality, but the combination of several characteristics that together create a potentially dangerous epidemiological picture.

Health authorities now acknowledge that the Andes strain can spread from person to person. Even more troubling are growing indications that infected individuals may already be contagious before they themselves realize they are ill. Combined with reports that the incubation period may in some cases last up to six weeks, this creates a uniquely dangerous situation.

An infected person may unknowingly expose family members, colleagues, fellow travellers, healthcare workers, or others sharing the same spaces before recognizing the significance of their symptoms. By the time severe symptoms emerge and the infection is finally recognized, chains of transmission may already have spread beyond the original source, potentially crossing cities and borders in a world defined by constant human movement.

And then there is the fatality rate. Severe Andes hantavirus infections have been associated with mortality estimates approaching 38%. Even allowing for uncertainty in the numbers, that is an extraordinarily high figure compared to most modern respiratory outbreaks.

Taken separately, each of these factors would already concern epidemiologists. Combined — human-to-human transmission, possible pre-symptomatic spread, a long incubation period, and high lethality — they describe exactly the kind of outbreak epidemiologists fear most.

The central question is no longer whether the Andes hantavirus deserves serious attention. The real question is whether modern societies, after years of political fatigue, economic pressure, and declining trust in public institutions, still possess the collective will, discipline, and coordination required to stop a dangerous outbreak before it spreads beyond control.

Further reading

• European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control (ECDC)

• U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)

• RIVM – Hantavirus updates

• Other article(s) on this topic on culture-lovers.eu

Cluny: The Abbey That Shaped Medieval Europe

In the quiet landscape of Burgundy, the town of Cluny looks almost ordinary today. A few impressive ruins hint at something larger, but it takes imagination to grasp what once stood here. Around the year 1100, this was not just a monastery. It was the beating heart of a vast network that stretched across Europe, shaping religion, politics, and daily life in ways that still echo today.

Cluny was, in its time, one of the most powerful institutions in the Western world.

A Different Kind of Monastery

Cluny began in 910, at a moment when much of Europe was still unstable. Monasteries existed everywhere, but many had become entangled in local politics. Powerful nobles treated them almost as personal property, appointing abbots and using their wealth for their own purposes.

The founders of Cluny made a radical choice. The new abbey would not answer to a local lord, but directly to the Pope in Rome.

This decision gave the monks something rare: independence. They could choose their own leaders, follow their own discipline, and focus on religious life without interference. It allowed Cluny to develop a reputation for seriousness and integrity at a time when that was far from guaranteed.

What began as a small reform became a powerful idea.

From Local Reform to European Network

Cluny’s influence spread quickly. Other monasteries, impressed by its discipline and organisation, began to adopt its model. But instead of remaining independent, many became part of a growing Cluniac network.

This network was unlike anything seen before. Monasteries across France, Spain, Italy, and beyond were linked together, sharing rules, leadership, and regular oversight. Monks travelled between them, inspected their practices, and reported back to Cluny.

By the High Middle Ages, hundreds of monasteries—and eventually close to a thousand—were connected in this way.

In a fragmented medieval world, Cluny had created something remarkably coherent: a system that functioned across borders, languages, and political boundaries. It was, in many ways, an early example of a European-wide institution.

Reforming Faith and Society

At its core, Cluny was about restoring focus to religious life. The monks emphasised prayer, discipline, and a return to the ideals of the Rule of Saint Benedict.

Yet the consequences went far beyond the cloister. As Cluny grew in influence, it helped drive broader reforms within the Church. It supported the idea that religious institutions should be free from political control and should hold themselves to higher moral standards.

Through its network, these ideas spread across Europe. Monasteries became more disciplined, liturgy became more elaborate, and religious life became more central to communities. Cluny also encouraged movements that promoted peace in a violent society, and it played a role in shaping the spiritual atmosphere of the age—from pilgrimage culture to the growing importance of prayer for the dead.

For centuries, Cluny stood at the center of this transformation.

Power, Scale, and Legacy

At its height, Cluny was more than a monastery. It was a complex institution with economic resources, political connections, and cultural influence. Its abbots were in contact with kings and popes. Its wealth supported ambitious building projects, including a vast church—Cluny III—that was, for centuries, the largest in the Christian world.

Visitors entering that space would have experienced not only scale, but intention. The architecture, the light, the rituals—all were designed to express a vision of order and divine presence.

Over time, however, the world changed. New religious movements emerged, sometimes criticising Cluny for its wealth and complexity. Its central position weakened, and its influence became more diffuse.

The final break came during the French Revolution. The abbey was dismantled, its stones reused, its buildings absorbed into the growing town. Today, only fragments remain of what was once a vast religious city.

And yet, if you walk through Cluny now, the scale is still there—hidden in walls, in streets, in unexpected fragments of carved stone. Enough remains to sense what once stood here, and to understand how a single monastery helped reshape medieval Europe.

How Worried Should We Be About the Hantavirus?

Image created with AI.

Three people are dead. Several others became seriously ill within days. Doctors in different countries are now tracing passengers who shared dining rooms, lecture halls and cabins aboard a cruise ship crossing the South Atlantic.

Even so, the official tone around the current outbreak of the Hantavirus has remained surprisingly calm. Health authorities continue to say that this is “not another COVID,” and that the risk to the wider public is low. That may eventually prove true. But some scientists are becoming uncomfortable with how strongly that reassuring message is being pushed while important questions still remain unanswered.

The real issue is not whether people should panic. They should not. The more important question is whether the public is hearing the full scientific story, including the uncertainties.

What Is the Hantavirus?

The Hantavirus is normally spread from rodents to humans through contaminated dust, urine or droppings. In most cases, the virus does not spread from one person to another. The current outbreak, however, involves the Andes strain of the Hantavirus, a rare version found in South America that is known to be capable of limited human-to-human transmission.

What worries scientists is not just the virus itself, but the combination of characteristics it appears to have. The Andes strain can cause very severe illness and has a relatively high fatality rate. At the same time, the virus may have a long incubation period and may sometimes spread between people in enclosed spaces.

Modern epidemiologists increasingly look at these combinations of factors rather than at one number alone. A recent study from the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine argues that the danger of an outbreak depends on how severity, transmissibility and incubation time work together.

A virus does not need to spread as easily as measles to become a serious problem. If infected people can travel internationally for days or even weeks before realizing they are ill, controlling an outbreak becomes much harder.

Why the Cruise Ship Outbreak Matters

Cruise ships are almost perfect environments for studying outbreaks. Large numbers of people share air, dining rooms and social spaces while constantly moving between countries.

According to WHO and ECDC reports, several people aboard the MV Hondius quickly developed severe respiratory symptoms, pneumonia and shock. Three people died.

The current outbreak appears to have a fatality rate close to 38%, although the number of confirmed cases is still small. Earlier outbreaks in South America showed similar numbers.

Those figures are striking. COVID-19 was far less deadly for the average patient. What made COVID so destructive was not mainly its fatality rate, but the fact that it spread very efficiently before people became seriously ill.

Right now, there is no evidence that the Hantavirus spreads anywhere near as easily as COVID-19. But some researchers fear that we may not yet fully understand how the Andes strain behaves in crowded indoor environments.

The Debate About Transmission

Official WHO and ECDC guidance says that person-to-person transmission of the Andes strain mainly happens after close and prolonged contact, especially between household members or caregivers.

Harvard scientist Joseph Allen has publicly questioned that interpretation. After reviewing earlier scientific studies and speaking directly with a doctor aboard the ship, Allen argued that some infections may have happened without what most people would describe as “close contact.” In interviews, he described reports of infected passengers who had simply shared indoor spaces such as dining rooms or lecture halls.

Allen is not saying that the Hantavirus is about to become a global pandemic. His argument is more limited, but still important. He believes that official communication may sound more certain than the science really is.

That debate will sound familiar to many people after COVID. Governments often try to avoid panic by reassuring the public. But if the message becomes too reassuring too early, many people stop paying attention exactly when careful attention is still needed.

The Problem of the Long Incubation Period

Another reason scientists are watching this outbreak closely is the incubation period. Research on the Andes strain suggests that symptoms can appear anywhere from 7 to 39 days after exposure, with a median of around 18 days.

That creates a long period of uncertainty. Passengers may board flights, stay in hotels and return home long before they realize they are infected. WHO has warned that additional cases may still appear because the incubation period can extend to six weeks.

Long incubation periods do not automatically create pandemics. But they do make outbreaks harder to trace and control in a world where international travel is constant.

Is There a Treatment?

At the moment, there is no proven antiviral treatment for the Hantavirus. Doctors mainly rely on supportive intensive care, including oxygen therapy, ventilation and, in severe cases, ECMO. Patients can deteriorate very quickly once serious respiratory symptoms begin.

That alone is enough reason for doctors and epidemiologists to take even relatively small outbreaks seriously.

So, How Worried Should We Be?

At this stage, there is still no evidence that the Hantavirus poses a COVID-scale threat to the world. But there is also enough uncertainty that simple reassurance may not tell the whole story.

The outbreak aboard the MV Hondius is a reminder that outbreaks are shaped not only by biology, but also by how uncertainty is communicated. The real debate is not about panic versus calm. It is about whether modern societies are able to handle nuance: a virus can simultaneously be unlikely to become a global catastrophe and still deserve serious scientific concern.

Why Anthropic’s Mythos Has Silicon Valley Worried

Image created with AI.

For years, discussions about artificial intelligence focused on familiar themes: chatbots writing emails, AI creating images, or computers helping students with homework. Most people saw AI as a useful tool — impressive perhaps, but still limited.

That changed when Anthropic announced a new AI model called Mythos.

The company claims Mythos became so good at discovering weaknesses in computer systems that it decided not to release the model publicly.

At first glance, this may sound like a technical problem affecting only programmers. But the reason Silicon Valley is suddenly nervous is much broader. Modern society runs on software. Hospitals, banks, ports, trains, electricity networks, water systems, airports, supermarkets, and communication systems all depend on millions of lines of code quietly working in the background every day.

Most people never think about that invisible infrastructure — until it fails.

Mythos reportedly discovered hidden weaknesses in important software systems that human experts had failed to notice for years, sometimes even decades. One example involved FFmpeg, a video-processing system used throughout the internet. According to reports, Mythos found a flaw after millions of earlier security scans had missed it.

The fear is simple: if AI becomes extraordinarily good at finding weaknesses, then criminals, hostile governments, or terrorist groups could eventually use similar systems to attack the digital foundations of society.

Why This Feels Different

Cybersecurity experts have worried about hackers for decades. But Mythos appears to represent something new in both speed and scale.

Human experts work slowly. A skilled cybersecurity researcher might spend weeks studying one piece of software looking for a vulnerability. AI systems like Mythos can potentially examine enormous amounts of software continuously, day and night, at a speed humans cannot match.

Some researchers involved with the project described the experience as unsettling. One engineer reportedly said the model found more vulnerabilities in a few weeks than he had discovered during the rest of his career combined.

That matters because much of the world’s digital infrastructure is old, fragmented, and poorly protected. Critical systems are often built on layers of software written over many decades by different people and companies. Even experts describe parts of this infrastructure as fragile. One cybersecurity specialist bluntly summarized the situation by saying many essential systems are effectively “held together with sticky tape.”

In practice, that could mean AI systems eventually becoming capable of exposing weaknesses in power grids, shipping systems, financial networks, or communication infrastructure faster than humans can repair them.

This is why Anthropic decided not to fully release Mythos and instead launched Project Glasswing together with major technology companies. The idea is to strengthen critical systems before more advanced AI models become widely available.

More Than a Technology Story

Some critics argue that Anthropic also benefits from the publicity surrounding Mythos. Declaring a model “too dangerous to release” naturally attracts attention and investment. Others point out that AI systems have already been helping cybersecurity researchers for years, meaning Mythos may be an important step forward rather than an immediate catastrophe.

But even if some of the language is exaggerated, the broader concern remains real. The Mythos story reveals how dependent modern civilization has become on software that very few people truly understand.

It also raises political questions. If only a handful of companies possess AI systems considered too powerful for public release, who controls those systems? Governments? Corporations? Military alliances? And how transparent will those decisions be?

For Europe, the issue is especially uncomfortable. Europe largely missed the rise of the dominant internet companies and now risks depending on American AI infrastructure as well. The Mythos debate may therefore force European governments to think more seriously about digital independence, regulation, and technological sovereignty.

Perhaps the fears surrounding Mythos will eventually prove overstated. Silicon Valley has always had a tendency toward dramatic predictions. Yet many people inside the AI industry now openly speak as if society is approaching a historic turning point.

The real fear is not simply that AI will become smarter. It is that AI may evolve faster than governments, laws, and ordinary citizens can keep up with — while becoming deeply connected to nearly every system modern life depends on.