Latest news with #Cyrillic
The Age
2 days ago
- The Age
New hiking trail puts forgotten part of Europe on the map
After skirting an armed border control point guarding a mountain pass leading to Russia, we get our first glimpse of Ushba glacier, a minty white ice flow that tumbles down the mountain's western flank. The 12-kilometre return hike is a good warm-up for the next few days, where we'll push higher and deeper into the scenically extravagant Greater Caucasus, a 1200-kilometre-long mountain range stretching from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea. Mestia is the region's gateway, an unexpectedly cosmopolitan ski town with modern hotels, atmospheric restaurants and an intriguing architectural mishmash of ancient stone towers and wooden alpine chalets. From Mestia, we spend three days hiking to Ushguli, a journey that plunges us into a buckling landscape of forested ravines and raging glacial rivers. Along the way, there are taxing climbs over mountain passes (the highest is 2720 metres), but the reward is normally a stupendously scenic lunch spot with a panoramic view of a squirming glacier or a peak-studded horizon. Afternoons are then spent descending on trails through autumn-tinged beech forests, occasionally passing fields dotted with clanking cattle and skittish wild horses. En route, we encounter hikers from all over the world. One day, I pass a shirtless Russian man and his two children; on another we meet a group of young Spaniards drinking red wine and playing chess. While we use horses to cross a freezing glacial stream, a mother and daughter from Latvia nonchalantly wade across in sandals. 'It's OK,' says the daughter, noticing my concern. 'At home, we go ice swimming.' Accommodation is what you'd expect to find in remote mountain communities with only a handful of families – rustic and welcoming. We stay in a series of small guesthouses with basic rooms and shared facilities. Days start with a generous spread of homemade bread, cheese, salads and cake (a breakfast item I enthusiastically endorse) and end with a table-filling array of soups, curries, beans and potatoes. A few of us bravely try the local wine, which on one occasion is dispensed – somewhat alarmingly – from a recycled soft drink bottle. Georgia claims to be the oldest wine-making culture in the world. But despite 8000 years of practice, its traditional amber wines, produced by fermenting juice, skins and stalks in underground clay pots called qvevri, can often be challenging. A side product from this endeavour is chacha, a grappa-like digestif so potent you completely forget about the taste of the wine. We learn more about the wine-making process during an enjoyable lunch at Merebashvili's Marani, a family-run winery in the small town of Kaspi. Owner Lasha Merebashvili explains that Georgia used to have about 550 grape varietals but many were wiped out by two devastating viruses called 'phylloxera and communism'. It's hard to escape the frequent reminders of Russia's legacy, from the striking Soviet-era bas-reliefs in Tbilisi to the Cyrillic writing on gravestones. Even at mealtimes, it's rare not to be offered a variant of the traditional Russian salad of potatoes, carrot, pickles and egg. Perhaps the most contentious legacy we see is an EU-built settlement housing some of the estimated 200,000 Georgian refugees who were displaced by Russian incursions during 2008. Deemed by Georgia to be occupied territories, the 'autonomous' regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia account for almost 20 per cent of the country. Guide Lasha Udzilauri, who grew up under Russian rule, can still remember the crime-ridden 'dark days' after the Soviet Union crumbled when there were long lines for bread and there was no electricity. On the way to Mestia, we stop in Gori, the birthplace of Stalin, to visit a museum containing the two-room wooden hut in which he was born and the armoured train carriage he later used for transport. 'Many of the older generation are proud that Stalin was from Georgia,' Udzilauri says, 'but they have Stockholm syndrome from this time. The younger generation are different – no one can be a dictator of them.' During Soviet rule, religion was outlawed, so most of Georgia's churches were turned into stables or toilets. Thankfully, two of the most significant examples that survived are now preserved as UNESCO World Heritage sites. The hilltop 6th-century Jvari Monastery contains some of the earliest examples of Georgian writing and the 11th-century Svetitskhoveli Cathedral claims to be the final resting place of Jesus' robe. Equally astounding is Uplistsikhe, a sprawling set of cave dwellings near Gori that date from the 1st century BC. While these ancient sites are undeniably impressive, I'm more intrigued by the country's recent history and the enormous economic, social and cultural changes that have occurred since it left the Soviet Union in 1991. We see evidence of this in Tbilisi, where there are striking contemporary buildings alongside brutalist Soviet edifices. And even in remote regions like Upper Svaneti, people are being lured back to breathe new life into abandoned villages. On our penultimate night in Mestia, two of us head to the local cinema after dinner to watch Dede, a 2017 film by Mariam Khatchvani about the life of her grandmother. Set in and around Ushguli during the 1990s, it's a heart-wrenching portrayal of a gruelling existence punctuated by family feuds, murders and kidnappings. Afterwards, I take a late-night stroll along the deserted main drag, past swish restaurants, stylish cafes and even a co-working space. And then, out of a side street, a boy appears with four cattle, which he proceeds to usher down the main street using a stick. It's a surreal sight – a ghost from Georgia's past walking towards its fluorescent-lit future. The details
Sydney Morning Herald
2 days ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
New hiking trail puts forgotten part of Europe on the map
After skirting an armed border control point guarding a mountain pass leading to Russia, we get our first glimpse of Ushba glacier, a minty white ice flow that tumbles down the mountain's western flank. The 12-kilometre return hike is a good warm-up for the next few days, where we'll push higher and deeper into the scenically extravagant Greater Caucasus, a 1200-kilometre-long mountain range stretching from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea. Mestia is the region's gateway, an unexpectedly cosmopolitan ski town with modern hotels, atmospheric restaurants and an intriguing architectural mishmash of ancient stone towers and wooden alpine chalets. From Mestia, we spend three days hiking to Ushguli, a journey that plunges us into a buckling landscape of forested ravines and raging glacial rivers. Along the way, there are taxing climbs over mountain passes (the highest is 2720 metres), but the reward is normally a stupendously scenic lunch spot with a panoramic view of a squirming glacier or a peak-studded horizon. Afternoons are then spent descending on trails through autumn-tinged beech forests, occasionally passing fields dotted with clanking cattle and skittish wild horses. En route, we encounter hikers from all over the world. One day, I pass a shirtless Russian man and his two children; on another we meet a group of young Spaniards drinking red wine and playing chess. While we use horses to cross a freezing glacial stream, a mother and daughter from Latvia nonchalantly wade across in sandals. 'It's OK,' says the daughter, noticing my concern. 'At home, we go ice swimming.' Accommodation is what you'd expect to find in remote mountain communities with only a handful of families – rustic and welcoming. We stay in a series of small guesthouses with basic rooms and shared facilities. Days start with a generous spread of homemade bread, cheese, salads and cake (a breakfast item I enthusiastically endorse) and end with a table-filling array of soups, curries, beans and potatoes. A few of us bravely try the local wine, which on one occasion is dispensed – somewhat alarmingly – from a recycled soft drink bottle. Georgia claims to be the oldest wine-making culture in the world. But despite 8000 years of practice, its traditional amber wines, produced by fermenting juice, skins and stalks in underground clay pots called qvevri, can often be challenging. A side product from this endeavour is chacha, a grappa-like digestif so potent you completely forget about the taste of the wine. We learn more about the wine-making process during an enjoyable lunch at Merebashvili's Marani, a family-run winery in the small town of Kaspi. Owner Lasha Merebashvili explains that Georgia used to have about 550 grape varietals but many were wiped out by two devastating viruses called 'phylloxera and communism'. It's hard to escape the frequent reminders of Russia's legacy, from the striking Soviet-era bas-reliefs in Tbilisi to the Cyrillic writing on gravestones. Even at mealtimes, it's rare not to be offered a variant of the traditional Russian salad of potatoes, carrot, pickles and egg. Perhaps the most contentious legacy we see is an EU-built settlement housing some of the estimated 200,000 Georgian refugees who were displaced by Russian incursions during 2008. Deemed by Georgia to be occupied territories, the 'autonomous' regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia account for almost 20 per cent of the country. Guide Lasha Udzilauri, who grew up under Russian rule, can still remember the crime-ridden 'dark days' after the Soviet Union crumbled when there were long lines for bread and there was no electricity. On the way to Mestia, we stop in Gori, the birthplace of Stalin, to visit a museum containing the two-room wooden hut in which he was born and the armoured train carriage he later used for transport. 'Many of the older generation are proud that Stalin was from Georgia,' Udzilauri says, 'but they have Stockholm syndrome from this time. The younger generation are different – no one can be a dictator of them.' During Soviet rule, religion was outlawed, so most of Georgia's churches were turned into stables or toilets. Thankfully, two of the most significant examples that survived are now preserved as UNESCO World Heritage sites. The hilltop 6th-century Jvari Monastery contains some of the earliest examples of Georgian writing and the 11th-century Svetitskhoveli Cathedral claims to be the final resting place of Jesus' robe. Equally astounding is Uplistsikhe, a sprawling set of cave dwellings near Gori that date from the 1st century BC. While these ancient sites are undeniably impressive, I'm more intrigued by the country's recent history and the enormous economic, social and cultural changes that have occurred since it left the Soviet Union in 1991. We see evidence of this in Tbilisi, where there are striking contemporary buildings alongside brutalist Soviet edifices. And even in remote regions like Upper Svaneti, people are being lured back to breathe new life into abandoned villages. On our penultimate night in Mestia, two of us head to the local cinema after dinner to watch Dede, a 2017 film by Mariam Khatchvani about the life of her grandmother. Set in and around Ushguli during the 1990s, it's a heart-wrenching portrayal of a gruelling existence punctuated by family feuds, murders and kidnappings. Afterwards, I take a late-night stroll along the deserted main drag, past swish restaurants, stylish cafes and even a co-working space. And then, out of a side street, a boy appears with four cattle, which he proceeds to usher down the main street using a stick. It's a surreal sight – a ghost from Georgia's past walking towards its fluorescent-lit future. The details
Yahoo
11-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
TikTok's Launched its Own Font to Expand its Familiar Style
This story was originally published on Social Media Today. To receive daily news and insights, subscribe to our free daily Social Media Today newsletter. Hey, are you really, really excited about TikTok, and want to show everyone how cool and in touch you are with the latest TikTok-aligned trends? This could help. TikTok's looking to expand its impact on broader web culture, with the launch of its own 'TikTok Sans' font, which enables you to take that familiar TikTok text style across to other platforms, apps and tools. As you can see, TikTok Sans is a bespoke typeface, which will infuse that TikTok style you know and love into your everyday communications. As explained by TikTok: 'Inspired by and made for our global community, TikTok Sans blends seamlessly with your go-to fonts, giving you the flexibility to create high-quality videos with that signature TikTok look and feel.' I mean, it's only a font, but it does have that familiarity, while its presentation options could present new considerations for your outreach. TikTok Sans includes variable style and customization settings, including weight, width, slant, and optical size axes. The font style supports 460+ languages across Latin, Cyrillic, and Greek, and is optimized for stylish captions and mobile UI typesetting. So now, you can extend the style of TikTok beyond the app, and into even your own promotions and marketing materials. Which could assist in brand association and connection, linking your communications to the more trending TikTok style and presence. Or maybe it's stupid and you hate it. Maybe there's no need for a TikTok font, and you don't see any reason for it to exist beyond the app. In which case, don't use it, but it could be a fun feature and option for those looking to update their communication style. You can get TikTok Sans here, or on Google Fonts. Recommended Reading TikTok Files for Injunction To Extend Deadline for US Sell-off Error in retrieving data Sign in to access your portfolio Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data
The Diplomat
08-07-2025
- Politics
- The Diplomat
Scripts and Power: How Russian Media Frame the Latinization of the Kazakh Language
The ongoing switch from Cyrillic to a Latin-based alphabet in Kazakhstan has been widely presented as a step toward modernization and global integration by Kazakh officials. However, in Russian media, the reform quickly became associated with shifting power, regional realignment, and the enduring legacies of the former Soviet empire. In Kazakhstan, the first discussions about switching the Kazakh language to the Latin script took place in the 1990s. In 2012, then-President Nursultan Nazarbayev resurrected the idea of script reform in his 'Kazakhstan-2050' strategy. In 2017, Nazarbayev signed an official decree to adopt the Latin alphabet by the end of 2025. The official reasoning for Latinization includes strengthening national identity by getting rid of the externally imposed Cyrillic alphabet, streamlining access to global technologies and markets, and restoring the linguistic features of the Kazakh language. Since then, several versions of the alphabet have been presented but all have been heavily criticized. The latest version was introduced in 2021 and is considered to be the final version. The initial timeframe for the adoption of the Latin script has been adjusted to 2023-2031, with incumbent President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev stressing the need for a cautious approach but nevertheless committing to carry on with the script reform. Script reforms are rarely purely technical, as they often reflect 'fundamentally ideological' systems as well as reveal deep-seated anxieties concerning identity, power, and shared cultural values. The Russian press often presents Latinization in Kazakhstan through a politicized lens. This analysis rests on the review of over 200 articles from Russian media outlets such as Regnum, Izvestiya, and Russia Today, done through the means of critical discourse analysis and corpus-assisted discourse. In this selection, only Russia Today is state-owned; however, all of the referenced media are either state-aligned or exhibit some Kremlin influence in their publishing policies. Although script-related terms such as 'language' and 'alphabet' dominate the word lists of the reviewed media, the existing discourse is broader and includes narratives about identity and geopolitics. References to Russia, Türkiye, and Eurasia suggest that Latinization is frequently framed as a geopolitical act, signaling that Kazakhstan is in the process of choosing between Moscow and a Turkic-Western orientation. Discursive Strategies Most noticeable are conspiratorial and nationalist tropes in the coverage. Aligning with the Kremlin's worldview, outlets frame Latinization as a foreign project aimed at undermining Kazakhstan's unity and its education system. For instance, Regnum reported in 2021 that foreign NGOs and Western 'fifth columns' were plotting to weaken Kazakhstan and warned that the country's education system will be made 'defenceless against the influence of foreign NGOs.' Here, authors invoked a popular conspiracist theme in order to present a mere technical alphabet change as an alien imposition created by external powers. The reviewed piece published by Regnum is titled 'Where Soros Goes, Trouble Follows,' echoing the notorious anti-Semitic conspiracy narratives associated with George Soros. Such narratives place Latinization well outside of ordinary policy discussions but within a concealed project to drive Kazakhstan away from Russia. Furthermore, such emotional article titles contribute to the tabloidization of the topic. Alongside conspiratorial framing, colonial nostalgia is evident. Such a discursive strategy is used to establish Cyrillic and the Russian language as a civilizational legacy. The Russian language and Cyrillic are presented as means which brought 'new knowledge' to Kazakhstan's people. A 2019 Regnum article stated that 'the Russian language was and is spoken by those who brought to these lands new knowledge that made Kazakhstan what we see today.' This narrative not only diminishes the role and achievements of the people of Kazakhstan, but also introduces an 'us vs. them' dichotomy to contrast the Soviet-era modernization ostensibly made possible thanks to Russian and Cyrillic with the allegedly misguided choice to switch to Latin. In a now-deleted Regnum article, Kazakhs were referred to as 'the people of the East,' suggesting a patronizing attitude toward them, who are seen as 'lamenting in their kitchens and yurts,' as stated in another article. This colonial discourse stresses the idea that Cyrillic and Russian are the reasons for Kazakhstan's development, and also signals that the country owes its achievements to the Soviet Union. Other related discursive patterns are ironical in framing and engaging in presupposition. Often, Russian commentators employ a mocking tone when referring to the script reform. Irony and sarcasm are used to present advocates of Latin, evidenced by such titles as 'The Kazakh pyramid of Cheops' and 'Nazarbayev has embarrassed everyone,' while pro-Russian views are framed as self-evident truths. Referring to Nazarbayev as the main supporter of Latinization, one author noted in a 2017 article about the then-Kazakh president's old age and said it is highly doubtful 'if the president lives [until Latiniziation is finalized] despite the achievements of modern gerontology and elite medicine.' Such claims associate the script reform with the will of an individual (Nazarbayev in this case) and create a perception that the Kazakh state would not be able to carry on the reform should the leader change. In a matter-of-fact tone, authors also stressed the message that education in the Russian language is of a higher quality: 'the higher quality of education in Russian is due to objective factors.' Thus, Russian media reinforce the notion that Russian education and language mean better opportunities, and by mocking the supporters of Latinization, it creates a narrative that the script reform is doomed or absurd. Unlike Regnum, which is often openly nationalistic and actively discredits Latinization, such outlets as or use a subtler approach, although with an evident bias. In a 2017 feature, noted that the script reform had been interpreted in many ways: as a breakaway from Russia's cultural sphere, a civilizational choice, or a simple desire for change. At the same time, the sarcastic tone of phrases like 'Play with Fonts' in the article is intended to delegitimize Latinization and create the notion of doubt among the audience. published an overview of Latinization in October 2019. There, the authors compared how Latinization was managed under Nazarbayev and his successor, Tokayev. It was underlined that, unlike his predecessor, Tokayev had not been actively advocating for Latinization but had decided to task specialized bodies to properly plan the transition. The report covered existing challenges associated with the reform, such as public criticism and difficulties in developing an optimal version of the alphabet, and framed Latinization as a bureaucratic challenge. Still, critical undertones are present. Thus, an expert quoted in the text questioned how Latin is supposed to play a civilizational role: 'Japan came close enough to Western civilization using hieroglyphics.' The state-run Russia Today (RT) in 2017 presented a diverse collection of viewpoints concerning Latinization to forecast what political, historical, and social implications the reform could have. Quoting official Kazakh discourse, the article mentioned that Latinization is a necessary step for modernization and the unification of all Kazakhs, including those living abroad. At the same time, it included critical points questioning the economic and cultural rationale behind the reform and doubting the streamlined integration with the Western and Turkic worlds. Transition to Latin is framed as a complex and potentially divisive policy, one which might create generational and cultural ruptures in Kazakh society. Regardless of reassurances from the Kazakh officials, RT expresses the concern that the reform can potentially limit the older generation's access to cultural heritage and raise questions about inclusivity and long-term consequences. More Than Just the Script As it became evident from the analysis, Russian media tends to frame Latinization in terms of regional realignment and loyalties rather than as a linguistic issue. The discourse is more about preserving existing cultural and political boundaries in which Kazakh-Russian relations function. In this context, Latinization becomes an alien imposition and a threat to Cyrillic and its role as a civilizational bridge to Russia and the Russian language. In the end, such discourse can signal Russia's concerns about its influence in Central Asia. Frequent references to Türkiye, China, and the West reinforce the narrative highlighting the geopolitical dimension of Latinization. In this politicized context, it is not a surprise that Russian authorities officially emphasize their intention to ensure Russian minorities' rights 'regardless of where they are located.' This vigilant oversight over Kazakhstan's policy changes is then reflected in the Russian media, in reports which serve as warnings that abandoning Cyrillic could lead to the marginalization of Russia's largest diaspora in Central Asia. What might potentially influence Russian rhetoric on the matter is the increased decolonization discourses in Kazakhstan, which have been reinforced after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Conclusions The battle over Kazakhstan's alphabet reform is much more than a linguistic issue. It is a negotiation process aimed at defining who decides the Kazakh nation's future, writes its history into the language, and how the legacies of the former Soviet empire are presently reproduced. The Russian media echoes the Kremlin's position and frames Latinization not only as a local issue, a matter of Kazakhstan's internal business, but as a sign of shifting power in Central Asia. Media narratives illustrate that language policy discussions have become proxy battlegrounds in the post-Soviet space. While Kazakhstan continues its cautious approach to script reform, Russian media's discursive strategies are a crucial factor that influences regional perceptions. Since Latinization is still ongoing and the Kazakh elite seems determined to carry it out further, Russian media will continue covering it. What is important to remember is that Moscow's view of the script reform in Kazakhstan is as much about Russia's own self-perception as about the Kazakh alphabet. Note: This feature is based on the author's ongoing research of Kazakhstan's script reform. All data and analysis are from the author's original corpus and critical discourse analysis. Quotes are translated from Russian to English.
Time Magazine
20-06-2025
- Politics
- Time Magazine
The Man Who Wants to Save NATO
NATO Secretary-General Mark Rutte keeps a variety of mementos in his office. There is a sprawling photograph of the North Sea from the vantage point of his hometown in the Netherlands, a kanji gift from Japan's Minister of Defense, and a framed floral embroidery that reads 'In Unity is Strength' in Cyrillic with the stitched flags of NATO, Ukraine, and the E.U. But the room's largest ornamental feature is the blue-and-white map of the world that looms above his conference desk. 'In the past, I was responsible for this,' the former Dutch Prime Minister says, pointing to his tiny home country in the northwestern corner of Europe. He extends his arms out to encircle the entire Western defense alliance that is home to 1 billion people. 'And now ...' he says, with a wry laugh. It's a glimpse of the storms roiling beneath the optimism of the preternaturally cheerful Rutte. We are in the steel and glass NATO HQ on the outskirts of Brussels, completed eight years ago at a cost of $1.3 billion, its interlocking buildings meant to evoke fingers clasped together in unity. But on this balmy May afternoon, five weeks before a critical summit with the mercurial U.S. President Donald Trump and dozens of other leaders, the question of unity hangs over the alliance. 'It is really a pivotal moment,' Rutte says, after we sit down in his office, some six short months after he became Secretary-General in October. 'Pivotal' may be an understatement. Trump has repeatedly said, most recently in March, that he's 'not going to defend' NATO allies that don't spend enough on their militaries, a threat to the mutual defense commitment at the heart of the alliance. Europeans, awakened to the danger of American inconstancy, are scrambling to spend trillions more on defense in coming years. All the while, Russia's assault on Ukraine grows deadlier by the month, and intelligence from the Baltic states, Denmark, and Germany suggests Moscow could rebuild its armed forces and attack NATO members Estonia, Latvia, or Lithuania within a few years. Rutte, 58, brings an idiosyncratic mix of experience and personality to the job of saving the alliance. An amateur concert pianist and part-time high school social-studies teacher, the center-right politician was the longest-serving Dutch Prime Minister in history. In that role, he developed a talent for working with people from across the political spectrum in the Netherlands, Europe, and the U.S. He even gained a reputation as something of a Trump whisperer. Rutte has used those skills while shuttling between European capitals and Washington, D.C., to push for a new defense-spending target of 5% of GDP for NATO members. The goal, set by the Trump Administration, is a stretch: about a quarter of the allies last year failed to reach the current target of 2%. Lurking behind the numbers are hard questions about what European and Canadian allies are capable of on the battlefield. For decades, NATO has depended on the U.S. for mobile land forces, air defense, long-range weapons systems, and the biggest security shield of all—the nuclear 'umbrella' over the continent. '[NATO] doesn't work without the nuclear umbrella and all the strategic leadership and strategic force capabilities that the U.S. brings,' says General Gordon B. Davis Jr. (ret.), a senior fellow at the Center for European Policy Analysis and former top NATO official. The position of Secretary-General is mainly a diplomatic one, with no direct military authority. But Rutte, a workaholic bachelor with no photos of loved ones in his office, seems to be marshaling member states to meet the moment. His most immediate task is ensuring allies rally around the spending push during the June 24–25 NATO summit in his hometown of the Hague, and in that he is optimistic. 'I'm really pretty confident that it will be a splash,' Rutte says. 'I see Europeans stepping up.' And after that? In its first half century, NATO preserved democracy in postwar Europe, helped defeat the Soviet Union, and served as a synonym for 'the West.' Once Rutte finishes sorting out the books, there awaits the challenge of making sure the alliance remains united and durable for the years to come. Rutte has trained his eyes on the spending target ever since Trump first floated it in January. He is keeping up the push in the weeks before the summit. Two days after his TIME interview, Rutte strolls up to a black Mercedes, arm extended, to greet Czech President Petr Pavel as he steps out of the vehicle, brown leather bag in hand. 'Welcome back,' Rutte smiles, guiding the stoic Pavel, a retired army general and former chairman of the NATO Military Committee, toward the headquarters building. The two men sit down for a closed-door meeting, and afterward, Pavel is direct about his nation's spending commitment. 'If the discussion in the Hague leads us to a general agreement that we need to spend up to 5%, Czech Republic is ready to support it,' he says at the closing press conference. Others are less forthcoming. A couple of hours after Pavel's positive comments, Rutte greets a beaming Dutch Prime Minister Dick Schoof elsewhere in the building with a hug and launches into talks. At the press conference that caps his visit, Schoof is evasive when asked if the Dutch will agree to the 5% goal. 'We will discuss intensively in the Cabinet and the parliament probably as well on what we are going to do.' The Netherlands agreed to the target on June 13. Getting Europe to pay up may be the most important step in preventing the transactional Trump from undermining the alliance, but managing him requires its own skills. Rutte has repeatedly said that the Trump Administration is ' absolutely right ' in making more demands of the alliance, and that tone has played well in Washington. 'It's great to be with a friend of mine,' Trump said at their last meeting in the Oval Office in March. 'Every report I've gotten is 'What a great job he did,' and I'm not at all surprised.' Rutte's approach also seems to be yielding tangible results. Trump had reportedly threatened to skip the NATO summit, but the White House confirmed on June 3 that he will attend. The spending push is not just about addressing Trump's complaints that the allies aren't paying their fair share for defense. 'This is about practical stuff,' Rutte says. 'We know that on the Canadian and European side we lack air-defense systems, we lack long-range missiles, we lack logistics systems, maneuverable land formations.' Increased European capability would free America up to focus more on China. 'The [U.S.] defense budget is continually under pressure. We have real readiness issues after many years of deployment,' says Rachel Ellehuus, a former adviser to the U.S. NATO mission. 'The U.S. is facing its own pressures and really needs allies to step up.' No matter how quickly they do, few think America's NATO allies could stand up to a direct Russian threat without the U.S. Which means all of Rutte's efforts on the budget and capabilities fronts would be for naught if Trump simply decided not to come to the defense of alliance members, should the worst come to pass. There's reason to worry it might. Russian sabotage against U.S. and European targets tripled from 2023 to 2024, according to a Center for Strategic and International Studies report. The head of Germany's intelligence has even warned that sabotage could trigger Article 5, NATO's mutual-defense clause. So could a Russian attempt to seize land in former Soviet republics where Russian-speaking minorities are numerous. All of which adds urgency to the cheery Netherlander holding the reins. War and tragedy have loomed over Rutte's life. His father Izaak, a trader who spent much of his life in Indonesia, then a Dutch colony, survived the Tjideng Japanese labor camp. His wife Petronella did not, and Izaak married her sister Mieke. They would live in the country until the 1950s. Rutte was born in the Hague in 1967, the youngest of seven children from his father's two marriages; some siblings are decades older. One brother died from AIDS in the 1980s, an event he once said 'drastically' changed his worldview. 'I realized that I will only live once. There is no dress rehearsal, there is only one performance,' Rutte said. 'That is where my enormous drive comes from.' Rutte showed an early interest in politics. He joined the youth branch of the center-right People's Party for Freedom and Democracy (VVD) at 16. Although his ambition was to be a concert pianist, he chose to pursue a degree in Dutch history at Leiden University instead. Rutte calls the piano his 'great hobby' but is careful not to play past 9 p.m. because of neighbors living on six sides. 'Then you get calls, 'Our children are trying to sleep. And by the way, it was not as good as you thought,'' he laughs. Rutte rose up the VVD's ranks, becoming national chairman of its youth branch while a student at Leiden. He graduated in 1992 and held a series of human-resources jobs at Unilever before taking office as a member of parliament in 2003. Rutte won the VVD leadership position in 2006, and in the 2010 elections led the party to become the largest in parliament for the first time ever. Soon after, he became Prime Minister, proving himself to be a master coalition builder. Rutte's first government was a coalition with the more right-leaning Christian Democrats (CDA) but was propped up by the far-right Party for Freedom (PVV), led by the anti-Muslim firebrand Geert Wilders. His second, third, and final Cabinets included a mix of social democrats, centrists, and conservatives. He is 'a very capable politician who is able to bring people together even when they have very different views,' says Simon Otjes, a senior assistant professor at Leiden University. Rutte has also been dogged by scandal. His third Cabinet resigned in January 2021 following a parliamentary report that found that as many as 10,000 families were forced to repay thousands of euros after they had been wrongly accused of welfare fraud. Another parliamentary report in February 2023 found the Dutch government had for years ignored the risks of drilling gas in Groningen, which had caused man-made earthquakes that damaged homes and affected thousands of lives. Rutte apologized for both scandals. Throughout various controversies, Rutte had a habit of stating he had ' no active memory ' of thornier details. 'He had a more flexible relationship with the truth,' Otjes says. The end came in July 2023 when he resigned over a migration fight. But even as his political career waned, the next February he secured a critical endorsement from the U.S. for the top NATO job. The Biden Administration considered other candidates, including the more hawkish Kaja Kallas, then Prime Minister of Estonia. But 'President Biden had liked him,' recalls Sean Savett, the former White House National Security Council spokesperson, and Biden and his advisers concluded that Kallas was 'less likely to be able to win over support from some of the Western European allies.' Those who know Rutte well expected the job would be a big lifestyle shift for him. He had spent years going to the same hairdresser, visiting the same cafés, and eating the same meals at the same restaurants in the Hague. 'He sometimes drives his closest friends crazy, because of all these habits,' says Sierk Nawijn, a special adviser to NATO who has worked with Rutte for a decade. Rutte has also kept the same modest apartment in the Hague that he bought with his best friend in his youth. He later shared it with that friend's mother for 20 years until she passed away in 2012 while Rutte was Prime Minister. Rutte still gets back to the Hague whenever work permits—perhaps in part because of the routines that help keep him grounded. Those include teaching a high school social-studies class on Fridays at the Johan de Witt group of schools. 'I love doing it,' Rutte says. 'It gives you so much energy.' The downing of MH17 over Ukraine's Donbas region, by Russian-backed forces in July 2014, may have provided the most formative experience to the future NATO Secretary-General. The attack claimed 298 lives, 196 of them Dutch. Rutte says that 'all illusions' he may have had about Vladimir Putin were 'gone' after it took six nights of calls for the Russian President to agree to help families retrieve the remains of loved ones. 'And then after that he never, ever, ever was able to accept that the Russians probably made a mistake,' a still visibly shaken Rutte says. 'It has to do with basic decency.' The tragedy of Ukraine has stayed with Rutte ever since. He became one of the most frequent wartime visitors to the country and made his first trip as Secretary-General there on Oct. 3, just two days after taking up the NATO post, meeting Volodymyr Zelensky in Kyiv. In April he visited Odesa, a city the Ukrainian President has avoided taking world leaders to since last March when a Russian ballistic missile struck within hundreds of meters of Greek Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis. When asked why he was willing to take the risk of traveling there, he says it was 'just to make the point that it is not only Kyiv which is under threat.' Rutte now helps coordinate outside security assistance to Ukraine, a new responsibility given to NATO by the Biden Administration in an attempt to Trump-proof aid. European and Canadian NATO allies have so far this year given more than the estimated $20 billion the U.S. provided in 2024. A German military officer involved in providing support to Ukraine told Reuters that, if necessary, Europe can sustain Ukrainian resistance alone. But the war in Ukraine has also underscored the limits of Rutte's power. Almost a year ago, NATO members agreed to an 'irreversible path' for Ukraine to join the alliance. Rutte finds himself in the middle. On the one hand, he says the deal with Kyiv is 'still standing,' but he adds, to the disappointment of Ukrainian officials, that it 'doesn't mean that membership is part of a peace deal.' That's another delicate issue. Rutte has publicly backed the peace talks that grew out of Trump's view of himself as a dealmaker, and have at times raised alarm among others in NATO. The 'Trump Administration's approach has been to put pressure on the victim, Ukraine, rather than on the aggressor, Russia,' the U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine Bridget Brink said in April before resigning. Rutte says that the U.S. President is 'doing exactly what he needs to do. I really commend him for that. Because he broke the deadlock and is constantly engaging with Ukraine and Russia.' Rutte brushed off current concerns that Trump is abandoning his cease-fire efforts at the press conference with Schoof. An agreement must ensure that Putin never again tries to 'capture one square kilometer, square mile of Ukraine. That is crucial.' But the conflict has only escalated, with Russia's launching some of its most extensive strikes in a war that has claimed hundreds of thousands of casualties, and Ukraine's carrying out the audacious Operation Spiderweb drone attack, which damaged or destroyed strategic aircraft inside Russia. The prospect of a cease-fire looks more elusive than ever. NATO, of course, was created to deter an attack by Russia, when it was doing business as the Soviet Union. And the U.S. was a key architect of the alliance, and the world order Trump is intent on dismantling. So there are easier jobs than the one Rutte holds. And even critics give Rutte high marks for handling Trump and rallying European allies to boost spending and military readiness. The abbreviated NATO summit— reportedly scaled back to keep Trump happy—should be a point of celebration for both men, assuming the funding boost is agreed to as hoped. But the next challenge will be executing those plans. 'He's got big, big work to do,' General Davis says, and 'there are surprises to come.' It helps that he's upbeat. Back at Rutte's office, as our interview begins to wind down, the Secretary-General repeats a familiar line about the alliance's ability to outpace Moscow—if it chooses to. 'The Russian economy is only 5% of the NATO economy. They are $2 trillion. NATO is $50 trillion. And they produce four times as much ammunition as the whole of NATO.' Three-quarters of a century after its founding, Rutte is confident that NATO can fend off any threat from Moscow. 'I am pretty much convinced that we are safe for now,' he says. But Russia is reconstituting its armed forces, and Rutte warns of the risk of being complacent. 'If we do not invest much more, plus get the defense industrial production going,' he says, 'the Russians might try something.'
