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.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 05

Monsieur et Madamme Vieuxpain having their portrait taken (Saint-Mystère, France; Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

It's a Coup

Carole Cadwalladr

In her powerful TED Talk, journalist Carole Cadwalladr delivers a chilling diagnosis of our times: Western democracies have been quietly and methodically undermined. What looks on the surface like voter choice, she argues, is increasingly being shaped by forces hidden from public scrutiny. In telling the story of the Brexit referendum, Cadwalladr uncovers not just a political scandal, but a systematic attack on the foundations of democracy—one driven by Big Tech, fuelled by big data, and thriving in the shadows where privacy has been stripped away.

Cadwalladr’s investigation into the Brexit Leave campaign—most notably its relationship with Cambridge Analytica—exposed how millions of Facebook profiles were harvested without consent. That data was used to craft psychological models, which in turn were deployed to micro-target voters with messages designed to manipulate their emotions and decisions. It wasn't debate or persuasion—it was precision-guided information warfare. And it worked.

This is where the role of Big Tech becomes central. Companies like Facebook (now Meta) provided the tools and infrastructure for these campaigns. Their platforms allowed hyper-targeting of users, often with zero transparency or accountability. And because these tech giants are profit-driven advertising machines, their algorithms prioritized engagement over truth, outrage over nuance. The more incendiary the message, the more clicks—and the more money. This business model did not merely enable disinformation; it thrived on it.

In her follow-up reporting, including her thread-turned-essay “The First Great Information War,” Cadwalladr reframes the issue in geopolitical terms. She describes a slow, rolling coup—a sustained campaign to weaken and divide Western democracies, with Russia acting as a key instigator but tech companies as unwitting collaborators. The battlefield isn’t a physical one—it’s our minds, our newsfeeds, our sense of reality itself.

Privacy, once seen as a personal right, is now collateral damage in this new kind of conflict. As we willingly surrender data for convenience—liking a post, installing an app, sharing our location—we create a digital profile of ourselves. This profile can be sold, stolen, or weaponized. And because there are almost no effective regulations in place, the people and entities using this data are largely untraceable and unaccountable.

Cadwalladr’s work, then, is not just an exposé—it’s a warning. The systems we rely on for truth and democratic participation are broken. Big Tech companies hold more influence than many governments, yet they operate with far less scrutiny. Our data has become a commodity, traded in invisible markets. And our privacy is the price we pay for ‘free’ services that in reality cost us our autonomy.

If we are to make sense of what’s happening—and resist it—we must do more than reform electoral laws or increase ad transparency. We need to fundamentally rethink the relationship between data, power, and democracy. This isn’t just a glitch in the system. As Cadwalladr insists: It’s a coup.

Signals and Noise

Why Trust is Hard to Find Online in 2025

In 2007, MIT researcher Judith Donath wrote an influential paper asking a simple but profound question: Can we trust each other online? At the time, social media platforms like MySpace were just starting to shape the way we present ourselves and connect with others. Donath saw potential in these networks—not just for sharing memes and status updates, but for something deeper: helping us understand who to trust.

She used a concept called signaling theory to explain how online behavior could function like real-world social cues. Just as a firm handshake or an expensive watch might signal confidence or wealth in person, things like friend lists, profile photos, and comment histories could serve as signals of identity and reliability online.

Nearly two decades later, we live in a world where social media is everywhere. But instead of creating clarity, it often creates chaos. Fake profiles, AI-generated content, political polarization, and performative posting have blurred the line between real connection and manipulation. Donath’s framework still helps us understand what’s happening—but it also shows how far we’ve strayed from the original promise of trustworthy digital communities.

What Is a Signal, and Why Does It Matter?

Let’s break it down. A signal is something we show or do to communicate a hidden quality—something others can't directly see. For example, someone might wear a military uniform to signal bravery and service, or post a photo volunteering to signal compassion.

Online, these signals are even more important, because we can’t meet face-to-face. Instead, we rely on digital signals: bios, posts, photos, friend connections, likes, and shares. These become the building blocks of how others see us.

But there’s a catch: Not all signals are reliable. Anyone can say they’re successful, smart, or generous online. So how do we separate truth from performance?

That’s where cost comes in. In signaling theory, a signal is more trustworthy if it’s costly to fake. If it takes time, effort, or risk to display something—like earning a degree, maintaining a long-term account, or being vouched for by others—it’s harder to fake and more likely to be real. The more “expensive” it is to send a signal, the more credible it becomes.

The Problem: Signals Are Too Easy to Fake

In 2025, it's easier than ever to look like someone you’re not. You can use AI to generate flawless bios, create fake images, even simulate conversations. Want a thousand followers? Buy them. Want to look trustworthy? Just post some photos of charity events (real or fake). With the right tools, anyone can craft an impressive online identity—without actually being impressive.

This flood of easy-to-fake signals has created a crisis of trust. We’re surrounded by content, but we don’t know who or what to believe. And platforms often make the problem worse by rewarding content that’s popular, not content that’s honest.

Fashion, Risk, and the Game of Online Identity

Judith Donath also explored another side of online behavior: how people use social media to show off in ways that seem strange or risky. Posting edgy jokes, constantly updating your profile, or sharing personal secrets might seem like oversharing—but they can actually be signals of status.

Why? Because these actions show you’re confident enough (or attention-hungry enough) to take risks. Just like wearing a bold outfit in public, being “loud” online can signal that you’re in the know, part of a trend, or socially fearless. This behavior mirrors how fashion works—it’s about knowing what’s hot right now and showing that you’re ahead of the curve.

Some even use risk to signal invulnerability—posting things that could get them in trouble as a way of showing they don’t care about consequences. It’s a kind of power move: “I’m untouchable.”

When Social Media and Politics Collide

This dynamic isn’t limited to personal branding—it’s central to politics, too. Consider the rise of the MAGA movement.

Wearing a MAGA hat, posting about election fraud, or confronting school officials on video are all political signals. They say, “I belong to this group” or “I reject mainstream values.” And because some of these actions come with social risk—getting criticized, losing friends—they’re powerful tools for building loyalty and identity.

The same goes for influencers, politicians, and online communities across the spectrum. The more controversial or defiant your content, the more attention you get. And attention, in the social media economy, is currency.

In a sense, politics has become another form of digital fashion—where identity is signaled not just by what you believe, but by how publicly and provocatively you express it.

The New Battle: Meaningful Connection vs. Viral Noise

What does this mean for our digital lives today?

Donath hoped that social media would help us build larger, more meaningful networks—places where weak ties could become trustworthy, and honest signals would help people find their place in society.

But we now face a major challenge: Can platforms actually support real trust, when they’re designed to make money from our attention?

The sad truth is that social media companies earn more when we stay online longer—and the easiest way to do that is to show us outrage, fear, or gossip. Honest, thoughtful communication often takes a backseat to whatever goes viral.

So even if we want to build genuine communities, the system itself may be working against us. Would platforms like Facebook, TikTok, or X (formerly Twitter) ever choose less engagement if it meant better conversations and deeper relationships?

That’s the question we need to ask—not just of the companies running these platforms, but of ourselves. Because in the end, we’re not just users—we’re also signalers, receivers, and creators of our digital world.

Conclusion: What Can We Do?

If we want to fix the way we connect online, we need to rethink the way we signal who we are—and what we value.

Judith Donath’s core insight still holds true: the best signals are hard to fake, and easy to understand. That means designing platforms that prioritize history over hype, context over clicks, and relationships over reach.

And for each of us, it means paying attention not just to what people say online, but why they say it—and what it might be costing them to do so.

In a world flooded with noise, choosing to be real might just be the most powerful signal of all.

Further Reading

• Judith Donath – The Social Machine: Designs for Living Online
  A deeper dive into how digital platforms shape identity, trust, and community.

• Danah Boyd – It’s Complicated: The Social Lives of Networked Teens
  A thoughtful look at how young people navigate social media, privacy, and identity.

• Shoshana Zuboff – The Age of Surveillance Capitalism
  A groundbreaking critique of how tech companies profit from our personal data and behavior.

• Michael Spence – Market Signaling: Informational Transfer in Hiring and Related Processes
  The economic roots of signaling theory, written by a Nobel Prize-winning economist.

• Eli Pariser – The Filter Bubble: What the Internet Is Hiding from You
  A classic book on how personalized algorithms can isolate us from diverse perspectives.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Faith, Resistance, and Moral Clarity in Dark Times

In an age marked by moral confusion and political unrest, the life and legacy of Dietrich Bonhoeffer offer rare clarity. A German theologian, pastor, and member of the anti-Nazi resistance, Bonhoeffer was executed in April 1945—just weeks before the fall of Hitler's regime. His story is not just a chapter in history; it is a mirror held up to our own time.

A Faith that Refused Compromise

Bonhoeffer's most enduring legacy lies in his insistence that faith must not retreat into private piety or abstract theology. For him, Christianity without discipleship was not Christianity at all. His famous work, The Cost of Discipleship, warned against what he called "cheap grace"—forgiveness without repentance, communion without confession, grace without the cross.

He called instead for "costly grace": a faith so rooted in Christ that it transforms one's life and choices, even under threat. His own commitment would eventually lead him into active resistance against the Nazi regime.

The Moral Obligation to Resist Evil

Bonhoeffer’s opposition to Hitler was not merely political—it was theological. To remain silent in the face of mass injustice, he argued, was to be complicit. “Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” This moral imperative led him to abandon the safety of academia abroad and return to Germany, fully aware of the risks.

Though raised in the traditions of Lutheran obedience to authority, Bonhoeffer came to believe that civil disobedience was not only permitted but required when the state became lawless and unjust. He joined the Abwehr resistance and supported the plot to assassinate Hitler, a move that has sparked ongoing debate among theologians and ethicists.

Community as Resistance

Bonhoeffer also taught that Christian community could itself be a form of resistance. His seminary at Finkenwalde, though later shut down by the Gestapo, became a model of counter-cultural fellowship, rooted in prayer, discipline, and mutual responsibility. In a world disfigured by propaganda and fear, such spaces for honest living became lifelines for truth.

His posthumous work Letters and Papers from Prison remains a powerful testament to the possibility of faith in the darkest hours. Written in a Nazi prison cell, his words are hauntingly relevant: "The church is the church only when it exists for others."

Lessons for Today

Bonhoeffer’s life compels us to ask hard questions:

• Are we willing to speak up when others are silent?

• Can our faith withstand the demands of our time?

• Do we see the ethical dimension of public life as central to our spiritual life?

In an era when authoritarianism is on the rise and moral language is often hollowed out by partisanship, Bonhoeffer’s witness reminds us that integrity, sacrifice, and courage are not optional for people of conscience.

His lesson is not that martyrdom is inevitable, but that true discipleship demands a reckoning—with ourselves, with our institutions, and with the world as it is.

Further Reading

• The Cost of Discipleship – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

• Letters and Papers from Prison – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

• Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy – Eric Metaxas

• Strange Glory: A Life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer – Charles Marsh

• Ethics – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Rodemack (France)

Rodemack is a small, picturesque village in the Lorraine region of northeastern France, often referred to as "La Petite Carcassonne Lorraine" due to its impressive medieval fortifications. Surrounded by nearly 700 meters of ancient ramparts, Rodemack offers a glimpse into its rich history, dating back to the 12th century. The village is known for its cobbled streets, charming stone houses, and the remnants of its castle. With its well-preserved architecture and historic ambiance, Rodemack is recognized as one of the "Most Beautiful Villages in France," attracting visitors who seek to explore its medieval heritage and tranquil atmosphere.

Eros Has Left the Chat

Eros, after Eros from the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain.

In our fast-changing, hyperconnected world, love seems everywhere—liked, shared, declared, performed. Yet philosopher Byung-Chul Han warns that something essential is quietly vanishing: our capacity for deep, transformative desire. In The Agony of Eros, he argues that we are losing not just love, but the very ability to long for another human being in a meaningful way.

Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman helps set the stage. He called our era liquid modernity—a time when stability is replaced by constant change. In liquid society, nothing is built to last: jobs, relationships, even identities are flexible, disposable, and ever-shifting. In such a world, love becomes not a safe haven, but a high-risk investment. And so, we adapt. We scroll instead of wait, swipe instead of wonder. We reduce risk—and with it, depth.

It is in this context that Han’s diagnosis becomes urgent: eros, the longing for the Other, is in crisis.

What Is Eros, and Why Does It Hurt?

For Han, eros is not about quick attraction or consumer-style “likes.” It is a deep pull toward someone or something other than the self—a movement beyond comfort, beyond control. True eros confronts us with difference. It challenges, transforms, and sometimes wounds us. But it is also what makes love profound. Without eros, there is no real encounter, no growth, no mystery.

So Why is it in Agony?

Han sees today’s culture as a world of mirrors: we are surrounded by images of ourselves, curated and repeated. From social media to dating apps, we don’t seek the Other—we seek a flattering reflection. We desire what is like us, what reassures us, what doesn’t disturb us. In doing so, we avoid the risk that true eros demands.

But this critique, while powerful, also begs a deeper question: Is eros truly dying—or simply changing?

Liquid Love, or New Ways of Desire?

Bauman’s Liquid Love offers a bleak portrait: love in modern society is fragile, uncertain, even disposable. He suggests that people today “collect” relationships as one might collect experiences—without surrendering to any. Commitment feels threatening in a world built on the value of freedom and choice.

Yet perhaps this diagnosis, like Han’s, risks too much nostalgia. If love is now more fluid, more plural, is that always a loss? Could we be seeing new expressions of intimacy and eros, even if they don’t look like the past?

For instance, communities built through shared creativity, humor, or vulnerability online may still carry seeds of the Other. People fall in love through stories, images, shared playlists, and memes. Some of these bonds are fleeting—but others are real, even life-changing. Could it be that eros isn’t disappearing but migrating?

Han’s essay doesn’t explore these possibilities, and perhaps that’s its limit. His view is poetic and piercing, but also deeply pessimistic. His warning may be vital—but so is asking what forms of eros remain, or could still be cultivated, in the digital age.

Making Room for Mystery

What both Han and Bauman agree on is that eros cannot survive in a world obsessed with clarity, control, and speed. Love requires mystery. Desire needs time. The Other must remain strange—at least partly—if love is to stay alive.

In a society that demands transparency and performance, this is difficult. We are encouraged to present ourselves, brand ourselves, share everything—except uncertainty. But love, at its core, is about opening to what we cannot predict or fully know. It asks us to step outside ourselves and be changed.

To reclaim eros, then, is not to retreat into the past, but to protect space for difference. It means resisting the constant demand to optimize, to explain, to expose. It means allowing room for silence, for distance, for longing.

In Conclusion

The Agony of Eros in a Liquid World is not just a tale of decline—it’s a question: Can love still thrive in a world built on speed and self-reference? Han and Bauman offer us powerful critiques, but the story is not yet finished. If eros is suffering, it may still be alive. And perhaps our task is not to mourn its loss, but to notice where it still flickers—and to protect it.

In doing so, we might begin to imagine new ways of loving, desiring, and truly encountering the Other—even in liquid times.

Further Reading:

• Byung-Chul Han – The Agony of Eros (2012)

• Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Love: On the Frailty of Human Bonds (2003)

• Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Modernity (2000)

• Eva Illouz – Why Love Hurts: A Sociological Explanation (2012)

• Bell Hooks – All About Love: New Visions (2000)

• Laurie Essig – Love, Inc.: Dating Apps, the Big White Wedding, and Chasing the Happily Neverafter (2019)

The Royal Tombs of the Capilla Real: Two Couples, One Legacy

An impression of the two tombs in the Capilla Real. (On the left, the tomb of Isabella and Ferdinand. On the right: the tomb of Joanna and Philip.

In the heart of Granada, within the Capilla Real, two grand marble tombs rest beneath the towering Gothic vaults. Built between 1505 and 1517 by order of Queen Isabella I, the chapel was meant to be the final resting place of Spain’s Catholic Monarchs. Their beautifully sculpted tombs were set in place in 1521, crafted from Carrara marble by the Italian artist Domenico Fancelli. One holds Queen Isabella I of Castile (1451-1504) and King Ferdinand II of Aragon (1452-1516), the monarchs who united Spain. The other belongs to their daughter, Joanna I of Castile (1479-1555), known as "la Loca", and her husband, Philip I of Castile (1478-1506), called "the Handsome".

In the chapel, their tombs are masterpieces of Renaissance sculpture, depicting the royals in peaceful repose. Yet their actual remains rest in plain lead coffins in the crypt below, a stark contrast to the grandeur above. These two tombs contain rulers who shaped Spain’s destiny—though their lives took very different paths.

Isabella and Ferdinand: The founders of Spain

Married in 1469, Isabella and Ferdinand united Castile and Aragon, laying the foundation for modern Spain. Together, they completed the Reconquista, reclaiming Iberian lands from Moorish rule. Their greatest victory came in 1492, when they conquered Granada. That same year, Isabella financed Columbus' voyage, launching Spain’s global empire.

Deeply involved in governance, Isabella was a skilled strategist, while Ferdinand expanded Spain’s influence in Europe. Their reign also saw the establishment of the Spanish Inquisition, enforcing religious unity. Isabella died in 1504, and Ferdinand ruled alone until 1516. As planned, they were laid to rest in Granada, the city of their triumph.

Joanna and Philip: A Tragic Love Story

Unlike her parents, Joanna I of Castile lived a life of turmoil. She married the Flemish Philip of Habsburg in 1496, and their passionate but troubled relationship was filled with jealousy and scandal. Philip became King of Castile in 1504, but his sudden death in 1506 sent Joanna into deep despair. Overcome with grief, she was declared mentally unfit to rule.

For nearly fifty years, Joanna was confined in Tordesillas, while her son, Charles V, ruled in her place. She died in 1555, never truly recognized as queen.

Two Tombs, One Legacy

Though their lives were vastly different, these two royal couples remain forever linked in the Capilla Real. Isabella and Ferdinand rest as Spain’s greatest monarchs, while Joanna and Philip’s tombs remind us of a dynasty’s troubled succession. Standing before these tombs, history feels close—the victories, the tragedies, and the power struggles that shaped Spain’s past.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 04

Madamme Brume (Saint-Mystère, France; Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

Why Europe Must Wake Up Now

Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, and Xi Jinping.

In a time when the rules-based global order is eroding, Europe stands at a dangerous crossroads. Confronted by external “predators” such as Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, and Xi Jinping, and challenged internally by political disillusionment and ideological extremism, the European Union risks falling behind — not due to lack of capacity, but due to a lack of self-belief.

This was the central argument of a recent discussion hosted by Le Figaro, featuring Benjamin Haddad, French Minister for European Affairs, and political writer Giuliano da Empoli. Their exchange revealed a profound truth: while others see Europe as a formidable force, Europeans themselves often fail to recognize their own strength.

The era we’ve entered is not one of compromise, but confrontation. As da Empoli notes, the "new" predators — whether political populists like Trump or tech moguls reshaping public discourse — thrive by rejecting norms, undermining regulation, and exploiting the fragmentation of liberal democracies. Europe, with its commitment to the rule of law, social cohesion, and multilateral cooperation, stands as their natural opponent. Not because it is weak, but precisely because it is one of the few remaining bastions of rule-based order.

But this fortress is under siege — not only from the outside, but from within. Citizens disillusioned by stagnant economies, unresolved migration issues, and political inertia increasingly flirt with populist alternatives. These movements promise control, identity, and order — and find oxygen in the algorithmic echo chambers of TikTok and X (formerly Twitter). Yet, as both Haddad and da Empoli argue, the problem lies less with the technology than with the failure of mainstream politics to respond convincingly to legitimate concerns.

The specter of Trump’s possible return to the White House in 2025 was rightly treated not as a freak accident but a symptom of deeper structural shifts. His worldview — transactional, inward-looking, and openly hostile to NATO and the EU — has already transformed American politics and reverberates across Europe. Worse still, as Haddad pointed out, these are not isolated phenomena — even President Biden has embraced protectionist policies that echo those of Trump.

The question now is: what can Europe do?

Firstly, acknowledge reality without panic. The liberal dream of eternal peace and convergence — the Fukuyaman fantasy — is over. We are not moving toward a post-ideological consensus but re-entering a world governed by force, identity, and asymmetry.

Secondly, Europe must become a geopolitical actor, not merely a regulatory one. That means serious investment in defense, controlling its technological future, and setting clear, enforceable rules for migration — not as a concession to populism, but to rebuild democratic legitimacy.

Thirdly, Europe must stop outsourcing its political and security agency. As Haddad pointed out, relying indefinitely on American protection is no longer viable. A stronger, more confident EU must emerge — one that can defend its borders, innovate economically, and act decisively in crises.

Lastly, Europe must win back its own people — not just through rhetoric, but through performance. Delivering prosperity, security, and identity is not a populist demand; it is a democratic imperative.

In sum, the predators are real. But so is the possibility of European renewal — if we stop underestimating ourselves.

Further Reading

• Giuliano da Empoli, L’Heure des prédateurs (2024)

• Ivan Krastev & Mark Leonard, The Age of Unpeace (2020)

• Anne Applebaum, Twilight of Democracy (2020)

• Luuk van Middelaar, Le Réveil géopolitique de l'Europe (2023)

• Ivan Krastev, After Europe (2017)

The Disconnected Society

On what we learn from Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt.

Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt.

In a time of unprecedented digital connectivity, a paradox has emerged: we are more networked than ever, yet increasingly alone and emotionally unwell. This paradox lies at the heart of two deeply resonant works—Noreena Hertz’s The Lonely Century and Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation. Though writing from different perspectives—Hertz as an economist and Haidt as a social psychologist—both diagnose a profound crisis of connection in contemporary society. Their work converges on a central truth: the digital and economic architecture of modern life is undermining our basic human need for community, stability, and meaning.

The Human Cost of Disconnection

Noreena Hertz argues that loneliness is not simply a personal feeling but a widespread social phenomenon, driven by systemic forces: neoliberal economics, technological isolation, urban design, and political alienation. In The Lonely Century, she shows how atomized labor markets, precarious work, and digital communication have eroded the public square. Even before the pandemic, rising numbers of people reported feeling isolated. Hertz documents the impact of loneliness on mental and physical health, linking it to increased rates of anxiety, depression, and even early death.

Jonathan Haidt echoes these concerns in The Anxious Generation, but zooms in on a specific demographic catastrophe: the mental health collapse among Generation Z, particularly teenage girls. He identifies the years between 2010 and 2015 as a critical turning point, when smartphones and social media became deeply embedded in adolescent life. The data is clear: since that time, rates of depression, anxiety, self-harm, and suicide among youth have sharply increased. Haidt sees this as a result not only of screen time, but of the replacement of real-world interaction with virtual engagement, and the loss of free play, risk-taking, and physical autonomy.

Technology: From Tool to Cage

Both thinkers point to digital technology as a powerful agent of social transformation—one that has reshaped not only our habits but our psyches. Hertz focuses on how social media and algorithmic content foster comparison, polarization, and superficial connection. In online spaces, people are “seen” constantly but rarely known. The result is a type of simulated intimacy, which cannot substitute for face-to-face human contact.

Haidt takes this further, arguing that adolescence—a time of immense neurological sensitivity—has been colonized by smartphones. Girls, in particular, suffer from curated comparison and relational aggression online, while boys retreat into virtual worlds of video games and porn. He shows how these platforms are designed to hijack attention, reduce resilience, and fragment identity. Technology, once a tool for empowerment, has become a disruptive presence, rewiring childhood and adolescence in ways that society has barely begun to comprehend.

The Loss of the Commons: From Playgrounds to Platforms

Another key insight that unites Hertz and Haidt is the disappearance of shared physical and social spaces. Hertz laments the decline of community hubs—local shops, libraries, churches, and unions—that once grounded people in a collective life. In their place, individualized consumption and digital engagement have taken hold, weakening social bonds.

Haidt similarly emphasizes the loss of outdoor, unsupervised play, which has been replaced by screen-based entertainment and increased parental control. Without the ability to test boundaries, resolve conflict, or build self-efficacy through real-world interaction, children grow up underdeveloped in social and emotional capacities. This shift from the commons to the screen, from the real to the virtual, has left a generation adrift.

Responsibility, Resistance, and Renewal

Despite the gravity of their diagnoses, neither Hertz nor Haidt is fatalistic. Both offer concrete paths forward—and both recognize the need for collective, not just individual, solutions.

Hertz calls for a Compassionate Revolution: policies that rehumanize the workplace, urban design that encourages interaction, education that fosters empathy, and regulation of tech platforms. She emphasizes the importance of civic renewal and economic justice, arguing that loneliness flourishes in societies marked by inequality, alienation, and commodification.

Haidt, meanwhile, focuses on cultural norms and education policy. He advocates for phone-free schools, delayed social media use, and the revival of free play and risk-taking. Most powerfully, he calls for a collective action response to what he sees as a “tragedy in two acts”—the overprotection of children in the real world and their underprotection online. Young people themselves, Haidt notes, often resent the role of smartphones in their lives but feel powerless to opt out without support.

What We Learn: A New Ethics of Connection

Together, Hertz and Haidt help us see the current crisis not as a series of isolated issues—mental health, loneliness, digital harm—but as symptoms of a deeper breakdown in how we structure human life. Their work urges us to reconsider what it means to be human in a time of distraction, commodification, and social fragmentation. They remind us that connection is not optional—it is a core human need, as vital as food or shelter.

If their diagnoses differ in emphasis—Hertz’s more macroeconomic, Haidt’s more developmental—they arrive at a shared imperative: we must reclaim our social environments. This means building policies, technologies, and cultures that honor attention, presence, trust, and belonging.

Conclusion

In an anxious and lonely century, the work of Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt serves as a warning and a guide. They expose the cost of ignoring human needs in the name of efficiency, innovation, or freedom. But they also light a path toward renewal—one grounded not in nostalgia, but in the enduring truth that we thrive when we are connected, seen, and needed. Whether we follow that path will determine not only the mental health of our youth, but the very future of our societies.