A Baltic First Impression

Estonia was the first Baltic country I ever visited. I travelled to Tallinn in August 2016 to participate in the Model European Union, where students simulate EU decision-making. I expected northern charm, medieval rooftops, and the excitement of debating European laws for the first time.

What I did not expect was rain, cold and constant. Coming from a sunny country, my suitcase was completely unprepared. I caught a cold on the very first day and had to stay in bed for 24 hours. But as soon as I stepped outside, Tallinn rewarded me.

I fell in love with its medieval aesthetic: stone towers, narrow alleys, red roofs, and that quiet northern beauty you only find in cities shaped by centuries of conflict and resilience. One night, we had dinner in a medieval-themed restaurant. The waiters spoke and behaved as if they were part of a 16th-century reenactment. It felt like stepping through a historical portal.

The MEU was equally enriching. I met students from across Europe, exchanged ideas, and even had a long conversation with an Italian participant who encouraged me to apply to the College of Europe. I followed that advice, applied, and moved to Bruges the very next year. (And yes, the Bruges stories will come too.)

A Souvenir That Did Not Make Sense

Then came the moment that still puzzles me today.

walked into a souvenir shop expecting the usual: postcards, Viking helmets, handcrafted wooden items.
Instead, I found walls covered in Vladimir Putin magnets.

Rows and rows of them.
Putin boxing.
Putin riding a horse.
Putin flying a plane.
Putin saying “Are you crazy?” or “Don’t mess with me.”

I remember standing there thinking:

Why would an EU country sell hundreds of magnets of a foreign leader who once occupied its land?

Souvenirs do not always reflect politics. They often reflect tourism, irony, history, or the unresolved layers of a national past. Estonia regained independence in 1991. When I visited in 2016, that was barely 25 years of freedom. The Soviet shadow was not ancient history. It was still a lived memory.

And when a language continues to exist in a place, its cultural imprint remains. Russian is still widely spoken in Estonia. Part of that lingering presence was right there on the shelf, staring at me through glossy refrigerator magnets.

Choosing My Magnet

I stood in front of those two giant boards for a long time.
Which one should I choose to preserve this moment of confusion, irony, and historical awareness?

The magnets showed a president building an image of himself, strong and untouchable, theatrical and carefully crafted.

In the end, I chose this one:

“Don’t mess with me.”
Putin holding gas pumps like weapons.

Even back then, the symbolism was clear. Russia’s power did not lie only in borders or armies, but also in energy, the invisible pipeline running beneath Europe’s political conversations.

A Leap From 2025 to 2016

Writing this article in 2025, when EU and Russia relations are defined by sanctions, security concerns, and a long list of political ruptures, I cannot help but ask myself:

If I returned to Tallinn today, would those magnets still exist?
Would Estonia still sell souvenirs of a leader who is now seen as a threat to European stability?

This is why I love fridge magnets. They freeze a moment in time. They do not follow political updates, historical revisions, or shifting alliances. They preserve the simple version of a world that existed at the exact second you bought them.

The Echo of a Memory

When I looked through my archives, Facebook reminded me of a photo I took during that trip. I had captioned it with a quote from Alice in Wonderland:

“Sometimes forever is just one second.”

Back then, I was trying to preserve the happiness and curiosity of living in such a beautiful city. Today, that same instinct continues. I travel, I observe, and I collect objects not because they are decorative, but because they carry stories.

What My Magnet Says. What About Yours?

My Estonian magnet is absurd, funny, political, historical, and ironic all at once. It belongs to a moment that will never repeat itself in the same way.

That is the magic of fridge magnets.
They reveal what we noticed, what surprised us, what bothered us, and what made us feel alive.

This is what mine says.
What does yours say?

This morning, I opened the fridge to grab something, and when I closed the door my eyes stopped on a small magnet: Tomba di Dante. For a moment, it felt like a spark touched my mind. I remembered why I had bought it in the first place, and why the image of Dante’s tomb had stayed with me all these years. A simple magnet suddenly brought back an entire reflection about heritage, preservation, and the way societies decide what is sacred.

What still fascinates me is how important Dante’s tomb was during the Second World War. He was not a king, not a military figure, not a wealthy patron. He was a poet, the voice of a language, the architect of Italian identity. During the bombings, his remains were removed from the mausoleum and temporarily buried in a safer spot within the garden to protect them, then returned after the war. That decision always struck me as a declaration that culture is worth saving even in the middle of destruction.

Preserving heritage is not a small gesture. It shows what a society considers valuable, what it refuses to lose, and what it wishes to transmit to future generations. When you see how carefully Italians protect their cultural symbols, you immediately understand why they love their country the way they do. Bella Italia is not just a slogan. It is a relationship with history, beauty, and memory.

Dante earned this place in Italian identity. He wrote the Divina Commedia, a masterpiece that shaped not only literature but the cultural imagination of an entire civilisation. For centuries, readers saw the afterlife, morality, and human struggle through the images he created. He became an icon, just as Spain celebrates Cervantes and Germany cherishes Goethe. Italy decided that Dante’s remains deserved to be protected even in the most difficult moments, and they succeeded. This level of care tells you everything about the value of culture in Italian society.

But the story of his tomb is even more complex. Florence, the city that once exiled him, has spent centuries asking for his remains to be returned. Ravenna refuses, insisting that they sheltered Dante when his own city rejected him. The empty tomb in Florence’s Santa Croce stands as a reminder of this unresolved desire. A conflict over a dead poet reveals more than political pride. It shows how cultural heritage becomes an emotional symbol, a point of identity, and a territory of belonging.

Sometimes the place that accepts you becomes the one where you flourish

There is also a lesson about mobility hidden in Dante’s story. He was born in Florence, but it was Ravenna that embraced him, hosted him, and gave him refuge. Centuries later, Ravenna still protects his memory with loyalty and pride. It reminds me that it does not always matter where you come from. Sometimes the place that accepts you becomes the one where you flourish, give back, and create meaning. Host places can transform destinies.

In 2015, when I visited Ravenna, the Italian Capital of Culture that year, I felt that atmosphere immediately. Every corner whispered history. The churches, with their Byzantine mosaics, were unlike anything I had seen in Bologna. The city felt small but full of meaning. It was as if each stone carried a memory.

When I entered the souvenir shop, I did not hesitate. Among all the colorful magnets, I chose the one with Dante’s tomb. I was moved by the idea that an entire country had taken such care to preserve not just a historical figure, but a writer. A human being whose power came from words, not weapons. The magnet became a reminder of how deeply Italy loves its artists and thinkers.

You understand a country by what it chooses to protect

Travel has taught me one thing very clearly: you understand a country by what it chooses to protect. In Italy, heritage is not simply a tourist attraction. It is a mirror of identity. Preserving Dante’s tomb is not about nostalgia. It is about safeguarding the foundations of a culture.

Coming from a place where history exists but is not always preserved, I felt a mix of admiration and longing. In Morocco, we carry centuries of stories, dynasties, poetry, and architecture, yet much of it is fragile or forgotten. Sometimes our culture feels like something we speak about but do not always protect.

Maybe that is why I kept the magnet. Not only to remember Ravenna, but to remember the emotion I felt that day, the desire to see heritage treated as something sacred, and the hope that one day we can learn to preserve the good things we still have. I kept it to remind myself of the feeling of being in a place where culture is respected, and to carry that inspiration with me.

This small object on my fridge is more than a souvenir. It is an archive of a moment, a feeling, and an aspiration. It reminds me that the stories we choose to protect reveal who we are and who we hope to become.

That’s my fridge door. What about yours?

This small exercise became a quiet revelation.

I spent hours afterward studying borders, comparing shapes, and tracing lines. I revisited TheTrueSize.com, a mapping tool that allows you to drag countries across the globe to reveal their true proportions. Once again, I was astonished to see that the African continent can fit Russia, China, and India inside it.

Seeing those countries placed over Africa reminded me why the African Union has amplified campaigns correcting the continent’s misrepresentation on maps. The goal is simple but powerful: to reclaim spatial dignity and challenge the visual narratives that have historically minimised Africa’s true scale and importance.

As I looked closer, another detail struck me.
The South and East of Africa follow the logic of mountains, rivers and coastline, borders shaped by geography. But the North carries the straight lines of colonial rulers, drawn with a ruler rather than shaped by land or people. Too human, too sudden, too artificial, lines that still echo in today’s conflicts.

Sometimes, a simple map teaches more than a library.

If you feel curious, try printing a blank map of your own continent and filling it in. I would love to hear what you discover in the comments.

As the Italian proverb says, Traduttore, traditore, “Translator, traitor.”

I had been reading a University of Bristol blog post about the term irregular migrant and the trouble translators face when they carry it into other languages. The piece triggered a vivid memory from 2022, when I worked in a small translation and migration office in northern Italy.

A paperwork paradox

An Italian woman came in, carrying a stack of paperwork. She was trying to marry her Moroccan partner, who was in a difficult legal situation. To move forward, she needed a procuration from him in order to request a nulla osta, a document the Moroccan consulate issues to confirm that a citizen is legally eligible to marry. But his physical presence was required to complete the process, which made things even more complicated.

“È un po’ complicato,” I began, explaining that in Moroccan law she would be *straniera* : a foreigner.

“No, io non sono straniera. Sono italiana!”
“I’m not a foreigner, I’m Italian!”

Her voice rose; mine stayed calm. I repeated that inside Italy she is Italian, but outside Italy’s borders including inside Morocco’s consulate, she is legally foreign. She refused the term as if it were an insult.

I had heard it before

A few months earlier, I had walked into a Milan university for an Eventbrite talk I’d registered for. Lost, I asked the receptionist. He phoned the admin office and said, matter-of-fact:

“C’è una straniera che cerca l’aula.”
“There’s a foreign woman asking for the room.”

Technically true. I’m Moroccan, not Italian. I didn’t flinch.

Why our reactions diverged

• Stereotypes. In everyday Italian, straniero often carries a hint of distrust or marginalization.

• Cultural weight. The word is loaded with social baggage and is often used to label people as outsiders.

• (Mis)translation. Words cross borders with hidden meanings, reshaping themselves along the way.

What this taught me

That day sharpened my sense of bias, both other people’s and my own. All of us inherit labels and stories, then react to them instinctively. The good news: we can re-train those reflexes. We can pause, listen, and sit with discomfort until it turns into curiosity.

As an Erasmus Mundus alumna, I’ve literally crossed these shores — not only in geography, but in language, learning, and lived experience. Like Erasmus himself, who journeyed across Europe in search of wisdom, I came from the southern shore to the northern shore to learn, to grow, and to listen.

This newsletter will host:
- Reflections from the field (as a journalist, researcher, and migrant)
- Observations on EU policy, migration, and diplomacy
- Personal pieces on identity, language, and cross-cultural navigation
- Short essays in English, French, or Arabic (depending on the soul of the story)

You don't have to belong to both shores to read this, just the curiosity to listen across them.

Stay tuned. I have a lot of stories and perspectives to share.