Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 07

The Swiss.

They arrived in an older red car, polished and humming softly, like it had been freshly tuned just for the journey. The Swiss couple stepped out without hurry—he in a well-pressed suit, she in a heavy wool cardigan and a skirt dotted with quiet flowers. They looked like they had stepped out of another time, or perhaps into one.

They brought their own chairs and sat near the edge of the village green, backs straight, hands folded. From a small leather bag came their lunch: thick slices of Zopf bread, cubes of Sbrinz, a tightly wrapped bundle of Bündnerfleisch, and a thermos of warm Ovomaltine. A bar of dark chocolate followed, divided evenly in silence.

They said little. Observed much. A nod here, a glance there. No sunglasses, no camera, no music. Only a sense of exactness, as if their being here had been calculated, pencilled in years ago.

They left just before dusk, without speaking to anyone.
Only the flattened grass where their chairs had stood remained.

In Saint-Mystère, no one tried to smooth it out.

Limburg Torn Between Two Countries: Faith, Identity, and Relations with the New Order for the Low Countries after 1839

A map with the division of Limburg from the Treaty of XXIV Articles (London, 1839).

When revolution erupted in Brussels in 1830, Limburg found itself at the nexus of Europe’s great powers. For nine uneasy years, the province lived in political limbo. Belgium had declared independence; the Netherlands refused to let go. In the meantime, Limburg’s towns and villages experienced a tug-of-war not just between two capitals, but between two different worlds.

Much of Limburg’s population sided—openly or quietly—with the Belgian cause. Catholic to the core, many Limburgers felt culturally and spiritually closer to Belgium and its Church than to a Protestant-dominated Dutch state. The Catholic Church became both an anchor and a shield: an institution that spoke their language, celebrated their feast days, and upheld traditions that had shaped village life for centuries. In the uncertain 1830s, clinging to the Church was as much an act of identity as it was of faith.

Politically, the situation was volatile. In the early months of the Belgian Revolution, places like Sittard, Roermond, and Venlo joined the uprising; only Maastricht held out for the Dutch king, guarded by its fortress commander. Diplomacy played out in London’s conference rooms, with maps repeatedly redrawn—first in the so-called XVIII Articles of 1831, then in the far harsher XXIV Articles of 1839. These final terms carved Limburg in two, assigning the eastern half, including Maastricht, to the Netherlands.

The decision was met with resentment on the ground. Limburgers had grown accustomed to the broader freedoms they enjoyed under Belgian administration during the 1830–1839 interlude. Many resisted the new Dutch order: over 3,500 people formally opted for Belgian nationality, and thousands more quietly crossed the border. Even for those who stayed, the bond with “Holland” was thin. Daily life—markets, schooling, professional networks—often still pointed south to Liège, Hasselt, and Brussels rather than north to Amsterdam or The Hague.

In this climate, the Catholic Church’s role deepened. It provided continuity in a time when political allegiance was in flux. Parish life, religious festivals, and clergy influence became subtle markers of a Limburg identity distinct from the Dutch national narrative. For decades afterward, this sense of difference lingered. By the time Limburg was fully integrated into the Netherlands in the late 19th century, its Catholic heritage was not just a religious fact—it was a quiet statement of who they were, forged in the shadow of a political split.

Further reading

• Piet Lenders, Honderdvijftig jaar scheidingsverdrag België–Nederland en de opsplitsing van Limburg, 1989

• W. Jappe Alberts, Geschiedenis van de beide Limburgen, 1972

• K. Schaapveld, Local Loyalties: South Limburg During the Belgian-Dutch Separation, 1998

• L. Cornips, Territorializing History, Language, and Identity in Limburg, 2012

Europe at the Crossroads

Europe stands on a knife-edge. While China relentlessly builds and the United States races ahead in technology, the European Union risks drifting into slow decline—economically weaker, strategically dependent, and exposed to forces it cannot control. The Draghi report on EU competitiveness warns that without decisive action Europe will forfeit not only growth but its ability to defend its way of life.

The threats are multiple and reinforcing. Industrial capacity has thinned as factories moved abroad; vital know-how in energy technology, semiconductors and advanced manufacturing erodes further each year. Clean-tech ambitions clash with energy costs that remain far higher than in the U.S. or China. Fragmented capital markets and labyrinthine rules slow down every promising innovation until competitors elsewhere seize the lead. At the same time China dominates global supply chains for rare earths, batteries and pharmaceuticals, leaving Europe exposed to political leverage from Beijing.

To these economic headwinds comes the hard edge of security. Russia’s full-scale war on Ukraine is no longer a distant regional conflict but a strategic earthquake. A revanchist Kremlin openly threatens NATO’s eastern flank, tests Europe’s airspace and cyber-defences, and bets on Western fatigue. A continent that struggles to produce artillery shells fast enough, or to coordinate its own air-defence procurement, cannot assume that the U.S. nuclear umbrella will always suffice. Economic fragility and military vulnerability feed each other: a weaker industrial base makes rearmament harder, while insecurity discourages long-term investment.

What Europe needs is not another round of cautious communiqués but a surge of purposeful action. The Draghi report calls for hundreds of billions in annual investment to rebuild manufacturing and energy systems, but money alone will not be enough. Decision-making must be faster, regulation simpler, and the single market finally completed so that ideas, capital and skilled workers can move as freely as ambition demands. Industrial policy must target critical sectors—clean energy, digital infrastructure, advanced defence technologies—while integrating climate goals with competitiveness rather than setting them in tension.

Europe has shown before that it can reinvent itself when the stakes are existential. Today the choice is stark: either remain a mosaic of well-meaning but slow-moving states, or act as a true union capable of building, defending and innovating at scale. The alternative is a future where prosperity ebbs, dependence grows and security is left to others. In an age when power belongs to those who can out-build and out-last their rivals, Europe must decide whether it wants to shape the century—or be shaped by it.

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: From Lenin to Stalin - Building the Soviet State

Joseph Stalin

The birth of the Soviet Union in 1922 was both the conclusion of the revolutionary struggle and the beginning of a new experiment in governance. The Bolsheviks had won the Civil War, but they inherited a country ravaged by years of conflict, famine, and economic collapse.

Lenin’s Pragmatic Retreat
To stabilize the economy, Lenin introduced the New Economic Policy (NEP) in 1921. It was a tactical retreat from full socialism: small businesses and private markets were allowed to operate, peasants could sell surplus grain, and foreign investment was cautiously welcomed. The policy brought modest recovery, but also ideological unease among hardline communists.

The Succession Struggle
When Lenin died in January 1924, he left no clear successor. The ensuing power struggle pitted Leon Trotsky — charismatic leader of the Red Army — against Joseph Stalin, the party’s General Secretary. Stalin used his position to quietly build alliances, control appointments, and marginalize rivals. By the late 1920s, Trotsky was exiled, and Stalin stood unchallenged.

The First Five-Year Plan
In 1928, Stalin launched the First Five-Year Plan, aiming to transform the USSR from an agrarian economy into an industrial superpower. Massive projects such as the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station and the Magnitogorsk steelworks became symbols of progress. Industrial output surged, but at tremendous human cost — workers endured harsh conditions, shortages, and strict discipline.

Collectivization and Famine
In the countryside, Stalin forced millions of peasants into collective farms. Those who resisted — labelled “kulaks” — were deported or executed. Grain was requisitioned to feed cities and finance industrialization, even during poor harvests. The result was famine on a massive scale. In Ukraine, the Holodomor of 1932–1933 killed millions, a trauma that still shapes Ukrainian–Russian relations.

The Great Terror
By the mid-1930s, Stalin’s paranoia turned inward. A wave of purges swept the Communist Party, the military, and the intelligentsia. Show trials extracted confessions through torture; executions and Gulag sentences followed. Entire generations of revolutionary leaders vanished. Yet even as fear spread, the Soviet state consolidated its grip, and Stalin’s image as the “Father of Nations” was cultivated through propaganda.

The Soviet Union on the Eve of War
By the end of the 1930s, the USSR was a formidable industrial power with a centralized command economy. The human toll had been immense, but Stalin believed the sacrifices had prepared the country for the challenges ahead — challenges that would arrive sooner than anyone expected.

Further Reading:

• Stephen Kotkin – Stalin: Paradoxes of Power (2014)

• Robert Service – Stalin: A Biography (2004)

• Orlando Figes – Revolutionary Russia 1891–1991 (2014)

• Sheila Fitzpatrick – Everyday Stalinism (1999)

Lampa, the Mystery Girl of Roman Mérida (Spain)

Marble relief of a naked female figure with the inscription “LAMPA” above her head. Found in Augusta Emerita (modern Mérida), 2nd–3rd century CE. Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida.

In a quiet gallery of the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida, a small marble plaque draws the eye. A young naked female is carved into its surface, her posture elegant and reserved—one hand resting over her chest, the other hanging by her side. Modest in size and style, the relief seems classical, serene. But look closer, and the story deepens.

Above her head, in Greek letters, is a single word: LAMPA. Next to it, also in Greek, her age: thirteen.

From the start, scholars noted that the use of Greek—and the very young age—might suggest that this figure was not a goddess or an elite Roman matron, but a foreign girl. Some early interpretations proposed she was commemorated in death. But newer readings have shifted the focus.

The plaque was found in the necropolis of Augusta Emerita, reused in a later burial. Yet its original purpose may have been something else entirely. Her hairstyle matches that of Faustina the Elder, dating the image to the mid-2nd century CE. Her pose—nude, decorative, and non-mythological—aligns with known depictions of women linked to the world of Roman brothels, or lupanars.

The theory now gaining ground is that this relief once adorned the façade of a brothel, and that Lampa, whether her real name or not, represents one of the many young, likely enslaved, girls who worked within. The Greek language reinforces this possibility, as Greek was often used for names of non-citizens and enslaved people in Roman Hispania.

Whether Lampa was a specific girl or a symbolic name advertising youth and availability, the effect is haunting. She may have been only thirteen—an age etched into stone, but robbed of voice, context, and choice.

Today, she stands silent in marble. Not a goddess. Not a noblewoman. But a girl, remembered not through love or honor, but through commerce and objectification. A body preserved. A childhood lost.

Saints Cosmas and Damian

Saints Cosmas and Damian, Church of Saint Peter in Teruel (Spain).

Saints Cosmas and Damian were twin brothers who lived in the 3rd century AD and are revered as martyrs. Born in Cilicia, a region on the southeastern coast of Asia Minor, they worked as physicians in the port city of Aegea (now Ayas, Turkey). Known for providing free medical services, they were called Anargyroi (Greek for “the silverless”) due to their refusal to accept payment. Their charity is believed to have led to many conversions to Christianity. The brothers are credited with several miracles, including a legendary leg transplant in which they replaced a man’s lost leg with that of a deceased Moor.

Under Emperor Diocletian's persecution of Christians, they were arrested, tortured, and eventually beheaded for their faith. Veneration of Cosmas and Damian began soon after their deaths, with churches dedicated to them appearing in Jerusalem, Egypt, and Mesopotamia. In 527, Pope Felix III converted the Temple of Romulus in Rome into a basilica in their honor. Their skulls are kept in the Clarisses convent in Madrid, though other relics exist in cities like Munich, Vienna, and Venice.

Cosmas and Damian are patron saints of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and the sick, as well as barbers and confectioners. Their feast day is celebrated on September 26. They are also invoked for protection against seasickness, inflammation, and plague. In Dutch history, two major floods, known as the Cosmas and Damian Floods, occurred on their feast day in 1477 and 1509, causing significant damage to Zeeland and Flanders.

Gold, Gods, and the Sea: The Story of the Phoenicians in Spain

Phoenician-style gold necklace from Tomb 18, Les Casetes necropolis, Villajoyosa (Alicante), Spain. — This ceremonial necklace, dating to the late 7th–6th century BCE, is composed of 38 elements including gold discs, cylindrical beads, glass inlays, and granulated spacers. (Image: adapted version of an image by the Vilamuseu, Villajoyosa.)

Long before the Romans marched into Iberia, and even before the Greeks set sail for the western Mediterranean, there came a people from across the sea. They were not conquerors, but sailors. Not empire-builders, but merchants and craftsmen. These were the Phoenicians — ancient seafarers from the eastern Mediterranean — who arrived on the shores of Spain over 2,800 years ago, and left behind treasures, stories, and mysteries that still stir the imagination today.

Who Were the Phoenicians?

The Phoenicians came from a narrow strip of coastline in what is now Lebanon and coastal Syria. Their cities — Tyre, Sidon, Byblos — were small but fiercely independent, and known across the Mediterranean for their maritime skills, purple dye, and fine goods. The Greeks called them phoinikes, or "purple people", for the deep purple dye they produced from murex sea snails — a luxury color fit for kings.

But the Phoenicians were much more than traders. They were cultural transmitters. From the 9th century BCE onward, they sailed westward, not to conquer, but to connect. They brought with them ideas, scripts, technologies, and beliefs — and they left behind colonies, trading posts, and cemeteries that now tell us their story.

Phoenicians in Iberia

By the 8th century BCE, Phoenician ships were reaching the southern and eastern coasts of the Iberian Peninsula. They founded settlements like Gadir (modern Cádiz) — one of the oldest cities in Western Europe — and Malaka (Málaga). From there, they moved up the coast, establishing outposts, trading with local Iberian tribes, and spreading their influence as far north as Villajoyosa on the coast of present-day Alicante.

What did they trade? Metals, above all. Spain was rich in copper, silver, and tin — highly sought after in the ancient world. In return, the Phoenicians brought luxury goods: fine textiles, ivory combs, glass beads, perfumes, and gold jewelry. But they also brought religious symbols, writing systems, and artistic techniques that profoundly shaped local cultures.

A Cemetery by the Sea: Les Casetes

One of the most revealing places where this Phoenician-Iberian connection comes to life is the necropolis of Les Casetes, just inland from the coast of Villajoyosa. Used between the late 7th and 6th centuries BCE, this burial ground contained over a hundred tombs, many of them belonging to members of a wealthy local elite — Iberians who had adopted Phoenician customs and prestige goods.

Some graves held weapons, others fine ceramics, and a few contained jewelry of remarkable craftsmanship. These weren’t mere decorations — they were status symbols, ritual offerings, and expressions of power and belief.

The Necklace of 38 Pieces

One of the most dazzling discoveries from Les Casetes came from Tomb 18: an elaborate gold necklace made up of nearly 38 individual elements. This magnificent piece features a combination of gold discs, cylindrical beads, glass elements, and intricate spacers, arranged in a symmetrical, ceremonial layout.

Each component was crafted with precision. Some were engraved with geometric patterns, others adorned with granulation — tiny gold spheres applied to the surface in decorative clusters. The inclusion of both gold and blue glass hints at trade networks stretching across the Mediterranean, and at symbolic meanings that blended Phoenician, Egyptian, and Iberian traditions.

The necklace was likely worn by a high-ranking individual, possibly a woman of great status. It speaks not just to wealth, but to belief — in protection, in legacy, in connection with the divine. It also illustrates the technical mastery of goldsmiths working in Iberia at the time, whether local artisans influenced by Phoenician style or visiting craftsmen from the East.

A Legacy Carried in Gold

The Phoenicians left no empires behind, no monumental cities in Spain. What they left was something more subtle — and perhaps more lasting. They were among the first to connect East and West, to blend belief systems and artistic styles, and to set the foundations of Mediterranean trade and cultural exchange.

In places like Les Casetes, their story is still being written, one excavation at a time. And in objects like the necklace from Tomb 18, their vision of a connected, meaningful world — adorned, luminous, and layered with memory — still speaks across the centuries.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 06

The Spaniards.

They arrived with the morning sun—by car, music playing, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Spanish tourists, full of life and colour, sweeping into Saint-Mystère like a festival no one expected.

They brought everything with them: enormous hams wrapped in cloth, dark bottles of red wine glinting in the light, tins of olives, fresh garlic, and tomatoes so ripe they seemed to glow. On a folding table near the fountain, they prepared pan con tomate with the care of a ceremony. Passersby slowed their steps, drawn by the scent, the ease, the joy of it all.

They toasted often. To life, to friendship—perhaps even to Saint-Mystère, though no one could be sure.

And just as the sun slipped behind the hills, they packed up. Not hurriedly, but without farewell. No plates left behind. No trace of where they had gone.

We never learned their names.
But for one day, the village remembered how to breathe.

Odysseus on a Lamp: Myth and Daily Life in Roman Mérida (Spain)

Terracotta oil lamp from the 1st century CE, depicting Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. Found in Mérida, Spain, and now housed in the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano.

At first glance, it’s just a small terracotta oil lamp, tucked away in a museum in Mérida, Spain. But look closer, and you’ll find an epic scene from Homer’s Odyssey—carved into clay, for everyday use.

The image shows Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. He wears a short tunic and a pileus, the soft cap that marks him in ancient art. Around him, the heads of his crew peek over the side of the ship. The sail is raised, but it’s the rowers who power the boat—just like in Homer’s tale, where Odysseus orders the sail taken down so he can listen safely to the Sirens’ deadly song.

Strangely, the Sirens themselves are missing.

Most likely, this was a practical decision: the lamp’s small surface left no room for them. But it also shifts the focus. What matters here is not the danger, but the restraint. By the 1st century CE, this story had become a moral symbol: the hero as the rational man, resisting temptation, bound by reason.

In Roman homes, lamps like this lit the night. Their warm glow told stories, not just to entertain, but to teach. And so Odysseus—on a simple lamp—reminded his owner of the strength it takes to resist what calls to us most sweetly.

Raymond Carr’s "Spain a History"

Raymond Carr’s Spain a History.

Raymond Carr’s Spain a History is widely regarded as one of the most insightful and balanced English-language histories of modern Spain. It traces the country’s transformation from a traditional agrarian society under absolute monarchy to a modern, yet authoritarian, industrial state under Franco — with stops along the way at civil war, imperial collapse, and recurring social unrest.

The book opens with the dramatic shock of the Napoleonic invasion in 1808, which threw Spain into chaos and resistance. In response, liberal reformers produced the Constitution of Cádiz (1812) — a milestone in Spanish liberal thought. Yet this early step toward constitutional government was swiftly undermined by the restoration of Ferdinand VII, who reimposed absolutism, setting the stage for nearly a century of instability.

Throughout the 19th century, Spain oscillated between liberal and conservative rule. Carr emphasizes the Carlist Wars (1833–76) as not merely dynastic disputes, but deep cultural and political divides between rural traditionalism and urban liberalism. Under Isabella II, political life was marred by corruption, instability, and frequent military interventions — revealing a fragile political structure and a reliance on the army as a political actor.

The Glorious Revolution of 1868 and the brief First Republic (1873–74) represented attempts to break with the past, but these experiments in democracy failed due to internal divisions, weak institutions, and lack of public support. The result was the Bourbon Restoration under Alfonso XII, introducing a constitutional monarchy with a rotating two-party system — the so-called turno pacífico. While this appeared to offer stability, Carr shows that it excluded broad swathes of society and failed to address economic or regional disparities.

By the early 20th century, regionalism (especially in Catalonia and the Basque Country), anarchism, socialism, and new nationalist ideologies began to undermine the old order. The loss of Spain's American colonies in 1898 further eroded national confidence. The Second Republic (1931–36) arose with the hope of modernization and secularism, but quickly descended into violent polarization, with radical reforms on one side and reactionary resistance on the other.

Carr devotes careful attention to the Spanish Civil War (1936–39), framing it as both a class conflict and a battle between competing versions of Spanish identity. His treatment is even-handed: he does not romanticize the Republicans nor absolve Franco’s brutalities.

The Franco regime, which ruled from 1939 to 1975, initially aligned itself with authoritarian nationalism, Catholicism, and corporatism. Carr shows how the regime gradually evolved — especially after World War II — into a more pragmatic dictatorship. In the 1960s, economic liberalization brought rapid growth, modernization, and a new middle class, even as political repression continued.

By the time of Franco's death in 1975, Spain was no longer the backward country it had been in the 1930s, but a semi-modernized society aching for political freedom. Carr’s work ends here — just before the transition to democracy — but it lays all the groundwork for understanding how Spain arrived at that point.

Carr’s strength lies in his willingness to address complexity. Rather than offering a linear tale of progress or decline, he portrays Spain as a country where multiple historical forces — ideology, geography, class, religion — continually collided. His account is rigorous, rich in detail, and refreshingly free of ideological bias.

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: 1917 - Two Revolutions and a Civil War

The year 1917 was a whirlwind that shattered centuries of monarchy and reshaped the map of Eurasia. It began with bread queues and strikes, and ended with the birth of the world’s first socialist state.

February: The Fall of the Tsar
By February, Petrograd was gripped by strikes and food riots. Soldiers refused orders to fire on crowds and joined the demonstrators instead. Within days, the centuries-old Romanov dynasty collapsed. Nicholas II abdicated, and a Provisional Government took over, promising liberal reforms and elections.

Dual Power and Disillusionment
The Provisional Government shared power uneasily with the Petrograd Soviet, a council of workers’ and soldiers’ deputies. The government kept Russia in World War I, hoping to honor alliances with Britain and France. This decision proved disastrous, as the war continued to drain resources and lives. Radical parties gained support, especially the Bolsheviks, who called for “Peace, Land, Bread.”

October: The Bolshevik Takeover
Led by Lenin, the Bolsheviks staged an armed uprising on October 25 (November 7 in the modern calendar). They seized key points in Petrograd and toppled the Provisional Government almost without bloodshed. The new Soviet regime withdrew from the war through the harsh Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, ceding large territories to Germany.

Civil War and Red Victory
From 1918 to 1922, Russia descended into civil war. The Bolshevik Red Army fought the White forces — a mix of monarchists, republicans, and foreign intervention troops — across a vast front. Nationalist movements sought independence in Ukraine, the Baltics, and the Caucasus. The Reds ultimately triumphed, consolidating control through the Cheka secret police and “War Communism,” which requisitioned grain and suppressed dissent. In 1922, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) was officially proclaimed.

Further Reading:

• John Reed – Ten Days That Shook the World (1919)

• Sheila Fitzpatrick – The Russian Revolution (1982)

• Richard Pipes – The Russian Revolution (1990)

• A. Beevor – Russia: Revolution and Civil War 1917-1921 (2022)

Ferdinand III: The Warrior King and Saint Who United a Kingdom

King Ferdinand III of Castile and León.

In the pages of Spanish history, few figures shine as brightly—or as devoutly—as Ferdinand III of Castile and León. Born in 1199 and reigning from 1217 until his death in 1252, Ferdinand was not only a formidable warrior king but also a deeply religious man who would later be canonized as Saint Ferdinand. His life, caught between crusade and court, devotion and diplomacy, helped shape the future of a unified Spain.

From Child of War to King of Two Crowns

Ferdinand was born into conflict. His mother, Berengaria of Castile, and his father, Alfonso IX of León, had a marriage annulled by the pope—yet Ferdinand would inherit both their thrones. When his father died in 1230, Ferdinand deftly negotiated with his half-sisters to inherit León, thus uniting it with Castile. For the first time in generations, these rival kingdoms were under a single crown, laying the groundwork for the modern Spanish state.

But Ferdinand didn’t stop at diplomacy.

The Christian Reconquest Gains Ground

With fire in his heart and a sword in his hand, Ferdinand turned south. It was the time of the Reconquista, the centuries-long Christian campaign to reclaim the Iberian Peninsula from Muslim rule. Ferdinand became its most determined general. Under his leadership, great cities fell back into Christian hands: Córdoba (1236), the intellectual jewel of Al-Andalus; Jaén (1246), gateway to the south; and finally, Seville (1248), a glittering cosmopolitan city on the Guadalquivir River.

His conquests were not wanton. Ferdinand was known for his chivalry and tolerance—often allowing defeated Muslim populations to remain in their cities under protection, a remarkable policy for the time.

A Builder of Cathedrals and a Saint of the People

Beyond the battlefield, Ferdinand was a patron of architecture and education. He began the construction of the great Gothic Cathedral of Burgos, supported religious foundations, and strengthened the University of Salamanca. He was beloved for his justice and humility, often settling disputes himself and walking barefoot to churches in penance.

He died in Seville in 1252, dressed not in royal finery but in the humble habit of a Franciscan monk. A century later, in 1671, Pope Clement X made his sainthood official. Today, he lies in a silver shrine in the Cathedral of Seville, still clad in monk’s robes, still revered as a unifier of kingdoms and a saint of swords and mercy.

In a time when kings were often tyrants or figureheads, Ferdinand stood out: a king who could conquer cities and hearts alike. His blend of martial prowess, political savvy, and deep Christian faith helped not just shape a kingdom—but also set a moral tone that inspired centuries of Castilian identity.

Saint Ferdinand isn't just a figure from dusty chronicles. He’s a reminder that power and piety, ambition and humility, can coexist—and even transform a nation.

Further Reading

• O'Callaghan, Joseph F. The Learned King: The Reign of Alfonso X of Castile, for background on Ferdinand’s son and legacy.

• Barton, Simon. A History of Spain, for context on the Reconquista.

• The Cathedral of Seville official site, which still honors Ferdinand III with processions each May 30.

Ukrainians Strengthen Europe

Since the war forced millions of Ukrainians to leave their homes in 2022, their story in Europe has evolved far beyond one of refuge and survival. By 2025, they have become an undeniable force for economic growth, innovation, and cultural vitality across the continent.

In Poland alone, Ukrainians now make up around five percent of the workforce. In 2024 they contributed an impressive €3.6 billion in taxes and social security payments, according to a joint UNHCR–Deloitte report. Their labour and entrepreneurship boosted Poland’s GDP by 2.7%—and they did so without taking jobs away from Poles or depressing wages. Similar patterns are emerging in the Czech Republic, where studies show no negative impact on local employment, but instead a filling of critical labour shortages in logistics, healthcare, construction, and technical trades.

The entrepreneurial drive is equally remarkable. One in ten new businesses registered in Poland last year was Ukrainian-owned, from small tech firms to expanding restaurant brands like Lviv Croissants and Drunken Cherry, now opening outlets in Germany, France, Switzerland and even London. These ventures no longer cater only to Ukrainian communities; they target the wider European public with fresh ideas and a distinctive cultural flair.

This spirit of innovation is being noticed at the highest levels. In July 2025, the European Innovation Council committed €20 million to Ukrainian deep-tech start-ups in AI, robotics, biotechnology, and cybersecurity. Dozens of companies will receive up to €500,000 each to fast-track their products to market and forge international collaborations.

And beyond the economic data lies a powerful human story. The Sunflower Project, launched by the Tent Partnership for Refugees, is one of the largest employment initiatives for displaced Ukrainians in Europe. It aims to generate €2 billion in annual income for refugees, with a strong focus on Ukrainian women—many of whom arrived alone with their children. The project works with over 50 major European employers, including IKEA, H&M, Accenture, and Carrefour, to provide tailored job opportunities, language training, and childcare support. For example, in Germany, a major logistics company has hired over 300 Ukrainian women in supply chain roles, offering flexible schedules so they can balance work and family. In France, a retail chain partnered with the programme to create fast-track training for store managers, enabling qualified Ukrainian women to move into leadership positions within months. In the Netherlands, IT companies in the Sunflower network are tapping into the skills of Ukrainian software developers, connecting them with international clients and long-term career pathways.

Through work, entrepreneurship, and community involvement, Ukrainians are not just integrating—they are actively shaping Europe’s future. Their contributions are a reminder that migration, when met with opportunity, can spark mutual growth. The numbers tell one side of the story, but the energy, resilience, and creativity Ukrainians bring to their new homes may be their most lasting gift to Europe.

Further reading

• UNHCR – Refugees generated 2.7% of Poland’s GDP in 2024

• Reuters – Ukrainian refugees give Poland big economic boost

• CEPR – Labour market access shows no negative impact

• Reuters – Ukrainian businesses eye Westward expansion

• EIC – Support for Ukrainian deep-tech SMEs

• Tent Partnership for Refugees – The Sunflower Project

Dust, Devotion, and Silence — Visiting El Rocío Off-Season (Spain)

The whitewashed facade of the Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Rocío, under a sky of soft clouds.

In the heart of the marshes of Doñana, far from the crowds and the chaos of summer beaches, stands a dazzling white church with a name spoken in reverence throughout Andalusia: the Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Rocío.

Visited outside the pilgrimage season, the sandy streets of the village are empty, the wooden porches silent, and the church stands quietly beneath a sky of thin clouds—neither grey nor bright, but softly veiled. And yet, the stillness doesn’t feel empty. It feels full—of stories, of footsteps, of songs sung by pilgrims who aren’t there, but whose presence seems permanently soaked into the place.

At the heart of this sanctuary is La Virgen del Rocío, one of Spain’s most beloved Maria figures. Dressed in a rich embroidered robe, crowned and surrounded by golden rays, she sits in the central niche of the high altar, gazing forward with the calm authority of a queen and the tenderness of a mother.

Once a year, during La Romería del Rocío, this village transforms. More than a million pilgrims make their way here from across Spain, traveling on foot, on horseback, in wagons or jeeps, singing traditional sevillanas, sleeping under the stars. They come to honor “La Blanca Paloma” (The White Dove), as the Virgin is affectionately known. When she is carried in procession through the night—crowds weeping, singing, shouting—it becomes one of the most intense religious spectacles in all of Europe.

But outside those few days of the year, the sanctuary holds its breath.

Without the dust and the dance, without the drumbeats and the devotion of thousands, what remains is the gold behind the tradition. The stillness of belief. The quiet force of a place that knows how to wait.

La Blanca Paloma—the richly adorned Virgin of El Rocío—enthroned in golden splendor above the high altar.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 05

The Italians.

They came in a small, overpacked car with northern Italian plates and the smell of dried herbs trailing behind them. A couple—cheerful, expressive, and visibly confused by the silence of Saint-Mystère. They had rented a gîte just beyond the old well, insisting on a kitchen. They wanted to cook like at home.

French food—troppo complicato, they said with a shrug—they wanted proper pasta. They brought everything with them: olive oil in dark glass, garlic in braids, vacuum-packed pecorino, tinned tomatoes, and enough spaghetti to feed a village that wouldn’t ask for any.

Every evening, the scent of boiling pasta and fried onion drifted through the alleys. Once, Madame Lefèvre waved from her garden. They waved back enthusiastically. No words were exchanged.

They stayed for six days. On the seventh, the scent vanished.
They had run out of pasta, packed their car, and disappeared before dawn.

Only the empty tins remained, stacked neatly by the recycling bin.
In Saint-Mystère, we did not touch them.

The Counts of Egmont and Horne (Brussels, Belgium)

Statue commemorating the Counts of Egmont and Horne (in Brussels, by Charles-Auguste Fraikin).

The story of Graaf van Egmont (Count of Egmont) and Graaf Horne (Count of Horne) is a dramatic and pivotal moment in the history of the Eighty Years' War (1568–1648) between Spain and the Netherlands, which ultimately led to the independence of the Dutch Republic.

In the mid-16th century, the Low Countries—which included present-day Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg—were under the rule of King Philip II of Spain. Philip, a devout Catholic, sought to suppress the growing influence of Protestantism in the region. His harsh policies, including the Inquisition and heavy taxation, sparked unrest among the local nobility and common people alike.

Among those who grew increasingly disillusioned were Lamoraal, Graaf van Egmont, and Filips van Montmorency, Graaf van Horne. Both were prominent nobles who initially supported Philip II but became critical of his oppressive rule. Despite their loyalty to the Spanish crown, they began to advocate for more tolerance towards Protestants and resisted the centralization of power in Madrid, favoring greater autonomy for the provinces.

In response to the unrest, Philip II appointed the Duke of Alba as governor of the Netherlands in 1567. The Duke of Alba, known for his ruthless methods, established the Council of Troubles, a court that became infamous as the Blood Council for its harsh persecution of suspected rebels and Protestants. Egmont and Horne, despite their previous loyalty to Spain, were arrested by Alba on charges of treason due to their opposition to Philip’s policies.

In June 1568, both Egmont and Horne were tried and found guilty of rebellion. Their execution was meant as a warning to other nobles and anyone who opposed Spanish rule. On June 5, 1568, they were publicly beheaded in the Grand Place (Grote Markt) in Brussels. This act shocked the population and became a rallying cry for resistance.

The execution of these two respected nobles ignited widespread outrage throughout the Low Countries. Their deaths are often seen as a key moment in the rise of rebellion against Spanish rule. Shortly afterward, William of Orange, who had been a fellow noble and ally of Egmont and Horne, led the revolt that would become the Eighty Years' War.

This war eventually led to the Dutch Revolt and the creation of the independent Dutch Republic in 1648, with the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia. The executions of Egmont and Horne became symbols of the struggle for freedom, and their martyrdom is remembered as a turning point in the fight for independence from Spanish tyranny.

Beheading of Lamoral, Count of Egmont and Philip de Montmorency, and Count of Horne, 5 June 1568 on the Grote Markt, Brussels.

Bertrand du Guesclin’s Spanish Adventure

The Battle of Montiel (1369) was the final clash in Castile’s civil war, where Enrique of Trastámara defeated and killed his half-brother, Pedro the Cruel, ending a brutal dynastic conflict. (Miniature from Jean Froissart's "Chronicles".)

The road was dry, the wind harsh. Dust curled around the hooves of tired horses. Among the mercenaries and exiled lords rode a dark figure in battered armor, his face shaded by a heavy helmet, his eyes sharp and unreadable. He wasn’t tall or handsome, and he wasn’t born to rule. But Bertrand du Guesclin (~1320-1380), son of a minor Breton knight, was about to change the fate of a kingdom that wasn’t his.

This wasn’t France. This was Castile. And this wasn’t his war. But it would become his story.

A Kingdom Torn in Two

Castile in the 1360s was a land of ambition and betrayal. Two brothers claimed the throne.

The first, Pedro I, ruled from Toledo with an iron fist. His enemies called him Pedro the Cruel, and they had reason to. Rebellions were crushed. Rivals vanished. Allies were disposable. But Pedro had powerful friends abroad—especially the Black Prince, the heir to the English crown and commander of elite troops.

The second, Enrique of Trastámara, was his half-brother, born outside of marriage. He had no lawful claim to the throne, but plenty of noble supporters—and the backing of the French king. Enrique fled north to seek help. And France answered, not with armies, but with one man who could lead them all.

They sent du Guesclin.

The Breton and the Pretender

Bertrand du Guesclin was not a man of polish. People said he looked like a bear and fought like one too. He didn’t win battles with speeches or splendor—he won them with cunning and grit. He had clawed his way up through the ranks of France’s endless war with England, earning a fearsome reputation and a name: The Black Dog of Brocéliande.

In 1366, du Guesclin led a motley army across the Pyrenees. Mercenaries, outlaws, knights of fortune—they followed him not for glory, but because he got results.

The campaign began well. Soria, Burgos, and Toledo all opened their gates to Enrique. Pedro fled. For a moment, the road to power seemed open.

But the English weren’t far behind.

Disaster at Nájera

In 1367, the armies met near the town of Nájera. The Castilian sun beat down on the banners of France and England, as du Guesclin faced off against the Black Prince himself.

It was a slaughter.

Du Guesclin was captured. Enrique ran. Pedro, cruel as ever, returned to his throne.

But Pedro didn’t win the war. He lost the people. While Enrique rebuilt, Pedro grew more isolated, more hated. And du Guesclin? He was ransomed—and returned.

He always returned.

The End at Montiel

The final act played out two years later, in 1369, at the fortress of Montiel, where Pedro’s army, weary and thin, was surrounded. Du Guesclin led the siege.

One night, Pedro slipped from the castle, trying to escape. But he was caught and brought to Enrique’s tent.

What happened next has passed into legend.

Some say Enrique hesitated. Brother or not, this was murder. Others say he moved without blinking. Du Guesclin, watching the drama unfold, supposedly said:
"I do not kill kings… but I open the door."

And he did.

Pedro was dead. Enrique was king. And Castile, now ruled by a French ally, would never again stand with England.

Echoes on the Wind

Bertrand du Guesclin returned to France, where he rose even higher—commander of the French armies, hero of the reconquest. But Spain stayed with him, a strange land where he’d helped make a king.

If you walk today through Toledo’s stone streets, or climb to the ruined fortress at Montiel, or stand in the plaza of Burgos, listen. You might hear the low rumble of horses, the rasp of old armor, the voice of a knight who wasn’t meant to rule—but ruled the moment all the same.

Further Reading

• Bertrand du Guesclin by Georges Minois

• The Hundred Years War, Vol. II: Trial by Fire by Jonathan Sumption

• The Black Prince by Michael Jones

• La vie et les faits mémorables du très vaillant chevalier Bertrand du Guesclin by Cuvelier (14th century epic poem)

• Local historical exhibits in Toledo, Montiel, and Burgos cathedrals

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: The Fuse to the Powder Keg - Russia Before 1917

Tsar Nicholas II

In the early 20th century, the Russian Empire was vast, diverse, and unstable — a giant straddling Europe and Asia, rich in resources yet poor in governance. Tsar Nicholas II sat atop an autocratic system that resisted meaningful reform, even as the world around it modernized. The gap between the ruling elite and the majority of the population was staggering.

A Land of Peasants and Aristocrats
Over 80% of Russians were peasants, living in rural villages bound by centuries-old traditions. Many still carried the memory of serfdom, abolished only in 1861, and freedom had brought little improvement. Small plots, heavy taxes, and outdated farming methods left millions in chronic poverty. Meanwhile, a tiny aristocracy — less than 2% of the population — owned vast estates and enjoyed lives of comfort and privilege.

Industrialization Without Inclusion
By the late 1800s, Russia was industrializing, but unevenly. St. Petersburg and Moscow had textile mills, metal works, and railways. Harsh factory conditions, long hours, and low pay bred resentment among workers. The new urban proletariat had no political voice; trade unions were illegal, strikes often met with armed force. Russia’s economic modernization created the very class that would later become the backbone of revolutionary movements.

The Empire of Many Nations
Russia was not a homogeneous state. It ruled over Poles, Ukrainians, Balts, Finns, Armenians, Georgians, and Central Asian peoples — many of whom resented Russian dominance. Nationalist movements grew in strength, often clashing with the imperial government, which sought to “Russify” minorities by imposing the Russian language and Orthodox religion.

1905: The First Shockwave
The Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) was meant to project imperial power but ended in humiliation. The defeat sparked unrest at home, culminating in the events of January 9, 1905 — “Bloody Sunday” — when troops fired on peaceful demonstrators in St. Petersburg. Nationwide strikes, mutinies, and uprisings followed. The tsar reluctantly granted a parliament, the Duma, but its powers were limited, and opposition parties were repressed. The monarchy had dodged collapse, but its legitimacy was badly weakened.

World War I: The Breaking Point
When war broke out in 1914, patriotism ran high, but Russia’s military was poorly equipped and badly led. Casualties mounted into the millions. The home front suffered from food shortages, inflation, and collapsing transport networks. By 1916, the tsar’s decision to take personal command of the army tied him directly to its failures. Meanwhile, political intrigue in the capital, symbolized by the influence of the mystic Rasputin, discredited the monarchy further. The empire was a powder keg — and the spark was coming.

Further Reading:

• Orlando Figes – A People’s Tragedy (1996)

• Hugh Seton-Watson – The Russian Empire 1801–1917 (1967)

• S. A. Smith – Russia in Revolution (2017)

’t Paeterke: Venlo’s Bronze Memory of the Dominicans (Venlo, The Netherlands)

‘t Paeterke, by Ger Janssen.

On Venlo’s Dominicanenplein stands ’t Paeterke—the Little Father—a bronze sculpture by local artist Ger Janssen. It honours the Dominican friars who lived here from 1892 until the early 21st century, first in the Trans-Cedron monastery and later beside the Kloosterkapel Mariaweide.

The chapel’s roots reach back to the early 15th century. Over the centuries it served as a beguine chapel, a pipe factory, a warehouse, even a carpentry shop, before war damage in WWII led to a major 1950s restoration. Today, it lives on as Domani, a vibrant cultural venue.

Janssen, known for capturing human expression in bronze, portrays the friar with quiet dignity—linking the square’s present to its monastic past. The Dominicanenplein itself emerged only in the late 20th century, when the city made the adjacent medieval Nieuwstraat car-free, creating a calm space where history still lingers.

Keepers of Time and Stories

The Keepers of Time and Stories.

Wandering through the bustling Flachsmarkt at Burg Linn, I stopped to watch a stand with some antique clocks, their soft ticking almost lost in the hum of the crowd. That’s where I came accross two friends from the north of the Netherlands — strangers at first, but quickly united with me in conversation by a shared curiosity.

They spoke about clocks the way my eldest brother could — with affection, reverence, and a twinkle in the eye. Their hands traced the shapes of ornate cases, their voices lingered over the details of intricate mechanisms, and every so often, they would pause to listen to the chime of a restored timepiece as if it were a voice from the past.

For them, each clock holds a story: of the craftsperson who built it, the families who lived by its hours, and the quiet persistence of time itself. I left our meeting feeling as though I had been shown not just clocks, but the heartbeat of history.