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Can Non-Lucrative Visa Holders Work In Spain After Five Years Of Residency?

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Esme Fox

Esme Fox – esme@thelocal.es

Published: 4 Nov, 2025 CET. Updated: Tue 4 Nov 2025 16:47 CET

Can Non-Lucrative Visa holders work in Spain after five years of residency?
After five years of residency in Spain the conditions of the NLV no longer apply. Photo: fauxels / Pexels

If you keep renewing your non-lucrative visa and build up five years of legal residency in Spain, do the conditions of the NLV – such as not having the right to work – still apply?

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ElPais

The Roman Empire’s ‘road Map’ Is Twice As Extensive As Previously Thought

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Alongside the legions, the miliaria marked the power of the Roman Empire. Placed every mille passus or Roman mile (1,478.5 meters), these cylindrical or rectangular stone markers punctuated the Roman roads, much as kilometer posts do on highways today.

A large group of researchers has turned to the latest technology to delve into historical and archaeological records in order to reconstruct the road map from 2,000 years ago. What they discovered is that it was far more extensive — almost twice as large as previously believed. They also found that very little of its original layout remains. The results of their work, published in Scientific Data, have been compiled and made publicly available on Itiner-e, a digital atlas of the roads that began or ended in Rome.

“When you walk along a sunken path worn down by time and travelers, people still say, ‘this used to be a Roman road,’ but the Romans built them to last,” says Pau de Soto, of the Archaeology Research Group at the Autonomous University of Barcelona (UAB) and lead author of this impressive study. “Another misconception we wanted to dispel is that they were paved with stone slabs, like the Via Appia. In fact, they were built in successive layers of gravel, each finer than the last, with the top layer made of compacted fine gravel. That was best for horses, which at the time still didn’t wear horseshoes,” adds the archaeologist.

Like modern roads, they were raised above the surrounding terrain and given a slight slope to drain water. “The first modern roads were built following the Roman model,” the archaeologist notes.

Desde la actual Escocia hasta el extremo este del Sáhara y desde el mar Negro hasta la costa marroquí, las calzadas conectaron todo el Imperio romano.

Pau de Soto and some 20 researchers used modern GIS (Geographic Information System) techniques to unearth the layout of the Roman roads. “GIS is the foundation of modern archaeological research,” says the UAB researcher.

They combined historical texts such as the Itinerarium Antonini and the Tabula Peutingeriana — the closest thing to a road map from antiquity — with studies on archaeological sites and books on Roman history. “But we also used 19th- and 20th-century topographic maps, postwar aerial photographs taken by the Americans, and satellite images; GIS allows you to combine data from all these sources and project it onto the terrain,” De Soto adds.

The result of combining so many sources is that, around the year 150 CE — when the Roman Empire was at the height of its expansion, spanning about four million square kilometers (1.5 million square miles) — the network comprised 299,171 kilometers (about 186,000 miles) of roads. This figure adds more than 100,000 kilometers (62,000 miles) to the 188,555 kilometers (117,000 miles) counted in earlier studies and is equivalent to circling the planet seven times. In Spain alone, the length of Roman roads exceeded 40,000 kilometers (24,850 miles) — twice what had been estimated. At that time there was no radial distribution centered on Madrid, as with modern highways, but from cities like Augusta Emerita (Mérida), the capital of Roman Lusitania, several major routes branched out.

The authors of the new study estimate that one-third of the roads connected the main urban centers, while the remaining two-thirds were secondary routes linking settlements on a local or regional scale. However, they found that there is certainty for only 2.7% of the total mileage. “That’s what still survives or has been excavated in archaeological work,” De Soto explains.

For the vast majority of Roman roads — nearly 90% — there are only traces suggesting where they must have been: “In landscape archaeology we call them fossilized axes, which might be a Roman bridge, remnants of a road at a city’s outskirts, or the discovery of a miliarium,” says De Soto.

Everything indicates that a road must have linked those elements. What GIS does is model the most plausible route between them, taking into account the terrain’s topography — such as a mountain pass or a river crossing. Another 7% of the map’s total is purely hypothetical: if two Roman cities lie close to each other and both have road remains at their exits, it’s reasonable to assume they were once connected by a road.

La captura muestra los pasos de montañas hasta la antigua Delfos, en Grecia.

“The Roman roads—and the transport network as a whole—were absolutely crucial to maintaining the Roman Empire,” says historian Adam Pažout of Aarhus University in Denmark, a coauthor of the study. “The Romans devised an intricate transportation system made up of inns, roadside stations, and relay points for couriers and public officials traveling across Italy and the provinces,” he recalls.

For Pažout, “the roads formed a framework that allowed Roman power to be projected — whether through the army, the law, or administration — and that held the Empire together.”

According to the authors, their work will allow for a better understanding of Rome’s history. Along these roads, millions of people traveled, new ideas and beliefs spread, and Roman legions and merchants moved between the far-flung corners of the three continents that made up the Empire. But these routes — whose immense reach is only now being fully revealed — also helped spread diseases and plagues such as the Antonine smallpox or measles epidemic, and the Justinianic bubonic plague, both of which weakened the Empire. They may even have served as the pathways for successive barbarian invasions.

What remains of the Roman roads, though not many miles in physical length, still forms part of Europe’s framework. As archaeologist Pau de Soto reminds us: “Europe’s urban fabric is a legacy of Rome. Most European cities already existed in Roman times — and were already connected to one another.”

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Barack Obama

Zohran, Barack, Kamala And Pete

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Zohran Mamdani — a 34-year-old with a degree in African Studies, born in Kampala, the capital of Uganda — will be the next mayor of New York City. He will do so after winning more than 50% of the vote, a remarkable feat. And the list of historic firsts he represents for New York’s mayoralty is long: he will be the first Muslim, the first socialist, and the youngest person to hold the office in more than a century. Yet, despite these firsts, Mamdani also embodies a certain continuity with a lesser-discussed feature of the Democratic Party in recent years: like Barack Obama, Kamala Harris, and Pete Buttigieg, Mamdani is the child of socialist immigrants.

The socialism of these parents was forged during the revolutionary decades of the 1960s and 1970s. In the 1960s, Obama’s father held a senior position in Kenya’s Ministry of Economics, serving as a self-critical socialist within the economic project led by the charismatic hero of independent Kenya, Tom Mboya. Around the same time, amid the civil rights movement in the United States, Harris’s parents met at a rally of the Afro-American Association. Both went on to earn doctorates: her mother in endocrinology — channeling her political fervor into advancing breast cancer research — and her father in economics, studying to what extent the anti-colonial politics of his native Jamaica could be applied to his adopted country, the United States.

As for Buttigieg’s father, he became the leading philologist of Antonio Gramsci’s work. Even in 2018, when I met him for the first and last time, his constellation of references for understanding contemporary politics was still rooted in the Italy of Pier Paolo Pasolini, autonomism, and the Fiat factory protests.

Mamdani’s parents share a similar political trajectory. His father, a Ugandan like him, arrived in the United States in 1963 on a scholarship for students from East Africa. As a student, he took part in north–south trips organized by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. He later channeled that activism into an academic career focused on the analysis of colonialism, postcolonialism, and minority groups in Africa.

His mother, born in India, developed her political awareness in the street theater of Delhi. Upon arriving in the United States as a student, she also became a filmmaker, directing films that subtly challenged Hollywood prejudices: screenplays shot in foreign working-class neighborhoods, romantic comedies set against historical political backdrops, and casts without white actors.

Unlike other Democrats with socialist parents, Mamdani has not tried to distance himself from his parents’ legacy. Every move he makes on the political chessboard alludes to family politics. His activism against the siege of Gaza — whose importance to his political career has been compared to the role that opposition to the Iraq War played in Obama’s — is directly tied to his father’s anti-colonial critique. His proposals for free childcare, rent freezes, and municipally owned supermarkets echo the many domestic tensions over money that appear in Salaam Bombay!, Mississippi Masala, Monsoon Wedding, and other films by his mother.

To his detractors, all this might sound like the plot of a Houellebecq novel: a charismatic young Muslim politician, a Trojan horse deceiving well-meaning voters, a society unwittingly sliding into decline. But in reality, what it signals is an attempt to build a new coalition that brings together the young, immigrants, workers, debtors, Muslims, students, tenants, and parents — a rainbow coalition that leaves no one behind. Except the billionaires.

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Álvaro Uribe Vélez

The Wounds And Questions That Remain Open 40 Years After The Siege On Colombia’s Palace Of Justice

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“Please help us, stop the firing. The situation is dire. (…) Publicize this so the president will give the order,” pleaded Alfonso Reyes Echandía, president of the Supreme Court of Justice of Colombia, on Radio Todelar. It was the afternoon of November 6, 1985, and the seat of the country’s judicial branch, the Palace of Justice in Bogotá, was a battlefield. Thirty-five guerrillas from the M-19, an urban group known for its media stunts, had stormed in, demanding that the magistrates hold a “trial” for President Belisario Betancur, whom they accused of betraying them in a peace negotiation that was already doomed. The reaction, which the president left in the hands of the military, was even bloodier. The building was burned to the ground, 11 of the 25 Supreme Court justices were killed, and thousands of files of all kinds were lost.

In a long history of political violence like Colombia’s, the events at the Palace of Justice remain particularly relevant, even more so than other, more recent and more deadly episodes. In 1989, for example, the drug lord Pablo Escobar blew up a plane taking off from Bogotá to Cali, killing 110 people. In 2000, paramilitaries ravaged the village of El Salado in the Caribbean region, leaving more than 100 dead, according to the Attorney General’s Office. And in 2002, the FARC guerrillas attacked the church in the town of Bojayá, in the Chocó department, murdering at least 74 civilians. The circumstances—the location of the attack, the political importance of the victims, or the visibility of what happened—make all the difference. And that is why an episode that in Colombia has been called a “holocaust” has attracted particular attention in journalism and the arts, comparable only to the assassination of Liberal leader and presidential candidate Jorge Eliécer Gaitán on April 9, 1948, and the subsequent street rioting known as El Bogotazo.

Furthermore, the judiciary has felt the attack as a lasting loss. The murdered judges were colleagues, professors, superiors, and even relatives of many lawyers of subsequent generations, and their deaths left a mark that the justice system still mourns today.

Beyond that open wound, the debate surrounding the takeover and recapture of the Palace of Justice remains so current and contentious that even President Gustavo Petro, himself a former member of the M-19 guerrilla group, is affected. While he did not participate in the takeover, Petro has defended a narrative that minimizes the responsibility of his former comrades. The issue is so sensitive that a judge recently ordered the removal of dialogue from a film about the Palace; it is so relevant that just this Wednesday, former President Álvaro Uribe Vélez, recently acquitted in a witness tampering case, proposed a new law “granting all benefits equivalent to an acquittal to the military personnel who participated in the rescue of the Palace of Justice, whether convicted or still under investigation or on trial.”

The enduring relevance of what happened four decades ago is reflected in the unanswered questions. One of them concerns the protection of the judges. Despite the revelation of a guerrilla plan to attack the Palace of Justice—a story that had dominated newspaper headlines—and the fact that several judges had received death threats, security at the Palace had been reduced on November 5. “I would like to know who gave that order,” says Ángela María Buitrago, former Minister of Justice and, as Attorney General, the lead prosecutor in the criminal investigation into the forced disappearances of a dozen people at the hands of the military.

Another unanswered question concerns the motives for the attack. The M-19 issued a proclamation from the Palace regarding what it called Operation Antonio Nariño for Human Rights. “We call for the public trial of stateless minorities who have betrayed the aspirations for peace and thwarted the demands for progress and social justice of the entire nation,” it stated in one of its central phrases, before demanding that the main media outlets broadcast the trial they envisioned. “Honorable magistrates: you have a great opportunity, before the nation, and in your capacity as the great moral compass of the Republic, to preside over a memorable trial,” it said later.

But the shadow of drug trafficking has loomed over the events since 1985, as the guerrillas shared a demand from the drug traffickers. “Through an unpopular and scandalous Extradition Treaty, our legal system is being surrendered—the most unprecedented and rapidly growing surrender of all—which is a mortal blow against national sovereignty,” reads the same proclamation. Individuals close to Pablo Escobar have said that the drug lord paid the guerrillas for the attack, trying to prevent the Supreme Court from upholding the extradition treaty, which they vehemently opposed. His former lieutenant, Jhon Jairo Velásquez, “Popeye,” is one of these sources; others have included Virginia Vallejo, Escobar’s lover, and the paramilitary leader Carlos Castaño. The question remains unanswered, as there is no proof, nor is it clear that such an atrocity would have had the desired effect. The closest thing to an answer, according to a Truth Commission formed by the high courts in 2005 to clarify the events at the Palace of Justice, is to point to this as a probable hypothesis. “Everything indicates, then, that there was a connection between the M-19 and the Medellín Cartel for the assault on the Palace of Justice,” reads its final report.

A third question is the extent to which the military wielded real power during those hours. The then Minister of Justice, the liberal politician Enrique Parejo, argued that a power vacuum existed, in which the generals decided what to do. But his then-colleague in the government, Jaime Castro, published a book arguing that no such vacuum existed, and that the decision to respond with force came from Betancur and his government, who feared that giving the guerrillas leeway would have led to a popular uprising and a seizure of power.

The fourth question revolves around the responsibility for each murder, each disappearance, each decision made during the more than 27 hours of fighting and fires. Investigators, journalists, and other interested parties have encountered all sorts of problems in finding sufficient evidence of what happened. In some cases, witnesses gave conflicting accounts; in others, witnesses have died—either during those days or in the four decades that have passed; in still others, the lack of ballistic evidence or the manipulation of the Palace by police and military personnel before judicial officials arrived prevented the collection of sufficient technical evidence.

Perhaps the most significant of the unanswered questions, ranging from the legal to the political, is whether the military was aware that the M-19 group was going to carry out the attack and allowed it, so they could strike a heavy blow against the guerrillas in what some have called a “trap operation.” Although the generals have repeatedly denied it, the three magistrates who led a commission investigating the events between 2005 and 2010 give credence to the idea. “The Truth Commission considers this hypothesis to be one of the most probable ones,” reads its final report. Jorge Aníbal Gómez, José Roberto Herrera and Nilson Pinilla point out that the Army was “insulted in its dignity” and “wounded in its pride” by past actions of a particularly media-savvy guerrilla group. Others have added that the military was angry with the president, who had expedited peace talks without consulting them and against their wishes.

The most complex issue, according to former minister Buitrago, is that the answers to these questions have varied, leaving a legacy of distrust and low credibility, as when the military denied knowing about the M-19 plan. And that keeps the wounds alive and open.

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