Nel dicembre 2021, la Russia presentò agli Stati Uniti e alla NATO due bozze di accordi formali per ottenere garanzie di sicurezza legalmente vincolanti, facendo intendere che se non fossero state accolte ci sarebbero state delle conseguenze.

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In effetti, dopo il rifiuto di Washington di prenderle in considerazione, il 24 febbraio 2022 la Federazione Russa intraprese l’Operazione Militare Speciale in Ucraina, ancora in corso.

Tra le richieste avanzate allora da Mosca sottolineiamo:

• Blocco dell’allargamento della NATO: l’impegno formale a impedire ulteriori espansioni dell’Alleanza Atlantica, escludendo esplicitamente l’adesione dell’Ucraina.
• Limitazioni alle Forze Militari: il divieto per la NATO di dispiegare truppe o armamenti nei Paesi entrati a far parte dell’Alleanza Atlantica dopo il maggio 1997.
• Basi negli ex Stati sovietici: il divieto per gli Stati Uniti di stabilire basi militari o sviluppare cooperazione bilaterale nei Paesi dell’ex URSS che non fanno parte della NATO.
• Missili a raggio intermedio e corto: il divieto reciproco di dispiegare missili a raggio intermedio e corto in aree da cui possano colpire il territorio dell’altra parte.
• Attività militari: la limitazione delle esercitazioni e delle attività militari della NATO in Europa orientale, nel Caucaso e in Asia centrale.

Stati Uniti e NATO nel 2021 rifiutarono le richieste principali (in particolare il veto sull’allargamento della NATO e il ritiro delle infrastrutture militari ai confini del 1997), offrendo invece di negoziare su temi specifici come il controllo degli armamenti e la trasparenza delle esercitazioni.

Perciò, il 17 febbraio 2022 Mosca consegnò una contro-risposta formale agli Stati Uniti, lamentando la mancanza di disponibilità a fornire garanzie vincolanti e preannunciando la necessità di adottare misure ‘tecnico-militari’: pochi giorni dopo ci fu l’invasione dell’Ucraina.

La Russia aveva fondati motivi per ritenere che Kiev stesse per entrare nella NATO e uno dei bersagli inziali dei suoi missili balistici (13 marzo e 17 maggio 2022) furono proprio i centri di addestramento ucraini di Yavoriv (nella zona di Leopoli, vicino al confine polacco ma all’interno dei confini ucraini), a tutti gli effetti infrastrutture della NATO, come visibile nelle mappe della stessa Alleanza Atlantica (1).

Tralasciando le questioni diplomatiche e l’auspicata volontà comune di riaffermare i principi delle Nazioni Unite che venivano espressi nel documento presentato da Mosca e sui quali l’Amministrazione Trump ha tirato oggi una riga definitiva, è interessante capire se siano stati compiuti dei passi da parte dell’attuale presidenza statunitense per venire incontro alle richieste russe (2).

All’art. 1: Russia e U.S.A. non intraprenderanno azioni né parteciperanno o sosterranno attività che pregiudichino la sicurezza dell’altra Parte; non attueranno misure di sicurezza – adottate da ciascuna Parte individualmente o nell’ambito di un’organizzazione internazionale, di un’alleanza militare o di una coalizione – che possano compromettere gli interessi fondamentali di sicurezza dell’altra Parte.

Sul supporto decisivo dell’intelligence USA e dei grandi gruppi tecnologici statunitensi (da Starlink a Palantir, entrambi vicini all’Amministrazione Trump) all’Ucraina al fine di colpire il territorio della Federazione Russa ho già ampiamente scritto in precedenza e perciò non mi soffermo (3).

Articolo 2

Le Parti si adopereranno affinché tutte le organizzazioni internazionali, le alleanze militari e le coalizioni a cui partecipa almeno una delle Parti si attengano ai principi sanciti dalla Carta delle Nazioni Unite.

Abbiamo assistito recentemente alla doppia aggressione condotta dalla “Coalizione Epstein” all’Iran, senza alcun fondamento nel diritto internazionale e senza alcuna considerazione dei “principi sanciti dalla Carta delle Nazioni Unite”. Per non parlare del supporto statunitense ai bombardamenti israeliani su Siria, Libano e Yemen (aggressione alla quale contribuisce in gran parte l’Arabia Saudita) o del rapimento illegittimo del Presidente venezuelano Maduro.

Articolo 3

Le Parti non utilizzeranno i territori di altri Stati allo scopo di preparare o compiere un attacco armato contro l’altra Parte o altre azioni che pregiudichino gli interessi fondamentali di sicurezza dell’altra Parte.

Naturalmente, la violazione di questo articolo non avviene solo utilizzando il territorio ucraino per colpire la Russia; recentemente, sul sito del Ministero della Difesa di Mosca è comparso un elenco di venti aziende europee accusate di essere parte integrante dell’apparato militare-industriale ucraino. Quattro hanno sede in Italia, tre in Germania, due in Gran Bretagna, due in Polonia, due in Turchia, due in Repubblica Ceca, poi sono rappresentate anche imprese con basi in Israele, Spagna, Paesi Bassi, Lituania e Lettonia. Tutto ciò avviene con il consenso implicito degli Stati Uniti. Anche le infrastrutture della NATO e le basi militari statunitensi in Europa (Sigonella ad esempio in Italia nel 2022) contribuiscono così ad alimentare questo conflitto (4).

Articolo 4

Gli Stati Uniti d’America si impegneranno a impedire un’ulteriore espansione verso Est dell’Organizzazione del Trattato del Nord Atlantico e a negare l’adesione all’Alleanza agli Stati dell’ex Unione delle Repubbliche Socialiste Sovietiche. Gli Stati Uniti d’America non stabiliranno basi militari nel territorio degli Stati dell’ex Unione delle Repubbliche Socialiste Sovietiche che non siano membri dell’Organizzazione del Trattato del Nord Atlantico, né utilizzeranno le loro infrastrutture per attività militari di alcun tipo, né svilupperanno con essi una cooperazione militare bilaterale.

Senza trascurare l’immediato ingresso di Svezia e Finlandia nella NATO all’inizio dell’Operazione Militare Speciale, l’attuale Amministrazione a Washington ha annunciato l’invio di ulteriori 5.000 soldati statunitensi in Polonia e l’istituzione di una nuova base militare permanente nel Paese (ridenominata “Fort Trump”). Ma gli U.S.A. non si sono fermati qui; in Armenia, nazione che fa ancora formalmente parte dell’Organizzazione per il Trattato di Sicurezza Collettiva e dell’Unione Economica Eurasiatica, lo scorso settembre Washington e Erevan hanno tenuto un nuovo ciclo di consultazioni bilaterali sulla difesa e firmato un verbale congiunto d’intesa (jointly agreed minutes) per dare seguito alla Charter on Comprehensive Strategic Partnership sottoscritta nel maggio 2026. Gli accordi discussi riguardano:

Supporto alla trasformazione e riforma delle Forze Armate armene.

Addestramento di sottufficiali (NCO), istruttori, comandanti junior e personale per il mantenimento della pace (peacekeeping).

Istruzione militare ed esercitazioni congiunte.

Sviluppo delle capacità industriali della difesa e potenziale fornitura di equipaggiamenti tramite il programma Foreign Military Sales (FMS) e programmi educativi come l’IMET, orientando l’Armenia verso una progressiva modernizzazione degli standard militari occidentali.

Articolo 5

Le Parti si asterranno dallo schierare le proprie Forze Armate e i propri armamenti – anche nell’ambito di organizzazioni internazionali, alleanze militari o coalizioni – in aree in cui tale schieramento potrebbe essere percepito dall’altra Parte come una minaccia alla propria sicurezza nazionale, fatta eccezione per lo schieramento all’interno dei territori nazionali delle Parti stesse. Le Parti si asterranno dal far volare bombardieri pesanti equipaggiati con armamenti nucleari o non nucleari, o dallo schierare navi da guerra di superficie di qualsiasi tipo – anche nell’ambito di organizzazioni internazionali, alleanze militari o coalizioni – in aree situate rispettivamente al di fuori dello spazio aereo nazionale e delle acque territoriali nazionali, dalle quali sia possibile colpire obiettivi nel territorio dell’altra Parte.

Poco più di un mese fa, si è tenuta un’esercitazione aerea della NATO nel nord-est della Polonia, nelle vicinanze di Kaliningrad con alcune decine di velivoli. All’esercitazione hanno partecipato caccia statunitensi e norvegesi, un aereo di sorveglianza NATO E-3A Sentry AWACS, velivoli per il rifornimento in volo e un aereo statunitense EA-37B per la guerra elettronica: Mosca teme che si tratti di manovre preparatorie all’isolamento dell’enclave russa dal resto della Federazione e ha risposto duramente ma soltanto sul piano diplomatico.  Inoltre, la NATO Ballistic Missile Defence (BMD), la difesa antimissile balistica dell’Alleanza Atlantica, è una rete costituita da sensori e da sistemi missilistici che i Paesi Membri offrono quale contributo nazionale alla struttura, i cui punti di riferimento in Europa sono lo European Phased Adaptive Approach (EPAA), statunitense, con il sistema americano Aegis Ashore schierato in Romania e Polonia e le navi Aegis per la BMD, stazionate nelle acque spagnole. Il sistema radar della IAMD si trova in Turchia, mentre l’infrastruttura di comando e controllo in Germania (5). Nel 2016 (grazie all’annullamento del Trattato ABM deciso da Trump) gli Stati Uniti hanno prima messo in funzione una base ABM in Romania, un sistema che utilizza lanciamissili Aegis potenzialmente in grado di lanciare Tomahawk con testata nucleare ad oltre 2400 chilometri di distanza, successivamente nel 2022 hanno costruito un sito Aegis in Polonia, ancora più vicino ai confini russi. Gli Stati Uniti hanno sempre sostenuto che i siti ABM hanno lo scopo di fermare le testate puntate sull’Europa dall’Iran o dalla Corea del Nord. Mosca ovviamente non la pensa così; François Geleznikoff, direttore delle applicazioni militari presso la Commissione per l’energia atomica e le energie alternative, intervenne nel marzo 2019 in audizione presso l’Assemblea Nazionale francese sull’argomento contraddicendo Washington: “Negli Stati Uniti, la Nuclear Posture Review (NPR) non si rivolge realmente alla Corea del Nord (gli americani hanno armi che permetterebbero loro di vetrificare il Paese più volte) ma piuttosto alla Russia, in risposta alle dichiarazioni del presidente Putin” (6).

Articolo 6

Le Parti si impegnano a non dislocare missili a raggio intermedio e a corto raggio lanciabili da terra al di fuori dei propri territori nazionali, né in aree dei propri territori nazionali dalle quali tali armi possano colpire obiettivi situati nel territorio nazionale dell’altra Parte.

Il 22 settembre 2026, Stati Uniti, Danimarca e Groenlandia hanno firmato a New York un accordo di sicurezza trilaterale che prevede l’apertura e la gestione di due nuove basi militari americane e la modernizzazione di quella esistente. Gli Stati Uniti ottengono ampie libertà di movimento (aria, terra e mare) per collegare le basi e la possibilità di utilizzare l’isola per il sistema di difesa missilistica (la Pituffik Space Base – ex Thule Air Base – nel nord-ovest dell’isola, ospita sistemi radar d’allerta precoce per i missili balistici). Il sistema difensivo pensato dagli Stati Uniti si evolverà da una presenza concentrata in un unico punto a una rete di strutture distribuite su tutta l’isola. Anche perché le due nuove basi non saranno le uniche installazioni militari che si insedieranno sull’isola (7).

Articolo 7

Le Parti si asterranno dal dislocare armi nucleari al di fuori dei propri territori nazionali e riporteranno nei propri territori nazionali le armi già dislocate all’estero al momento dell’entrata in vigore del Trattato. Le Parti elimineranno tutte le infrastrutture esistenti per il dislocamento di armi nucleari al di fuori dei propri territori nazionali. Le Parti non addestreranno personale militare o civile proveniente da Paesi non dotati di armi nucleari all’uso di tali armi. Le Parti non condurranno esercitazioni o attività di addestramento per forze convenzionali che prevedano scenari di impiego di armi nucleari.

A partire dal 13 ottobre 2026, si svolgerà in Italia Steadfast Noon, ‘Mezzogiorno risoluto’, l’esercitazione che l’Alleanza atlantica svolge ogni anno e che coinvolgerà le basi aeree di Aviano, in provincia di Pordenone, e Ghedi, nel Bresciano, oltre a diverse località in tutta l’area di responsabilità ben oltre il Nord del Paese. “È necessario il contributo congiunto di tutti gli Alleati: si tratta di un’iniziativa che non può limitarsi a un singolo Paese”, ha riferito il colonnello David Bull, capo delle operazioni nucleari della Nato, facendo riferimento al fatto che anche lo spazio aereo dei Paesi limitrofi potrebbe essere coinvolto. Vi parteciperanno velivoli in grado di svolgere missioni convenzionali e nucleari, anche se l’esercitazione non prevede l’impiego di armi atomiche. “Ma siamo in sintonia con Roma sul fatto che si tratti di un’esercitazione nucleare”, ha poi precisato Barrows. Gli Stati Uniti saranno presenti con equipaggi di volo e personale addetto alla manutenzione. Secondo gli stessi documenti del Pentagono, in Italia sarebbero dislocate circa 80 ordigni nucleari sotto controllo statunitense nelle basi militare italiane a Ghedi e Aviano (8).

Conclusioni

Il sintetico panorama offerto da questo articolo vuole dimostrare che la Russia non potrà cantare vittoria nemmeno dopo aver completato la conquista del Donbass, perché l’inizio dell’Operazione Militare Speciale in Ucraina è legato a considerazioni di sicurezza geopolitica tuttora irrisolte se non addirittura aggravatesi rispetto al 2022.

Se qualcuno al Cremlino crede che dopo un eventuale accordo con l’attuale Amministrazione U.S.A., la Russia verrà lasciata stare si sbaglia di grosso, perché l’Occidente collettivo si sta già preparando non solo al dopo Putin ma anche al dopo Trump.

L’obiettivo degli Stati Uniti non è altro che prendere tempo in attesa del verificarsi di almeno una delle due condizioni: l’allontanamento di Mosca dalla partnership strategica con Pechino e il conseguente rallentamento della dedollarizzazione – gli Stati Uniti non pagheranno di certo il diesel russo in rubli – e la fine della preparazione da parte della NATO ad un conflitto diretto contro la Russia – termine individuato nel 2030, quando sicuramente Trump non sarà più alla Casa Bianca.

Dal punto di vista occidentale la considerazione della Russia non è cambiata molto da quando il direttore della rivista “Foreign Policy”, l’israelo-statunitense John Feffer, la definì una “Nigeria con le armi nucleari”; secondo questa visione, Mosca deve tornare ad essere una sorta di ‘colonia estrattiva’ o ‘appendice di materie prime’ a esclusivo vantaggio delle industrie euro-statunitensi. A maggior ragione nel momento in cui la competizione tecnologica con la Cina necessita da parte degli Stati Uniti di quelle risorse strategiche di cui la Federazione Russa è ricca.

Pochi giorni fa, i 32 membri del Comitato Militare della NATO (quello statunitense in primis), erano a Kiev per ribadire il loro sostegno incondizionato all’Ucraina “rimasta costantemente al centro delle valutazioni, delle decisioni e della pianificazione futura dell’Alleanza”. Prima di fare qualsiasi altra concessione a Washington, Vladimir Putin dovrebbe pensarci bene: passare da una vittoria tattica ad una sconfitta strategica potrebbe essere più semplice di quanto sembra.

____

(1) https://www.nato.int/structur/nmlo/links/yavoriv-training-centre.pdf. Il sito internet è oggi irraggiungibile (forse per mascherare le prove?), ma la sua presenza come infrastruttura dell’Alleanza Atlantica era rintracciabile ancora nel giugno 2024. Come ammise anche il “Corriere della Sera”, i morti furono più di 300 e tra di essi numerosi soldati e addestratori della NATO: Giulia Fasano, Nella base militare di Yavoriv i morti sono stati trecento, 26 marzo 2022. Anche secondo il quotidiano “Repubblica”: “Il ‘Centro internazionale per la pace e la sicurezza’ di Yavoriv ospitava istruttori occidentali, come conferma il Ministro della Difesa di Kiev”.

(2) Il documento completo è stato pubblicato sul sito internet del Ministero degli Esteri della Federazione Russa: Treaty between The United States of America and the Russian Federation on security guarantees, 17 dicembre 2021.

(3) Ad esempio, cfr. Le basi della CIA in Ucraina: chiave del contenimento anti-russo in Europa, “Strategic Culture Foundation”, 11 aprile 2026.

(4) Nel contesto del conflitto in Ucraina e della postura di deterrenza della NATO, le basi militari presenti sul territorio italiano (gestite sia dalle Forze Armate italiane che dagli Stati Uniti) svolgono funzioni chiave di sorveglianza aerea, intelligence, logistica e comando, cfr. ad esempio Federico Petrangeli, Supporting Kyiv: Italy’s Military Assistance between Strategic Continuity and Political Division, IAI, 11 giugno 2026.

(5) Senato della Repubblica italiana, Schema di decreto ministeriale di approvazione del programma pluriennale di A/R n. SMD 32/2025, relativo all’ammodernamento, al rinnovamento e al potenziamento della capacità nazionale di difesa aerea e missilistica a protezione del territorio nazionale e dell’Alleanza Atlantica, alla protezione di teatro delle forze schierate in aree di operazione, inclusa la componente navale (n. 377), Resoconto sommario del 4 febbraio 2026.

(6) Stefano Vernole, La forza di dissuasione nucleare francese, Focus CeSEM, 3 maggio 2022.

(7) Stefano Vernole, Gli Stati Uniti hanno messo le mani sulla Groenlandia dimostrando la totale irrilevanza dell’Unione Europea, “Strategic Culture Foundation”, 5 ottobre 2026.

(8) Redazione Peacelink, L’esercitazione nucleare della NATO Steadfast Noon 2026 comincerà sui cieli italiani il 13 ottobre.

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The EU’s border agency, Frontex, shared coordinates of an overcrowded and partly deflated boat in the Mediterranean sea with the Libyan coastguard and then watched them run it over.

The boat was carrying 27 people, including children.

The findings, by Frontex’s own fundamental rights officer, described an incident that took place on 19 June 2026.

And this was just a tiny part of a wider pattern of violence by the EU-backed Libyan coastguard, which has also shot at or near civil rescue vessels.

No one was killed in the June event. But people were tossed into the water. Others, pulled onto the Libyan vessel, were then beaten by Libyan uniformed officers.

Frontex had issued a Mayday relay and then shared the sightings by email with the Libyan rescue centre.

No vessels were reported to be in the vicinity, but the Libyans showed up 90 minutes later.

The internal Frontex findings highlight ongoing tensions in the agency over sharing rescue coordinates with the Libyans in the name of saving lives.

“Saving lives is the absolute sort of absolute right that people have,” Hans Leijtens the agency’s director, told EUobserver earlier this year.

“And it’s our job to contribute to that, and if that sort of starts with looking at which part of the Mediterranean ship is sailing, and if it’s a north African country, we all have to inform the authorities there,” he added.

But his own rights officer also notes that the botched rescue on 19 June amounted to a violation of the right to life, citing article six of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.

He says the standard is not simply whether the migrants were ultimately rescued, but if the operation was planned and executed to minimise risks to human life.

In this case, the Libyans violated that right among others, he says. Frontex did not reply to the findings in the report, as of publication.

Let the court decide

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Brussels (European Newsroom) – The European Union should improve how it detects and connects early warnings at its external borders after the mass arrival of migrants in the Spanish autonomous city Ceuta in July, said the chief of the EU border agency Frontex, Hans Leijtens, while insisting that responsibility for border protection must remain with member states. 

“I think we should improve our situational awareness as Europe, and Frontex can play an important role in that,” Leijtens told journalists of the European Newsroom network in Brussels. 

He said a broader picture could be built from satellites, aircraft, observers on the ground and information from social media. Much of the information was already available, he said, but needed to be better connected. 

The remarks come as the European Commission floated plans for a Frontex rapid-response team that could deploy within 24 hours in a crisis. The team would still be sent only at the request of a member state, according to an action plan presented by EU migration commissioner Magnus Brunner in late September. The plan also envisages a larger role for Frontex in returns. 

Leijtens said he did not expect a new Frontex mandate to change the basic division of responsibility. “There I would find it difficult because not only in our mandate but in general protecting European borders is a member state responsibility and we can’t take over responsibility,” he said. 

He described the events in Ceuta as more of a public-order issue than a conventional border incident. Ceuta, a Spanish exclave in northern Africa, saw a sudden mass crossing from Morocco on July 30–31, 2026, triggering a diplomatic dispute among EU countries. Spanish estimates rose from about 72,000 to 80,000 arrivals, while Morocco cited about 40,000. Many people returned before being registered, making the final total uncertain. According to news reports, some 83 people died, and the crisis reignited debate over EU border control, asylum rules, solidarity and Frontex’s role. 

The episode raised a further question for the EU’s early-warning debate: whether the challenge was detecting the signals, sharing them or responding to them. 

Leijtens said the deaths were horrifying and should be prevented. “The fact that so many people lost their lives is absolutely horrifying and something we should prevent.” 

The European People’s Party leader Manfred Weber had called for Frontex to take command in a crisis such as Ceuta. The Commission’s rapid-response plan, by contrast, retains the requirement that a Member State request assistance.  

The Commission’s proposal for a revised Frontex mandate is expected by the end of October. 

David Alm | Longreads | October 1, 2026 | 5,726 words (24 minutes)

I got off Interstate 81 to give my soul a break. The back roads of southwest Virginia wind, crest, and plunge through lush valleys of oak, poplar, birch, and maple trees. It’s easy to lose track of time and distance there. People drive slower. Cows graze in pastures. And there are no placards festooned with Motel 6 and Starbucks logos, flattening the American landscape into a homogeneous blur. Any signs you might see are low to the ground and handmade, protesting a data center, for instance, or thanking Jesus.

I’d gone to this rural pocket of the country for the 90th annual Old Fiddler’s Convention in Galax, an independent city of just under 7,000 near the North Carolina border whose population, for six days in early August, balloons to around four times that. They arrive in RVs and Casitas, camper vans and cars to stake out 20-by-35-foot plots in Felts Park, a 28-acre fairground in the heart of Galax, transforming it into a massive, muddy parking lot sprinkled with portable toilets and a cluster of food trucks, offering loaded potatoes, funnel cake, and blooming onions.

The Old Fiddler’s Convention—or just Galax, as the diehards call it—is the oldest and largest fiddlers’ convention in the world, a place where banjo pickers, guitar players, and other maestros of old-time strings gather to see how they stack up. Founded in 1935, Galax has been canceled only twice since then: once during World War II, due to travel restrictions, and again in 2020, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Many Galaxers have been going every year for decades, some for as long as they’ve been alive.

There are scads of rules: If you play clawhammer-style banjo in the bluegrass band competition, you will get disqualified. Same if you play bluegrass-style banjo in the old-time competition. If you break a string while performing, you must stop immediately. Playing time during competition is limited to two minutes and 30 seconds. And, crucially, no electric instruments of any kind are allowed, either on stage or in the tightly packed fairgrounds, where self-described hillbillies, accountants, firefighters, and session musicians pick day and night in blistering, impromptu jams amid the RVs. 

One does not merely attend Galax. It’s not a music festival. There are no headliners, and no full-set performances. There is a single stage, and over the course of six days, contestants take it one after another to play one song for a panel of judges and a smattering of spectators. There are more than a dozen categories, little changed in the past century: old-time fiddle, guitar, dulcimer, folk song. Cash prizes for individual players range from $35 to $285; a campsite and contestant pass together cost $175. “The prestige of being judged a ‘winner at Galax,’ and the respect for one’s musical talent that goes along with it, far outweighs any monetary award,” wrote Fred Burton in the March 1984 issue of Bluegrass Unlimited. 

In the 1980s and ’90s, cars lined up days before the gates to Felts Park opened. The fairgrounds got so full back then that people slept in the horse stables that used to line one end of them. Once, Elizabeth Taylor made a surprise appearance with her then-husband, Virginia Senator John Warner. Rumor has it that members of Old Crow Medicine Show and Leftover Salmon have shown up at Galax, under the radar, just to jam. 

And yet, despite appearing well attended to my virgin eyes, the Old Fiddler’s Convention’s numbers are down from the pre-pandemic years, and way down from peak Galax. Folks say it’s not like it was. Maybe, as one long-time attendee speculated, it’s that more kids are choosing devices and passive consumption over face-to-face activity with other humans, or that more and more young adults are fleeing southwest Virginia due to the gutted coal, tobacco, and manufacturing industries. Or maybe it’s just that people around there are dying faster than they’re being born. Glen Alexander, a 55-year-old fiddler who’s been going to Galax since he was a child, put it bluntly: “We’re all scared to death this is gonna go away.” 

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Tara Linhardt, a professional mandolin player from Leesburg, Virginia, with thick, curly hair and a determined gaze, has been going to Galax since she was in high school, and was happy to advise me on how to survive my first time. Buy what you need locally, she told me; it was cheaper than New York. It will probably rain, so bring mud boots. Find a high patch of ground, because rainwater pools in the low spots. Afternoon jams were open to anyone, but unless I was dead good, I should just observe the nighttime ones, where the “thoroughbreds” play so fast that a newbie like me would only drag it down. 

Tara and her husband, Ian, pulled into Galax late Saturday afternoon, just in time to get a bite before parking their Four Winds RV by the dumpsters behind the Applebee’s at the edge of town. She told me to sleep in my car there, since the church parking lot was already full, and Applebee’s, unlike Hardee’s, doesn’t mind. We’d need to queue up by the gates to Felts Park before seven o’clock Sunday morning to ensure we’d get decent campsites. First-come, first-served. 

I’d arrived earlier that afternoon, hours later than Google Maps had predicted, because I forsook the interstate. The day before, I’d left my home in Brooklyn only to spend two hours driving five miles to reach the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. I was spat out onto I-78, which at some point blended into I-81, hauling me across Pennsylvania to Staunton, Virginia, where I slept in a former sanatorium. I had recently been laid off from a job I’d held for 13 years, editing reports for a geopolitical risk advisory firm, and needed reprieve. I sought my escape on Route 11. 

In the trunk were a guitar and two banjos, instruments I was determined to spend the week playing in the Blue Ridge Mountains in lieu of applying for jobs and fretting about AI in my Brooklyn apartment. It was the first long road trip I’d taken alone in a quarter-century, and I’d hoped for a reset. Call it a midlife crisis if you want, but I drove cross-country a lot before I moved to New York, always on back roads. America is best seen up close.

After chatting awhile with Tara, Ian, and a luthier named John Hamlett, who’d also parked his RV behind the Applebee’s, I folded myself into the backseat of my Chevy Trax rental and more or less slept. I awoke at 6 a.m. to a downpour, rain pelting the roof of my car like fingertips on a conga drum. 

The four of us caravaned into town, where we waited until almost 9 a.m. to enter the park. We figured it was due to the rain. In fact, it was because of an issue with the gate itself. My source for this intel was none other than the Galax chief of police, DeWitt Cooper, who was directing traffic into Felts Park that day and hails from the Bronx. I’d see Chief Cooper again a couple days later, at Willie’s Food Truck inside the fairgrounds, where we chatted over catfish and collard greens about his philosophy of policing. “Don’t judge based on appearances and treat people with love,” he told me. 

I chose a plot on the far side of the fairgrounds, near a fence and a row of portable toilets, with Tara, Ian, and John all nearby. Our little commune wouldn’t last; the next day, Four Winds got stuck in the mud and Tara had to summon a Moose—one of the men of Moose Lodge No. 733, a fraternal organization that’s managed the Old Fiddler’s Convention since the beginning—to drag it out with a tractor. They found higher ground by the tennis courts and I stayed put. That night it rained again, and I awoke at 5 a.m. in a half-inch of water that had pooled in my tent overnight, soaking my sleeping bag, pillow, and clothes.

It’s no fun to wake up in a puddle, but when it rains in your tent, or the fairgrounds get so muddy that you watch a young woman lose a Birkenstock forever to the muck, or you start to stink because there’s only one public shower in Felts Park, it all feels incidental to what matters more: There’s pickin’ to do. You hear it all around, all the time. A lone fiddle at dawn, guitars easing into the afternoon, jams that grow in size and volume throughout the day, until night falls and Felts Park erupts in a surround-sound jamboree of syncopated banjos, arpeggiated fiddles, and bass notes so low and driving that they cut through it all at ground level. When it’s not raining, those jam sessions continue through the night, practically until the early morning’s still air is broken anew by someone’s fiddle.

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My first jam came on Day 0, after the rain abated and I’d set up camp. The Old Fiddler’s Convention wouldn’t officially start until Monday night, with the astoundingly good kids’ competitions—the reigning bluegrass fiddle champion herself, Hollace Oakes, was 14 when she won the adult contest last year—but everyone in Felts Park was eager to pick.

Tara wanted to introduce me to Bill and Nancy Sluys, a couple in their early 70s who’ve been going to Galax every summer for some 50 years. We walked to their site, where Bill, a towering figure with a steady voice and a long, white, braided ponytail, emerged from their Airstream to invite anyone who might “wish to partake” to join Nancy and a few others inside. I told Bill I’d thought of bringing edibles to Galax, but the convention website said state laws concerning drugs and alcohol are “strictly enforced,” and Google’s AI bot, Gemini, warned that law enforcement would be crawling Felts Park with K-9 units, even though recreational cannabis is legal in Virginia for adults over 21.

Bill laughed and said that hasn’t been true in more than 40 years, though it used to be, on account of a music festival that happened once, half a century ago, about 15 miles up the road. Stompin 76 featured Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, and other big names from the time. The festival attracted a huge crowd, including a motorcycle gang that allegedly wanted to keep the party going after the festival wrapped, so they rolled into Galax on their hogs, stocked with methamphetamine, moonshine, and guns. Mayhem ensued. The authorities cracked down after that, ostensibly to maintain law and order in fiddleland. By the mid-’80s, they realized that the Old Fiddler’s Convention really was a family affair and let the fiddlers be. 

A group of six or seven people had gathered outside the Airstream by this point, all brandishing instruments. Bill, who grew up on Long Island, assumed his position behind an aluminum upright bass from the 1930s, while Nancy, a fiddler and banjo player roughly half Bill’s height who grew up in Connecticut, emerged from the Airstream with her fiddle. She sat down on a folding chair, called “Soldier’s Joy” in the key of D, and kicked it off at breakneck speed. This was an old-time jam, and “soldier’s joy” was a Civil War-era euphemism for morphine. Galax had begun.

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An old-time jam goes something like this: Anywhere from two to umpteen musicians gather in a circle, knee-to-knee, and someone—usually the fiddler—calls a tune. Before you know it, you’re carried away by a cyclone of fiddles, mandolins, banjos, and guitars, all locked into a swirling rhythm that can, when it’s good, take you to church. 

The tradition dates to the mid-1700s, when Scots-Irish immigrants first settled in Appalachia. Even then, coastal property was for the elite, forcing poorer immigrants inland and south, through the Shenandoah Valley to southwest Virginia, where land was plentiful and cheap. Their music quickly took root. “The Scots brought fiddles and liquor,” Ted McAllister, one of my neighbors in Felts Park, told me. “The Germans brought church music and beer.” 

Over time, Scottish fiddle tunes evolved, as oral traditions do, and began to mix with the musical traditions of enslaved Africans, who had brought with them gourd instruments that would evolve into the American banjo, along with rhythms the Scots had never heard before. Old-time music, in other words, is the music of diasporas, fed into a blender and then worked into a froth. A lot of traditional folk songs came out of this period, too. One that I learned at Galax, “Going to the West,” tells the story of a young man who leaves the mountains of his birth, “where labor is in vain,” to seek the fertile plains out west. It’s the story of my own Scottish forebears, who settled in South Dakota before moving to what is now suburban Chicago, and later, Florida. 

Bluegrass, by contrast, was born in the 1940s, when Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys took those mountain sounds, combined them with Southern church music and blues, and tightened it all into something you might call an uncle of rock ’n’ roll. There’s a reason that Billy Strings plays to sold-out arenas and pickers from around the world can play classics like “Blue Ridge Cabin Home” at the drop of a one-chord. 

Where bluegrass is punchy and clean, designed for the stage, old-time is ecstatic, designed for participation. Bluegrass jams attract spectators who marvel at the players’ pyrotechnics; old-time jams get people on their feet. At Galax, some folks drag big pieces of plywood around the fairgrounds looking for old-time jams, where they’ll lay the board down at the edge of the circle and dance. Flatfooters they’re called: the percussion section. 

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The New York bluegrass community has a Signal thread, and through it I met Harrison Corthell, a banjo player from Queens who was camping in what he called the “gayborhood” of Felts Park: two tents and a rainbow flag. Corthell offered to introduce me to Tyler Hughes, who was also camping in the gayborhood. Hughes serves as the executive director of the Crooked Road Heritage Music Trail, a nonprofit founded by the Virginia Assembly in 2004 to boost tourism through music. Alsace has the Route des Vins, and Kentucky the Bourbon Trail. Southwest Virginia has the Crooked Road.

I found Hughes Thursday afternoon as he was setting up the Crooked Road’s information booth. Musicians were streaming by for the clawhammer banjo competition, which was set to begin any minute. As we sat on a park bench, I told Hughes that I’d begun to think of its music as the region’s chief international export of the past 100 years. “I think that’s a fair assessment,” he said, but stressed that he resists thinking of Appalachia’s musical traditions like a natural resource such as iron or coal. “We really try to stray away from an over-commodified, over-commercialized vision of southwest Virginia,” Hughes said. 

Musical traditions can be packaged and sold, after all. Last winter, an Appalachian folk musician named Murphy Campbell discovered that her videos on YouTube had been used to create AI clones of her voice and banjo playing. Someone then used Vydia, a music distribution platform, to share those clones via streaming services and to make copyright claims on Campbell’s own videos. Campbell described her ordeal on Instagram, including trying to address the matter with “agents” at those streaming services: “I’m telling robots to take down music robots made,” she said. Her posts went viral, causing Vydia to ultimately withdraw the copyright claims and ban the user responsible, according to reports. “It’s the wild west,” Campbell said in one of her posts. “And it can happen to anyone.”

I asked Hughes what percentage of the people in southern Appalachia play an instrument of some kind. He guessed around 70 percent. I’d heard the same number from Daniel, a 32-year-old banjo player I’d met earlier in the week, who works at a sawmill in Grayson County. “It’s kinda the only thing goin’ on around here,” Daniel said. He explained that when the cotton mill in Grayson County closed in the late 1980s, “everyone” started using meth. Then opioids. Within the next 20 years, drug overdoses had become a leading cause of death in southwest Virginia. Getting together to pick, Daniel said, “helps you through real hard stuff.”

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The guitar I took to Galax is a 1989 Takamine I’ve had since I was 14, when my parents indulged my desire to learn Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix songs on the condition that I take classical guitar lessons. I spent my first day or two in Felts Park carrying it around like a security blanket, but I was there to play the banjo. Upon arrival, I realized that I might have been the worst banjo player in Galax. 

I picked up the instrument in 2024, at age 48, in part because my maternal grandfather played one and I was always curious about it. More than that, I wanted to build a mountain banjo, the rustic kind people in Appalachia made from whatever wood they had nearby, animal skins for heads, and guts for strings. I liked their warm, thuddy sound, totally unlike the piercing banjos of bluegrass with their steel strings and resonator backs. So I learned everything I could about how to build one and called my dad to ask if he’d help. I knew the banjo; he knew wood. 

That summer, we spent a week together in his shop in Illinois, building a fretless eastern Kentucky-style mountain banjo out of walnut and ash. Most people in New York ask what it is; everyone at Galax identified it instantly. I’ve since built seven banjos and acquired three more, all different styles. This spring, I carved a neck from a piece of walnut entirely by hand, no power tools, for a 19th-century-style tackhead, the kind played by enslaved Africans on plantations and by Civil War soldiers around the campfire. It’s not just that I’m fascinated by the instrument. As my actual trades—crafting sentences and teaching others to do the same—are increasingly devalued by technology and a society that no longer reads, building banjos gives me one thing that I can hold onto. 

Shortly after my banjo obsession began, I started going to old-time jams in New York City, and later, bluegrass jams. I didn’t—and still don’t—actually listen to old-time or bluegrass music; my tastes trend melancholic. But I missed playing music with other people, something I hadn’t done since college and had begun to crave during the endless, isolated days of the pandemic. In early 2025, I started going to a regular jam session at a bar in Brooklyn called Sunny’s, whose owner has turned it into an institution of roots, bluegrass, and folk music. Some of the best pickers in the tri-state area turn up there each week, along with people like me, there to learn. It took me months to lead a song without blacking out. They call it “jamnesia,” and it’s humiliating. 

After one week among the pickers of southern Appalachia, I got tighter, faster, as if the place itself does some of the teaching. A fiddler friend from New York, who’d been to Galax in the 2010s, was more succinct: “It seeps from the earth.”

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Galax is hardly the first fiddlers’ convention; it’s just the oldest one still left. In the days before the railroad and automobile, let alone the World Wide Web, fiddlers’ conventions brought the people of Appalachia together, allowing songs and picking styles to spread like gossip over those hills. They could get pretty wild, and early-days Galax was no exception. Women and children did not go to Galax back then. It was a place where men gathered to let loose—“outside of the eyes of their preacher and their wives,” Rex McGee, a multi-instrumentalist from North Carolina, told me.

I’d heard of the McGee jams already, where “things get weird,” according to a woman I met Monday morning while I waited in line for the shower. Their camp sits right inside Felts Park, steps from the food trucks, identifiable by a 1974 Ford school bus painted an ominous matte grey. They call it the Muddy Creek Bus, for the band that Glen Alexander’s dad formed in the 1970s and soon became the back-up band for Rex and his brother Ralph’s grandfather, Ralph McGee the First, aka the Old-Timer. The Muddy Creek Boys could party as hard as the Old-Timer; it didn’t hurt that they could pick too. By the 1980s, the real show came after hours. Dozens of people would gather outside the bus to watch the Old-Timer, then in his 80s, fiddle with just about anything he could find: a toothpick, a comb, a “coon dick”—literally a bone from a raccoon’s penis. And it was loud. (For any curious fiddlers out there, you can buy four of these on eBay for $39.95.)

Felts Park is a galaxy of legacy camps like the Muddy Creek Bus. Almost everyone I met told me they’d been going to Galax for 40, 50, even 60 years. Their stories are legion, and they love to tell them: The year it rained so hard that one group holed up in an RV for six days with eight people, an upright bass, and “a little bit of cocaine.” The year a couple of young women got into a fight over a guy, went to fisticuffs in the mud, and ripped each other’s shirts off in front of scores of onlookers—“no one wanted it to stop,” one man recalled with a chuckle. The year several people went mudsliding on the tire tracks, which, for reasons unclear, were composed of raw sewage. 

Jimmy Kidd, an 86-year-old Dobro player who’s been going to Galax since he was 29, regaled me with the time he won the guitar competition, in 1969, by playing the Dobro because there was no Dobro competition then. His daughter, Vicky, told me she met Elizabeth Taylor when she came through Galax, in 1977, when Vicky was 12. Taylor was in a wheelchair, Vicky said, and she wasn’t very nice.

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Leo Lindblom sat on a low stool cradling a mandolin, his sister Lucy beside him. They’d taken the stage in the kids’ mandolin competition on Monday night, and Leo was focused. With flawless timing and dexterity, the 12-year-old picker dazzled the audience, Lucy accompanying him on guitar, for roughly two minutes. Then he rose from the stool, took a bow, and, with Lucy, exited the stage. 

On Thursday, I met Leo, Lucy, and the rest of the Lindbloms—Marina, Jon, and their nine kids, all but one of whose names begins with an L—at their bus in a gravel parking lot just across the road from Felts Park, where it was a little quieter than Galax Central. The Lindbloms first went to Galax in 2021, after discovering bluegrass at a gift shop in North Carolina while on a family vacation five years prior. All nine of the kids responded instantly to the “happy, upbeat” music coming out of the speakers, and mom and dad bought the CD on the spot. 

The kids, who range in age from 12 to 28 and were all homeschooled, each chose an instrument and formed their two bands, Headin’ Home and The Brothers Five. Now, when they’re not home in Bloomingdale, Georgia, they’re on the road playing festivals and gigs across the country. I asked what makes Galax special. Libby said it gives them a rare chance to slow down, to not have to be “on” all the time, and just spend time together. 

As we sat outside their bus, all 11 of them and me, I asked: Why bluegrass? After all, Marina and Jon met at the Eastman School of Music and played in the Savannah Philharmonic for 10 years. They know Tchaikovsky and Brahms just as well as Bill Monroe and the Carter Family. They could teach their kids classical music, or any other kind. “Our goal, in everything we do, is to glorify the Lord,” Marina explained. And with bluegrass, she said, they are able to give people a bit of happiness, a chance to tap their feet and forget about their troubles for a little while. It’s an act of service. 

Then I turned to Leo, the youngest, who was perched on Lucy’s lap, and asked what he likes about playing music that, surely, most kids his age don’t know anything about. “Everything,” he said, before checking my presumption: All the kids he knows play bluegrass or old-time, he said. He’s met them all through places like Galax. 

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I’d registered for the clawhammer banjo competition a month before Galax opened its gates, but by the evening of the contest, I was so worn out from five semi-sleepless nights, as many days packed with conversation and playing, and a dubious diet of beer, bananas, and cheese sandwiches that I decided to sit it out and trekked up the hill to Main Street for some Chinese food. Besides, I don’t even play clawhammer banjo. I’ve developed a hybrid style: I use finger picks, like bluegrass, but keep rhythm by striking the strings with the back of my middle finger, like clawhammer. After five days of watching virtuosos of both styles create magic on their instruments, I wasn’t about to do my mishmash in front of a panel of judges.

As I sat in my air-conditioned booth, hovering over a plate of garlic chicken, I got a call from Tara. Was I going to compete? I told her I’d spent the whole day interviewing people and was exhausted. “You have to participate!” she countered. “I triple-dog dare ya.” I was just delirious enough to bend. Thirty minutes later I was backstage rehearsing my song with John Garrison, who has gone to Galax each of the past 46 years. After a few runs through an instrumental version of “White Freightliner Blues” by Townes Van Zandt, I checked in, slapped a number on my chest, and took the stage. Tara squatted right in front to take video, smiling wide. Our pickin’ was clean, but we landed way outside the money: I bastardized the form and played a copyrighted song. We still got a big round of applause. 

My style served me better in the jams, where more than once people assured me that if it sounds good, ain’t no reason to change it. Some of the best sessions I went to were inside an A-frame tent adjacent to the gayborhood and maybe 100 yards from my campsite. On Monday night, I played fiddle tunes and shared a jar of moonshine in that tent with three young guys who lived just down the road, near the town of Fries, in Grayson County. One of them built a fiddle from scratch; it took him years. I did my version of “White Freightliner Blues” with them, and when we finished, one yipped, “That’s how it’s done!”  

Thanks to the moonshine, I forgot about Tara’s advice to sit out the nighttime jams and hopped over to a bluegrass jam that was really crackin’. At least 10 musicians stood in a circle, and the tempo was hot. I asked a guitar player if I could join. “You’ll have to ask him,” he replied, motioning to the only banjo player in the group. They did not expand the circle to let me in, and I hung awkwardly on the periphery for a song or two before going back to my tent. 

It was one of only two times I felt unwelcome at Galax. The other came after the guys from Fries learned I was a journalist from New York City. I’d gone back to their tent Tuesday afternoon to jam but ended up talking with Daniel, the sawmill worker, instead. He was without his banjo, so while the other guys picked fiddle tunes, I told Daniel I was there to write about Galax and asked if I could record our conversation. He cheerfully agreed, but after that—and I could very well be wrong about this—I sensed that the other guys looked at me sideways. 

Daniel, on the other hand, remained inviting and warm. One afternoon late in the week, I was sitting by my tent when he wandered over to say hello. He wanted to give me a leaf of galax, the rubbery, low-lying evergreen from which the town takes its name. “I thought you’d like this for your story,” he said, and stayed to visit awhile.

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I broke camp Saturday afternoon and packed up my car. Before I left Galax, however, I dashed over to catch the “43rd Yearly International Kazoo Championship” a few campsites down from Bill and Nancy’s Airstream, as Tara had assured me it was “not to be missed.” Reporters don’t spend much time at the Old Fiddler’s Convention, and Tara was concerned that I might focus too much on the negatives in my writing—the mud, the gastronomic limitations, the attrition. Like everyone I met in Felts Park, she wanted me to return to New York with a real sense of why they keep coming back, year after year, and of what could be lost if they stopped.

Several dozen people were gathered at the “soup kitchen,” a community tent where, two nights prior, Chief Cooper had served hundreds of Styrofoam cups filled with venison stew, made by Nancy herself, from deer she and Bill had hunted on their property. Now, the ground was muddy and more rain was imminent. The contestants were undeterred, ready to blow their hearts out on plastic kazoos. 

I soon understood Tara’s insistence. The International Kazoo Championship pokes a little fun at the rigidity of the main stage. One by one, each contestant was disqualified for breaking at least one of the competition’s 12 rules, which included “No Fun Not Allowed” and “All Participants Must Be Present In Order To Attend.” They were then each invited to perform again, and one by one, each was named the winner. Then all the contestants and judges second-lined through Felts Park in the rain, led by a trumpet and trailed by a banjo, blowing “When the Saints Go Marching In” on their kazoos.

After a quick walkabout to say my goodbyes, I drove north on Route 221, past the Applebee’s and the Walmart where, at Tara’s urging, I did most of my shopping for the week. That night I met up with a friend from New York, who’d invited me to a 40th birthday party at a 19th-century cabin deep in the woods north of Roanoke. We stayed up late, drinking bourbon and talking about music. I’d rather have been playing it. 

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On Sunday morning, I got in my car and continued north on Route 11. As I wound through the mountains, catching the occasional glimpse of semis and cars streaming by on I-81, I played a recording I made of “Going to the West” through the car’s stereo. Brian Muller, who placed third in this year’s mandolin contest, led us in the jam, his plaintive baritone providing the perfect soundtrack to my drive: I leave you here, in this land that you love, ’mid scenes so bright and fair, where fragrant flowers are blooming and music fills the air. I imagined bringing the song to New York jams, and wondered if it would fly.

Passing through the town of Buchanan, a few hours from Galax, I saw a familiar face. Ted McAllister and his wife, Debbie, were getting out of their car just outside the Buchanan Baptist Church. I pulled alongside them, rolled down my window, and said, “Fancy seeing you here.” Ted, guitar case in hand, told me to come inside.

A few dozen people were gathered in the Fellowship Hall for a potluck lunch to celebrate the Buchanan Baptist Church’s 190th anniversary. A preacher named Bill Hartsfield welcomed me at the door. (“Like a field of hearts,” he said with a firm handshake.) Then he walked with me to the serving counter, where I fixed a plate of fried chicken, cheese casserole, and ambrosia salad. We sat down with the McAllisters and two other local musicians, Alan Berry and Mike Lee. “Galax is a subculture of a subculture,” Ted explained as we ate. Music is woven into everything from Sunday morning church services to holiday parties and family picnics. 

We finished our plates and went into the chapel, where, for the next 90 minutes or so, Ted, Alan, Mike, and a banjo player named Kim Wood played bluegrass versions of church hymns for around 20 people. Two little girls danced in the aisle, swept up by the music. Halfway through their set, as I sat in my pew, Ted walked to the pulpit and introduced me. He explained that we’d spent the week as neighbors in Galax, talking, telling stories, picking songs, and he was delighted to show me a little more of “how we do things ’round here.”

I hadn’t been to church in decades, and a couple hours of Southern hospitality won’t make a believer out of me. But hearing Ted and the others play, watching children dance, and meeting people who looked me in the eye and didn’t rush the conversation felt deeply familiar. I may have spent almost my entire adult life in New York City, but I grew up on the Illinois-Iowa border, on the banks of the Mississippi. Church backrooms, potlucks, and ambrosia salad were all part of my childhood. 

By 2:30, I really had to get going. For the second time in two days, I said goodbye to Ted, got in my car, and was on my way. 

A week later, I was back at Sunny’s Bar in Brooklyn, playing songs with a dozen or so people in the bar’s backroom. I called “Going to the West,” and after a quick run through the chords on my latest banjo build, a resonator back with a dragon fretboard inlay that I’d played on stage in Galax, I started singing. It was a little shaky at first, but by the second verse everyone was locked in. 

When we finished, one of the musicians remarked that it was a beautiful song. I agreed and asked if he knew it already. “No,” he said. “But I’m going to learn it now.”

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David Alm is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. His work has frequently been included in Longreads‘ Weekly Top Five and annual Best Features lists. He also teaches journalism at Hunter College-CUNY, where he focuses on feature writing and creative nonfiction.

Editor: Brendan Fitzgerald
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands