Having a wonderful time reminiscing about all my past travel (and other) adventures. Hope you’ll share them with me in my blog, “All Roads Led to Russia.”
Perhaps Vladimir Putin wasn’t in the mood to spend millions of dollars on a new holding facility for his deportees; or maybe he just didn’t have time before his next scheduled roundup. So he improvised, and simply repurposed Moscow’s Zhukovsky Airport to hold some of the Central Asian migrants recently arrested in the Kremlin’s latest ethnic purge.
At Zhukovsky Airport, Moscow – August 2025
Following the deadly terror attack on the Crocus City Hall concert venue outside Moscow on March 22, 2024, four suspects were quickly arrested and charged, with 15 additional accomplices being detained thereafter. On August 4th of this year, the 19 Central Asian men — most of them from Tajikistan — went on trial for the crime. As yet, there has been no word of a verdict in the case.
Following Their Arrest – March 2024
On Trial – August 2025
Since that time, the Russian government has instituted a sweep of Central Asian migrants, ostensibly for deportation to their home countries as security risks. But they don’t all get to go home; and now, dozens have said they have been held at Zhukovsky Airport for more than a week.
According to one report, these men have been seen locked inside a cramped room with prison-style iron bunk beds; some have barely enough room to sit, while others lie on the concrete floor. There are no windows or air conditioners; a trash can overflows with empty packages from instant noodles. One man said:
“I have been here for 10 days. They give us instant soup once a day, nothing else. There is a man among us who suffers from a heart condition.” [RFE/RL, August 22, 2025.]
Another prisoner added:
“We told [Russian authorities] that we want to buy return tickets and go back to Tajikistan, but they are holding us here and not allowing us in or to return home.” [Id.]
Sound familiar?
“Alligator Alcatraz” – Everglades, Florida, U.S.
Not surprising; the two situations are disturbingly similar. But there is one significant difference: the Central Asian migrants in Russia are not merely being deported. Thousands of them are being conscripted into the Russian military to fight in Ukraine . . . sometimes by means of enticements such as big bonuses, but more often through coercion and force.
One young man from Kazakhstan, Kiril Nysanbaev, had already served in the military at home, but then went to Russia in the fall of 2023 to find work in a factory at Chelyabinsk. A few months later, he called his family, saying he was in a migrant detention center. According to his twin sister, Kamilla:
“He said he was detained in connection with a robbery incident. He told me that Russian officers at the detention facility beat him and forced him to sign a contract [to fight in Ukraine].” [Azattyq Asia, RFE/RL, August 21, 2025.]
In March of this year, Kiril was killed in battle in the Donetsk region of Ukraine. His family were not notified of his death until June. [Id.]
Kiril Nysanbaev (R) with his twin sister, Kamilla
Thousands of such stories are emerging concerning conscripts from the former Soviet Central Asian republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan. Ukraine has established a state-run project, “I Want To Live,” offering soldiers fighting for Russia a means of safely surrendering to Ukrainian forces, rather than returning to Russia or to their home countries, where they would likely be facing criminal charges.
The project says it has obtained lists of names of more than 2,000 Uzbek nationals, more than 930 Tajiks, 529 Kazakh nationals, and 327 Kyrgyz citizens in the first six months of this year. And the numbers continue to grow. [Id.]
Russia, desperate to replace the hundreds of thousands of its own troops killed or wounded in Ukraine, earlier resorted to recruiting criminals from its prisons. Now it has added this new source of manpower — Central Asian migrants — often referred to as “cannon fodder” because of their lack of military experience or training and the likelihood they won’t survive.
To Vladimir Putin, they are just bodies.
At Zhukovsky Airport, Moscow
It is nothing less than human trafficking, and it is a crime against humanity. Why can’t it be stopped?
You may or may not have done anything illegal; it really doesn’t matter. If you are an immigrant in Russia from one of the five former Soviet Central Asian republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan, your days of freedom are numbered.
In Moscow and other cities across Russia, migrant workers from those regions are being swept up by the thousands . . . not only for purposes of deportation, but in huge numbers for forced conscription into the Russian military to fight alongside Russian troops in Ukraine. (More about that in a separate article.)
Migrant Detainees at Moscow’s Zhukovsky Airport
Without a trial, or any form of due process, they are being beaten and coerced into signing military contracts. They are indeed hostages to Vladimir Putin’s dual obsessions of ridding Russia of “undesirables,” and of winning his war against Ukraine at any price.
So today they are added — though without individual identification — to a new category of our known hostages: Immigrant Detainees.
*. *. *
And needless to say, we again remember those whom we have known for far too long:
Immigrant Detainees:
Migrants from the Central Asian nations of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan
Prisoners of War:
The People of Ukraine The Azov 12
Endangered Exiles:
Mikita Losik Yulia Navalnaya Countless Journalists and Other Dissidents
Ales Bialiatski Andrei Chapiuk Uladzimir Labkovich Ihar Losik Marfa Rabkova Valiantsin Stafanovic Yuras Zyankovich
In Russia:
David Barnes Gordon Black Antonina Favorskaya Konstantin Gabov Robert Gilman Stephen James Hubbard Sergey Karelin Vadim Kobzev Darya Kozyreva Artyom Kriger Michael Travis Leake Aleksei Liptser Grigory Melkonyants Nika Novak Nadezhda Rossinskaya (a.k.a. Nadin Geisler) Igor Sergunin Dmitry Shatresov Robert Shonov Grigory Skvortsov Eugene Spector Laurent Vinatier Robert Romanov Woodland
. . . and the countless others of whom I may not be aware.
On August 23, 1939, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union signed a non-aggression pact, pledging that their respective countries would never launch an attack against the other, nor interfere with one another’s allies. It is best known as the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact, for the two officials who signed it in Moscow on behalf of their governments: Germany’s Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop and Russia’s Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov.
Molotov (L) and von Ribbentrop (C)
On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, setting off a six-year conflagration in Europe previously unimagined by mankind. The next two years saw huge swaths of Europe taken and apportioned between Germany and the Soviet Union like so much common merchandise . . . each of their leaders — Adolf Hitler and Josef Stalin — pursuing similar goals of expansionism and empire-building.
Then Hitler made the mistake that would ultimately be his undoing. On June 22, 1941, he launched Operation Barbarossa: an invasion of his alleged ally, the Soviet Union, thus nullifying the 1939 treaty and forcing Stalin, out of necessity, to turn his loyalty to Great Britain and its allied nations.
Had that not happened — had the Soviet Union not allied itself with the free nations of Europe and the U.S. — Hitler’s Third Reich might well have succeeded and World War II ended very differently.
(L-R) Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill
And then, in his own display of treachery, Stalin immediately set about launching the Cold War against the very nations that had protected his country from Hitler.
There are two morals to this well-known story:
First, from a military standpoint, never allow yourself to be surrounded by your enemies. It’s just illogical. With the Allied troops (later to include the United States) to the west, and the massive Soviet Union to the east, Nazi Germany — though a formidable foe for another four years — was ultimately doomed.
And second, from a political point of view, never, ever trust a dictator, an autocrat, a tyrant, a despot, a sociopath, a psychotic megalomaniac, or a fascist.
Remember Ocean’s Eleven? The original film was made in 1960, and starred the members of Hollywood’s infamous “Rat Pack”: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop, and more. The 2001 remake was technologically advanced and well done, but not quite as much fun for those of us old enough to remember the original.
Whichever version you choose to watch, you will be treated to a clever, fast-paced, sometimes suspenseful and often hilarious crime caper in which a group of con men (and one woman) devise the perfect plan to rob five Las Vegas casinos of a boatload of cash.
And for no apparent reason, I dreamt about that plot last night; only in my dream I was part of a gang of Robin Hood-style do-gooders planning to deprive the country’s corrupt oligarchs of their fortunes and retreat to our private island, where we would live — somehow safe from extradition or retribution — happily ever after.
I awoke smiling, most likely at the audacity of the concept. And then it struck me that I might possibly have stumbled upon the perfect solution to America’s current oligarch problem. We hire the originators of Ocean’s Eleven — the writers, producers, and directors — to apply their diabolical cleverness to concocting a real-life heist.
And we put the ogre-in-chief. and all of his multi-billionaire cohorts, out of business.
Just don’t ask me how to do it; I haven’t the foggiest notion. That would require minds far more clever (and devious) than mine, and some real-world technical advisors to back us up. My immediate thought is that we would need former Secretary of Labor and outspoken administration critic Robert Reich for his knowledge and expertise in trade and economic affairs; progressive Democrat, billionaire and philanthropist Bill Gates for his financial wizardry; and for legal advice, if they would be willing, one or all of the three brave-and-true Americans on the Supreme Court: Justices Sonia Sotomayor, Elena Kagan and Amy Coney Barrett.
Of course, I haven’t presented the idea to any of them — they don’t even know I exist — but they would be my dream team.
Then we would do unto the oligarchs as they have done unto everyone else: we screw them to the wall. Because without their billions, they are nothing. And without their political presence, we can truly make America great again . . . the way she was meant to be.
Yes, it’s a pipe dream. But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long while.
The draw for the 2026 FIFA World Cup Tournament is to be held in Washington in December of this year, as announced yesterday by Donald Trump in the Oval Office, where he gathered with FIFA chief Gianni Infantino and members of the press.
The event is to be hosted by the U.S., Canada and Mexico (presumably, if they’re all speaking to each other by then – ed. comment).
The Smirk Seen ‘Round the World
Holding the golden (his favorite color) FIFA World Cup Trophy, Trump hinted that Vladimir Putin might also attend the World Cup, saying — with his customary clarity — that Putin “wants to be there very badly . . . [and] may be coming and he may not” . . . depending on the status of the war in Ukraine and the current peace efforts. [RFE/RL, August 23, 2025 CET.]
That, of course, led the reporters to the subject of the Russia-Ukraine negotiations, to which Trump said he would decide his position on the war in the next two weeks, but that he wants to see whether Putin and Ukrainian President Zelensky would meet first:
“I think I’ll know. I think I’ll know the attitude of Russia, and, frankly, of Ukraine. It takes two. Then I’m going to make a decision as to what we do and it’s going to be a very important decision. Whether it’s massive sanctions, massive tariffs, or both. Or I’ll do nothing and say, ‘This is your war.’” [Id.]
No! No! No!
Donald Trump will not — not in two weeks, not in two years, not in two centuries — know the attitude of Russia. Where an understanding of Vladimir Putin is concerned, Trump has his head so far up his own ass he can probably see his tonsils.
The Sultan of Smirk
As Clifford May, founder of the Foundation for Defense of Democracies (FDD), said in a recent interview with RFE/RL’s Current Time:
“His [Putin’s] mission, it seems to me, is very clear: It’s to restore the Russian/Soviet empire. And that requires that he drag Ukraine back into it. He also doesn’t like the idea of a free, independent, and democratic nation right across the border from him. A bad example for Russians, as he sees it.” [Current Time, RFE/RL, August 23, 2025 CET.]
And May added:
“Here’s what worries me most: Too few people understand that what Putin wants through diplomacy is not peace but victory. He wants to get through diplomacy what he hasn’t been able to achieve through war over the past three or so years. He has much of the Donbas but not all of it. He wants the rest of it. In particular, he wants what’s known as ‘the fortress belt,’ [which is made up of the] fortress cities he hasn’t been able to break through.” [Id.]
Clifford May
Zelensky has rightly accused Russia of “doing everything it can” to prevent a meeting between the two leaders. Russia’s Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov has said that Putin was ready to meet Zelensky “when the agenda is ready for a summit, and this agenda is not ready at all.” He further accused Zelensky of saying “no to everything.” [Ruth Comerford and Kay Watson, BBC News, August 22, 2025.]
And what is Donald Trump’s latest word on the possibility of a bilateral meeting between Putin and Zelensky? Well, he said he’s been trying to make it work, but:
“ . . . that’s like oil and vinegar … they don’t get along too well.” [Id.]
Don’t tell Trump, but I think he meant “oil and water.”
And that’s the stable genius who’s running the show.
From its inception, the United States of America has been a shining beacon of freedom and democracy to the rest of the world. We have been the place to which the world’s victims of tyranny have aspired to emigrate . . . as did countless millions, including my own grandparents.
We were the country that didn’t start wars, but never hesitated to send our troops to the defense of our allies against invasion.
We have been the first to condemn and sanction the despots, dictators, autocrats, violators of human rights in the darkest corners of the world.
We have been at the forefront of the United Nations (and its Security Council), and of NATO, in helping to keep mankind as safe as possible in an inherently unsafe world.
So how is it possible, as we approach the 250th anniversary of our nation’s birth, that we are now embroiled in controversy with the International Criminal Court (ICC) over the very sort of action of which we have been so critical for so long?
International Criminal Court Headquarters – The Hague, Netherlands
A little background: The ICC is a global court that has the power to bring prosecutions for genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes. It has, for example, issued a warrant against Vladimir Putin for his kidnapping and detainment of hundreds of Ukrainian children since the start of his war against Ukraine in 2022.
The United States — though an original signatory to the Rome Statute that created the ICC in 2000 — never followed through with the necessary Senate ratification. In fact, former President George W. Bush formally withdrew the country’s Rome Statute signature in 2002, on the ground that it might interfere with national sovereignty. Thus, the U.S. is not an ICC member, and is not bound by its rulings . . . which explains how Donald Trump was able to invite Vladimir Putin to Alaska without having to arrest him.
The Court also issued arrest warrants last November for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, his former defense chief Yoav Gallant, and Hamas leader Ibrahim al-Masri, for alleged war crimes and crimes against humanity in the course of the ongoing Gaza conflict.
Unlikely Friends: Netanyahu and Putin
And Trump — being an avowed ally of Netanyahu and a behind-the-scenes buddy of Putin — has taken umbrage at the ICC’s actions. Three months ago, he issued sanctions against four of the Court’s judges. And now he has chosen two additional judges and two prosecutors as the latest victims of his sanctions in connection with the ICC’s actions against Israeli leaders, claiming — in a statement by Secretary of State Marco Rubio — “a national security threat that has been an instrument of lawfare” against the United States and Israel. [Humeyra Pamuk and Anthony Deutsch, Reuters, August 20, 2025.]
Rubio continued:
“[The] United States has been clear and steadfast in our opposition to the ICC’s politicization, abuse of power, disregard for our national sovereignty, and illegitimate judicial overreach. I urge countries that still support the ICC, many of whose freedom was purchased at the price of great American sacrifices, to resist the claims of this bankrupt institution.” [Id.]
The four sanctioned members of the Court, all of whom have been involved in cases linked to Israel and the United States, are from the member states of France, Fiji, Senegal and Canada. Both France and the United Nations have expressed anger at Trump’s action; the ICC called the move “a flagrant attack” against the independence of an impartial judicial institution, and warned that it could impede the functioning of the Court. [Id.]
ICC Assembly of States
But beyond that, it is an extension of Trump’s ongoing assault against his own country’s judiciary. He has stacked the U.S. Supreme Court with six (out of a total of nine justices) of his toadying sycophants; appointed more of the same to every vacancy that has arisen in the federal court system; and installed still more of his lackeys to take control of the Departments of Justice, Homeland Security, and the nation’s intelligence agencies.
So why not the ICC as well? In Trump’s world atop his gold-plated Mount Olympus, it’s the natural next step: If they don’t agree with him, he simply sets out to destroy them. The fact that the ICC is not an American institution, but an independent court of international jurisdiction, is meaningless to him; his reach knows no boundaries. He recognizes no authority above his own.
In terms of restful sleep, or even a bit of peace and quiet, the last three days have been . . . well . . . a test of my patience and perseverance.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m living in auditory, sleep-deprived hell.
“Make it stop!!!”
Our house is getting a new roof. It is one of those unfortunate inevitabilities of life that sneak up on you from time to time. While we humans, and our furry friends, spend our lives sheltered from the elements in abodes with walls, windows, doors, and a roof, those very structures that shelter us are themselves laid bare to the elements.
Here in the southern U.S., they’re exposed to scorching summers, windy winters, and year-round rain of biblical proportions — not to mention the apocalyptic thunderstorms accompanied by falling branches and miscellaneous wind-borne debris. Through all of these, the roof naturally catches the worst of it.
So on Wednesday, the roofers arrived shortly before 9:00 a.m. to begin what was supposed to be a day-and-a-half job.
I know I’ve made it quite clear in the past, but for those who missed my personal revelations, allow me to explain once again: I am a night owl. My body clock is totally screwed up. I am wide awake and at my most productive at midnight, when the vast majority of people are sound asleep. I generally get to bed around 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., sometimes lying awake — my mind aswirl with totally unrelated thoughts — until 4:00 a.m. or later. Then I sleep until noon.
So, although I was prepared for the morning invasion of the roofers, I had not realized that my wake-up call would consist of a battalion of drillers trying to break through the ceiling of my bedroom. Or so it seemed.
And that attack was, of course, accompanied by the ferocious barking of our dog Dixie, who — though in reality a loving creature — thinks she is protecting us by announcing the arrival of any stranger (or vehicle) within 100 yards of the house. And she is relentless.
So when the strangers in question don’t simply walk or drive past the house, but stick around to set up camp in the back yard and actually attack the house with their ladders, large tools, and roofing tiles . . . well, Dixie goes ballistic.
And that pillow over my head? Useless.
So on that first day (Wednesday), I decided it would be the better part of wisdom to get up and stay up, rather than lie there waiting for the roofers to drop through the ceiling onto my bed. I could always take a nap in my cozy den a little later, right?
Wrong. Because once I was up and about, Dixie quieted down and parked herself — atop my feet — in her “I really need a massage” pose in front of my easy chair. The noise from above never abated, but somehow my presence (not to mention 20 minutes of my gentle ministrations) managed to soothe her.
Unfortunately, there was no one available to do the same for me, and I spent the remainder of Wednesday — until around 5:00 p.m. — listening to a cacophony of sounds alternating among drilling, scraping and hammering. I tried listening to music, but it was only halfway effective; and somehow, the rhythmic noises from upstairs never quite synchronized with the strains of Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2.
Even my old Dukes of Dixieland CDs weren’t loud enough. Some heavy metal might have done the trick, but that would just be trading one form of ear-splitting noise for another.
Anyway, I survived Wednesday — without a nap, I might add — and slept pretty well for about five hours that night . . . until 8:30 a.m. on Thursday, when the team arrived, allegedly to finish the job. Again accompanied by Dixie’s barking, they set to work for what should have been another half day, but turned out to be longer . . . until one of those southern afternoon rains arrived to put a merciful end to it.
And that evening, my son delivered the rest of the bad news. Upon returning home from work, he had climbed up to the roof to check on the progress that had been made, expecting it to be a fait accompli. But, as he put it, it was a mess. He estimated that — while we were indeed safe from that day’s rain — the job appeared to be only about half done.
Now it is Friday. For the third day in a row, I am running on about four hours of sleep; trying to ignore the guy just above me hammering tiles into place (at least, I hope that’s what he’s doing); and wondering what time today’s thunderstorm will arrive to delay things further, and whether these clowns work on the weekend.
*. *. *.
I know I shouldn’t complain. I read every day about people living in the hell of war-torn Ukraine, Gaza, and our own Florida Everglades abomination known as “Alligator Alcatraz.” And I am truly thankful to be where I am.
But I could really use some sleep.
Just sayin’ . . .
Brendochka 8/22/25
P.S. Following a wi-fi delay caused by a router outage — now rectified by my tech-genius son and daughter-in-law — I am able to report that the afternoon storm is upon us, and the roofers have fled. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
Or is it just the other way around? With Donald Trump’s and Vladimir Putin’s governing methods so closely mirroring one another lately, it’s nearly impossible to determine who is inspiring whom.
The Kennedy Center Opera House
I’ve been to the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow. It was in February of 1993, and it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. I’ve also been to the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg, back when it was still known as the Kirov and the city was called Leningrad. And I’ve spent countless hours at Washington’s Kennedy Center, National Theater and others, immersing myself in all sorts of entertainment, from ballet and opera to musical comedy to drama to jazz and pop music to . . . well, you name it. It’s all art, and it’s all wonderfully enriching and soul-satisfying.
To see it politicized is, to my mind, the ultimate degradation of the best that humanity has to offer: music, literature, drama, painting and sculpture. But it has happened in the past, and it is happening again.
Back in the days of the Cold War, when Russian artists from the Bolshoi, the Kirov and others performed outside of their country, they were accompanied by a cadre of KGB minders whose job it was to keep the performers from defecting. Sometimes they failed, as with Mikhail Baryshnikov, Rudolf Nureyev and Natalia Makarova. But for the most part, they were able to keep their charges in line.
At the Bolshoi
Following the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, it became possible for Russian citizens simply to move to another country if they so desired . . . though there seemed to be less reason for them to do so as restrictions were lifted.
But I wonder how long that will last. News has now been received that employees of the Bolshoi will hereafter be judged and monitored — not only for their artistry and technical excellence, as always — but also for their interest in, and views on, Russia’s war in Ukraine, which it still refers to as its “special military operation.”
In accordance with a contract between the Bolshoi and a Russian software company called Andek, the company’s “InfoWatch Traffic Monitor” software is being installed to examine email correspondence for obscene content and discussions about theater management. But it will also include filters to detect “political views” and “interest in the SVO” (the Russian acronym for “special military operation”). [RFE/RL, August 22, 2025.]
In addition, the Bolshoi’s general director, Vladimir Urin, was fired after signing a petition in 2022 expressing his opposition to the war. In his place, the theater’s operations are now under the direction of famed conductor Valery Gergiev, who — because of his vehement support of Vladimir Putin — has been shunned in a number of Western countries, the most recent being Italy. (See my post, “7/13/25: The Politicization of Culture.”)
Valery Gergiev
This being the Putin era in Russia — a regime of ever-increasing repression and persecution — these developments are not especially surprising. But what do they have to do with Donald Trump or the Kennedy Center?
Everything. Because Trump, less than a month after re-ascending the throne in the newly-gilded Oval Office, fired several Kennedy Center board members deemed not sufficiently subservient to him, replaced them with his own loyalists, and installed himself as chairman of the board. At the time, he wrote on Truth Social:
“At my direction, we are going to make the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C., GREAT AGAIN.” [Alexandra Marquez and Nnamdi Egwuonwu, NBC News, August 13, 2025.]
(Washington theatergoers have always been of the opinion that it was already great, but that’s obviously of no interest to the new chairman.)
The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (with the Watergate complex in the left background)
Since then, he has made personnel changes, stricken programs that he considered too “woke,” and talked about renaming it after his wife Melania — which would be a violation of the Act of Congress that created the Center in 1964. [Id.]
And earlier this month, he announced that he would host this year’s Kennedy Center Honors ceremony — a glittering event that has always been emceed by show business headliners such as Queen Latifah and David Letterman. He claims he was reluctant to host when first asked to do so, saying:
“It’s going to be a big evening. I’ve been asked to host. I said, ‘I don’t care. I’m president of the United States. I won’t do it.’ They said, ‘please.’ I didn’t want to do it? OK? They’re going to say, ‘He insisted.’ I did not insist. But I think it will be quite successful.” [Id.]
Right . . . suddenly he’s reluctant to take center stage. And the moon is made of cheese.
Since Trump’s changes have been instituted, the Kennedy Center has lost numerous long-time subscribers, and a number of performers have refused to appear there. Washington, D.C. — the nation’s capital — is in danger of losing its preeminent cultural center.
Taken alongside his alterations to the revered Smithsonian Institution’s exhibits and programs in his frenzy to eliminate any indication of DEI — even, in fact, attempting to rewrite history by erasing any mention of the negative aspects of our past and present — it is not difficult to draw a comparison between Trump’s and Putin’s actions.
It’s all about control and personal satisfaction. Because that’s what autocrats do.
And another demonstration of Vladimir Putin’s true intentions, i.e., to take control of as much Ukrainian territory as possible while trying to convince the world that all he really wants is peace, love and harmony, and that this whole “special military operation” is really Volodymyr Zelensky’s fault.
Only today, he may have screwed up.
Because in launching more attacks on multiple regions — the largest of this month so far — he hit U.S.-owned, non-military infrastructure.
The facility is a manufacturing plant that has no military application whatsoever. It is located in Mukachevo, in the Carpathian Mountains region of far western Ukraine, abutting the borders of NATO/EU member countries Hungary, Slovakia, Poland and Romania. It is owned by Flex Ltd., whose public relations director, Conor Phillips, described it as “strictly focused on civilian consumer manufacturing,” producing household goods such as coffee machines. [RFE/RL, August 21, 2025.]
Mukachevo, Ukraine
The plant was hit by two Kalibr missiles; the resulting fire spread over an area of 7,000 square meters. Phillips said that “A few employees and contractors were injured, and six individuals remain in hospital and are receiving medical care.” [Id.]
Strike on Flex Ltd. Plant
Ukrainian Foreign Minister Andriy Sybiha said the Mukachevo attack had caused serious damage and casualties, and — in a masterpiece of understatement — that the strikes were “contrary to all efforts to end the war.” [Id.]
As of this writing, I have not seen a reaction from the White House to this attack on U.S. property. There should be, at the very least, an expression of outrage and a demand for some form of restitution. But we’ll see what Washington’s response is.
In the meantime, while Zelensky pleads for a ceasefire and a U.S.-European agreement on post-war security guarantees; and Donald Trump says we’ll see what Putin comes up with in the next couple of weeks; Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov said today that any presence of European troops in Ukraine would be “absolutely unacceptable” and would be considered a “foreign intervention in some part of Ukrainian territory.”[Id.]
Lavrov also said yesterday that the issue of security — which was the principal subject of the multinational meeting at the White House on Monday — cannot be discussed without Russia.
Sergey Lavrov
That meeting included a 40-minute phone call between Trump and Putin, in which Trump pushed for direct meetings between Putin and Zelensky. But the Kremlin continues to insist that such a meeting cannot be held until certain issues are first resolved. And one of those issues — which has served as a major delaying tactic by Putin — is his specious assertion that Zelensky has not been the legitimate president of Ukraine since 2024, when the regularly scheduled elections were postponed due to a constitutional provision that freezes elections during times of war.
In today’s statement, Lavrov had this to say on the subject:
“Of course, I hope when and if it comes to signing future agreements, the issue of the legitimacy of the person signing these agreements on the Ukrainian side will be resolved.” [Id.]
“ . . . when and if . . .”
So . . . Russia will not negotiate an end to the war as long as Zelensky remains in office; but Ukraine cannot legally hold a new election until the war is over.
Stalemate.
Yet Donald Trump has previously said that Zelensky could end the war now if he wanted to. Which makes me wonder in what parallel universe the delusional occupant of the White House really lives.
Now, where did we leave off last week? Right — Valerie had been rescued from the elevator and made good her escape from Prague. It was her loss; she missed out on a lot of good times.
On the way to work one day, I noticed printed signs posted on utility poles and trees all along the main streets, but couldn’t make out what they said. When I asked someone at work, I was told they were an announcement of the regular five-year cleaning of the pipes. All water was to be shut down throughout the city — except in the central, Old Town district — for the upcoming weekend. That explained the rusty water in my shower.
But what does one do without water for an entire weekend? Well, if you’re an American on an expense account, you either leave town or check into a hotel where there is water. But being tourist season, all the major hotels were already full, and I could only find space in a lovely little boutique hotel, the Ungelt, just off the Old Town Square. It was perfectly located, and for $200 I had — not just a room — but a beautiful two-bedroom, two-bath suite with a huge living room and a full kitchen. Good thing, too, since it turned out I was going to have to share it with a partner coming in from the Cleveland office.
The partner’s secretary called one day just before the water shutdown to ask whether we could help out with a hotel issue. Her boss would be arriving in Prague a day earlier than originally planned, but when she had tried to add a day at the start of his hotel reservation, she had been told that all rooms in the city were booked, due both to the usual tourist crush and the upcoming water issue. I explained the situation to her, which she of course found incredible, being from Cleveland where tourist invasions were not really a problem and the water system wasn’t 500 years old. But I had a brilliant idea. I said I had just reserved a two-bedroom suite for myself, and I would be happy to have company for the one night. Her reaction was hilarious! She simply could not believe that I — a woman — would agree to share living space with a man — and a married man at that — whom I had never even met. Ah, these moral midwesterners! She just didn’t understand, first, that in most of the western world this would not be considered shocking; second, that he was a partner in the firm and if he tried anything objectionable, I would know exactly where to find his wife; and third, that this was Prague, where practically nothing was considered unusual. So she checked with her boss, and he said “yes please” — which must have sent her into spasms.
As it turned out, though, the water was restored before he arrived and I was able to move back into my apartment after only one night in the hotel. He was already on a plane by that time, so I left a note and the key for him at the hotel desk, and said I’d see him at the office on Monday. When we did finally meet, he said he and his wife had had a good laugh over the situation, and yes, his secretary was a bit on the puritanical side. No kidding!
Astronomical Clock (L), Tyn Church – Prague, Czech Republic
Anyway, while I was staying at the hotel, I was able to do some wandering around the Old Town, where I encountered a family of three from Germany: a young couple and a middle-aged woman, who were driving around Europe on the cheap. The young man spoke English, and told me they had lost their bearings in the city’s twisted streets. He asked if I could direct them back to the student hostel where they had stayed the night before. He showed me a piece of paper with the supposed address on it, but what they had written down was the word “Ulitsa,” which they had copied from a street sign, and which I had to explain means “Street” — not the name of the street as they had thought. They didn’t realize that the street names were shown in reverse, as for example, “Street Main.” Dismayed, they asked where else they might stay, and I told them about the water situation and the packed hotels, and that I had even had to move out of my apartment to an expensive hotel for two days. The young man suddenly became very excited. Could they stay in my apartment, since I wasn’t using it?
Now, I’ve heard of chutzpah, but this was beyond belief. Did I have “STUPID” written across my forehead? Was I really going to let three total strangers — and wayfaring tourists at that — move into my apartment, where all my belongings were, and where they couldn’t bathe or flush the toilet for two days??? Really? So I quickly made up a story about a landlord who wouldn’t allow tenants to sublet, wished them well, and got away from them as quickly as I could. They had a car, and I assume they slept in it that night. If they could even remember on which ulitsa they’d parked it!
As wonderfully friendly and generally safe as Prague was, it was not without its problems. The Romany people — commonly referred to as Gypsies — live in many parts of Europe, and were considered a huge problem in Prague at that time. Sadly, they were blamed for every crime that occurred anywhere in the city, whether they were guilty or not. One day, Rudy had picked me up at my apartment, and as we drove down the hill and around the corner, I noticed a man lying on the ground near the rear of a parked car, and saw blood on the ground near his head. I shouted at Rudy to stop, but instead he merely slowed down, took one look at the man, and kept going, saying it was not safe to stop. That was not like Rudy at all, and I kept asking him what was wrong with him. His answer shocked me. He said the man was a Gypsy, and if he was alive, regained consciousness and became frightened, he could very easily pull a knife and kill us both.
Now, I’m a city girl, and I’m no stranger to the dangers posed by all sorts of unsavory people. But I’ve also seen the results of hatred and bigotry, and I just could not allow a man to lie there and possibly die simply because we were afraid. So I told Rudy to find the nearest police or fire station. As luck would have it, just up the street we encountered a police car with two officers, stopped them, and led them back to the injured man, who was by then sitting up and holding the back of his head. The officers took charge, and we were able to go on our way. Sadly, that too was Prague. It’s the one truly negative memory I have of that summer, and it will never go away.
But, as with any ethnic group, there are Gypsies . . . and there are Gypsies.
Of all of the wonderful restaurants in Prague that year, my favorite was located outside the city center in a big, rustic log cabin set back from the road in a thinly wooded area. I never would have found it on my own, but my co-workers seemed to know every eating spot in town. The dining room was huge, and in the center was an enormous open fire pit, with a dozen or more chickens turning continuously on a long spit. And there was entertainment: a group of Gypsy musicians, who — along with the owners of the restaurant — were delighted to meet the friendly American woman who spoke to them in Russian. As a result, I was always given the best table near the rotisserie, and serenaded to the strains of Gypsy violins whenever I visited. (And yes, you can get sick and tired of hearing Zigeunerweisen.) Of course, as an American, I was by Eastern European standards a good tipper, so those guys weren’t stupid. But I had grown very fond of them, and hated saying goodbye at the end of the summer. If they went out and committed crimes after work, I never knew about it, and didn’t want to know. They were my Gypsies.
Then there was U Fleku — a brewpub that had been in continuous operation since the year 1499, even through the much more recent Nazi and Communist occupations. My friends Joe and Mary Saba — you may remember them from the London episode — came to Prague to work for a couple of weeks, during which time Joe had a big birthday to celebrate. So we —about a half dozen of us — took him to U Fleku and surprised him with a birthday cake. However, the only candles we had been able to find were the size of Chanukah candles, and when they were all lit, we were sure the blaze was going to burn down the 500-year-old wooden building. But it didn’t. And as we sang “Happy Birthday,” we were surprised and delighted to hear everyone in the room join in, singing in Czech. Who knew it was such a universal melody? I have to say, those Czechs really know how to party.
U Fleku
Oh, and about that cake. I had stopped that morning at my favorite bakery to order it. It was to be freshly baked and ready for pick-up that afternoon. I couldn’t decide which of several flavors to choose, so I said — or thought I said — “either that one or that one,” pointing to two of the samples. The cost was an incredible $7.00, which would have been the price of just a couple of slices back home. But when Rudy went to pick up the cake in the afternoon, he returned to the office with, not one, but two cakes, and for the same $7.00 — an unbelievable $3.50 apiece! I guess I must have gotten my conjunctions mixed up; clearly, I didn’t know my “or” from my “and.” The second cake did not go to waste, though — my Czech friends knew how to eat as well as drink. I could never quite understand how they stayed so slender; must have been all the walking.
One more restaurant story. I received a call one day from Michael Silverman in the Washington office (also from my London and Budapest adventures), telling me that a client and friend from Rutgers University, Dan Matuszewski, was coming to Prague and would be calling me to touch base. Dan was a delightful guy, and I was looking forward to hearing from him. When he called a few days later, to my surprise he invited me to join him for dinner, and said that there would be a third person with us: Father Theodore Hesburgh, then President of Notre Dame University. I had heard of but never met “Father Ted,” as he was affectionately called, and was honored to have the opportunity. However, not being Catholic, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, and decided I had better be on my best behavior.
“Father Ted”
To begin with, I couldn’t find the restaurant. I had the name (the Beograd — Belgrade, in English), as well as the address, and I knew where the street was, just off of the lower end of the famous Wenceslas Square. But I couldn’t find a building with the right street number, nor was there a visible sign with the name of the restaurant. So I approached a man walking by, who didn’t speak English, and asked him for the “Restaurace Beograd” — the Czech words for Belgrade Restaurant. Again, though, my pronunciation must have been less than perfect, because the poor man kept saying, “NeBeograd. Praha. Praha.” (“Not Belgrade. Prague. Prague.”) He obviously thought I was suffering from some form of dementia and believed I was in Yugoslavia! As he walked away, shaking his head slowly from side to side in apparent sympathy, I was thinking about how to find a Czech language tutor, and soon. But first I had to find the restaurant.
I did locate it a few minutes later, with the help of another passerby, just around the corner from where I had been looking. It seemed that the street, which appeared to end at a cross street, actually made a 90-degree right turn and continued under the same name. Oh, well . . . that’s Prague.
When I finally arrived, Dan and Father Ted were already finishing their first round of drinks, and I soon discovered to my everlasting delight that Father Ted was one of the funniest, most interesting, and most down-to-earth priests one could imagine. I can’t think of a topic we didn’t cover during that dinner, most of it with a distinct overtone of irreverence and accompanied by a good bit of raucous laughter. I’m not sure how much any of us managed to eat that night, but it was a great time and one of my fondest memories of Prague. I do regret, though, that I never did make it to Yugoslavia.
My very first chapter of this blog began with the sentence, “I once climbed a mountain in Czechoslovakia.” I did not lie, although “mountain” may have been a slight exaggeration. It sure felt like a mountain, though. Google Maps tells me that the tallest mountain in the Czech Republic is Snezka, at 1,603.3 meters, or 5,260 feet — just twenty feet short of a mile high. On the other hand, my mountain, Hluboka, is described as “a hill.” But from personal experience, I can tell you that even the hills of San Francisco can’t hold a candle to the one leading up to Hluboka Castle. To me, it was a mountain. And you can’t drive right up to the castle, whether by car or tour bus; parking is at the bottom, and then you walk. Straight up. It probably only took about 10-15 minutes, but it felt like hours. All of my walking around Prague had not prepared my body for that experience, and my legs were sore for a week (a good excuse for more of that marvelous, medicinal Becherovka!). But the magnificent castle at the top was well worth the trek. And that was just one part of a lovely weekend spent at Jana’s parents’ home in the nearby town of Pisek.
Hluboka Castle – Czech Republic
Before I go on with that weekend, let me tell you about all of those Janas I keep mentioning. In order of seniority, they were: Jana Pilatova (the one from Pisek and the smartest), Jana Stefakova (the hottie with the equally hot boyfriend), and Jana Jungmannova (the youngest, prettiest, and sweetest). If you noticed the “ova” ending on all their family names, that’s the feminine designation. The Czechs — in 1991, at least — had no problem with the centuries-old system of gender-specific identification.
So Jana P. had invited me to meet her family and get out of the city for a couple of days. It was about a two-hour bus ride through the beautiful countryside of Bohemia. Her parents had a very nice, comfortable, older home on a substantial piece of land with a huge vegetable garden in the rear. Her father was a farmer who worked for a large produce grower, and everything they ate was freshly picked or killed, skillfully prepared, and incredibly delicious. But they couldn’t understand why I had such a small appetite — which, I promise you, was not the case at all. They could not have been more hospitable, and I found them to be well-educated and politically well-informed, as was their daughter Jana. The dinner conversation was lively, mostly about their joy at finally being rid of the [expletive deleted] Russians. It is a truism that you don’t really get to know a country until you have spent time with the “ordinary” people, away from the tourist areas; and I felt privileged to have had that opportunity.
But all good things must come to an end. I was scheduled to return home during the last week of August, having already extended my stay for a couple of weeks at the firm’s request. As much as I loved being there, it was the longest I had ever been away from home, and I was feeling a bit homesick. I had a tape of Simon & Garfunkel’s concert in Central Park, and kept playing “Homeward Bound,” over and over and over again. So when I was asked to extend once more until after Labor Day, some little voice in the back of my head told me I had to decline. When I announced to the gang from the office that I was going, they planned a farewell barbecue at Rudy’s house, and I felt as though I had truly found a second family — a diverse and somewhat quirky family — in Prague, and it was not easy to leave them. But that voice kept telling me to get on home, and so I left as scheduled, with my six pieces of overweight luggage, some beautiful Czech crystal, the strains of Mozart and Gypsy melodies lingering in my mind and heart, and a wealth of incredible memories.
Prague Castle
A week or so later, just before Labor Day, my mother became ill and entered the hospital. She passed away on September 18th, of congestive heart failure. I had come home just in time. Always, always listen to that little voice.
But even in the aftermath of a tragedy, good things can happen. The loss of someone close to you can bring with it the realization of how precarious life really is, and how important it is to make the most of the time we’re allotted. And as I prepared to do exactly that, it became more and more clear that, for me, all roads did indeed lead to Russia.
Signing off until next week, Brendochka 3/2/23 (Reprinted 8/21/25)
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