What do the Austrian Freedom Party (FPÖ), the German Sahra Wagenknecht Alliance (BSW) and Alternative for Germany (AfD), the Bulgarian Vazrazhdane, the French National Rally, the Communist Party of Greece (KKE), the Communist Party of Bohemia and Moravia (KSČM), and the Spanish National Democracy or the Communist Party of the Peoples of Spain (PCPE) have in common? Some are far-right and others are far-left, but they share certain unequivocal attitudes: they are openly pro-Russian, and some have been funded with little dissimulation by the Kremlin. Some defend Putin's traditional/conservative values regarding the family, while others consider him the best ally against the United States. Of course, all of them oppose NATO, which is to say, they are in favor of unilateral disarmament like the one preached by the last dinosaurs of the USSR.The so-called “hybrid war” that Russia exerts against its Polish or Romanian neighbors—minimalist attacks, controlled explosions without casualties, targeted sabotage—responds to a logic perfectly coherent with the Kremlin's strategic tradition. These are not military operations in the classic sense, but rather a form of psychological and political erosion intended to fracture European cohesion by means of, among other mechanisms, formations like those I mentioned before. The goal is clear and simple—division—but its realization proves tortuous: in a Europe that, sooner or later, will have to rearm itself to guarantee its own security, any ambiguous episode can fuel internal dissent and hinder, or even prevent, decision-making.The model is by no means new. From the final years of Tsarism, those of the Rasputin era, to the USSR or the current Russian Federation, Moscow has successfully cultivated a specialty: poisoning, both informational and literal (they say Rasputin ended up being immune to cyanide; Litvinenko was not so lucky). The disinformation of the Soviet era—those campaigns of rumor-mongering and blatant infiltration into leftist Western media—was a weapon of attrition that sought to sow doubt about the reliability of democratic institutions.

Miki Kisenvole (Sabadell, 1993) always has to seek out paths where not everyone wants to go. A few years ago, he found himself near the bridge over the Kerch Strait that connects Russia and the Crimean Peninsula, Vladimir Putin's pharaonic project to ensure that Crimea remained Russian. He thought no one would help him hitchhike across the bridge, but surprisingly, it was police officers who gave him a ride. "Hitchhiking is an adventure. I like it because every day is different, but also because I get to know the places I go to better," he explains. Miki is a curious man who speaks nine languages and has led the creation of a casteller group in Stockholm. He studied International Relations and has worked as an international election observer. Now he is publishing The Soviet Hitchhiker's Guide (Editorial platform) where he recounts his adventures, combining some of his passions: borders, the former Soviet Union, corners of the planet turned into diplomatic hotspots, statues of Lenin, and hitchhiking.

Before Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space, plenty of creatures orbited above human heads. During the 1950s, the Soviets and Americans took their rivalry beyond our planet, starting a space race that would immortalize names like Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, Aleksei Leonov, Buzz Aldrin, and Valentina Tereshkova. But before them, there were Laika, Baker, Belka, Ham, and Strelka. The first animals in space, but not the first to fly, since in 1783 the Montgolfier brothers had placed a sheep, a duck, and a rooster inside a hot-air balloon to see what would happen if they flew.

When Alexei Leonov looked back on his life, he realised how the world had changed in 75 years. He was born in a wooden house in Siberia, and as a child he would look up in fascination as a Tupolev plane flew gracefully overhead. It still seemed like a miracle to see a man fly. Little did Aleksei expect that he would be the first man to perform a spacewalk.