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, 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.

The End of the Future?

Ivan Krastev on a World Without a Story

Ivan Krastev, Bulgarian political scientist and leading voice on Europe’s changing place in the world. (Image created with AI.)

We like to think history moves with a certain direction. Crises come and go, but the overall path remains visible. Ivan Krastev suggests that this sense of direction is now breaking down. What we are experiencing is not just instability, but the end of the framework that made the modern world understandable.

He calls it the end of the “long 20th century.” What is fading is not simply a period in time, but the belief that politics is driven by competing visions of the future.

For much of the last century, that belief held everything together. Capitalism and communism were not just systems—they were promises about tomorrow. Both sides assumed history would ultimately vindicate them. That confidence allowed for patience, even restraint.

Today, the future no longer feels like a promise. It feels like a source of anxiety. Climate change, demographic shifts, and technological disruption have turned tomorrow into something uncertain, even threatening. As a result, political ideas have lost much of their energy. The labels remain, but they no longer mobilize people in the same way.

This shift is especially visible in the United States. Krastev sees recent developments there as something closer to a revolution—fast-moving, reactive, and lacking a clear direction. What matters is not where it is going, but how quickly it moves.

More importantly, the American self-image is changing. For decades, power was linked to values and a sense of mission. Now, that connection is weakening. Power is increasingly seen as something that does not need justification beyond itself.

At the same time, the internal debate has shifted. Earlier criticism often came from those who believed the country had failed to live up to its ideals. Today, those ideals themselves are questioned. That marks a deeper loss: not just political consensus, but belief in a shared purpose.

Krastev draws a striking parallel with the late Soviet Union, where systems collapsed not because they were suddenly attacked, but because belief in them quietly disappeared.

This loss of confidence is not limited to one country. It affects the global order as well. As the United States becomes less predictable, the world does not simply divide into two camps. Instead, it becomes more fluid.

China’s rise, for instance, is increasingly seen as part of a rebalancing rather than a direct threat. At the same time, international politics is becoming less institutional and more personal. Relationships between leaders and informal deals matter more than formal structures.

This creates opportunities for countries that are neither superpowers nor small states. They can navigate between larger actors, adjusting their position as circumstances change.

For Europe, this is a difficult environment. It faces pressure from multiple directions—economic, military, and political—while the old certainties, especially about its relationship with the United States, are weakening. Yet Europe has not fully redefined its role. There is still an assumption that the future will resemble the present, only slightly worse.

Krastev doubts that this is realistic.

What makes the current moment so disorienting is the absence of a clear story. The 20th century, despite its conflicts, offered competing visions of where the world was heading. Today, that sense of direction is missing. Events unfold quickly, but without a shared narrative.

Looking back, major turning points often seem inevitable. At the time, they rarely feel that way. The collapse of the Soviet Union surprised almost everyone. Only later did it begin to look predictable.

We may be in a similar moment now. Not a sudden collapse, but a gradual shift in which the assumptions that once shaped political life are quietly losing their hold.

If so, the challenge is not just to respond to events, but to recognize that the deeper transformation is still unfolding.

Further reading

• Ivan Krastev – After Europe

• Ivan Krastev & Stephen Holmes – The Light That Failed

• Ivan Krastev – Is It Tomorrow Yet?

• Francis Fukuyama – The End of History and the Last Man

Neanderthals in Spain: Life in a Valley That Had Everything

Neanderthals in Spain (An impression, generated with AI).

A valley, 100,000 years ago

Around 100,000 years ago, long before cities, farming, or even modern humans reached much of Europe, groups of Neanderthaler lived in what is now central Spain. In a valley north of present-day Madrid—today known as the Valle de los Neandertales—they found something rare: a landscape that offered everything they needed to survive.

This was not a paradise in the modern sense, but it was perfectly suited to their way of life. There was water from the river, open land where herds of horses, deer, and bison grazed, caves and rock shelters for protection, wood for fire, and stone for tools. Because all these elements came together in one place, Neanderthals kept returning here over tens of thousands of years, making the valley not just a temporary stop, but a recurring home.

Skilled hunters in a crowded world

The people who lived here were not primitive in the way they were once imagined. They were experienced hunter-gatherers who understood their environment in detail and adapted to it with remarkable flexibility. Much of their life revolved around hunting the large grazing animals that moved through the valley—horses, deer, bison, and at times even larger prey such as wild cattle or rhinoceroses.

They worked together to hunt, butcher, and process these animals, using tools shaped from whatever stone was available. In this region, that often meant quartz—far from ideal, but nearby and sufficient for their needs.

At the same time, they were not alone in relying on these herds. Lions, hyenas, and leopards hunted the same animals, turning the landscape into a shared and often contested space. Survival depended not only on skill, but also on timing, cooperation, and an ability to navigate this competition. When large prey was available, Neanderthals focused on it, suggesting a preference for efficiency and planning rather than opportunistic scavenging.

A mind not so different from ours

What makes these Spanish sites especially compelling is not just how Neanderthals lived, but what they may have thought. Among the discoveries is the burial of a very young child, carefully placed in the ground. Nearby traces of fire suggest that this was not a random event, but something intentional.

This changes the story. It points to care for others, even after death, and perhaps to early forms of ritual or symbolic thinking. In fact, Neanderthals in Europe may have buried their dead long before modern humans did in other regions, suggesting that emotional and social complexity were already part of their world.

Over time, research has shifted from asking how Neanderthals survived to asking how they understood their world. They were not simply enduring life—they were experiencing it.

A disappearing world

Neanderthals lived across Europe, including the Iberian Peninsula, for hundreds of thousands of years. Then, around 40,000 years ago, they disappeared. The causes were likely complex: changing climates, shrinking populations, and competition with incoming modern humans all played a role. Rather than a sudden extinction, it seems to have been a gradual fading of small, vulnerable groups.

Walking through their world

Standing in that quiet Spanish valley today, it is hard to imagine the life that once filled it. But once you know the story, the landscape begins to shift. It becomes a place of fires and movement, of hunters watching herds cross the valley, of families gathering in the shelter of rock and cave.

And perhaps, more than anything, it becomes a place where the distance between them and us feels surprisingly small.

Arco de Santa María: How Burgos Introduces Itself

Arco de Santa María at first light—Burgos presenting its history in stone before you even step inside the city.

A city entrance with a purpose

When you approach the Arco de Santa María in Burgos (Spain), it feels less like a gate and more like a declaration. This is where Burgos presents itself to the world.

In the Middle Ages, this really was a working city gate. People arrived here on foot, on horseback, with goods to trade or stories to tell. Beyond it lay the safety and order of the city; behind it, the uncertainty of the road. But what you see today is not just that medieval structure. It is something more deliberate.

In the 16th century, the city decided to transform its entrance—partly to impress the visiting emperor, Karel V. The old defensive gate was reshaped into a monumental façade. From that moment on, this was no longer just a place to pass through. It became a place that spoke.

A story carved in stone

Look closely at the figures above the arch. They are not decoration. They are a cast of characters.

There is El Cid, the city’s most famous hero, somewhere between history and legend. Nearby stands Fernán González, tied to the early independence of Castile. Around them, kings and symbolic figures fill the niches.

Together, they tell a simple but powerful story: this is a city with roots, with heroes, with authority. The gate becomes a kind of stone introduction—one that would have been immediately understood by visitors centuries ago, and still resonates today.

Passing through

And yet, for all its grandeur, the gate still does what it always did. You walk through it.

The moment you step under the arch, the façade disappears behind you. The noise softens, the light changes, and for a brief moment you are in between—neither outside nor fully inside. It is easy to imagine how many others have made that same transition over the centuries.

That is what makes this gate more than architecture. It is not just something to look at. It is something to experience—a threshold where Burgos shows you who it is, and then quietly lets you in.

The Coat of Arms of Badajoz

The Coat of Arms of Badajoz.

A city shaped by its position

To understand the coat of arms of Badajoz, you first need to understand where you are. This is a city on the edge—close to Portugal, and for centuries on the shifting frontier between Islamic and Christian worlds.

From the 8th century onwards, Badajoz was part of al-Andalus, at times even the centre of its own taifa kingdom. Only in the 13th century did it become part of the Christian north. Even then, its role did not change: it remained a border city, now between Castile and Portugal.

That sense of being “in between” is key. It is also where the name Extremadura comes from: a land at the extremes, at the edge of power.

The lion: conquest and royal power

The crowned lion in the coat of arms points back to that turning point in the 13th century, when Badajoz was incorporated into the Kingdom of León. But it also says something about how the city was governed.

Badajoz was not handed over to a local noble. It became a royal city, ruled directly by the king. In a frontier zone, that mattered. The crown kept a firm grip on places like this, both to defend the border and to control a strategically important region.

The lion, then, is not just about conquest. It represents royal authority anchored at the edge of the kingdom.

The pillars: from edge to expansion

Next to the lion stands a very different symbol: the Pillars of Hercules, wrapped with the motto Plus Ultra—“further beyond.”

In the ancient world, these pillars marked the end of the known world, somewhere beyond the Strait of Gibraltar. By the 16th century, under Charles V, that meaning had changed. The old boundary became a starting point. The motto encouraged movement, exploration, and expansion.

By adding this symbol to its coat of arms, Badajoz became part of that new outlook. A city that had long defined itself by borders was now connected to a world that stretched far beyond them.

A story in one image

The coat of arms brings these layers together. The lion speaks of conquest and royal control; the pillars point to a horizon that keeps moving outward.

Together, they tell the story of Badajoz: a place that was first defined by its limits, and later by what lay beyond them. What looks like a simple emblem is, in fact, a compact history—of borders, power, and changing horizons.

Before Rome: Trade in the Time of Phoenicians and Carthaginians

Four amphorae from the Museo de Huelva, arranged from early Phoenician to later Punic forms, illustrating the evolution of Mediterranean trade between the 9th and 5th centuries BC.

From left to right:

- A small, rounded early Phoenician vessel (late 9th–8th century BC), likely used for limited quantities of valuable goods such as oil, perfume, or fine wine.

- A more regular Phoenician transport amphora with two handles, reflecting the growing standardisation of trade containers.

- A taller, more slender vessel influenced by Greek and Punic forms (6th–5th century BC), designed for easier stacking and long-distance transport.

- A sharply pointed Punic amphora, built for large-scale maritime trade; its pointed base allowed it to be fixed securely in a ship’s hold.

Together, these vessels show how transport technology evolved alongside expanding trade networks.

Long before Rome dominated the Mediterranean, trade was already connecting distant regions in a structured and sustained way. On the Atlantic edge of Iberia, Huelva emerged as one of those early contact zones — not a remote outpost, but a place where ships arrived regularly, carrying goods, ideas, and people from far beyond the horizon.

Between the 9th and 6th centuries BC, this region — part of the Tartessian cultural sphere — became deeply embedded in long-distance exchange networks. Traders from Tyre and other eastern Mediterranean ports sailed west in search of metals, especially silver and copper from Iberia’s interior. In return, they brought wine, olive oil, fine ceramics, and crafted goods. What began as exploratory contact developed into something more predictable: repeated routes, familiar cargoes, and growing trust between trading partners.

How trade actually worked

This early trade did not depend on empires, but on practical systems. Ships followed coastlines, stopping at known anchorages where goods could be exchanged and journeys planned in stages. Amphorae — robust clay containers — played a central role. Their shapes allowed them to be stacked efficiently in a ship’s hold, counted, transported, and reused.

Cargoes were typically mixed. A single ship might carry wine from one region, oil from another, and return loaded with metals or local products. Huelva’s location made it particularly valuable within this network. It connected Atlantic routes along Iberia with Mediterranean routes from the east, while river systems linked it to the resource-rich interior. As a result, it functioned as a redistribution hub, where goods were not only received but also reorganised and sent onward.

Archaeology beneath the modern city confirms how intense and long-lasting this activity was. Excavations have revealed dense layers of imported ceramics — especially amphora fragments — showing sustained contact over centuries. The mix of Phoenician, Greek, and later Punic forms, along with local imitations, reflects a system that was both international and locally embedded.

A system already in place

Over time, this network became more efficient and more extensive. Early exchanges gradually gave way to more organised patterns of trade. Production became more standardised, container shapes more functional, and transport more reliable. Phoenician traders laid the foundations, Greek merchants expanded the network, and Carthaginian systems intensified it further.

The amphorae displayed in the Museo de Huelva belong to this evolving world. They were not made to be admired, but to move — filled, sealed, transported, and often reused. Some completed their journeys; others were lost at sea — at least one vessel of this kind in the museum’s collection was recovered from a shipwreck.

By the time Rome entered the western Mediterranean, it encountered not an empty space, but a fully functioning trade system. What these vessels preserve is a glimpse of that earlier world: one in which long-distance exchange had already reshaped economies and connected cultures across the sea.

No Comment (Pamplona, Spain).

No Comment (Pamplona, Spain).

Las Navas de Tolosa: A Battle Remembered at Las Huelgas

The Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa at the Monasterio de Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas in Burgos (Spain).

A quiet monastery, a distant battlefield

Inside the Monasterio de Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas, everything feels calm and contained—stone, light, silence. And yet, on one of its walls, you suddenly find yourself in the middle of a battle fought hundreds of kilometres away, more than eight centuries ago.

The fresco shows the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, fought in 1212 in southern Spain. At that time, much of the Iberian Peninsula was under the control of the Almohads, a powerful Islamic empire based in North Africa. For the Christian kingdoms in the north, this was not just distant politics but a constant pressure. Only a few years earlier, the king of Castile, Alfonso VIII of Castile, had suffered a painful defeat.

What followed was unusual. Rival kingdoms—Castile, Aragon, and Navarre—set aside their differences and formed a coalition. Even more striking, the campaign was supported by the pope, Pope Innocent III, who granted it the status of a crusade. That meant that fighting in Spain was, in the eyes of the Church, part of the same wider struggle as the crusades in the eastern Mediterranean. For those who took part, this was not only a war for territory, but also a war framed in religious terms.

When the armies finally met near the Sierra Morena, the battle was hard and chaotic, fought at close range. At a decisive moment, the Christian forces broke through the Almohad lines and reached the caliph’s camp. The victory did not end the conflict overnight, but it shifted the balance decisively and opened the way for further advances into the south.

Reading the fresco

The fresco in Las Huelgas does not try to recreate that chaos. Instead, it turns the battle into a clear and structured image. At the centre stands Alfonso VIII, larger and more composed than the figures around him, as if the confusion of the battlefield has been organised into a story with a single focus.

Once you start looking more closely, the painting reveals itself as less of a report and more of a statement. The different rulers appear aligned, the movement flows toward a moment of breakthrough, and the uncertainty that must have defined the real battle is replaced by clarity and purpose. What you are seeing is not simply what happened in 1212, but how people, centuries later, chose to remember it: as a moment of unity, of faith, and of decisive victory.

The people beneath the painting

What makes this fresco more than just historical decoration is where it is placed. This monastery was founded in 1187 by Alfonso VIII and his wife, Eleanor of England, and it was intended from the beginning as a royal space, closely tied to the identity of the kingdom.

They are buried here.

That fact quietly changes everything. The battle on the wall is not an abstract national memory; it is part of the personal story of the people lying beneath it. Alfonso VIII fought that battle. Eleanor supported the political and dynastic world in which it became possible. Together, they founded the monastery that would preserve their memory.

See also: Alfonso VIII and Leonor of England – A Royal Marriage Carved in Stone

A place where history is arranged

The Monasterio de Las Huelgas is not just a place where history happened; it is a place where history has been carefully arranged. Royal tombs, objects linked to the battle, and the fresco itself all work together to tell a coherent story.

What is striking is not only what is included, but how it is presented. A violent and uncertain battle becomes a clear turning point. A coalition of uneasy allies becomes a unified force. A complex past is shaped into something that can be understood at a glance.

Standing there, you are looking at more than a painting. You are looking at an interpretation that has been given a permanent place, above the graves of the people it commemorates. The silence of the monastery and the intensity of the battle do not contradict each other; they complete each other.

The result is a space where past and memory meet—where a distant battlefield is brought into a quiet room in Burgos, and where the story of a kingdom is told in a way that still feels present.

When Prices Rise and Routes Close: The Return of the Misery Index

Image created with AI.

There is something almost disarmingly simple about the idea. Take two things people feel every day—how fast prices are rising, and how hard it is to find work—and add them together. The result is what economists came to call the misery index, a rough measure of how strained everyday life feels.

The concept is usually linked to Arthur Okun, who in the 1960s tried to capture, in one number, the pressure ordinary households experience. Inflation erodes purchasing power; unemployment undermines security. Add the two, and you get a snapshot—imperfect, but intuitive—of economic discomfort.

Europe in the 1970s: When Energy Shock Became Social Change

Although the misery index was born in the United States, its logic applied just as much to Europe in the 1970s. The turning point was the Oliecrisis van 1973, when geopolitical tensions abruptly restricted oil supply and sent prices soaring.

What followed was stagflation: rising prices, slowing growth, and growing unemployment.

In southern Europe, the effects were especially intense. Italy struggled with inflation and instability. Spain, emerging from the rule of Francisco Franco, faced economic hardship alongside political transformation. Greece, after the fall of military rule, confronted both economic fragility and institutional rebuilding.

The crisis reshaped not only economies, but societies.

Today: Shock, Uncertainty—and a Structural Transformation

Today’s pressures are again rooted in disruption, but the mechanism is broader.

The instability around the Strait of Hormuz—linked to the war between United States and Iran—has exposed how vulnerable global energy flows remain. As in the 1970s, higher energy costs ripple through transport, food, and industry.

But the deeper effect lies in uncertainty.

When companies cannot reliably predict costs, supply chains, or geopolitical risks, they hesitate. Investment slows. Expansion plans are postponed. Hiring becomes cautious.

And this is where a second, quieter transformation intersects with the story.

At the same time, the rapid growth of the AI sector is beginning to reshape entire industries. Automation and AI-driven processes promise efficiency and new forms of productivity—but they also create friction in labour markets. Jobs are redefined, some disappear, others require new skills that are unevenly distributed.

This matters for the misery index in a subtle but important way:

• inflation may be driven by external shocks

• unemployment may increasingly be shaped by structural change

The result is a more complex dynamic than in the 1970s. Economic strain is no longer just cyclical—it is also transitional.

The Return of Unemployment—But in a New Form

Unemployment does not rise overnight after a shock. It follows.

As uncertainty persists:

• companies delay hiring

• investment weakens

• sectors under pressure begin to shed jobs

But unlike the past, this process now overlaps with technological change.

Some jobs may not return—not because demand disappears, but because they are replaced or transformed. At the same time, new roles emerge, often requiring different skills or located in different regions.

This creates a paradox:

• labour shortages in some sectors

• rising unemployment or insecurity in others

From the perspective of the misery index, this is crucial. The “unemployment” component becomes less uniform, more fragmented—and potentially more persistent.

Southern Europe—and Increasingly the Rest—on the Fault Line

Countries like Greece, Italy, and Spain remain more exposed to rising costs and structural weaknesses. Higher youth unemployment and lower income buffers amplify the impact of both economic shocks and technological change.

But the divide between north and south is no longer as clear-cut as it once was.

The combination of geopolitical instability and AI-driven transformation affects all of Europe:

• industrial regions face restructuring

• service sectors undergo automation

• regional inequalities may deepen

The result is not a single crisis, but overlapping pressures.

What Comes Next: A Slow-Burning Adjustment

If instability in global energy routes continues, and technological change accelerates, Europe may face a prolonged period of adjustment rather than a sharp crisis.

First comes the price shock.
Then comes the employment shift.
Overlaying both is structural transformation.

This is not a replay of the 1970s—but it rhymes with it.

A Simple Index in a Complex Age

The misery index remains a powerful idea because it captures something fundamental: how economic conditions are experienced.

But today, it needs to be read differently.

Inflation still matters.
Unemployment still matters.
But beneath both lies a deeper layer of change—uncertainty and transformation.

The real question is no longer just how high the index will rise, but how societies adapt to what lies behind it.

And that is where today’s story diverges from the past: not just in the shocks we face, but in the scale of change unfolding at the same time.