Two Souls in Awe of Venice

Two Chinese girls in Venice.

We came from far across the sea,
 With phones and dreams and time for tea,
 Each bridge, each boat, each golden dome,
 Feels like a story far from home!

 Oh, life is full of wonders, see —
 From gondolas to gelat-i!
 We click, we pose, we laugh, we cheer,
 Europe feels like magic here!

 The pigeons dance, the waiters smile,
 We’ve walked in style for half a mile,
 We tilt our heads, the photo’s right —
 Two wandering souls, what a sight!

 Oh, life is full of wonders, see —
 From bridges old to the wide blue sea!
 With selfie-sticks and joy so clear,
 Europe feels like magic here!

 So if you see us grin and spin,
 Just smile — and let the cameras in!

The Death of Thinking - How We Lost the Art of Being Wrong

Socrates (c. 470–399 BCE). Image based on the image at Wikimedia Commons: Σωκράτης, Ακαδημία Αθηνών (File name: Σωκράτης, Ακαδημία Αθηνών 6616) — used under public domain.

The Age of Answers

Socrates once said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.” That single truth — that wisdom begins with doubt — was the spark that ignited Western thought. His method was dialogue: a dance between thesis and antithesis, question and counter-question, until illusion gave way to insight.

Today, that art has vanished. We have traded dialogue for monologue, reflection for reaction. Every answer is a click away, but every question grows shallower. Daniel Kahneman called it “System 1 thinking” — fast, emotional, automatic. Critical thought lives in “System 2,” where effort, patience, and logic reside. Yet we rarely go there anymore. We no longer test our ideas against others; we just search for confirmation and call it truth.

The Echo Chamber and the Noise

Technology has built new temples — echo chambers where our own opinions are worshipped back to us. Algorithms reward agreement and punish doubt. The old Socratic circle of challenge and counter-challenge has been replaced by the digital loop of “like” and “share.” We no longer debate; we declare. Each tribe speaks only to itself, mistaking volume for validity.

Meanwhile, the media’s noise drowns out nuance. Headlines scream, outrage sells, and exaggeration is the new language of attention. In a world permanently on edge, careful reasoning feels too slow. When every issue is dressed as an emergency, genuine discussion cannot survive. We scroll, react, and move on — our minds trained for speed, not depth.

The Way Back

If we are to recover the lost art of thinking, we must also recover the lost art of dialogue. Not the staged shouting of talk shows, but the genuine exchange where ideas collide — thesis meeting antithesis — and something new, a synthesis, is born. That is how truth advances: not by silencing opposition, but by engaging it.

Curiosity is the first step. Ask why — and ask again. Listen to the answer, then ask what might contradict it. Reflection is the second step: slow down, verify, and think before reacting. And finally, education must once again teach argument as an act of respect, not aggression — the courage to challenge without hatred, to doubt without despair.

If leaders, teachers, and citizens could model that humility — the willingness to be proven wrong — we might yet revive the conversation that Socrates began: the endless dialogue between ignorance and understanding.

Further Reading

  • Daniel Kahneman – Thinking, Fast and Slow

  • Hannah Arendt – The Life of the Mind

  • Neil Postman – Amusing Ourselves to Death

  • Carl Sagan – The Demon-Haunted World

  • Immanuel Kant – What Is Enlightenment?

  • Friedrich Nietzsche – Twilight of the Idols

  • Jürgen Habermas – The Theory of Communicative Action

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: The Fall of the Soviet Union

Mikhael Gorbachev, and his Glasnost and Perestroika.

By the early 1980s, the Soviet Union was a superpower in name but ailing in reality. Its economy was stagnant, its leadership geriatric, and its people weary of shortages and repression. Then came a man who promised change: Mikhail Gorbachev.

Glasnost and Perestroika
Gorbachev, taking power in 1985, sought to reform the system with perestroika (economic restructuring) and glasnost (openness). Censorship was eased; criticism of the government became possible. State enterprises gained more autonomy, and limited private business was allowed. But these reforms also exposed decades of corruption and inefficiency.

Nationalism Resurges
With glasnost came a flood of suppressed history: the Stalinist purges, the secret Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, and the scale of wartime losses. In the Baltic states, Ukraine, Georgia, and elsewhere, nationalist movements gained momentum. The USSR’s empire in Eastern Europe collapsed almost overnight in 1989, as one communist regime after another fell — first in Poland, then Hungary, East Germany, and beyond.

The Coup and the Collapse
In August 1991, hardline communists staged a coup against Gorbachev. Crowds in Moscow, led by Russian President Boris Yeltsin, resisted, and the coup failed. But the attempt fatally weakened the central government. By December, the leaders of Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus declared the USSR dissolved. On December 25, 1991, the Soviet flag came down over the Kremlin for the last time.

The Legacy
The USSR’s collapse ended the Cold War but left behind 15 independent states, a shattered economy, and unresolved questions about identity and power — questions that still reverberate today.

Further Reading:

  • Serhii Plokhy – The Last Empire (2014)

  • Vladislav Zubok – Collapse (2021)

  • Archie Brown – The Gorbachev Factor (1996)

  • Stephen Kotkin – Armageddon Averted (2001)

The Pieterpad: A Journey Through the Heart of the Netherlands

A group of friends hiking on the Pieterpad near Roermond.

Imagine standing in Pieterburen in northern Groningen on a crisp morning in northern Groningen, looking out over flat polders, salt air on your skin, and maybe a seal in the distance. Somehow, this quiet shore is the beginning of something grand: roughly 500 kilometres of trail winding south through woods, heathland, rivers, villages—finally ending at Sint-Pietersberg, just south of Maastricht. This is the Pieterpad, the most famous long-distance walking route in the Netherlands.

A Bit of History

  • The idea was born in the late 1970s, when two Dutch women—Toos Goorhuis-Tjalsma from Tilburg in the south, and Bertje Jens from Groningen in the north—grew frustrated by the lack of long-distance walking paths in their homeland.

  • From about 1978 to 1983 they explored, plotted, tested stages, connecting existing paths, picking landscapes that showed off the diversity of the land.

  • The route was officially opened in 1983. Since then it has slowly evolved: slight adjustments of stages, small detours when infrastructure shifts, and improvements to signage and accommodation.

What You’ll See & How It Feels

Walking the Pieterpad is rarely rugged or remote—it’s not about trail-blazing, but about experiencing the changing Dutch landscape up close. Northern flatness gives you wide skies and polders; heathlands and woodlands in the centre; then gentle hills, river valleys, even vineyards, in Limburg. You pass through small towns and villages where time seems slower, where B&Bs, farmhouses and local cafes offer rest and character.

The trail is marked well (with the white-red markers of Dutch long-distance walking paths), and is divided into 26 stages of approx. 15-25 km each, so it’s accessible even if you can’t walk nonstop.

Estimating how many people walk the Pieterpad each year is tricky, because many people do just part of it, or break it up over many trips, and there's no central registry of walkers. But here are the best figures we have:

  • Some 30,000-50,000 people annually walk one or more of the 26 stages.

  • With the COVID-19 pandemic, interest and usage spiked: guidebook sales doubled, and people booking lodging on popular stages reported full occupancy more often.

So, safe to say: tens of thousands of people walk parts of or the whole Pieterpad every year.

The Pieterpad is more than a trail—it’s a mirror of the Netherlands. It shows you its history, its many landscapes, its rhythms. It brings people out into nature, connects rural to urban, past to present. After 40+ years, it continues to grow in popularity—not just among older walkers, but among younger people, couples, families, foreign hikers—especially once people discovered how beautiful and varied “Dutch wilderness” can be.

For More Information

The Holy Blood of Bruges

The procession in Bruges’ medieval streets during the annual Heilig Bloedprocessie, with the Belfry in the background.

Each spring, on Ascension Day, Bruges transforms into a living pageant of faith and memory. The Heilig Bloedprocessie—the Procession of the Holy Blood—winds through the medieval streets of this Belgian city with a splendor that has mesmerized pilgrims and travelers for centuries. Cloaked in music, incense, and the glint of sunlight on gilded relics, it is one of Europe’s oldest and most dramatic religious processions.

A Relic with a Long Journey

At the heart of the celebration is a crystal vial said to contain a few drops of Christ’s blood, preserved in solidified form. According to tradition, the relic was brought from the Holy Land to Bruges in the mid-12th century by Thierry of Alsace, Count of Flanders, returning from the Second Crusade. Whether by legend or miracle, the story fired medieval imaginations and turned Bruges into a center of devotion. The relic is housed in the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a Romanesque-Gothic gem on the Burg square.

A Procession Through Time

The earliest written record of the procession dates back to 1303, and for over seven hundred years it has taken place almost without interruption—through wars, revolutions, and changing eras of belief. What began as a solemn display of piety gradually expanded into a vast civic spectacle. Guilds, religious fraternities, and citizens joined in, carrying banners, portraying biblical scenes, and reenacting the arrival of the relic in Bruges.

Today, more than 1,700 participants in rich medieval costume retrace these layers of history. They process alongside the reliquary itself, which is borne aloft under a canopy of silk and gold. Brass bands and choirs fill the air with ancient hymns, while children scatter petals on the cobblestones.

A Living Heritage

For Bruges, the Heilig Bloedprocessie is more than a pageant; it is a living bond between city and past. The procession has been recognized by UNESCO as part of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, underscoring its enduring spiritual and cultural significance.

Whether one comes as a believer, a lover of history, or simply a curious traveler, witnessing the Heilig Bloedprocessie is like stepping into a medieval painting suddenly alive—where faith and folklore, devotion and community pride, continue their slow, timeless walk through the heart of Bruges.

The relic of the Holy Blood shown by a priest, Bruges (Belgium).

Without Knowing, on the Camino

Each morning he walks the same stretch of the Meuse — unaware that he follows the ancient route of pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela.

Every morning, as the mist still clings to the Meuse, people set out from Roermond for their daily walk. Some follow the dike for exercise, others to clear their minds — yet without knowing, their footsteps trace one of Europe’s oldest pilgrim routes.

The Camino de Santiago passes quietly here, unmarked by fanfare or faith, just a worn rhythm between river and sky. The man in the photo has walked this path for years, greeting the same geese, watching the same current. He may never carry a scallop shell or reach Santiago, but his devotion to the road is its own kind of pilgrimage.

Burgos' Dancing Giants: The Gigantillos

The Gigantillos of Burgos.

Close to Plaza de España you’ll meet them mid-step: a bronze couple frozen in a festival beat. The man—wide-brimmed hat, long brown cape, staff of office—leans forward as if to lead. The woman—headscarf, earrings, skirt swirling—answers with a half-bow that might become a spin. This is Los Gigantillos, the city’s beloved “little giants,” cast in bronze by Teodoro Antonio Ruiz and set beside the Church of San Lesmes in 2010.

They don’t just decorate a sidewalk; they guard a story. The Gigantillos are the human-scale cousins of Spain’s towering festival giants. In Burgos they come alive to the sharp call of the dulzaina and the heartbeat of the drum, dancing through Corpus Christi, Curpillos, San Lesmes, and the feast of Saints Peter and Paul. Where they pass, children copy their steps, grandparents clap in time, and the street remembers its own choreography.

The tradition is older than the pavement beneath your feet. Versions of these figures paraded here as early as the sixteenth century; in 1899 the modern pair took shape. A disastrous fire in 1973 forced the city to start again—proof that folklore isn’t fragile when a community chooses to carry it. The bronze couple arrived in our century to mark the centenary of the local savings bank, anchoring the living dance in metal so you can meet them even out of season.

Look closely and you’ll see the city inscribed in details: the mayoral staff in his hand, a civic symbol disguised as stage prop; the cape catching imaginary wind; the tilt of her shoulders that suggests music you can’t quite hear. Take a photo if you like, but better—stand a minute. Imagine the dulzaina cutting the morning air, the drum finding your ribs, and the Gigantillos stepping forward, as they always have, to lead Burgos into its next celebration.

Mores and Christians Festival in Bocairent (Spain)

Early in February, Bocairent bursts at the seams in honour of its patron saint, San Blas (Sant Blai). For six vivid days, fireworks crackle, pasodobles and comparsa music swell, parades roll, processions wind, and gunpowder booms through the streets. Everyone with a tie to Bocairent comes home—students, emigrants, cousins, the old guilds and new cofradías—crowding balconies, drumming in doorways, marching beside standards stitched by their mothers. At the castle, captains parley and boast before the mock assault, the old rivalry reborn in pageantry. By night, lanterns and drums fold the town into a pulsing heart; by day, Sant Blai crosses streets. Half theatre, half memory—history retold on foot to the rhythm of trumpets and gunfire—leaving your ears ringing.

More on Bocairent

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: The Cold War - Confrontation and Control

Map of post–World War II Europe illustrating the Iron Curtain dividing Eastern and Western blocs. License: © Sémhur / Wikimedia Commons. Licensed under CC BY‑SA 4.0 (Creative Commons Attribution‑ShareAlike 4.0 International).

The end of the Second World War left Europe divided — and the Soviet Union standing as one of two superpowers. The Red Army’s march west had not only defeated Nazi Germany but also planted the seeds of Soviet influence deep into Eastern Europe. What followed was a forty-year geopolitical standoff that shaped the modern world.

The Iron Curtain Descends
By 1947, Winston Churchill’s “Iron Curtain” speech captured the new reality: Eastern Europe, from the Baltic to the Balkans, was under communist governments loyal to Moscow. The USSR created a buffer zone of satellite states — Poland, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria — all bound together through political repression, secret police, and a common economic system, COMECON.

Containment and Confrontation
The United States responded with the policy of containment, pledging to halt the spread of communism. NATO was formed in 1949; the Warsaw Pact, its Eastern counterpart, followed in 1955. The Korean War (1950–1953) saw Soviet pilots secretly fighting for North Korea, while crises in Berlin repeatedly brought the superpowers to the brink.

Cracks in the Bloc
Even within the communist camp, unrest boiled. In 1956, a workers’ revolt in Hungary was crushed by Soviet tanks, killing thousands. In 1968, the Prague Spring in Czechoslovakia — a movement for “socialism with a human face” — was similarly put down by a Warsaw Pact invasion. The Brezhnev Doctrine justified such interventions as necessary to preserve the socialist system.

The Arms and Space Races
The Cold War was fought not only with ideology and armies but also with technology. The Soviets shocked the world in 1957 with the launch of Sputnik, the first artificial satellite, and in 1961 by sending Yuri Gagarin into space. But prestige in space masked economic stagnation at home. The nuclear arms race consumed vast resources, and the fear of mutually assured destruction hung over the globe.

Dissent Behind the Curtain
While dissidents like Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn exposed the horrors of the Gulag, and Andrei Sakharov spoke out for human rights, the KGB ensured dissent was contained. Yet underground movements, samizdat literature, and the whispers of reform kept the spirit of resistance alive.

Further Reading:

  • Anne Applebaum – Iron Curtain (2012)

  • John Lewis Gaddis – The Cold War (2005)

  • Vladislav Zubok – A Failed Empire (2007)

  • Tony Judt – Postwar (2005)

The great Iberian Ibex

The mounted head of an Iberian Ibex at the ‘Centro de Visitantes Torre del Vinagre’ (Parque Natural de las Sierras de Cazorla, Segura y Las Villas, Spain).

Upon the cliffs, the ibex stands,
With hooves that dance on rugged lands.
Its horns, a crown, both strong and high,
Pierce the edge of earth and sky.
Through windswept peaks, in morning light,
It leaps with grace, a fearless flight.
Majestic, wild, and bold it roams,
The mountain’s king, the heights its home.

Riquewihr (France)

Riquewihr, France.

Riquewihr is a beautifully preserved medieval town located in the Alsace region of northeastern France, nestled between the Vosges Mountains and the famous vineyards of Alsace. Often referred to as one of the "most beautiful villages in France," Riquewihr is renowned for its half-timbered houses, cobblestone streets, and vibrant flower displays, all set within its 13th-century fortified walls.

Dating back to the Roman era, Riquewihr became prominent during the Middle Ages, flourishing as a winemaking town. Its well-preserved architecture reflects centuries of history, with structures from the Renaissance era and the Middle Ages standing side by side. The town's rich viticultural tradition remains strong, producing some of the finest Alsace wines, particularly Riesling.

Riquewihr’s charm, history, and location along the Alsace Wine Route make it a popular destination for visitors seeking both cultural and gastronomic experiences in one of France's most picturesque settings.

Saint Lucia of Syracuse

The statue of Saint Lucia of Syracuse, Catedral Vieja de Salamanca (Spain)

Saint Lucia, born in Syracuse, Sicily, during the 3rd century, led a life devoted to Christianity. Legend has it that she promised her life to God, vowing chastity and service. Despite persecution by Diocletian, she remained steadfast, even surviving attempts to martyr her. One tale recounts her clandestine visits to Christians in prison, bringing them food and light. She wore a wreath of candles to illuminate her path, symbolizing hope in dark times.

The plate with two eyes, a curious detail, is often attributed to her own actions. In one of the stories, Lucia plucked out her eyes to deter a persistent suitor who admired them. Miraculously, her sight was restored by divine intervention, leaving her with a plate depicting her eyes as a reminder of her unwavering faith and miraculous healing.

Today, Saint Lucia is celebrated on December 13th, embodying the virtues of courage, compassion, and the triumph of light over darkness.

The Church on Friesland’s Highest Mound (Hegebeintum, The Netherlands)

The church at Hegebeintum (The Netherlands).

In the tiny Frisian village of Hegebeintum, the church seems to float above the surrounding fields. It stands atop the highest terp—an artificial dwelling mound—in the Netherlands, rising about eight and a half metres above sea level. Built in the 12th century, the Romanesque church of brick and tuffstone replaced an earlier wooden structure, serving both as a place of worship and as a refuge during floods.

Over the centuries, the church was altered in Gothic style and fortified with a stout tower. Inside, you can still see medieval fresco traces and a richly carved 17th-century pulpit. The terp itself has its own story: much of it was dug away in the late 19th century for fertile soil, leaving the church standing even more prominently against the horizon.

Today, the church and terp together form a striking landmark—a meeting point of human resilience, medieval faith, and the ever-changing Frisian landscape.

The interior of the church at Hegebeintum (The Netherlands).

Dinkelsbühl (Germany)

The Nördlinger Tor, Dinkelsbühl (Germany).

Hidden on Bavaria’s Romantic Road, Dinkelsbühl looks almost too perfect to be real. Encircled by intact 15th-century walls and punctuated by sixteen towers, it feels as if time stopped when merchants and guilds still ruled the cobblestones. But its charm is more than just picture-book beauty.

One of the town’s most intriguing chapters dates back to the Reformation and the Peace of Westphalia (1648). Dinkelsbühl was declared a paritätische Stadt—a “city of parity.” That meant Catholics and Protestants shared power equally, an extraordinary arrangement in a century marked by bitter religious wars. Councils, schools, and even church use were organized to respect both confessions. This rare compromise spared Dinkelsbühl the sectarian violence that scarred so many other towns and shaped a culture of cooperation that lingers to this day.

Stroll the narrow lanes to St. George’s Minster, admire the gabled merchants’ houses, or follow the nightly Rothenburg-style night watchman tour, and you walk through layers of civic peacekeeping as well as medieval splendor.

Dinkelsbühl isn’t just beautifully preserved—it’s a reminder that lasting harmony can grow where tolerance takes root, a lesson as valuable now as it was nearly four centuries ago.

Segringer Strasse, Dinkelsbühl (Germany).

Coal, Catholicism, and Community: Henri Poels and the Social Fabric of South Limburg (1900–1930, The Netherlands)

Henri Poels.

When coal was discovered in South Limburg at the turn of the 20th century, it promised jobs, prosperity—and potential trouble. Across Europe, industrial regions had already shown how rapidly growing workforces could become hotbeds of labour unrest, socialism, and political radicalism. In The Hague and in church offices alike, there was quiet concern: how could Limburg’s mining communities grow without becoming a social powder keg?

That challenge found its champion in Monsignor Henri Poels, a priest from Venray who would become known as aalmoezenier van de arbeid—chaplain to the working class. Poels understood that keeping the peace in the mines meant more than sermons on Sunday. It required housing, leisure, and a sense of belonging firmly rooted in Catholic life. His mission was both pastoral and strategic: to “bind the worker to the soil,” as one famous slogan put it, by giving them a stake in stable, faith-based communities.

In 1911, Poels founded Ons Limburg, a cooperative housing association designed to tackle the chronic shortage of decent homes for miners and their families. Good housing, he believed, was a bulwark against the appeal of socialist promises. But bricks and mortar were only the beginning. Poels actively encouraged a dense network of Catholic associations—sports clubs, choirs, youth groups, and mutual aid societies—that would anchor miners’ lives in a shared moral and cultural framework.

His reach extended into the cultural sphere as well. Through initiatives like the NV Tijdig, he supported Catholic-friendly cinema and theatre, offering wholesome entertainment that kept people within the Church’s orbit even in their leisure hours. In the process, he helped shape a “pillar” of Catholic life in Limburg—parallel to, and often in competition with, socialist and liberal networks.

The results were tangible. Catholic miners’ unions provided an alternative to secular labour movements, offering advocacy on wages and conditions without breaking ranks with the Church. Housing cooperatives ensured that miners lived in neighbourhoods designed with parish life in mind—complete with churches, schools, and clubhouses. For decades, this model of faith-led community building kept Limburg’s mining region socially cohesive, even as it absorbed waves of migrant labour from other parts of the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, and beyond.

By the 1930s, the coalfields of South Limburg were more than an economic engine; they were a laboratory for a uniquely Catholic approach to industrial society. Poels’ legacy still lingers in the brick façades of garden villages, in the archives of miners’ associations, and in the memory of a time when the Church was not only a place of worship, but the architect of an entire way of life.

Banner of the Dutch Roman Catholic Miners’ Union, Geleen branch in South Limburg (1920).

Further reading

  • BWSA, Henri Poels (Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis)

  • Canon van Nederland, Limburg-venster: Ons Limburg and housing policy

  • T. Oort, Film en het moderne leven in Limburg (chapter on associations and cinema)

  • S. Langeweg, Mijnbouw en arbeidsmarkt in Nederlands-Limburg, 1900–1965

  • Katholiek Zuid-Limburg en het fascisme (Maaslandse Monografieën 19)

  • Open Universiteit, “Mijn en Kerk” thematic article

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: The Second World War and a New World Order

Pact with the Devil, Joseph Stalin shakes hands with German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop at the Kremlin, Moscow, 1939. Based on photo: Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-H27337 / CC-BY-SA 3.0 DE.

The Second World War was both a catastrophe and a crucible for the Soviet Union. It transformed the USSR from an embattled revolutionary state into one of the two global superpowers — but at a staggering human cost.

The Pact with the Devil
In August 1939, the world was stunned by the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. The Soviet Union, sworn enemy of fascism, signed a non-aggression treaty with Nazi Germany. A secret protocol divided Eastern Europe into spheres of influence. When Germany invaded Poland from the west on September 1, the Red Army marched in from the east two weeks later, seizing territory promised in the pact. Within a year, the USSR had annexed the Baltic states and parts of Romania, and waged a bitter war against Finland in the Winter War of 1939–1940.

Operation Barbarossa: The Shock
At dawn on June 22, 1941, Germany launched Operation Barbarossa, the largest military invasion in history. Three million German soldiers, supported by allies, surged into Soviet territory. Stalin had ignored multiple warnings from Western intelligence and his own spies, convinced Hitler would not break the pact so soon. The result was chaos: Soviet forces were encircled, millions captured, and vast swathes of land overrun in the first months.

A War of Survival
Yet the Soviet Union did not collapse. Moscow did not fall. The Soviet leadership relocated industry east of the Urals, away from German bombers. Ordinary citizens endured unimaginable hardship — cities under siege, villages burned, families torn apart. The Siege of Leningrad lasted 872 days, killing over a million through starvation, shelling, and cold. The Battle of Stalingrad (1942–1943) became the turning point: a brutal, house-to-house struggle that ended with the surrender of an entire German army.

The Road to Berlin
From Stalingrad onward, the Red Army went on the offensive. In 1944, Operation Bagration annihilated Germany’s Army Group Centre, liberating Belarus and pushing west. Soviet troops advanced through Poland, Romania, Hungary, and into the heart of Germany. On May 2, 1945, Berlin fell to Soviet forces, and on May 9, the USSR celebrated Victory Day.

The Human Cost and Political Gain
The Soviet Union emerged victorious, but the toll was staggering: at least 20 million dead, countless wounded, and vast destruction of towns, farms, and infrastructure. Yet geopolitically, the USSR gained enormous influence. Communist governments, backed by Soviet military presence, took power across Eastern Europe. The wartime alliance with Britain and the United States soon gave way to suspicion and rivalry — the Cold War was already germinating.

Further Reading:

  • Richard Overy – Russia’s War (1997)

  • Antony Beevor – Stalingrad (1998)

  • Catherine Merridale – Ivan’s War (2006)

  • Evan Mawdsley – Thunder in the East (2005)

The Tombstone of Sentia Amarantis (Mérida, Spain)

Funerary stele of Sentia Amarantis, a freedwoman shown drawing wine from a barrel—likely her daily work. Dedicated by her husband, Sentius Victor, after 17 years of marriage. 2nd–3rd century CE, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida. Catalogue no. MNAR 676.

In the Roman city of Emerita Augusta—modern-day Mérida, Spain—archaeologists uncovered a remarkable tombstone. At first glance, it’s a simple funerary relief. But on closer inspection, it tells a vivid, personal story: not just of death, but of life.

Carved into the stone is the figure of a woman. Her body twists slightly as she reaches for a jug with one hand, while with the other she opens the spigot of a small barrel resting on a stand. She wears a tunic pulled tight at the waist and her hair is neatly tied up. This is Sentia Amarantis, a freedwoman whose daily work—perhaps running a modest tavern—is proudly shown beside her name.

The inscription, in slightly cursive Latin, tells us:
“To the spirits of the dead. For Sentia Amarantis, aged 45. Her husband, Sentius Victor, made this for his most beloved wife. They were married for 17 years.”

The upper part of the tombstone is shaped like a small marble temple, with curved ornaments and a semicircular pediment—clearly inspired by elite monuments, but rendered in a more modest, popular style. Scholars believe this adaptation reflects both the aspirations and the economic limitations of the couple—likely former slaves.

This gravestone doesn’t show a goddess or a myth. It shows a working woman, mid-action, remembered not through abstract virtues but through the gestures of her trade. The small barrel and jug, so carefully carved, speak of labor, routine, and care.

It is a quiet but powerful monument to everyday love, work, and dignity in the Roman world.

The Weeping Maid of Laarne (Belgium)

The Castle of Laarne, by Jacques Sturm (1807-1844).

Somewhere in East Flanders, just east of Ghent, sits the Kasteel van Laarne, a formidable moated fortress of grey stone and whispered memories. Its towers have seen nobles rise and fall, its walls have held courtly banquets and wartime secrets—but among its most enduring stories is one far more intimate and tragic: the tale of The Weeping Maid.

The tale originates in the 17th century, when a young maidservant named Margriet entered the castle’s service. She was a local girl, known in the nearby village for her gentle heart and striking beauty. But life behind the thick stone walls of Laarne was not always kind.

It’s said that Margriet caught the unwanted attention of the castle’s lord—a man of power and pride. When she resisted his advances, he turned vengeful. One stormy night, she vanished. The official word was that she had fled. But other servants spoke of a scream from the tower, muddy footprints on the cellar stairs, and a fireplace hastily sealed with new stone.

Years later, during renovations, human remains were reportedly found behind a wall near the tower. A small brooch—Margriet’s—was recovered alongside them. Since then, stories persist of strange happenings: unexplained sobbing in the halls, cold drafts from nowhere, a flicker of movement in the shadows. Some claim to have seen her—pale, dressed in servant’s garb, staring silently from a high window before vanishing into the air.

They call her the Weeping Maid.

The Castle of Laarne in 2025.

The Gravestone of Lutatia Lupata

Gravestone of Lutatia Lupata, a 16-year-old girl shown playing a stringed instrument. Erected by her nurse, Lutatia Severa, in a gesture of deep affection. Late 2nd century CE, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida. Catalogue no. MNAR 6033.

Deep in the Roman city of Emerita Augusta (modern-day Mérida, Spain), archaeologists uncovered a small but touching monument: the gravestone of a girl named Lutatia Lupata, who died at just 16 years old. Her tombstone, carved around the late 2nd century CE, shows her not in mourning or death—but in music.

In a shallow niche framed by a miniature temple (edicula), Lutatia is depicted standing frontally, dressed in a tunic, her hands gently playing a stringed instrument—possibly a pandurium, a kind of Roman lute. It’s a rare and vivid portrait of youthful grace and everyday joy.

The inscription below reads:
"To the spirits of the dead. Lutatia Lupata, aged 16. This was made by her nurse, Lutatia Severa, who raised her. May the earth rest lightly upon you."

This wasn’t a monument commissioned by parents or a wealthy family—it was made by her nurse, who likely raised her from infancy. The word alumna tells us Lutatia may not have been a daughter by blood, but she was certainly a daughter by love.

Her grave marker—simple, intimate, and quietly joyful—reminds us that grief in the Roman world, like today, was deeply personal. Lutatia’s music may be long silenced, but her memory still plays on, carved in stone.