invisible woman
THE THIRD WAVE
There is something fascinating about finding yourself at the centre of an international story.
Not necessarily pleasant. Not necessarily flattering. Occasionally rather absurd.
But fascinating nonetheless.
For more than a year, I have been living inside a situation involving the British Ministry of Defence, the Spanish Armed Forces, NATO, police authorities, lawyers and courts. I have examined thousands of pages of documents, constructed legal arguments and developed AI-assisted analytical models to identify patterns, contradictions and unanswered questions.
As a solicitor, I am interested in how institutions justify their decisions.
As an AI architect, I am interested in how information travels through systems, how assumptions become classifications and how those classifications acquire consequences.
But there is another part of my background that I had almost forgotten.
Thirty years ago, I earned a master's degree in journalism. And I practiced it well - newspapers, TV, radio. Not online - the internet hardly existed at that time.
And recently, watching my own life being translated into newspaper headlines, I began asking a rather different set of questions.
Not simply whether journalists were reporting the story accurately.
But how they were constructing the story in the first place.
Why did some journalists treat me as a suspicious character to be described by others, while others wanted to hear my account, examine documents and investigate institutional decisions?
Why did different journalists working for the same newspaper sometimes choose almost opposite approaches?
And what would happen if we took one particularly sensational article, retained its published factual material, but changed the questions the journalist was asking?
I decided to conduct a small experiment.
First, however, we need to examine the journalism itself.
Part I — Two Waves, One StoryThe first wave: the irresistible "Russian spy"
On 14 September 2026, The Telegraph published Tom Cotterill's report, Nato officer's Tinder romance sets off spy alert at UK base.
By the way, now, being in possession of official documents, it is fair and safe to say that no spy alert was actually set off. In fact, there are great doubts if any formal investigation was ever conducted, whether in relation to me or the NATO officer's case. But this is not a subject of OUR investigation. Let's go back to that original publication.
It contained almost everything an editor could possibly want.
A Spanish naval officer. NATO headquarters. Tinder. A woman born in Soviet Russia. Shooting ranges. Intelligence services. Military bases. Security investigations.
And, inevitably, espionage.
I was the woman.
I also told The Telegraph something rather important:
“I definitely know I am not a Russian spy. The last time I checked I wasn’t.”
(I think that even Putin knows that now).
I was not arrested. No investigation had established that I was a foreign agent. I had already initiated legal proceedings seeking answers about the treatment I had experienced.
Nevertheless, the story was irresistible.
Spanish newspapers and television channels began contacting me. I spoke to journalists, gave interviews and supplied documents. On 14 September, Luigi Benedicto Borges of El Mundo contacted me directly. By 16 September, I was telling him that I had given three interviews within the previous twenty-four hours.
I was not hiding from the press.
Quite the opposite.
I was answering questions.
And this is where the journalism became interesting.
Two newspapers, two editorial directions
On 14 September, El Mundo published Marina Pina's initial account.
It largely developed the story broken by The Telegraph. Its main characters were a Spanish officer, a woman of Russian birth and a security controversy (still unknown). But the headline also included an important qualification: No se pudo probar nada — nothing could be proved, according to the sources cited. Quite an accurate statement, considering that to be prove anything, you need some facts in a first place, which we still try to discover.
Six days later, the same newspaper published something quite different.
Luigi Benedicto Borges devoted a substantial feature in Crónica to the events, the documents, the relationships and the unanswered questions.
His article remained sensational. It included my shooting ability, intelligence-related training, my encounter with a Russian intelligence officer and the unusual circumstances of my personal life.
Luigi had not suddenly become uninterested in a good story.
What changed was the treatment of its central character.
He spoke to me.
He asked questions.
He gave me space to explain circumstances that, without context, might sound suspicious.
He explored my professional background, my interest in geopolitics, my legal proceedings and even my creative work with AI-generated music.
He described a woman who had existed before meeting a NATO officer and who continued to have a life after that relationship.
I was not necessarily the heroine of his article.
I was, however, a person.
Now consider what happened at El Español.
On 15 September, José Ismael Martínez published Todas las vidas de Janina White.
The article examined my professional and personal background: law, journalism, writing, politics and artificial intelligence. It acknowledged the existence of a life beyond the espionage allegations.
Four days later, on 19 September, Laura Garófano published another article in the same newspaper.
Its headline announced that a Spanish naval officer had met a supposed Russian spy on Tinder and that his NATO colleagues called her Gorrión Rojo.
Red Sparrow.
The difference was striking.
At El Mundo, an initial security story developed into a more substantial account in which the woman became a possible active participant.
At El Español, an article examining the woman's multiple identities was followed by one that placed a sexualised espionage nickname at the centre of its narrative.
This was not a case of one newspaper knowing nothing about the woman.
El Español had already published an account of my background.
Yet the next article invited readers to view me principally through the reported observations of anonymous military sources: my appearance, my Russian accent, my shooting ability and questions I allegedly asked at a Christmas gathering.
Four days. One newspaper. Two very different editorial choices.
The point is not that every article must be a biography.
It is that editorial framing determines whose account acquires authority — and who becomes the object of that authority.
Who gets to speak?
Garófano's article included the description of me as muy mona, muy resultona, simpática — very cute, attractive and friendly — attributed to a senior officer said to have attended the event.
It then reported that, between my accent, shooting ability and alleged questions, I had been nicknamed Red Sparrow, supposedly as a joke.
The reference was to the film about a Russian intelligence operative whose sexuality and intimate relationships form part of the espionage narrative.
Having watched the movie, which safely escaped my radar previously, I found this deeply humiliating.
But I also found the editorial decision intellectually fascinating.
Why was the alleged conduct of the officers presented as evidence contributing to my suspiciousness, rather than as something requiring journalistic examination in its own right?
Who invented this nickname?
Who used it?
Did anyone know me personally?
What did these officers actually know about my background?
Was the supposed joke directed at me, at their fellow officer, or at both?
And what made it an acceptable way for military professionals to discuss a civilian woman?
I do not know whether Garófano asked these questions privately.
The published article does not provide their answers.
Nor did I receive a request from her to respond to these new allegations before publication.
This was particularly striking because I had spent the preceding days speaking openly to other Spanish journalists.
Luigi had contacted me on the day The Telegraph story appeared. Telecinco arranged an interview. Antena 3 interviewed me. I was providing documents, photographs, explanations and corrections.
A journalist was perfectly entitled not to accept my version of events.
But contacting me would not have meant surrendering editorial independence.
It would have meant examining another source.
And there was a more specific problem.
Garófano wrote:
“A Janina nadie, excepto ella misma o The Telegraph, la ha llamado espía...”
The sentence suggests that nobody except me or The Telegraph had called me a spy.
Yet The Telegraph had quoted me expressly denying that I was one.
There is a fundamental distinction between reporting that somebody has accused you of espionage and describing yourself as a spy.
The second wave: when the questions change
By late October, something had begun to shift.
On 28 October, Aurelio Ruiz Enebral published a substantial report in El Confidencial Digital.
Its focus was no longer simply the supposed Russian woman who had entered the life of a Spanish officer.
It examined events within the Spanish military and NATO environment, the sequence of decisions and the officer's reports of possible interference with his electronic communications.
Those reported anomalies require verification; publication does not prove that unlawful interference occurred.
But notice what had become the subject of investigation.
Institutional conduct.
Who knew what? Who acted? What was reported? Which decisions were taken, and when?
On 4 November, Callum Milne's report in Northwood & Ruislip News similarly turned towards new documentary material, my requests for answers and the responses of British authorities.
Callum and Aurelio approached their work differently. They operate in different countries, different editorial environments and different formats.
Neither journalist gave me control of his article.
Both maintained their independence.
Both also communicated with me, sought explanations and examined the material I was able to provide.
I could disagree with particular formulations without disputing their right to make editorial decisions.
That, to me, is a much healthier relationship between a journalist and the person whose life is being reported.
And it illustrates something important.
Independent journalism does not require treating the subject of an article as someone whose voice must be excluded. It requires examining what every source says, including sources who possess institutional authority.
There is another change, however, which matters even more.
In the first wave, the central question was:
Who is this woman, and why was she suspected?
In the second, the questions increasingly became:
What actually happened? Who made the decisions? What do the documents show? Who is accountable?
I was no longer spending all my time explaining that I was not a Russian spy.
I was asking institutions to explain their own actions.
The woman who had been investigated by newspapers as an object of suspicion was becoming a person exercising agency: bringing proceedings, examining evidence and demanding answers.
That does not make the second wave automatically more ethical.
A journalist can investigate institutions badly, just as another can write responsibly about a sensational personal story.
But documentary and institutional questions offer a different method of inquiry. Assertions can be compared with records. Dates can be checked. Decisions can be attributed. Contradictions can be put to the organisations responsible.
And frankly, there is only so long that even a woman with my capacity for argument can remain interested in discussing whether she resembles Jennifer Lawrence in a spy film.
At some point, a more interesting question emerges.
What really happened?
Which brings me to the experiment.
Part II — The Red Sparrow Experiment: What if the same story had been investigated from the other side?
Imagine that on 19 September 2026, El Español had received exactly the same information from its sources.
Imagine that the journalist still had not interviewed me or my former partner.
Imagine that nothing new had been discovered.
The officers remain anonymous. Their account remains unverified by independent witnesses.
The woman's alleged behaviour remains disputed.
We change only one thing.
Instead of investigating why the woman clearly deserved a sexualised nickname from Spanish officers, we investigate why the officers apparently considered their own description of such nature acceptable.
What follows is a deliberately counterfactual journalistic exercise, not a report of a new investigation. But there is a specific reason for conducting it.
If the account published by El Español is accurate, Spanish naval officers serving within the NATO environment allegedly used a sexualised espionage nickname, associated with my perceived Russian origins, to describe the civilian partner of a fellow officer. The civilian partner they have seen for the first time in their loves.
Such conduct raises serious questions under the Reales Ordenanzas para las Fuerzas Armadas, particularly Articles 11, 13, 31 and 32, concerning human dignity, equality, conduct in international postings and respect for civilians. Depending on the facts, it could also engage the provisions of Spain's Military Disciplinary Law (Ley Orgánica 8/2014), including Article 6(30), concerning expressions of contempt based on birth, ethnic origin or sex, and Article 7(30), concerning more serious conduct affecting personal dignity or involving discrimination.
Whether any disciplinary offence occurred would require evidence and a proper assessment; it cannot be established simply from a newspaper report.
There is also a profoundly personal dimension. Neither Laureano nor I had heard of the nickname before the article appeared. Its publication came as a shock to both of us. When I asked him about it, he expressed unequivocal disgust at the alleged behaviour, adding an important qualification: if what the newspaper reported was true, those responsible were unworthy of calling themselves officers. I share his assessment of such conduct, if it occurred.
And that is precisely what makes the editorial choice so interesting. The newspaper had apparently received information which, if accurate, raised direct and genuine legitimate questions about the professional conduct of Spanish military officers. Yet it chose to turn their alleged nickname into a sensational headline about the woman herself. Why was the woman's supposed suspiciousness investigated, while the officers' potentially degrading treatment of her was not subjected to the same scrutiny?
This experiment therefore asks a simple question: What if the journalist had applied the same investigative curiosity to the officers who allegedly created the label as she applied to the woman who received it?
We will use the same published allegations, publicly available professional standards and unanswered questions. We will not invent interviews, findings or responses. We will change only the direction of the investigation — and examine how profoundly that changes the story.
ALTERNATIVE REPORT
Spanish Naval Officers Allegedly Nicknamed Colleague's Civilian Partner 'Red Sparrow': Questions Raised About Military Professional Standards
An account given to the Spanish press describes a woman of Russian birth being assessed through her appearance, accent and personal interests. But what do the officers' reported remarks reveal about their own conduct?
Madrid / Northwood — September 2026
A Spanish naval officer serving at NATO's Allied Maritime Command in the United Kingdom became involved in a security controversy following his relationship with a British and Polish civilian woman born in the former Soviet Union.
The circumstances have attracted considerable media attention since The Telegraph reported the case on 14 September.
But information provided to El Español raises another question, separate from the security controversy itself.
How did Spanish military officers speak about the civilian partner of one of their colleagues?
According to a senior military source said to have attended a Christmas event in December 2024, the woman attracted attention for several reasons.
The source discussed her appearance and Russian accent, and alleged that she had asked senior officers inappropriate questions about their military careers and responsibilities.
The newspaper's account also reports that she was given the nickname Red Sparrow, supposedly as a joke.
The name refers to Red Sparrow (2018) movie, in which Jennifer Lawrence portrays a Russian ballerina coerced into becoming an intelligence operative. Far from being merely a seductive spy, the protagonist is subjected to sexual violence, physical abuse, humiliation, psychological manipulation and systematic dehumanisation by the very institutions she serves. Her body and sexuality become instruments of state control, while her autonomy and dignity are repeatedly violated. This makes the alleged nickname particularly disturbing: it associates a real civilian woman not only with espionage and sexual manipulation, but also with a fictional character defined by coercion, degradation and institutional abuse. Whether the officers understood these implications or simply considered the reference amusing raises serious questions about their judgment and professional standards.
The description therefore carries implications extending beyond an ordinary nickname.
It raises questions about how a civilian woman was characterised within a professional military environment and whether assumptions concerning national origin and sexuality influenced those characterisations.
What did the officers actually know?
The woman concerned, Janina White, is a British and Polish citizen and a solicitor. Her professional and educational background was described in an earlier El Español article published on 15 September.
It includes law, journalism, political activity and work involving artificial intelligence.
None of those qualifications excludes the possibility that legitimate security questions might arise about any individual.
Equally, none establishes grounds for suspicion.
The relevant question is what factual basis the officers possessed when they allegedly adopted the nickname.
Did they know the woman personally?
Had they verified anything about her citizenship, professional background or conduct?
Were their comments based on direct observations, information received through official channels or informal social conversations?
Did they distinguish between actual evidence and the associations prompted by a Russian accent?
It is also unclear who first used the nickname, how widely it circulated or whether it was ever adopted in an official context.
Those distinctions matter.
An isolated private remark, repeated social ridicule and an official security characterisation are not interchangeable events.
Nor should an allegation of inappropriate language be confused with proof of a disciplinary offence.
What standards apply to Spanish officers serving in NATO?
Spain's Reales Ordenanzas para las Fuerzas Armadas establish ethical principles and rules of professional conduct for Spanish military personnel.
Article 11 addresses respect for human dignity.
Article 13 concerns equality between women and men.
Article 32 requires courtesy and consideration in dealings with civilians.
Importantly, Article 31 provides that Spanish military personnel serving within international organisations remain subject to the Reales Ordenanzas, subject to the relevant international arrangements.
The standards do not disappear because an officer is posted to a NATO headquarters.
Spain's military disciplinary legislation also contains provisions concerning expressions of contempt based on characteristics including birth, ethnic origin and sex, and more serious conduct affecting dignity or involving discrimination.
This does not establish that any officer breached those provisions.
That would require evidence identifying the conduct, the individuals involved, the circumstances and the applicable legal requirements.
But the reported nickname creates an obvious professional question.
Was this an acceptable way for Spanish naval officers to describe the civilian partner of a fellow officer?
And if it was regarded as an innocent joke, by whom — and why?
Was the nickname intended to describe the woman or ridicule her partner?
There is another possibility that cannot be excluded without examining the evidence.
The nickname may have been directed not only at the woman but also at the officer who entered into a relationship with her.
Military communities have their own social hierarchies, traditions and informal language. Those conventions do not necessarily make every joke improper.
But they do not make every joke harmless either.
If the nickname was used to ridicule the woman, questions arise about respect for civilians and the use of stereotypes associated with national origin and sexuality.
If it was used to embarrass her partner, questions arise about professional relationships between colleagues.
If it was intended as a genuine expression of security concern, the question is why such concern was expressed through a fictional sexualised character rather than through an appropriate professional process.
And if the nickname was never used in the manner reported, the accuracy of the account supplied to the newspaper becomes the central issue.
Did the people concerned know?
The published account does not establish whether White knew of the alleged nickname at the time.
Nor does it establish whether her partner was aware of it.
There is no published answer to whether either had complained about such language or whether any responsible officer had examined its appropriateness.
These are questions that could materially change the interpretation of the alleged events.
A nickname exchanged privately among a few individuals is not necessarily evidence of institutional practice.
But where a derogatory description is alleged to have circulated within a military community, its origin, reach and context become relevant.
An unanswered professional question
The espionage allegations and the military decisions arising from the relationship are separate matters requiring their own examination.
They do not resolve the issue of professional conduct raised by the reported nickname.
The question is not whether officers were entitled to raise legitimate security concerns.
They were entitled — and, where properly warranted, obliged — to raise such concerns through appropriate channels.
The question is whether the language allegedly used about a civilian woman was compatible with the standards expected of military professionals.
Until the source, context and circumstances of the nickname are established, no conclusion about individual misconduct can responsibly be drawn.
But neither should the allegation be dismissed merely because someone described it as a joke.
When military professionals provide journalists with an account of a woman's supposed suspiciousness, their own conduct may also be a legitimate subject of journalistic investigation.
What changed?
Nothing about the underlying published allegations.
We did not establish that the woman was innocent of every allegation ever raised about her.
We did not establish that any Spanish officer committed a disciplinary offence.
We did not invent interviews.
We did not disclose the identity of an anonymous source.
We simply asked a different set of questions.
And yet the story became something else.
The woman was no longer the central object of suspicion.
The officers' reported behaviour became the object of scrutiny.
Their institutional status was no longer treated primarily as a reason to trust their description of her. It became a reason to examine the professional standards governing their own actions.
That is the difference between using authority as a source and investigating the conduct of authority.
I am not arguing that a journalist must choose only one of these approaches. A responsible article could investigate both the security concerns and the professional conduct of those discussing them.
The point is that the second possibility existed.
And it was a legitimate public-interest story in its own right.
The journalist's ethical problem
The 2026 Code of Ethics of the Spanish Federation of Journalists' Associations (FAPE) offers a particularly useful framework.
It calls for careful verification, distinction between fact and rumour, protection of dignity, correction of errors and an opportunity for affected individuals to respond.
It also addresses the dangers of unjustified attacks made under the protection of anonymity.
This is a professional ethical framework, not an automatic legal verdict against any particular article.
Nor does it require journalists to submit their work for approval by the subjects of their reporting.
But it does invite an uncomfortable question.
Why was the reported nickname treated as a colourful element of the story rather than as a claim that required scrutiny of both the people who allegedly used it and the possible consequences for the person described?
And why was an identifiable woman — who had been speaking openly to Spanish journalists throughout that week — not given a direct opportunity, so far as I experienced, to respond to this new characterisation before publication?
I cannot establish everything that happened inside the newsroom.
I can examine what the newspaper published.
I can compare it with its earlier reporting.
And I can ask whether another editorial choice was available.
Our experiment suggests that it was.
The alternative article may be less immediately titillating.
It contains no mysterious seductress who might be hiding behind an attractive smile.
But it contains something potentially more valuable.
Questions capable of being answered.
Part III — The Third WaveFrom archetype to agency to legacy
Having examined the first and second waves of this story, I find myself wondering about a third.
The first wave began with an archetype.
Russian spy.
Red Sparrow.
The NATO officer's girlfriend.
These were labels through which strangers could quickly understand — or believe they understood — who I was.
The first wave was not entirely uniform. Luigi's article already demonstrated that a woman could be given a voice within a sensational narrative. But the dominant public fascination concerned identity.
Who was this woman? What did she look like? Where was she born? How did she meet the officer? Why was she suspicious?
In the second wave, something has begun to change.
I am no longer merely a woman answering questions about myself. I am a claimant asking questions about institutions. I am examining evidence, challenging official accounts and seeking explanations for decisions affecting me.
The focus is gradually moving from who I supposedly am to what institutions actually did.
That is the transition from archetype to agency.
But before looking towards the third wave, I want to return briefly to another woman.
Her name is Simone.
During my relationship with Laureano, I met another couple within the same Spanish military community. Their circumstances were remarkably similar to ours. Simone was born in Brazil. Her partner was also a Spanish naval officer, although of a lower rank than Laureano. Like me, she was a foreign-born civilian woman in a relationship with a Spanish serviceman.
There was, however, one apparent difference.
As far as I am aware, Simone was never given a sexualised espionage nickname. I know of no comparable campaign of ridicule or harassment directed towards her. Her relationship continued, and the couple eventually married.
I am not suggesting that I know everything about Simone's experiences or that the two relationships were identical in every material respect. Nor am I suggesting that the absence of a reported incident proves that nothing happened.
But the comparison raises a question worth examining.
Why might one foreign-born civilian partner be treated as an ordinary member of a military social community, while another becomes the subject of a sexualised espionage narrative?
Was the difference nationality? Place of birth? Perceived national origin? The rank of the officer involved? Particular circumstances unknown to me? Or something else altogether?
Those are questions, not conclusions.
And there is another reason why Simone matters to this story.
Simone is not a lawyer. I do not know the details of her professional life. Perhaps she works in hospitality, perhaps in an entirely different profession. It makes absolutely no difference.
Neither Simone nor I needed an impressive curriculum vitae to deserve respect.
I do not deserve dignity because I am a solicitor.
I do not deserve it because I have a master's degree, build AI systems, write books or create music.
A woman working as a waitress deserves exactly the same respect.
So does a woman who has never attended university, never held public office and never published a single word.
Professional achievement should not be the price of being treated as a human being.
The problem with reducing a woman to a nickname is not that she might secretly possess an impressive CV.
It is that her humanity was never conditional on her CV in the first place.
And yet, returning to the question of journalism, there is something else worth remembering.
I do possess a life beyond this particular controversy.
I have professional interests, legal work, technological projects, writing, music and ideas about the future. They were part of my identity long before anyone decided that Red Sparrow was a suitable description of me.
I was not created when a Spanish naval officer swiped right on Tinder.
And I do not intend to disappear when the newspapers finally become bored with discussing him.
The wave that has not yet arrived
I do not know when the third wave will come.
Or whether it will come at all.
My legal proceedings remain contested. No future judgment, disciplinary finding or institutional reform can be presumed.
But I know what I want the third wave to look like.
One day, I would like journalists to write about this affair without feeling obliged to explain how I met a NATO officer.
Perhaps a court will identify an important principle concerning national origin, public authorities and national security.
Perhaps an institutional review will examine how an unverified description of a civilian became relevant to official decisions.
Perhaps a data-protection case will address the responsibility of public bodies that transmit information about an identifiable person without giving that person a meaningful opportunity to challenge its accuracy.
Perhaps the questions about Red Sparrow will become part of a wider discussion about military professional standards or journalism's responsibility when dealing with anonymous, powerful sources.
Or perhaps an academic researcher will use the events as an example of how institutions create, circulate and legitimise labels.
None of those outcomes is guaranteed.
But they describe the direction in which I am working.
The third wave would begin when the story is no longer primarily about Janina White, but about what other people and institutions can learn from the events associated with her name.
And here is the paradox that fascinates me most.
I began this story as an archetype.
I was given a label by other people.
In the second wave, I began recovering my agency — my ability to question the narrative, examine the evidence and act.
In the third wave, I hope that my name might once again become a kind of shorthand.
Perhaps a reported case.
Perhaps an institutional lesson.
Perhaps a legal principle.
Another label, in other words.
But a qualitatively different one.
The first label attempted to describe who I supposedly was.
The last, if I succeed, may help explain what should never happen to somebody else.
And even that final meaning will not be mine to impose. It will have to be earned through evidence, scrutiny, legal reasoning and whatever conclusions independent institutions ultimately reach.
I cannot manufacture a precedent.
I can, however, continue asking the questions from which one might emerge.
One last editorial decision
Journalists will always make choices about the stories they tell.
They choose their sources, their questions, their headlines, their opening paragraphs and the details they consider relevant.
Those choices matter.
They can reduce a person to a character.
They can restore complexity to that character.
They can shift the investigation from the person being judged to the institutions doing the judging.
And sometimes, if the questions are pursued far enough, they can help turn an individual story into something with broader public meaning.
Thirty years after studying journalism, I find myself examining that process from the rather unusual position of being both its subject and its analyst.
As a lawyer, I want answers.
As an AI architect, I want to understand the systems that produce the outcomes.
As a journalist, I want to know why one question was asked instead of another.
And as the woman who found herself labelled Red Sparrow, I want to see what happens when the questions finally change.
I did not choose the first label.
I did choose to start asking questions.
And I intend to work towards the day when the story is no longer about the woman the institutions described — but about the principles by which those institutions themselves are judged.
That will be the third wave.
Not necessarily pleasant. Not necessarily flattering. Occasionally rather absurd.
But fascinating nonetheless.
For more than a year, I have been living inside a situation involving the British Ministry of Defence, the Spanish Armed Forces, NATO, police authorities, lawyers and courts. I have examined thousands of pages of documents, constructed legal arguments and developed AI-assisted analytical models to identify patterns, contradictions and unanswered questions.
As a solicitor, I am interested in how institutions justify their decisions.
As an AI architect, I am interested in how information travels through systems, how assumptions become classifications and how those classifications acquire consequences.
But there is another part of my background that I had almost forgotten.
Thirty years ago, I earned a master's degree in journalism. And I practiced it well - newspapers, TV, radio. Not online - the internet hardly existed at that time.
And recently, watching my own life being translated into newspaper headlines, I began asking a rather different set of questions.
Not simply whether journalists were reporting the story accurately.
But how they were constructing the story in the first place.
Why did some journalists treat me as a suspicious character to be described by others, while others wanted to hear my account, examine documents and investigate institutional decisions?
Why did different journalists working for the same newspaper sometimes choose almost opposite approaches?
And what would happen if we took one particularly sensational article, retained its published factual material, but changed the questions the journalist was asking?
I decided to conduct a small experiment.
First, however, we need to examine the journalism itself.
Part I — Two Waves, One StoryThe first wave: the irresistible "Russian spy"
On 14 September 2026, The Telegraph published Tom Cotterill's report, Nato officer's Tinder romance sets off spy alert at UK base.
By the way, now, being in possession of official documents, it is fair and safe to say that no spy alert was actually set off. In fact, there are great doubts if any formal investigation was ever conducted, whether in relation to me or the NATO officer's case. But this is not a subject of OUR investigation. Let's go back to that original publication.
It contained almost everything an editor could possibly want.
A Spanish naval officer. NATO headquarters. Tinder. A woman born in Soviet Russia. Shooting ranges. Intelligence services. Military bases. Security investigations.
And, inevitably, espionage.
I was the woman.
I also told The Telegraph something rather important:
“I definitely know I am not a Russian spy. The last time I checked I wasn’t.”
(I think that even Putin knows that now).
I was not arrested. No investigation had established that I was a foreign agent. I had already initiated legal proceedings seeking answers about the treatment I had experienced.
Nevertheless, the story was irresistible.
Spanish newspapers and television channels began contacting me. I spoke to journalists, gave interviews and supplied documents. On 14 September, Luigi Benedicto Borges of El Mundo contacted me directly. By 16 September, I was telling him that I had given three interviews within the previous twenty-four hours.
I was not hiding from the press.
Quite the opposite.
I was answering questions.
And this is where the journalism became interesting.
Two newspapers, two editorial directions
On 14 September, El Mundo published Marina Pina's initial account.
It largely developed the story broken by The Telegraph. Its main characters were a Spanish officer, a woman of Russian birth and a security controversy (still unknown). But the headline also included an important qualification: No se pudo probar nada — nothing could be proved, according to the sources cited. Quite an accurate statement, considering that to be prove anything, you need some facts in a first place, which we still try to discover.
Six days later, the same newspaper published something quite different.
Luigi Benedicto Borges devoted a substantial feature in Crónica to the events, the documents, the relationships and the unanswered questions.
His article remained sensational. It included my shooting ability, intelligence-related training, my encounter with a Russian intelligence officer and the unusual circumstances of my personal life.
Luigi had not suddenly become uninterested in a good story.
What changed was the treatment of its central character.
He spoke to me.
He asked questions.
He gave me space to explain circumstances that, without context, might sound suspicious.
He explored my professional background, my interest in geopolitics, my legal proceedings and even my creative work with AI-generated music.
He described a woman who had existed before meeting a NATO officer and who continued to have a life after that relationship.
I was not necessarily the heroine of his article.
I was, however, a person.
Now consider what happened at El Español.
On 15 September, José Ismael Martínez published Todas las vidas de Janina White.
The article examined my professional and personal background: law, journalism, writing, politics and artificial intelligence. It acknowledged the existence of a life beyond the espionage allegations.
Four days later, on 19 September, Laura Garófano published another article in the same newspaper.
Its headline announced that a Spanish naval officer had met a supposed Russian spy on Tinder and that his NATO colleagues called her Gorrión Rojo.
Red Sparrow.
The difference was striking.
At El Mundo, an initial security story developed into a more substantial account in which the woman became a possible active participant.
At El Español, an article examining the woman's multiple identities was followed by one that placed a sexualised espionage nickname at the centre of its narrative.
This was not a case of one newspaper knowing nothing about the woman.
El Español had already published an account of my background.
Yet the next article invited readers to view me principally through the reported observations of anonymous military sources: my appearance, my Russian accent, my shooting ability and questions I allegedly asked at a Christmas gathering.
Four days. One newspaper. Two very different editorial choices.
The point is not that every article must be a biography.
It is that editorial framing determines whose account acquires authority — and who becomes the object of that authority.
Who gets to speak?
Garófano's article included the description of me as muy mona, muy resultona, simpática — very cute, attractive and friendly — attributed to a senior officer said to have attended the event.
It then reported that, between my accent, shooting ability and alleged questions, I had been nicknamed Red Sparrow, supposedly as a joke.
The reference was to the film about a Russian intelligence operative whose sexuality and intimate relationships form part of the espionage narrative.
Having watched the movie, which safely escaped my radar previously, I found this deeply humiliating.
But I also found the editorial decision intellectually fascinating.
Why was the alleged conduct of the officers presented as evidence contributing to my suspiciousness, rather than as something requiring journalistic examination in its own right?
Who invented this nickname?
Who used it?
Did anyone know me personally?
What did these officers actually know about my background?
Was the supposed joke directed at me, at their fellow officer, or at both?
And what made it an acceptable way for military professionals to discuss a civilian woman?
I do not know whether Garófano asked these questions privately.
The published article does not provide their answers.
Nor did I receive a request from her to respond to these new allegations before publication.
This was particularly striking because I had spent the preceding days speaking openly to other Spanish journalists.
Luigi had contacted me on the day The Telegraph story appeared. Telecinco arranged an interview. Antena 3 interviewed me. I was providing documents, photographs, explanations and corrections.
A journalist was perfectly entitled not to accept my version of events.
But contacting me would not have meant surrendering editorial independence.
It would have meant examining another source.
And there was a more specific problem.
Garófano wrote:
“A Janina nadie, excepto ella misma o The Telegraph, la ha llamado espía...”
The sentence suggests that nobody except me or The Telegraph had called me a spy.
Yet The Telegraph had quoted me expressly denying that I was one.
There is a fundamental distinction between reporting that somebody has accused you of espionage and describing yourself as a spy.
The second wave: when the questions change
By late October, something had begun to shift.
On 28 October, Aurelio Ruiz Enebral published a substantial report in El Confidencial Digital.
Its focus was no longer simply the supposed Russian woman who had entered the life of a Spanish officer.
It examined events within the Spanish military and NATO environment, the sequence of decisions and the officer's reports of possible interference with his electronic communications.
Those reported anomalies require verification; publication does not prove that unlawful interference occurred.
But notice what had become the subject of investigation.
Institutional conduct.
Who knew what? Who acted? What was reported? Which decisions were taken, and when?
On 4 November, Callum Milne's report in Northwood & Ruislip News similarly turned towards new documentary material, my requests for answers and the responses of British authorities.
Callum and Aurelio approached their work differently. They operate in different countries, different editorial environments and different formats.
Neither journalist gave me control of his article.
Both maintained their independence.
Both also communicated with me, sought explanations and examined the material I was able to provide.
I could disagree with particular formulations without disputing their right to make editorial decisions.
That, to me, is a much healthier relationship between a journalist and the person whose life is being reported.
And it illustrates something important.
Independent journalism does not require treating the subject of an article as someone whose voice must be excluded. It requires examining what every source says, including sources who possess institutional authority.
There is another change, however, which matters even more.
In the first wave, the central question was:
Who is this woman, and why was she suspected?
In the second, the questions increasingly became:
What actually happened? Who made the decisions? What do the documents show? Who is accountable?
I was no longer spending all my time explaining that I was not a Russian spy.
I was asking institutions to explain their own actions.
The woman who had been investigated by newspapers as an object of suspicion was becoming a person exercising agency: bringing proceedings, examining evidence and demanding answers.
That does not make the second wave automatically more ethical.
A journalist can investigate institutions badly, just as another can write responsibly about a sensational personal story.
But documentary and institutional questions offer a different method of inquiry. Assertions can be compared with records. Dates can be checked. Decisions can be attributed. Contradictions can be put to the organisations responsible.
And frankly, there is only so long that even a woman with my capacity for argument can remain interested in discussing whether she resembles Jennifer Lawrence in a spy film.
At some point, a more interesting question emerges.
What really happened?
Which brings me to the experiment.
Part II — The Red Sparrow Experiment: What if the same story had been investigated from the other side?
Imagine that on 19 September 2026, El Español had received exactly the same information from its sources.
Imagine that the journalist still had not interviewed me or my former partner.
Imagine that nothing new had been discovered.
The officers remain anonymous. Their account remains unverified by independent witnesses.
The woman's alleged behaviour remains disputed.
We change only one thing.
Instead of investigating why the woman clearly deserved a sexualised nickname from Spanish officers, we investigate why the officers apparently considered their own description of such nature acceptable.
What follows is a deliberately counterfactual journalistic exercise, not a report of a new investigation. But there is a specific reason for conducting it.
If the account published by El Español is accurate, Spanish naval officers serving within the NATO environment allegedly used a sexualised espionage nickname, associated with my perceived Russian origins, to describe the civilian partner of a fellow officer. The civilian partner they have seen for the first time in their loves.
Such conduct raises serious questions under the Reales Ordenanzas para las Fuerzas Armadas, particularly Articles 11, 13, 31 and 32, concerning human dignity, equality, conduct in international postings and respect for civilians. Depending on the facts, it could also engage the provisions of Spain's Military Disciplinary Law (Ley Orgánica 8/2014), including Article 6(30), concerning expressions of contempt based on birth, ethnic origin or sex, and Article 7(30), concerning more serious conduct affecting personal dignity or involving discrimination.
Whether any disciplinary offence occurred would require evidence and a proper assessment; it cannot be established simply from a newspaper report.
There is also a profoundly personal dimension. Neither Laureano nor I had heard of the nickname before the article appeared. Its publication came as a shock to both of us. When I asked him about it, he expressed unequivocal disgust at the alleged behaviour, adding an important qualification: if what the newspaper reported was true, those responsible were unworthy of calling themselves officers. I share his assessment of such conduct, if it occurred.
And that is precisely what makes the editorial choice so interesting. The newspaper had apparently received information which, if accurate, raised direct and genuine legitimate questions about the professional conduct of Spanish military officers. Yet it chose to turn their alleged nickname into a sensational headline about the woman herself. Why was the woman's supposed suspiciousness investigated, while the officers' potentially degrading treatment of her was not subjected to the same scrutiny?
This experiment therefore asks a simple question: What if the journalist had applied the same investigative curiosity to the officers who allegedly created the label as she applied to the woman who received it?
We will use the same published allegations, publicly available professional standards and unanswered questions. We will not invent interviews, findings or responses. We will change only the direction of the investigation — and examine how profoundly that changes the story.
ALTERNATIVE REPORT
Spanish Naval Officers Allegedly Nicknamed Colleague's Civilian Partner 'Red Sparrow': Questions Raised About Military Professional Standards
An account given to the Spanish press describes a woman of Russian birth being assessed through her appearance, accent and personal interests. But what do the officers' reported remarks reveal about their own conduct?
Madrid / Northwood — September 2026
A Spanish naval officer serving at NATO's Allied Maritime Command in the United Kingdom became involved in a security controversy following his relationship with a British and Polish civilian woman born in the former Soviet Union.
The circumstances have attracted considerable media attention since The Telegraph reported the case on 14 September.
But information provided to El Español raises another question, separate from the security controversy itself.
How did Spanish military officers speak about the civilian partner of one of their colleagues?
According to a senior military source said to have attended a Christmas event in December 2024, the woman attracted attention for several reasons.
The source discussed her appearance and Russian accent, and alleged that she had asked senior officers inappropriate questions about their military careers and responsibilities.
The newspaper's account also reports that she was given the nickname Red Sparrow, supposedly as a joke.
The name refers to Red Sparrow (2018) movie, in which Jennifer Lawrence portrays a Russian ballerina coerced into becoming an intelligence operative. Far from being merely a seductive spy, the protagonist is subjected to sexual violence, physical abuse, humiliation, psychological manipulation and systematic dehumanisation by the very institutions she serves. Her body and sexuality become instruments of state control, while her autonomy and dignity are repeatedly violated. This makes the alleged nickname particularly disturbing: it associates a real civilian woman not only with espionage and sexual manipulation, but also with a fictional character defined by coercion, degradation and institutional abuse. Whether the officers understood these implications or simply considered the reference amusing raises serious questions about their judgment and professional standards.
The description therefore carries implications extending beyond an ordinary nickname.
It raises questions about how a civilian woman was characterised within a professional military environment and whether assumptions concerning national origin and sexuality influenced those characterisations.
What did the officers actually know?
The woman concerned, Janina White, is a British and Polish citizen and a solicitor. Her professional and educational background was described in an earlier El Español article published on 15 September.
It includes law, journalism, political activity and work involving artificial intelligence.
None of those qualifications excludes the possibility that legitimate security questions might arise about any individual.
Equally, none establishes grounds for suspicion.
The relevant question is what factual basis the officers possessed when they allegedly adopted the nickname.
Did they know the woman personally?
Had they verified anything about her citizenship, professional background or conduct?
Were their comments based on direct observations, information received through official channels or informal social conversations?
Did they distinguish between actual evidence and the associations prompted by a Russian accent?
It is also unclear who first used the nickname, how widely it circulated or whether it was ever adopted in an official context.
Those distinctions matter.
An isolated private remark, repeated social ridicule and an official security characterisation are not interchangeable events.
Nor should an allegation of inappropriate language be confused with proof of a disciplinary offence.
What standards apply to Spanish officers serving in NATO?
Spain's Reales Ordenanzas para las Fuerzas Armadas establish ethical principles and rules of professional conduct for Spanish military personnel.
Article 11 addresses respect for human dignity.
Article 13 concerns equality between women and men.
Article 32 requires courtesy and consideration in dealings with civilians.
Importantly, Article 31 provides that Spanish military personnel serving within international organisations remain subject to the Reales Ordenanzas, subject to the relevant international arrangements.
The standards do not disappear because an officer is posted to a NATO headquarters.
Spain's military disciplinary legislation also contains provisions concerning expressions of contempt based on characteristics including birth, ethnic origin and sex, and more serious conduct affecting dignity or involving discrimination.
This does not establish that any officer breached those provisions.
That would require evidence identifying the conduct, the individuals involved, the circumstances and the applicable legal requirements.
But the reported nickname creates an obvious professional question.
Was this an acceptable way for Spanish naval officers to describe the civilian partner of a fellow officer?
And if it was regarded as an innocent joke, by whom — and why?
Was the nickname intended to describe the woman or ridicule her partner?
There is another possibility that cannot be excluded without examining the evidence.
The nickname may have been directed not only at the woman but also at the officer who entered into a relationship with her.
Military communities have their own social hierarchies, traditions and informal language. Those conventions do not necessarily make every joke improper.
But they do not make every joke harmless either.
If the nickname was used to ridicule the woman, questions arise about respect for civilians and the use of stereotypes associated with national origin and sexuality.
If it was used to embarrass her partner, questions arise about professional relationships between colleagues.
If it was intended as a genuine expression of security concern, the question is why such concern was expressed through a fictional sexualised character rather than through an appropriate professional process.
And if the nickname was never used in the manner reported, the accuracy of the account supplied to the newspaper becomes the central issue.
Did the people concerned know?
The published account does not establish whether White knew of the alleged nickname at the time.
Nor does it establish whether her partner was aware of it.
There is no published answer to whether either had complained about such language or whether any responsible officer had examined its appropriateness.
These are questions that could materially change the interpretation of the alleged events.
A nickname exchanged privately among a few individuals is not necessarily evidence of institutional practice.
But where a derogatory description is alleged to have circulated within a military community, its origin, reach and context become relevant.
An unanswered professional question
The espionage allegations and the military decisions arising from the relationship are separate matters requiring their own examination.
They do not resolve the issue of professional conduct raised by the reported nickname.
The question is not whether officers were entitled to raise legitimate security concerns.
They were entitled — and, where properly warranted, obliged — to raise such concerns through appropriate channels.
The question is whether the language allegedly used about a civilian woman was compatible with the standards expected of military professionals.
Until the source, context and circumstances of the nickname are established, no conclusion about individual misconduct can responsibly be drawn.
But neither should the allegation be dismissed merely because someone described it as a joke.
When military professionals provide journalists with an account of a woman's supposed suspiciousness, their own conduct may also be a legitimate subject of journalistic investigation.
What changed?
Nothing about the underlying published allegations.
We did not establish that the woman was innocent of every allegation ever raised about her.
We did not establish that any Spanish officer committed a disciplinary offence.
We did not invent interviews.
We did not disclose the identity of an anonymous source.
We simply asked a different set of questions.
And yet the story became something else.
The woman was no longer the central object of suspicion.
The officers' reported behaviour became the object of scrutiny.
Their institutional status was no longer treated primarily as a reason to trust their description of her. It became a reason to examine the professional standards governing their own actions.
That is the difference between using authority as a source and investigating the conduct of authority.
I am not arguing that a journalist must choose only one of these approaches. A responsible article could investigate both the security concerns and the professional conduct of those discussing them.
The point is that the second possibility existed.
And it was a legitimate public-interest story in its own right.
The journalist's ethical problem
The 2026 Code of Ethics of the Spanish Federation of Journalists' Associations (FAPE) offers a particularly useful framework.
It calls for careful verification, distinction between fact and rumour, protection of dignity, correction of errors and an opportunity for affected individuals to respond.
It also addresses the dangers of unjustified attacks made under the protection of anonymity.
This is a professional ethical framework, not an automatic legal verdict against any particular article.
Nor does it require journalists to submit their work for approval by the subjects of their reporting.
But it does invite an uncomfortable question.
Why was the reported nickname treated as a colourful element of the story rather than as a claim that required scrutiny of both the people who allegedly used it and the possible consequences for the person described?
And why was an identifiable woman — who had been speaking openly to Spanish journalists throughout that week — not given a direct opportunity, so far as I experienced, to respond to this new characterisation before publication?
I cannot establish everything that happened inside the newsroom.
I can examine what the newspaper published.
I can compare it with its earlier reporting.
And I can ask whether another editorial choice was available.
Our experiment suggests that it was.
The alternative article may be less immediately titillating.
It contains no mysterious seductress who might be hiding behind an attractive smile.
But it contains something potentially more valuable.
Questions capable of being answered.
Part III — The Third WaveFrom archetype to agency to legacy
Having examined the first and second waves of this story, I find myself wondering about a third.
The first wave began with an archetype.
Russian spy.
Red Sparrow.
The NATO officer's girlfriend.
These were labels through which strangers could quickly understand — or believe they understood — who I was.
The first wave was not entirely uniform. Luigi's article already demonstrated that a woman could be given a voice within a sensational narrative. But the dominant public fascination concerned identity.
Who was this woman? What did she look like? Where was she born? How did she meet the officer? Why was she suspicious?
In the second wave, something has begun to change.
I am no longer merely a woman answering questions about myself. I am a claimant asking questions about institutions. I am examining evidence, challenging official accounts and seeking explanations for decisions affecting me.
The focus is gradually moving from who I supposedly am to what institutions actually did.
That is the transition from archetype to agency.
But before looking towards the third wave, I want to return briefly to another woman.
Her name is Simone.
During my relationship with Laureano, I met another couple within the same Spanish military community. Their circumstances were remarkably similar to ours. Simone was born in Brazil. Her partner was also a Spanish naval officer, although of a lower rank than Laureano. Like me, she was a foreign-born civilian woman in a relationship with a Spanish serviceman.
There was, however, one apparent difference.
As far as I am aware, Simone was never given a sexualised espionage nickname. I know of no comparable campaign of ridicule or harassment directed towards her. Her relationship continued, and the couple eventually married.
I am not suggesting that I know everything about Simone's experiences or that the two relationships were identical in every material respect. Nor am I suggesting that the absence of a reported incident proves that nothing happened.
But the comparison raises a question worth examining.
Why might one foreign-born civilian partner be treated as an ordinary member of a military social community, while another becomes the subject of a sexualised espionage narrative?
Was the difference nationality? Place of birth? Perceived national origin? The rank of the officer involved? Particular circumstances unknown to me? Or something else altogether?
Those are questions, not conclusions.
And there is another reason why Simone matters to this story.
Simone is not a lawyer. I do not know the details of her professional life. Perhaps she works in hospitality, perhaps in an entirely different profession. It makes absolutely no difference.
Neither Simone nor I needed an impressive curriculum vitae to deserve respect.
I do not deserve dignity because I am a solicitor.
I do not deserve it because I have a master's degree, build AI systems, write books or create music.
A woman working as a waitress deserves exactly the same respect.
So does a woman who has never attended university, never held public office and never published a single word.
Professional achievement should not be the price of being treated as a human being.
The problem with reducing a woman to a nickname is not that she might secretly possess an impressive CV.
It is that her humanity was never conditional on her CV in the first place.
And yet, returning to the question of journalism, there is something else worth remembering.
I do possess a life beyond this particular controversy.
I have professional interests, legal work, technological projects, writing, music and ideas about the future. They were part of my identity long before anyone decided that Red Sparrow was a suitable description of me.
I was not created when a Spanish naval officer swiped right on Tinder.
And I do not intend to disappear when the newspapers finally become bored with discussing him.
The wave that has not yet arrived
I do not know when the third wave will come.
Or whether it will come at all.
My legal proceedings remain contested. No future judgment, disciplinary finding or institutional reform can be presumed.
But I know what I want the third wave to look like.
One day, I would like journalists to write about this affair without feeling obliged to explain how I met a NATO officer.
Perhaps a court will identify an important principle concerning national origin, public authorities and national security.
Perhaps an institutional review will examine how an unverified description of a civilian became relevant to official decisions.
Perhaps a data-protection case will address the responsibility of public bodies that transmit information about an identifiable person without giving that person a meaningful opportunity to challenge its accuracy.
Perhaps the questions about Red Sparrow will become part of a wider discussion about military professional standards or journalism's responsibility when dealing with anonymous, powerful sources.
Or perhaps an academic researcher will use the events as an example of how institutions create, circulate and legitimise labels.
None of those outcomes is guaranteed.
But they describe the direction in which I am working.
The third wave would begin when the story is no longer primarily about Janina White, but about what other people and institutions can learn from the events associated with her name.
And here is the paradox that fascinates me most.
I began this story as an archetype.
I was given a label by other people.
In the second wave, I began recovering my agency — my ability to question the narrative, examine the evidence and act.
In the third wave, I hope that my name might once again become a kind of shorthand.
Perhaps a reported case.
Perhaps an institutional lesson.
Perhaps a legal principle.
Another label, in other words.
But a qualitatively different one.
The first label attempted to describe who I supposedly was.
The last, if I succeed, may help explain what should never happen to somebody else.
And even that final meaning will not be mine to impose. It will have to be earned through evidence, scrutiny, legal reasoning and whatever conclusions independent institutions ultimately reach.
I cannot manufacture a precedent.
I can, however, continue asking the questions from which one might emerge.
One last editorial decision
Journalists will always make choices about the stories they tell.
They choose their sources, their questions, their headlines, their opening paragraphs and the details they consider relevant.
Those choices matter.
They can reduce a person to a character.
They can restore complexity to that character.
They can shift the investigation from the person being judged to the institutions doing the judging.
And sometimes, if the questions are pursued far enough, they can help turn an individual story into something with broader public meaning.
Thirty years after studying journalism, I find myself examining that process from the rather unusual position of being both its subject and its analyst.
As a lawyer, I want answers.
As an AI architect, I want to understand the systems that produce the outcomes.
As a journalist, I want to know why one question was asked instead of another.
And as the woman who found herself labelled Red Sparrow, I want to see what happens when the questions finally change.
I did not choose the first label.
I did choose to start asking questions.
And I intend to work towards the day when the story is no longer about the woman the institutions described — but about the principles by which those institutions themselves are judged.
That will be the third wave.
