The Aljafería Palace in Zaragoza (Spain)

The Aljafería Palace in Zaragoza (Spain).

The Aljafería Palace in Zaragoza is one of Spain’s most remarkable examples of Islamic architecture and a beautiful showcase of the splendor of Al-Andalus during the Taifa period. Built in the 11th century under the rule of Al-Muqtadir, the palace served as the residence of the Muslim kings of the Taifa of Zaragoza. Its elegant horseshoe arches, intricate geometric carvings, and lush courtyard showcase the refined artistry of Islamic Spain. The palace was not only a symbol of political power but also a cultural hub, where poets, scholars, and scientists thrived.

After the Christian reconquest of Zaragoza in 1118 by Alfonso I of Aragon, the Aljafería was repurposed as a royal residence. In the late 15th century, the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella commissioned significant modifications, adding elements of Gothic and Mudejar architecture. The palace later served as a military barracks, which led to structural damage over the centuries. Despite this, extensive restoration efforts have preserved its beauty, and today, it houses the Parliament of Aragón.

Visitors can explore its richly decorated halls, defensive towers, and serene gardens, witnessing the fascinating blend of Islamic, Gothic, and Renaissance influences that make the Aljafería a unique symbol of Spain’s multicultural past.

The Interior of the Aljaferia Palace.

The Case Against Excess: Ingrid Robeyns and the Idea of Limitarianism

Ingrid Robeyns.

In a world where billionaires race to space and wealth concentrates in ever-fewer hands, philosopher and economist Ingrid Robeyns offers a refreshingly bold idea: maybe there should be a limit to how much wealth one person can ethically or politically possess. She calls it Limitarianism, and it's a concept that speaks not only to modern anxieties about inequality and climate crisis, but also echoes the deeper moral traditions of European thought — from ancient Stoicism to Christian thinkers like Saint Augustine.

What is Limitarianism?

At its core, limitarianism is the view that no one should be extremely rich. While most political philosophy focuses on alleviating poverty, Robeyns asks the opposite question: how much is too much? Drawing on empirical data, ethical theory, and political reflection, she argues that there is a moral upper limit to personal wealth, and exceeding that limit is unjustifiable — especially in societies where essential needs remain unmet.

Robeyns distinguishes between two versions of the idea:

  • Moral limitarianism: it is morally wrong for someone to have more wealth than they could reasonably need to lead a flourishing life (she tentatively places this at around €1 million).

  • Political limitarianism: the state should adopt measures to prevent excessive wealth, not as punishment, but to ensure democracy and sustainability (with the upper threshold possibly around €10 million).

This is not about envy or punishing success. It's about redirecting surplus resources — the part of wealth far beyond what’s needed for a dignified life — toward collective well-being: education, healthcare, climate adaptation, public space.

An European Ethic?

Limitarianism may strike some as radical in a global capitalist culture that glorifies the ultra-rich. But for European audiences, especially, Robeyns’ message resonates deeply. It revives a long-standing continental tradition of questioning excess — moral, economic, and personal.

Saint Augustine, writing in the early 5th century, famously warned that “it is not poverty that is to be feared, but the love of riches.” For Augustine, the good life was not one of opulence, but of justice, humility, and service to the common good. Robeyns’ arguments mirror this spiritual logic: hoarding wealth is not just an economic error, but a moral failure that erodes community and distracts from higher goods.

From medieval Christendom’s suspicion of avarice to the welfare values embedded in post-war European social democracies, limiting extreme wealth is not a new idea — it's a forgotten one. Robeyns simply gives it new language and empirical grounding.

Why It Matters Now

We live in a time when extreme wealth poses direct threats:

  • To democracy, as money buys political influence.

  • To climate justice, as luxury lifestyles drive disproportionate emissions.

  • To social cohesion, as inequality fuels mistrust and resentment.

Robeyns does not claim limitarianism solves everything. But it starts an urgently needed conversation: not just how to help the poor, but how to restrain the power of the hyper-rich. Her work encourages us to imagine economic systems that are fairer, freer, and more focused on human flourishing than personal accumulation.

And perhaps that is her most radical idea: that justice is not only about lifting the floor, but also lowering the ceiling.

Further Reading

  • Ingrid Robeyns, Limitarianism: The Case Against Extreme Wealth (2024)

  • Ingrid Robeyns (ed.), Having Too Much: Philosophical Essays on Limitarianism (Open Book Publishers, 2023)

  • “Why Limitarianism?”, Journal of Political Philosophy (2022)

  • Wellbeing, Freedom and Social Justice: The Capability Approach Re-examined (Open Book Publishers, 2017)

  • Saint Augustine, City of God, Book XIX

  • Thomas Piketty, Capital and Ideology (2020)

Olives, Oranges, and the Essence of Jaén

Tres morillas de Jaén, by María Pilar Morales.

Jaén, located in the heart of southern Spain, is a province that reflects the spirit of Mediterranean agriculture. Its landscape, with rugged mountains and fertile plains, is dominated by vast olive groves and thriving orange orchards. These two types of trees have shaped the region’s culture, economy, and identity for centuries.

The olive tree is the cornerstone of Jaén’s agricultural industry, as the province is one of the world’s leading producers of olive oil. Olive groves stretch across the hills, their silvery-green leaves shining in the sunlight. These ancient trees are not just crucial to the local economy, but they also carry the history of Jaén, reaching back to Roman times.

While olives dominate the region, orange groves add a vibrant contrast. In the lower-lying areas, the bright blossoms and sweet fruit of orange trees contribute to Jaén’s agricultural variety. The citrus groves, with their fragrant flowers and colorful fruit, bring a fresh burst of life to the landscape, complementing the more muted tones of the olive trees.

Together, these trees define Jaén’s countryside, creating a balanced landscape that is both beautiful and essential to the province’s economy. The close relationship between the land and its agricultural traditions is at the heart of Jaén’s identity, making it a place where nature and culture are deeply intertwined.

Moses and the Golden Calf, Vézelay (France).

The Basilica of Sainte-Madeleine in Vézelay, a masterpiece of Romanesque architecture, is home to some of the most stunning sculptures of the medieval period. Among its many remarkable features is the Nave Capital Salet Number 56, an intricately carved capital dating between 1120 and 1138. This particular sculpture depicts the dramatic Old Testament story of Moses and the Golden Calf, a powerful scene from the Book of Exodus (Exodus 32:15-19).

In the story, the Israelites, growing impatient during Moses’ prolonged absence on Mount Sinai, create a golden idol in the form of a calf and begin to worship it. When Moses returns with the Ten Commandments, he finds the people in the throes of idolatry. Furious, he smashes the tablets and condemns their sinful behavior. This pivotal moment is beautifully captured in the capital’s sculpture, where Moses is shown confronting the Golden Calf, a symbol of disobedience and moral corruption. The calf is depicted with a demon perched atop it, signifying the malevolent influence leading the Israelites astray.

Exodus 32: 15-19:

Moses turned and went down the mountain with the two tablets of the covenant law in his hands. They were inscribed on both sides, front and back. The tablets were the work of God; the writing was the writing of God, engraved on the tablets. When Joshua heard the noise of the people shouting, he said to Moses, “There is the sound of war in the camp.” Moses replied: “It is not the sound of victory, it is not the sound of defeat; it is the sound of singing that I hear.” When Moses approached the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, his anger burned and he threw the tablets out of his hands, breaking them to pieces at the foot of the mountain.

The First Council of Nicaea: A Turning Point in Christianity and the Roman World

Council of Nicaea 325. Fresco in Salone Sistino, Vatican.

In 325 AD, a gathering took place in the ancient city of Nicaea that would shape the trajectory of Christianity—and by extension, Western civilization—for centuries. The First Council of Nicaea, convened by Emperor Constantine, was far more than a theological summit. It was the moment when imperial power met religious doctrine, laying the foundation for what would become the Christian Roman Empire and, eventually, Christendom.

This blog post explores the Council of Nicaea in the broader context of the late Roman Empire—why it was convened, what it achieved, and how its impact continues to echo through history.

The Roman Empire in Transition

By the early 4th century, the Roman Empire was undergoing a profound transformation. The old pagan order, though still dominant in many areas, was gradually being displaced by a new force: Christianity. This once-marginal sect had grown substantially since the first century, fueled by missionary efforts and its appeal to both the oppressed and the elite.

Contrary to popular belief, Christian persecution in the Roman Empire had been sporadic rather than constant. Many Christians lived peacefully, some even holding high office. But tensions remained. When Emperor Constantine rose to power after years of civil war, he did something revolutionary: he embraced the Christian faith.

The Edict of Milan in 313 AD legalized Christian worship and returned confiscated Church property. For Constantine, Christianity was not just a matter of personal conviction—it was a political unifier. But to serve that function, the religion itself needed unity.

The Crisis That Sparked a Council

At the heart of the crisis was a theological dispute over the nature of Jesus Christ. A priest named Arius of Alexandria taught that Jesus was not co-eternal with God the Father, but a created being—divine, perhaps, but not equal to God.

Arianism, as it came to be known, quickly gained traction and sparked intense debate. For Constantine, religious disunity threatened political stability. He took the extraordinary step of calling an ecumenical council to resolve the matter.

The Council of Nicaea was unprecedented. Over 300 bishops were summoned from across the empire—some bearing the scars of earlier persecution. They came together not merely to debate theology, but to safeguard the unity of a now-imperial faith.

Defining Orthodoxy

The key issue was Christology: Was Jesus the same as God the Father, or was he distinct and subordinate?

Arius maintained that Jesus was created and therefore not divine in the same way as God. His opponents, led by Bishop Alexander of Alexandria and his deacon Athanasius, argued that Jesus was “begotten, not made,” and of the same divine essence—homoousios—as the Father.

After months of heated debate, the council rejected Arianism and endorsed the doctrine of Christ’s full divinity. This consensus was codified in the Nicene Creed, which affirmed belief in one God, in Jesus Christ as “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God,” and in the Holy Spirit.

The creed marked a foundational moment in Christian theology. Though the debate would continue for centuries, the council had drawn a theological line in the sand.

Key Participants at the First Council of Nicaea (325 AD).

The Emperor’s Role

Constantine did not merely sponsor the council—he presided over it. Though not a bishop himself, his involvement reflected a new reality: the emperor as a central figure in Church affairs.

This was a turning point. Never before had a Roman emperor so directly influenced Christian doctrine. While some bishops welcomed the protection and resources imperial patronage provided, others were uneasy with the Church’s growing dependence on secular power.

Historians still debate whether Constantine’s motivations were spiritual, political, or a mix of both. But his actions undeniably changed the nature of Christianity. It was now not just a faith, but a state religion in the making.

Enduring Misconceptions

Popular myths, particularly those popularized by modern fiction, have clouded the facts about Nicaea. Contrary to some claims, the council did not decide which books would be included in the Bible, nor did it invent the idea of Jesus’ divinity.

The biblical canon developed over several centuries through widespread usage and theological consensus. Nicaea focused specifically on defining the nature of Christ’s relationship to God the Father—not on determining the contents of Scripture.

Legacy and Impact

The First Council of Nicaea was the first in a series of ecumenical councils that would shape Christian doctrine for centuries. It established precedent: when theology divided the Church, councils would be called to define orthodoxy.

It also laid the groundwork for the Christianization of the Roman Empire. Over time, emperors would not only support but legislate Christian doctrine. Church and state became intertwined in ways that would dominate European history for over a millennium.

Even today, the Nicene Creed is recited in churches around the world. The language may vary, but its core message remains: Jesus Christ is divine, eternal, and one with the Father.

Conclusion

The Council of Nicaea was not merely a theological event. It was a reflection of a rapidly changing empire, a sign of the Church’s evolving identity, and a foretaste of the complex relationship between faith and power in the centuries to come.

What happened in Nicaea continues to matter—not only for Christians, but for anyone interested in how belief systems shape societies. It was a moment when ideas met empire, and the result was the birth of a new world order.

Further Reading

  • The History of the Church by Eusebius

  • The Early Church by Henry Chadwick

  • A Short History of the Early Church by Harry Boer

The Battle of Vigo Bay (1702)

Battle of Vigo Bay, October 23, 1702. Episode from the War of the Spanish Succession (anonymous, ca. 1705).

In the autumn of 1702, an important sea battle took place off the coast of northwestern Spain, in a quiet inlet called Vigo Bay. Known as the Battle of Vigo Bay, it became one of the most dramatic naval clashes of the early War of the Spanish Succession—a major European conflict over who would control the Spanish Empire after the death of its childless king (Charles II of Spain, 1661–1700).

At the time, a powerful fleet of Spanish treasure ships had just arrived from the Americas, carrying gold, silver, and valuable goods. They were being protected by French warships and hidden inside the bay. But the Allies—Britain and the Dutch Republic—had found out where the fleet was hiding.

Led by Admiral Sir George Rooke (British) and Vice Admiral Philips van Almonde (Dutch), the Allied fleet launched a surprise attack on 23 October 1702. The entrance to the harbor had been blocked with a heavy chain and guarded by forts and ships, but the Allies broke through. In the chaos that followed, most of the Franco-Spanish fleet was destroyed or captured.

Although much of the treasure had already been moved inland, the battle was still a major victory. It gave the Allies a badly needed morale boost after an earlier failed attempt to capture the port of Cádiz, and it showed their naval strength. The event also had diplomatic effects: soon after the battle, Portugal switched sides to join the Allies.

Today, the Battle of Vigo Bay is remembered not just for its daring naval tactics, but also for its impact on the larger war. It’s a reminder of how battles at sea could shape the course of European politics and global trade in the early 18th century.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 06

Last known photo of Les sœurs Moutarde in front of their caravan (1978, Saint-Mystère, France; Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

At the far edge of Saint-Mystère, beyond the reach of regular paths, stood a white caravan. Since 1973, it had been the home of Églantine and Ursule Moutarde — two sisters who, after their house burned down, chose silence over rebuilding.

They kept to themselves. Always together. One wrapped in a coarse blanket, the other in a suit worn thin. They never spoke. Not to villagers, not even to each other. But in Saint-Mystère, that was not unusual. Not since the silence began.

Each morning they sat outside, side by side, unmoving — as if listening to something deep and old. No one disturbed them. Questions were considered dangerous. Presence was enough.

In 1978, a traveler passed through and took their photo. They did not smile. They did not blink. They simply allowed the moment.

Weeks later, they were gone. Chairs empty. Caravan locked. No farewell, no sign of where or why.

Only the silence remained. And in Saint-Mystère, that is explanation enough.

The Terrible 17th-Century Europe

Battle of Rocroi (1643), painted in 2011 by Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau.

The 17th century was a time of extraordinary hardship across Europe. War, famine, plague, and rebellion tore through kingdoms and empires. From the Thirty Years’ War in Central Europe to the English Civil War, revolts in Spain and France, and the collapse of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the entire continent seemed engulfed in crisis.

Historians have long debated whether these events were isolated or interconnected. One compelling explanation is the General Crisis Theory, which sees the 17th century as a systemic upheaval across Europe—a convergence of economic, political, social, and environmental pressures that reshaped the continent.

Crisis Everywhere

The Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648) devastated large parts of the Holy Roman Empire, killing millions and leaving towns and fields in ruins. France faced civil conflict in the Fronde, Spain lost Portugal and faced revolts in Catalonia, and England executed its king after a bloody civil war. Poland was invaded repeatedly, while Russia dealt with uprisings and instability. Even relatively stable northern states like the Dutch Republic and Sweden saw food riots and unrest.

These weren’t isolated troubles. In many places, multiple crises overlapped—military conflict, religious division, famine, and economic collapse—making the century one of the most chaotic in European memory.

Explaining the Crisis

Historians Eric Hobsbawm and Hugh Trevor-Roper argued that the 17th-century crisis was driven by deep-rooted tensions: the decline of feudalism, the rise of capitalism, and struggles between monarchs and emerging bourgeois forces. Geoffrey Parker expanded the theory by emphasizing the role of climate: the Little Ice Age brought colder weather, failed harvests, and famine, which fueled popular discontent and revolt.

Examples abound:

  • Drought contributed to revolts in Portugal (1637) and Catalonia (1640).

  • Bread riots erupted in Naples and Palermo (1647–48).

  • Failed harvests triggered unrest in Ireland, Sweden, and Central Europe.

These environmental shocks didn’t cause every war or rebellion, but they intensified existing tensions, tipping struggling societies into crisis.

Economic and Religious Shifts

Spain’s imperial decline, triggered by inflation, overreliance on American silver, and lost wars, marked a shift in European power. Economic leadership moved northward to England and the Dutch Republic, which embraced trade, finance, and capitalist enterprise.

Religious conflict also remained a driving force. The Thirty Years’ War began as a Catholic-Protestant conflict, and in Britain, tensions between Anglicans, Puritans, and Catholics fed into civil war. Witch hunts, particularly in Scotland and Germany, reflected a climate of fear and scapegoating.

Was There Really a “General Crisis”?

Some historians argue the “general crisis” idea stretches too far—local causes mattered, and not all regions suffered equally. Yet the sheer simultaneity of upheaval across Europe is striking. Even if causes varied, many societies were under extraordinary pressure from multiple directions.

Conclusion

The 17th century was more than just a century of disasters—it was a time of transformation. From its upheavals emerged modern Europe: stronger states, capitalist economies, and new political structures. The General Crisis Theory doesn’t offer a single cause, but a framework for understanding how a range of pressures combined to make the 1600s so uniquely destructive—and transformative.

Further Reading

  1. Geoffrey Parker – Global Crisis: War, Climate Change & Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century

  2. Hugh Trevor-Roper – The General Crisis of the Seventeenth Century

  3. Eric Hobsbawm – The Age of Revolution

  4. John H. Elliott – The Count-Duke of Olivares

  5. Peter H. Wilson – Europe’s Tragedy: A History of the Thirty Years War

From Convivencia to Catholic Rule

How Power and Identity Changed in Late Medieval Spain

The Capitulation of Granada, 1492, by Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz (1848 – 1921).

The word Convivencia often brings to mind an idealized vision of medieval Spain, where Christians, Jews, and Muslims lived together in harmony. While modern historians have challenged this romantic image, it remains a useful starting point for understanding one of Europe’s major historical shifts: the move from a diverse society to a centralized, Catholic monarchy under Ferdinand and Isabella in the late 1400s. This transformation wasn't sudden or inevitable—it was the product of long-standing tensions, political ambitions, and changing religious ideas.

Rethinking Convivencia

Between the 8th and 13th centuries, especially in Muslim-ruled Al-Andalus, people of different faiths often lived side by side. But as historian David Nirenberg has shown, this coexistence was fragile and marked by episodes of violence and exclusion. It was often a matter of practicality, not tolerance. Rather than seeing Convivencia as a golden age that abruptly ended, it's more accurate to view it as a delicate balance that slowly unraveled.

The Reconquista and Christian Identity

The centuries-long Christian reconquest of Iberia—the Reconquista—was more than just military. It helped shape a Christian identity that saw the land as rightfully Christian, reclaimed from Muslim rule. By 1492, with the fall of Granada, this idea had deeply taken root. Historian Joseph Pérez argues that Ferdinand and Isabella saw religious unity as essential to national unity. So, taking Granada was both a political and spiritual mission.

Building a Centralized Catholic State

To strengthen their rule, the Catholic Monarchs reduced the power of nobles and the Church, building a more centralized state. They created new institutions like a standing army, royal courts, and a uniform tax system. Religious conformity became part of this state-building. The Spanish Inquisition, founded in 1478, was less about Church control and more about royal authority. It targeted not just religious heresy, but political dissent as well.

Economic Pressures and Social Tensions

Religious persecution was also tied to social and economic tensions. Jewish communities often held key roles in finance and medicine, causing resentment. The anti-Jewish violence of 1391, and later forced conversions, reflected not only religious hostility but also economic rivalry. Many converted Jews, or conversos, were still viewed with suspicion. The idea of limpieza de sangre (purity of blood) emerged to justify discrimination based on ancestry.

These tensions set the stage for the expulsion of Jews in 1492 and, later, the forced conversions and persecution of Muslims. These acts weren’t just religious—they were also driven by efforts to consolidate power and control.

Religion and National Ambition

Ferdinand and Isabella’s vision wasn’t just inward-looking. Influenced by crusading ideas and apocalyptic hopes, they saw their reign as part of a divine mission. As Brian Catlos notes, 1492 wasn’t just the year Granada fell—it was also the year Columbus sailed west, launching Spain into global expansion. Religious intolerance, then, wasn’t only about purging Spain—it was also about projecting Spanish Catholicism onto the world stage.

Conclusion

The move from religious coexistence to Catholic authoritarianism in Spain was the result of many intertwined forces: war, politics, economic pressure, and religious ideology. The Catholic Monarchs didn’t invent intolerance, but they institutionalized it on a massive scale. By seeing this transformation as part of a long historical arc, we better understand how faith, power, and identity shaped modern Spain.

Further Reading:

  • Brian A. Catlos, Kingdoms of Faith: A New History of Islamic Spain (2018)

  • David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (1996)

  • Joseph Pérez, The Spanish Inquisition: A History (2005)

  • Henry Kamen, Spain, 1469–1714: A Society of Conflict (1983)

  • Benzion Netanyahu, The Origins of the Inquisition in Fifteenth Century Spain (1995)

  • Angus Mackay, Spain in the Middle Ages: From Frontier to Empire, 1000–1500 (1977)

The Lingering Shadows of Spain’s Civil War

Though Spain’s Civil War ended in 1939, its echoes still resonate through the country’s streets, politics, and family histories. Unlike other European nations that confronted their past through trials or truth commissions, Spain adopted a pact of forgetting (Pacto del Olvido) during its transition to democracy. This silence allowed wounds to remain unhealed, with mass graves still being uncovered and historical memory laws stirring controversy. The legacy of Franco’s dictatorship lingers in political debates, street names, and even in family conversations where loyalties remain divided. As Spain grapples with how to remember its past, the war remains not just history but a presence—just below the surface.

Santa Comba de Bande, Spain

Santa Comba de Bande.

The Santa Comba de Bande church is one of the oldest and most significant examples of Visigothic architecture in Spain, located in the small village of Bande in the province of Ourense, Galicia. Dating back to the 7th century, it represents a key period in early medieval Christian architecture on the Iberian Peninsula, before the Islamic conquest. The church’s structure follows a traditional Greek cross plan, notable for its use of horseshoe arches, and its simplicity reflects the aesthetic and religious values of the Visigothic era.

Despite its modest size, the church holds immense historical and cultural significance due to its connection to early Christian art and Visigothic traditions. The Santa Comba de Bande church is also known for its beautifully preserved mosaics and carvings, which provide insight into the art and religious practices of the time. The church has been declared a national monument and remains a testament to the continuity of Christian worship in the region for over a millennium.

“Italian Brainrot”, what the Heck

Ballerina Cappuccina, Bombardiro Crocodilo, and Tralalero Tralala dancing on the beach.

Let me be clear: I don’t have children, so I also don’t have grandchildren to mediate the cultural confusion between myself and Generation Z. What I do have is a phone, a bit of curiosity, and a stubborn refusal to believe the world has entirely lost its mind — though after encountering something called Italian Brainrot, I’m no longer so sure.

I was born in the 1960s. Occasionally, I hear younger people speak about things like cassette tapes, typewriters, rotary phones, and fluorescent toys as if they were part of some surreal vintage wonderland. To me — and to most boomers I know — those things weren’t strange or ironic. They were just life. Ordinary. Functional. Familiar.

What does feel surreal is what I’ve recently stumbled across on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube Shorts — the natural habitats of today’s cultural experiments. That’s where I first encountered this bizarre phenomenon known as Italian Brainrot.

At first I thought it was some ironic meme about food culture, or maybe a YouTube parody. But no — it’s a genre in its own right. A stream of AI-generated videos, each under a minute, filled with manic, intentionally absurd characters screaming in bad Italian accents while doing the digital equivalent of banging pots and pans together.

There’s Tralalero Tralala — a sneaker-wearing shark-thing with the energy of an espresso-powered toddler.
There’s Bombardiro Crocodilo — a winged crocodile who seems to specialize in aerial pasta-related violence.
And Ballerina Cappuccina — a ballerina with a cappuccino cup for a head, who pirouettes like she’s auditioning for an opera written by a malfunctioning coffee machine.

The kids love it. They laugh uncontrollably. It’s not satire, exactly. And it’s definitely not parody in the way we understood it. It’s something stranger: a form of digital nonsense. It is content that functions as a coping mechanism for overstimulation, anxiety, or a fractured attention span — it is not a source of insight or meaning.

They call it brainrot. They mean that affectionately.

To me, it’s disorienting. I tried to approach it with some cultural generosity. Maybe it’s this generation’s version of Dadaism — a chaotic, comic response to a world that feels increasingly unfixable. In that light, it makes a certain kind of sense.

But I won’t lie: I still find it mostly annoying. Loud, repetitive, empty. Yet undeniably watchable — in the same way a snow globe full of glitter and frogs might be. I even caught myself laughing once or twice. Which annoyed me even more.

No, I won’t become a fan. I won’t follow Brr Brr Patapim or remix my own spaghetti-themed soundbite. But I see now that this isn’t just noise. It’s ritual. It’s play. It’s a strange and sometimes beautiful kind of escape.

And while I may not understand it, I remember the faces we made when our parents first heard punk. Or saw Monty Python. Or read Kurt Vonnegut.

These kids are strange.
But then again — weren’t we?

Châteauvillain (France)

Châteauvillain on a rainy day in December.

The charming beauty of the picturesque village of Châteauvillain doesn't fully reveal itself on a cold, rainy December day. The gray skies and constant drizzle dull the vibrant colors of the old stone houses and narrow streets. The typically serene ambiance is replaced with a quiet melancholy as rainwater trickles through the cobbled alleys. It’s hard to capture the village’s true character under such gloomy conditions. We’ll definitely need to return on a brighter day to experience Châteauvillain in all its glory, when the sun brings life back to its historic charm.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Legend

Saint-Mystère’s villagers, guardians of the vow — ever watchful, ever mute.

Tucked into the folds of France’s forgotten woodlands, where the mists settle low and the ravens speak more than the people, lies the village of Saint-Mystère. A place without voices. A place of masks.

No signs welcome you. The roads grow narrow as you approach, as if nature itself conspires to keep you out. But if you persist — if the wind does not turn you around — you’ll find the villagers there. Always masked. Always silent. Not out of rudeness.

Out of fear.

The Night the Silence Began

The year was 1079. Winter came early that year. A hooded stranger arrived just after sunset, barefoot, his cloak stiff with road dust and blood. He said nothing, but made the sign of the cross with trembling fingers. The villagers, wary yet devout, led him to the abbey.

That night, the monks heard murmurs rising from the abbot’s chambers — not in prayer, but in some twisting language that scraped the ear like broken glass. Then came silence. A heavy, unnatural silence.

By dawn, the abbot was dead.

His body lay curled before the altar. His eyes bulged in terror. His tongue, neatly severed, was never found. And the stranger? Gone. As if the earth had swallowed him whole.

The Village That Chose Silence

Soon, the village changed.

First, it was whispers in the forest — disembodied and cold. Then the dreams: entire households waking at once, screaming into the dark. One child drew pictures of masked figures dancing in fire. Another carved symbols into her door, symbols no one recognized but everyone feared.

And then Ysabeau.

She was the first to challenge it. She spoke aloud, calling for reason, for light. Her voice rang out like a bell in the fog.

By morning, her house was empty. No signs of struggle. Just a mask on the doorstep, wet with dew and... something else.

The people took it as a sign.

They crafted their own masks — wood, leather, cloth — and covered their faces. They locked their words behind their teeth. Silence fell like snowfall, soft and total. And in its stillness, the village... survived.

The Covenant

A statement was left on the altar weeks later — not written, but etched into the stone with a knife:

“What was spoken cannot be unsaid. What was revealed cannot be unrevealed. Let the mask protect. Let silence preserve.”

For centuries they built no more churches. They took no more names. From then on, every child was raised in the discipline of silence — not as a superstition, but as law. And the forest grew thick around the town, a living wall of thorns and bark and watchful eyes.

All Hallows

Each year, on the eve of November, masked figures gather at the ancient square beneath the twisted ash tree. They do not chant. They do not light candles. They stand. Still. Waiting.

Some say they await the return of the stranger. Others claim they are trying to keep him from rising again. And some whisper — in towns far away, behind thick tavern walls — that Saint-Mystère keeps a secret so terrible, the silence is the only thing holding the world together.

Today

Saint-Mystère still exists, if you know where to look. GPS won’t find it. Maps don’t mark it. But sometimes, hikers stumble across a clearing of strange, quiet houses. They report masked faces watching from windows. No words. No footsteps.

Just a wind that seems to say:

"Speak, and you will be heard."

But no one dares reply.

Because everyone knows — even now —

In Saint-Mystère, the price of speech is your soul.

Gossip: Evolution’s Social Glue

Gossip often gets a bad reputation. We’re taught to avoid it, to see it as petty or malicious. But a growing body of research in evolutionary psychology suggests something quite different: gossip may have helped our species survive. Rather than a sign of moral failure, gossip could be one of the most important tools humans ever developed to cooperate, bond, and build community.

Think about how often we talk about others when they’re not around—colleagues, friends, celebrities. This isn’t necessarily scandalous or cruel. Much of it is just information-sharing: who's doing well, who's struggling, what someone said or did. This kind of talk is everywhere, and that’s no accident. In fact, it may have played a crucial role in shaping human society.

Our ancestors lived in tight-knit groups where collaboration was key. Knowing who was trustworthy and who wasn’t could mean the difference between survival and disaster. Gossip—talking about others’ actions and reputations—was a way to spread this knowledge efficiently. If someone cheated or didn’t contribute, word got around. That quiet flow of information helped build trust, reinforced social norms, and deterred selfish behavior.

Some scientists compare gossip to grooming in primates. Just as monkeys pick through each other’s fur to build alliances, humans use conversation to form and maintain social bonds. But where grooming is one-to-one, gossip lets us connect with many people at once. It’s more efficient—and more powerful.

When used well, gossip has a moral dimension. It warns people to behave decently. It spreads reputations—good and bad—and helps communities function. People are more likely to cooperate when they know others will talk about what they do. In this way, gossip becomes a kind of invisible social contract: act fairly, or face the consequences.

Of course, not all gossip is good. It can be cruel, false, or harmful. But condemning all gossip misses the point. What matters is how and why we gossip. When it’s honest, fair, and rooted in care for others, it can be a powerful force for cohesion. It’s part of what makes us human.

Next time you hear someone say, “Don’t gossip,” pause a moment. Maybe the question isn’t whether we gossip, but whether we do it with integrity. Because in the grand scheme of human history, gossip isn’t just talk—it’s survival.

Further Reading

  • Robin Dunbar – Grooming, Gossip, and the Evolution of Language
    A foundational book on how human language may have evolved to serve social bonding through gossip.

  • TIME Magazine – “Why Do People Gossip? Here’s What Science Says”
    A clear and engaging summary of modern psychological insights into gossip.

  • VICE – “Gossip May Have Played a Role in Human Survival”
    A popular science piece connecting gossip to trust-building and social enforcement in early societies.

  • University of Maryland – “Gabbing About Others Is Not Always a Bad Thing”
    A summary of recent research showing how gossip can actually encourage cooperation.

  • Podcast: Science Vs – “Pssst!! The Science of Gossip”
    A fun and informative podcast episode exploring why we gossip and what role it plays in our lives.

Alfonso el Sabio: too Wise to Rule?

Based on Joseph F. O’Callaghan, “Paths to Ruin: The Economic and Financial Policies of Alfonso the Learned”.

Alfonso X of Castile, from his Libro de los Juegos.

King Alfonso X of Castile and León (1221-1284), known to history as Alfonso el Sabio (“the Learned”), reigned from 1252 to 1284 and left behind a legacy that is both brilliant and burdened. On one hand, he was a visionary patron of science, law, and the arts, producing monumental works like the Siete Partidas, the Cantigas de Santa María, and the Libro de los Juegos (Book of Games). On the other hand, as historian Joseph F. O’Callaghan explains in his chapter “Paths to Ruin”, Alfonso’s reign was also marked by a catastrophic failure in financial and economic policy—a failure that weakened the Castilian crown and sowed unrest for decades to come.

A Scholar on the Throne

Alfonso X was not the typical medieval monarch. Fluent in Latin, Arabic, and Castilian, he was as much a scholar as a sovereign. Under his rule, a vibrant court at Toledo became a center of translation and intellectual activity, where Christian, Muslim, and Jewish scholars collaborated. One of the most remarkable products of this atmosphere was the Libro de los Juegos (Book of Games, 1283)—an illustrated treatise on chess, dice, and board games. More than a manual, it is a philosophical and cultural text that blends entertainment, moral education, and cosmology, reflecting Alfonso’s fascination with the interplay of chance, reason, and fate.

But the grandeur of his cultural ambitions stood in sharp contrast to the reality of his kingdom’s finances.

Dreams Too Expensive to Realize

According to O’Callaghan, Alfonso’s intellectual and imperial ambitions demanded money—a lot of it. His bid for the Holy Roman Empire, his extensive codification of law, and his royal patronage of scholarship all drew heavily on the royal treasury. Yet the revenue streams of 13th-century Castile were limited. To make up for the gap, Alfonso relied on aggressive taxation and damaging currency debasement—undermining both the economy and public trust.

He minted increasingly debased coinage, reducing the silver content while maintaining face value. This led to inflation, distrust in the Castilian currency, and a sharp downturn in trade. Even cities that supported the king intellectually and politically began to resist his economic policies.

Political Fallout and Fractured Authority

O’Callaghan emphasizes that Alfonso’s fiscal mismanagement led not only to economic strain, but to political fragmentation. The Cortes (Castile’s representative assembly) grew increasingly critical of the crown. Nobles, clergy, and cities resented rising taxes and the inflationary impact of bad coinage. The king’s authority—already under pressure from his failed imperial ambitions—began to erode.

Most devastatingly, Alfonso’s last years were marked by dynastic conflict, as his son Sancho rose in rebellion, supported by nobles who feared further ruin. Alfonso died in 1284, largely politically isolated, with his legal and cultural legacy overshadowed by the financial chaos he had created.

A Legacy Divided: Culture vs. Collapse

O’Callaghan’s portrait of Alfonso X is not that of a tyrant or a fool, but of a brilliant mind unmoored from financial reality. The very intellectual projects that make Alfonso celebrated today—his codification of law, his Book of Games, his support of science and vernacular literature—were funded through means that ultimately destabilized his kingdom.

In this sense, the title “Paths to Ruin” carries a double meaning: Alfonso walked a path that elevated Castilian culture and law to unprecedented heights, while simultaneously guiding his monarchy into economic and political decline.

Conclusion

Alfonso X remains one of the most paradoxical figures of the Middle Ages. He gave Europe some of its earliest and richest secular literature, codified legal systems still influential today, and preserved the intellectual heritage of three great cultures. Yet, as O’Callaghan’s analysis shows, his financial policies unraveled the very foundations of his state.

He was, perhaps, too learned to rule well—a king who left behind a library of wisdom but a kingdom in crisis.

Further Reading

  • Joseph F. O’Callaghan, “Paths to Ruin: The Economic and Financial Policies of Alfonso the Learned”, in The Worlds of Alfonso the Learned and James the Conqueror (Princeton, 1985).

  • Joseph F. O’Callaghan, The Learned King: The Reign of Alfonso X of Castile (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993).

  • Joseph F. O’Callaghan, Alfonso X, the Justinian of His Age: Law and Justice in Thirteenth-Century Castile (Cornell University Press, 2019).

  • H. L. R. Edwards, The Book of Games: Alfonso X’s Book of Chess, Dice and Tables (Dover facsimile edition).

 

Our Dear Friends in Moscow

Published in June 2025, Our Dear Friends in Moscow: The Inside Story of a Broken Generation by Andrei Soldatov and Irina Borogan offers a poignant exploration of Russia's transformation from the hopeful post-Soviet era to its current authoritarian state under Vladimir Putin. This memoir delves into the personal and professional lives of a group of young journalists who, once united by shared ideals, find themselves on divergent paths as the nation's political landscape shifts dramatically.

Overview

Soldatov and Borogan, renowned investigative journalists now living in exile, recount their experiences alongside colleagues from the early 2000s at the newspaper Izvestia. The narrative traces how these friendships evolved—or fractured—as some individuals aligned with the burgeoning authoritarian regime, while others, like the authors, chose resistance, leading to exile and persecution. The memoir provides an intimate look at the emotional and ideological divides that emerged within a generation once united by the promise of a democratic Russia.

Key Themes and Insights

The Fragmentation of a Generation

The book illustrates how the optimism of the 1990s gave way to disillusionment, as the state's increasing control led to a splintering of personal and professional relationships. Friends who once shared common goals found themselves on opposing sides of a deepening ideological divide.

The Erosion of Journalistic Integrity

As the Kremlin tightened its grip on the media, many journalists faced a choice: conform to the state's narrative or risk their careers and safety. The memoir details how some succumbed to pressure, becoming mouthpieces for propaganda, while others upheld journalistic principles at great personal cost.

Isolation and Exile

The authors chronicle their own journey into exile, highlighting the challenges faced by those who oppose the regime. Their experiences underscore the broader theme of isolation—not just geographically, but also emotionally and ideologically—as dissenters are cast out from their homeland and social circles.

The Personal Cost of Political Change

Beyond the political analysis, the memoir delves into the personal toll exacted by Russia's authoritarian turn. It examines the strain on friendships, the loss of trust, and the emotional burden borne by those who resist conformity.

Further Reading

  • Our Dear Friends in Moscow: The Inside Story of a Broken Generation – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

  • The Red Web – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

  • The New Nobility – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

  • Goodbye to Russia – Sarah Rainsford

  • Koba the Dread – Martin Amis

  • Nothing is True and Everything is Possible – Peter Pomerantsev

St. Lambertus Church in Münster (Germany)

St. Lambertus Church in Munster (Germany).

The St. Lambertus Church in Münster stands as a striking testament to the city's rich and turbulent history. This Gothic masterpiece, with its towering spires and intricate stonework, dominates the skyline of Münster, inviting visitors to step back in time and explore the deep-rooted spiritual and historical significance that this sacred site holds.

St. Lambertus, for whom the church is named, was a 7th-century bishop of Maastricht, known for his zealous missionary work and unwavering dedication to his faith. Born into a noble family, Lambertus chose a life of religious service and quickly became a prominent figure in the early Christian Church. His fervor for spreading Christianity, however, led to conflict with local pagan leaders, and he was ultimately martyred for his beliefs. His legacy of devotion and sacrifice deeply resonates within the walls of St. Lambertus Church, which was built to honor him.

But the history of St. Lambertus Church is not just one of piety; it is also intertwined with the dramatic events of the Reformation and the rise of Anabaptism. In the early 16th century, Münster became the epicenter of a radical religious movement that sought to create a new, theocratic society. The Anabaptists, who believed in adult baptism and a strict adherence to their interpretation of the Bible, took control of the city in 1534, proclaiming it the "New Jerusalem." St. Lambertus Church, like many other religious sites in Münster, was caught in the middle of this upheaval.

During the Anabaptist rule, the church was repurposed to fit the new regime's vision, but their reign was short-lived. After a brutal siege by forces loyal to the Catholic Church, the Anabaptist leaders were captured and executed. Their bodies were displayed in iron cages hung from the tower of St. Lambertus Church as a grim warning to others who might challenge the established order. These cages remain visible today, a chilling reminder of the city's violent past and the lengths to which people will go in the name of faith.

The St. Lambertus Church today is a symbol of Münster's resilience and the enduring power of belief. Its ornate interior, with soaring arches and stained glass windows, offers a serene contrast to the tumultuous history it has witnessed. As visitors walk through its hallowed halls, they are enveloped by the echoes of centuries of devotion, conflict, and reconciliation, making St. Lambertus Church not only a place of worship but also a profound historical monument.

St. Lambertus Church in Munster (Germany).

Authoritarian Roots in a Shifting World

In a world that feels increasingly chaotic—where political lines blur, identities shift, and truths are constantly contested—some people long for something solid. Certainty. Order. A firm hand. That longing isn’t new, but our understanding of it has evolved. Two major works, written over 50 years apart, help us understand why this desire for order can turn dangerous—and why it’s often rooted not in ideology, but in anxiety.

The first is The Authoritarian Personality (1950), a pioneering work by Theodor W. Adorno and a team of social scientists. It explored how certain personality traits—rigid thinking, submission to authority, hostility to outsiders—predispose people to fascist or authoritarian ideologies. Crucially, it linked these traits to early family environments: strict parenting, emotional repression, and punishment-based discipline. One example of how these traits were measured is the "F-scale" (F for fascism) questionnaire, which included statements such as "Obedience and respect for authority are the most important virtues children should learn"—respondents who agreed with such items were more likely to score high in authoritarian tendencies. In short, authoritarianism, they argued, is often born at home.

The second is Liquid Modernity (2000), a concept developed by sociologist Zygmunt Bauman. Unlike the structured world of the mid-20th century, Bauman described today’s society as fluid and unstable. In this “liquid” modernity, nothing—jobs, identities, relationships, institutions—feels permanent. Individuals must constantly adapt, reinvent themselves, and navigate life without reliable anchors. It’s liberating for some, disorienting for many.

So what happens when a personality shaped by a craving for structure confronts a world that refuses to offer it?

The Authoritarian Longing for Solidity

In The Authoritarian Personality, Adorno and his colleagues weren’t just asking why people supported fascism—they were trying to identify the psychological roots of intolerance. They developed what became known as the F-scale, a questionnaire designed to detect authoritarian tendencies.

Their findings revealed a pattern: individuals who feared uncertainty and complexity often clung to rigid ideologies and strong authority figures. They needed clearly defined roles, moral absolutes, and a sense of superiority over perceived outsiders. And they had often grown up in homes where obedience was valued more than understanding, where questioning was punished, and where love was conditional.

This early emotional environment fostered a deep insecurity—one that later attached itself to authoritarian movements as a way of regaining control and coherence.

Life in Liquid Modernity

Bauman’s Liquid Modernity describes a world where those traditional sources of coherence—nation, class, religion, family, work—no longer provide stability. Change is constant. Identities are fluid. Relationships are short-lived. We are, Bauman argues, “individuals in a state of permanent reinvention,” always adapting, always uncertain.

In contrast, the "solid modernity" of the early 20th century was defined by stable careers, lifelong marriages, clear social roles, and a sense of predictable life progression. People knew their place, followed established paths, and leaned on institutions for identity and meaning.

This isn’t just a cultural shift—it’s a psychological one. The modern individual is told they are free, but that freedom comes with overwhelming responsibility. There are fewer rules, but also fewer guarantees. The old scaffolding is gone, and many people are left to float—or sink—on their own.

For those already predisposed to fear ambiguity, this can be terrifying.

When Two Worlds Collide

What happens when people who were raised to seek stability and obey authority are thrown into a liquid world of endless change?

They react. Sometimes quietly—through withdrawal, anxiety, or cynicism. Sometimes more visibly—by clinging to strongman leaders, rigid ideologies, conspiracy theories, or identity-based movements that promise clarity and protection. The authoritarian reflex doesn’t disappear in liquid modernity; it intensifies. It adapts.

Today’s authoritarianism doesn’t always wear a uniform or fly a flag. It may spread through digital echo chambers, filter bubbles, or emotionally charged ideologies that offer simple answers to complex problems. But the underlying psychology—fear of uncertainty, intolerance of ambiguity, and a need for control—remains the same.

In a liquid world, authoritarianism is not a relic of the past. It is a symptom of modern instability.

Rethinking Responsibility

The combined insights of Adorno and Bauman reveal something vital: authoritarianism is not just about ideology or education. It is also about how people are raised—and what the world demands of them.

Authoritarian personalities may develop in rigid, fearful households. But when these early patterns of emotional insecurity meet a broader culture of instability—where roles, identities, and institutions are constantly shifting—the effects can compound. The longing for certainty planted in childhood is only magnified in adulthood by a world that offers few reliable structures. In this way, the intersection of early family dynamics and societal fluidity creates a potent breeding ground for authoritarian reflexes. In this sense, both too much structure and too little can breed the same reaction: the desire for someone—or something—to take control.

If we want to foster democratic, open societies, we must begin not with politics, but with people. That means:

  • Parenting that balances guidance with autonomy

  • Education that embraces complexity and ambiguity

  • Institutions that provide security without rigidity

  • Public discourse that values doubt, curiosity, and empathy

Final Thought: Two Theories, One Warning

Adorno showed us how authoritarian personalities are shaped. Bauman showed us the kind of world in which they may thrive. Together, they offer a chilling but powerful insight: authoritarianism grows not just from strength, but from fear—especially the fear of navigating life without clear direction.

Our task, then, is not to reimpose old certainties or to abandon all structure, but to help people—especially the young—learn how to live in a world that doesn’t come with instructions.

If we can build resilience in the face of uncertainty, we may yet resist the call of those who promise false order in exchange for our freedom.

Further Reading:

  • Theodor W. Adorno et al. – The Authoritarian Personality

  • Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Modernity

  • Karen Stenner – The Authoritarian Dynamic

  • Erich Fromm – Escape from Freedom

  • Jason Stanley – How Fascism Works

The Roman Temple of Vic (Spain)

The Roman Temple of Vic (Spain).

Vic, a historic town in Catalonia, Spain, has a past that stretches all the way back to Roman times, when it was known as Ausona. Founded sometime between the late Republican period (2nd–1st century BC) and the early days of the Roman Empire (1st century AD), Ausona was an important settlement in the province of Hispania Tarraconensis. Thanks to its location along key trade and communication routes, the town developed into a thriving community with well-planned streets, public buildings, and temples.

One of the most striking remains from this period is the Roman Temple of Vic. Built in the 1st or 2nd century AD, this well-preserved structure gives us a glimpse into the city’s ancient past. Historians are still unsure which god or goddess the temple was dedicated to, but it stood in a sacred area (temenos) where people gathered to make offerings and take part in religious ceremonies. Sitting on one of the highest points of Auso, the temple would have been a significant part of the city’s landscape.

The temple only survived thanks to the way it was reused over the centuries. During the Middle Ages, it was completely enclosed within the Castell dels Montcada, a fortress built by the influential Montcada family. Over time, it was used as a noble residence, a granary, and even a prison. Its true identity was forgotten until 1882, when restoration work uncovered its original structure. Since then, it has been recognized as one of the best-preserved Roman temples in Catalonia, offering a direct link to Vic’s Roman past.