When there are millions of lives — indeed, the very existence of an entire nation — at stake, then threatening to take your toys and go home is not a solution to the problem.

Nor is a big kid holding a smaller kid at the top of the seesaw, suddenly letting him drop to the ground with a thud, only to bring him back up to hang in the air again, going to solve anything.

But Donald Trump’s desperate attempts to negotiate an end to the war in Ukraine — thus earning himself bragging rights and perhaps a Nobel Peace Prize — are looking more and more like a seesaw tactic every day. Consider:

April 22nd: U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio backs out of attending peace talks in London aimed at finding a solution to the ongoing conflict in Ukraine, as evidence of Trump’s displeasure at the failure of Russia and Ukraine to submit to his peace plan.

April 23rd: Trump berates Ukrainian President Zelensky, accusing him of derailing negotiations when a peace deal was allegedly “very close.” He says Zelensky’s rejection of Russia’s takeover of Crimea is “very harmful” to the attempts to negotiation a peace treaty, specifically charging that “It’s inflammatory statements like Zelenskyy’s [sic] that makes it so difficult to settle this War.” [Astha Rajvanshi, NBC News, April 23, 2025.]

April 24th (Ukraine time): An overnight missile and drone attack on the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv kills at least eight people and injures more than 80 others, including children. Additional attacks were reported in the city of Kharkiv, where at least two people were injured. [Jaroslav Lukiv and Jon Donnison, BBC News, April 24, 2025.]

April 24th (U.S. Eastern time): Donald Trump issues what he considers to be a strong criticism of Vladimir Putin, writing on his social media platform Truth Social:

“I am not happy with the Russian strikes on KYIV. Not necessary, and very bad timing. Vladimir, STOP! 5000 soldiers a week are dying. Lets [sic] get the Peace Deal DONE!” [Aamer Madhani and Samuel Petrequin, Associated Press, April 24, 2025.]

Wow! He’s “not happy”! It’s “not necessary . . . bad timing”! That’s telling him, all right. It’s really going to make old Vlad “STOP,” isn’t it?

I’m not sure about the number of soldiers Trump claims are dying each week . . . he regularly tends to pull statistics out of thin air . . . but I note there’s no mention at all of the number of civilians being killed and injured. I suppose that’s because he actually believes Putin’s claims that civilians aren’t being targeted.

And Trump’s idea of a fair peace deal? That would be Ukraine’s giving up a sizable piece — I believe the estimate is around 20% — of its sovereign territory to an invader that has no legal right to it. When asked by the press today (still April 24th) during an Oval Office meeting with Norway’s Prime Minister, what concessions Putin would be expected to make, Trump responded:

“ . . . stopping taking the whole country, pretty big concession.” [Id.]

Spoken like a true fascist.

I wonder what the Prime Minister was thinking at that moment.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/24/25

As I hinted yesterday, I’ve been busy for the last couple of days working on a mental re-set. While not totally avoiding the doom-and-gloom of the daily news (total ignorance is never a good thing), I’m trying to focus less on it, and more on things that make me — and hopefully, you as well — smile. Because in today’s world, that’s what we all need, isn’t it?

And so I’ve dredged up a couple of my early blog posts from 2023, when some of my current readers were still unaware that I was around . . . in fact, possibly even before I joined the 21st century and signed onto Facebook. (Yes, I know . . . I’m a late bloomer.)

And away we go. Hope you enjoy my reminiscences.

*. *. *

Reflections #1: “It’s In Your Blood”

Welcome back. For those of you who have been following me for the past six months through my long-ago travels around the western hemisphere, and especially my Russian adventures, this new series will prove quite a departure. And for those who are brand new to my blog: welcome to my wonderfully weird world of wit, wisdom and winsomeness — or at least, that’s what I’m aiming for as we start out along this new road.

But as I sat down at my keyboard to begin this chapter, I realized that I was showing clear signs of withdrawal, and that I’m one of those people who probably needs to taper off gradually, like when I tried to give up sugar. So, rather than attempting to make too clean a break from all that Russian stuff at once, I thought I’d start things rolling with a little bit of Russian-related nostalgia. Just a touch — you know, so I don’t crash and burn.

*. *. *

Ekaterina Alekseyevna (Katya, for short) was a delightful little lady from Moscow, who was teaching Russian at Northern Virginia Community College in 1985, when I decided that studying an impossible language might be a relaxing way to spend my evenings and weekends after working 40-plus hours a week at a super-stressful job in a high-powered Washington law firm. So now you know something about me: I am a glutton for punishment.

Our Russian 101 class started off with, as I recall, 27 students, only one of whom had ever studied the language before but needed a refresher course because he had met a Russian woman on one of his trips there and wanted to marry her. (Talk about gluttons for punishment? Sad to say, that did not work out well for him.) The rest of us were total neophytes; I, for example, knew how to say exactly three words in Russian: “yes,” “no,” and “goodbye,” which actually placed me well ahead of the rest of the class. As for the Cyrillic alphabet . . . well, judge that for yourselves:

But I am as stubborn as I am masochistic, so I dug right in, and at the end of the first semester, I was one of the 12 remaining students in our class. The high attrition rate was no surprise — just look at the freakin’ alphabet! And don’t even get me started on the grammar, or how to pronounce a word that begins with four consecutive consonants. As it turned out, though, I had something of a knack for the language, even though other, simpler languages had always eluded me.

In fact, after one of our evening classes, as several of us were walking together toward the parking lot, Katya asked me if I had ever studied Russian before. I said I had not, and she asked, “Well, why do you suppose you’re so good at it?” I told her I thought it might be genetic, because all four of my grandparents had come from Russia — the part that is now Ukraine. She stopped in her tracks, pointed a finger at me (no, not that finger, silly!) and declared, “Aha! It’s in your blood.” And thus, I swear, she put a curse on me. I’ve had this Russian obsession ever since — the language, the history, the culture, even (God help me) the politics — and that was almost 40 years ago. Let me tell you, that’s a long time to be obsessed with anything!

*. *. *

Relax . . . I don’t really believe in curses. But the part about the Russian grandparents was real, and particularly my maternal grandmother, to whom I was most attached. My Bubbe was an amazing lady: sweet, warm, loving, hard-working, nurturing . . . and tough as nails when she needed to be. She came here in 1905 from the old country — a town called Zhitomir, not far from Kyiv — as a young wife with one baby. She and my Zayde (grandfather) spoke no English when they arrived in America; but they were multi-lingual, speaking Russian, Polish and Yiddish, and quickly learned to speak English without ever being able to read or write it.

They settled in Woonsocket, Rhode Island — God knows why! — and had four more children, all five finishing high school with top grades, which was quite an accomplishment in those days. By the time their first grandchildren — my sister and I — came along, my grandfather had a thriving bakery business; they owned a multi-unit house, fully paid-for, where we and two of my aunts and uncles lived and paid rent; and they were the darlings of the surrounding, predominantly French-Canadian-Catholic neighborhood.

But back then I wasn’t really interested in my heritage, though now I wish I had been. They were just my loving grandparents, and were as much of an influence on my childhood as my own parents were. So what was it like, growing up with an ever-present Russian-Ukrainian-Jewish grandmother hanging over you — watching, listening, feeding, touching, hovering, feeding, scrubbing, scolding, feeding, hugging, fussing, and — did I mention? — feeding you every hour of every day for the first nine years of your life? Sound awful? Well, you’re wrong. It was wonderful, and not only because of the food. We were cared for, looked after, taught right from wrong (and almost everything was wrong . . . right?). We were loved, and we were safe.

And we grew up good.

And God help us when we misbehaved! If a grandparent or an aunt or uncle caught us doing something we shouldn’t, they didn’t conspire with us to hide it from our parents — they ratted us out, big time. And, depending on the severity of the crime, either we were sent to our room without supper, or . . . for the worst offenses, like lying, or killing the neighbor’s cat by sitting on it (my sister actually did that)* . . . we were spanked. Bare-bottom spanked. Usually with a strap. Did anybody report our parents to Social Services? Ha! What Social Services? — they didn’t exist. Did we hate our parents? Well, yeah . . . at the moment, we did. But not for long, because then we’d get supper in bed and a big hug along with the inevitable lecture, which usually ended with the best lesson of all . . .

And we grew up good.

* Note: I was too little to remember the dead cat episode, but I’ve been told she didn’t mean to kill it; she just wanted to go for a ride. You know: “Gidyap, Kitty!” I guess it was a really big cat. I’m thinking maybe Maine Coon size.

There were dozens of pearls of wisdom that my Bubbe had brought with her from the old country, mostly cautionary, like “Stay away from that girl; she’s a kurva.” (You can probably figure that one out.) Or, “Don’t sit on the stone steps; you’ll get piles.” (I think that meant hemorrhoids). Or, “Don’t touch that frog! You’ll get warts.” And my personal favorite: “If you keep frowning, your face will freeze like that.” Well, between the “piles” and the warts, how could I not be frowning?!!

But there were no warnings about playing in the dirt; or about stuffing ourselves with huge meals made with solid Crisco or schmaltz (chicken fat) and unlimited amounts of salt; drinking from each other’s soda bottles; climbing trees; roller skating without a helmet (who had helmets?); or reading comic books filled with bad guys blasting the good guys with their deadly ray guns.

And still we grew up good.

There was one other member of my grandparents’ household: my great-grandmother (Bubbe’s mother), who was called “Baba.” She was ancient — probably not much older than I am now, though I’m not a great-grand yet. She must not have been well, because I remember her spending most of her time in her room. Or maybe it was because we were all speaking English and she had never learned how and felt left out. But there were times when she was up and about, shuffling around in a housedress, an apron, and floppy bed slippers. She always had hard candies in her apron pockets along with — for whatever reason — mothballs. (Don’t ask me why; I really don’t know.) The candies weren’t individually wrapped in those days, so when she would sneak some to my sister and me, they tasted a little like . . . what else? . . . mothballs. There was also usually a little pocket lint stuck to the candy, but we didn’t care; candy was candy. Unless it was a mothball.

And we grew up good — though sometimes I wonder how we grew up at all.

It was a household crawling with relatives — parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second and third cousins from out of town, and of course, the ever-present old folks — all talking at once, arguing (they called it “discussing”) about anything and everything, and sharing each and every minuscule detail of their lives. It would probably drive me crazy today, but at the time it was normal, and I loved each and every one of those people — my people — with all my heart.

My Zayde and Baba both passed away when I was just eight, and my Bubbe lived another thirteen years after that. I miss them still, and when I finally get to that great shtetl in the sky, they’re the first people I want to see. Because of them, I got sucked into what my sister later dubbed “that whole Russian thing.”

And because of them, I think I grew up pretty good.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/5/23 (re-posted 4/24/25)

Today is officially the 461st anniversary of the birth of William Shakespeare . . . who I assume needs no introduction.

His birth date is estimated because the only existing record is his baptismal certificate, which was issued on April 26th, 1564, and it was customary at the time for babies to undergo baptism three days after birth.

I readily confess to being addicted to Shakespeare, though not to the entirety of his works . . . I haven’t enough patience to have read them all (though I can still recite about half of Lady Macbeth’s mad scene, and a good part of Marc Antony’s speech at Julius Caesar’s funeral, which tells you a lot about my high school experience).

But so many of today’s better-known aphorisms derive from his writing: “there’s method to his madness”; “to thine own self be true”; “neither a borrower nor a lender be”; “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”; and so on, ad infinitum.

And as I complete my second full day of detox, still struggling to avoid immersing myself too deeply in the world’s news of the hour, I find myself contemplating one of my favorite of the Bard’s passages, from Macbeth (Act V, Scene 5):

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

And now you can understand why I’ve taken these mental health days: I find myself wondering whether Macbeth might have been correct . . . that we’re here on earth for such a short time, we learn nothing from the past, and then we’re gone and forgotten . . . that, in the end, it’s all a lot of meaningless noise.

Wow! I really will need a few more days . . . because I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to exit the stage and be heard no more. I want to leave something behind, to be remembered for having contributed a little something . . . even if it’s only this blog.

And so I will now enter the next phase of my recovery: happy reminiscences. Until one morning, I will wake up to the sound of a news flash arriving on my phone, glance at it without thinking, and find my righteous anger once more stirred to the point of irresistibility.

And I’ll know for sure . . .

In the meantime, I’ll see you tomorrow with the first of my flashbacks — this one about growing up Jewish in 1940s New England.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/23/25

This happened earlier today, when a Russian drone attack struck a bus carrying workers to their jobs at a nearby mining and processing plant at Marhanets, in the Dnipropetrovsk region of Ukraine. An ordinary bus, carrying civilian workers . . . targeted while Vladimir Putin declares his willingness to negotiate terms of a ceasefire.

At least nine people were killed and 40 or more others injured in an attack that locals are describing as “commonplace.”

I will let the pictures (from RadioFreeEurope/RadioLiberty) speak for themselves.

And just three days earlier, on Easter Sunday, this man stood sanctimoniously at Russian Orthodox services, as though the outside world did not exist.

And for people like him, it doesn’t.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/23/25

And here I sit — having completed the first full day of my news-free detox program in which I am trying desperately to adhere to my three-step journey to sanity . . . while the blog to which I have devoted the past two years and four months of my life keeps drawing me back to it, like some enormous, other-worldly vacuum, just sucking my brain out of its cranium.

I’ve actually completed the first step: Acceptance. I accept that I am a news junkie, and that I am similarly addicted to writing about the news items that mostly strongly resonate with me.

Step Two was supposed to have been a cold-turkey shut-down. The constant deluge of negativity had been weighing on me, to the point where I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even waking up during the night and reaching for my phone to jot down some random thought. So I decided I wouldn’t read or write about the news at all for at least a couple of days . . . sort of like a reboot of my mind’s hard drive . . . and perhaps instead read a couple of the books in my “to-be-read” basket, catch up on some laundry, and maybe even rewrite my will.

But that lasted about as long as a Vladimir Putin-inspired truce. I kept hearing my phone signaling yet another incoming news item; and my iPad seemed to be calling out to me to respond, react, and begin writing.

So — as the books sat there, the laundry remained where it was, and I decided the will didn’t need changing after all — I adjusted Step Two instead. Cold turkey simply doesn’t work for me; baby steps are much more my speed. And I decided to try just commenting for a while on events that lend themselves to my particular brand of humor: i.e., sarcastic and somewhat twisted.

And — hands shaking like a recovering alcoholic who has just been handed a snifter of the world’s finest brandy — I began opening the day’s emails from the various news sources to which I subscribe, and felt myself settling with a deep sigh into that familiar territory to which I am inexorably (and inexplicably) drawn.

But I honestly could not find one item in the news that I could joke about without coming across like a sadistic psychopath. And I refuse as yet to plunge headlong into an immediate diatribe on the latest instance of man’s inhumanity to man; I am, after all, still in recovery. Instead, I’m just allowing myself to tiptoe (baby steps, remember) through the headlines, savoring the possibilities behind each one, but without the pressure of becoming emotionally involved. And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I will discover some bit of amusement I might have missed along the way . . . other than Kristi Noem’s stolen purse debacle, that is.

So, without further ado, here are some of the choice bits I managed to pass up today:

April 22, 1945: Hitler Admits Defeat. [“This Day In History,” History.com, April 22, 2025.]

That was a very good day, indeed. Perhaps those who continue to emulate his fascist rule would like to follow this example as well. Enough said.

The Harem of Elon Musk. [Elizabeth Bruenig, The Atlantic, April 18, 2025].

This one was really, really hard to leave alone.

Access to the federal website on COVID-19 is no longer publicly accessible. It now features a picture of Donald Trump and what it calls the “true origins of COVID-19” — supposedly a lab leak in China — and says that “public health officials often mislead the American people.” Absent is any mention of how to avoid catching or treating the illness, or anything about the 1.2 million Americans who have already died from it. [Jade Walker, CNN’s 5 Things AM, April 22, 2025.]

I will simply invoke a legal term for this one: Res ipsa loquitur: The thing speaks for itself.

Signal chat. Despite a second unsecured Signal call with unauthorized individuals, “The President stands strongly behind Secretary Hegseth, who is doing a phenomenal job leading the Pentagon,” according to White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt. [CNN’s 5 Things AM, April 22, 2025.]

There is just one word for this:

Three ways to make sense of Trump’s return. [The Atlantic, April 22, 2025.]

I love The Atlantic and its clear-thinking, straightforward articles. But this is one I didn’t bother opening, because I’m convinced there isn’t even one way — let alone three — to make sense of Donald Trump.

As controversies pile up, Trump allies increasingly turn on one another. [Chris Megerian and Zeke Miller, Associated Press, April 22, 2025.]

This one delivered a ray of hope. Maybe they’ll all just quit in disgust.

Kremlin says U.S. position ruling out NATO membership for Ukraine gives satisfaction. [Dmitry Antonov and Guy Faulconbridge, April 21, 2025.]

Don’t even get me started!

Putin suggests Russia open to direct talks with Ukraine, as strikes continue. [Yang Tian and Frances Mao, BBC News, April 22, 2025.]

SSDD: Same shit, different day.

Tesla profits plunge as Musk promises he’s ready to step away from role at DOGE. [Chris Isidore, CNN, April 22, 2025.]

Since one picture can indeed say more than a thousand words, here it is:

Magic mushrooms. It seems their use has increased “among all age groups in the US, but especially among adolescents and people 30 and older.” [Daniel Wine, CNN’s 5 Things PM, April 22, 2025.]

Well, that just leaves toddlers and 20-somethings, doesn’t it. So does that mean they’re smarter than the rest?

*. *. *

There were a few other items about a melting airport runway at Svalbard, Norway, in the Arctic; space taxis to transport satellites directly and more efficiently to their destination (sort of an uber-Uber?); and something about Ellen DeGeneres’ new home in the UK . . . by which time I’d genuinely lost interest.

Now, aren’t you glad I decided not to write about this stuff for a while?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/23/25

As I muddle through my first full day of world-news detox — valiantly (I hope) ignoring the pinging of my phone each time another headline drops into my Inbox — my eye happens to rest on a follow-up to yesterday’s disturbing, yet somehow amusing, story of the theft of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem’s purse in a D.C. restaurant. And it just gets funnier, as more details become available.

Some of the questions I posed yesterday have now been answered. The crime took place at Capital Burger, described as an “upscale burger restaurant” in a busy D.C. neighborhood heavily populated by many of the city’s better hotels and restaurants, and not far from the Convention Center.

Noem says that her purse was sitting by her feet underneath her seat. We don’t know how many people were with her, but a DHS spokesperson told the BBC:

“Her entire family was in town including her children and grandchildren — she was using the [$3,000] withdrawal to treat her family to dinner, activities, and Easter gifts.” [Madeline Halpert, BBC News, April 21, 2025.]

So I managed to pull up a lovely family photo, and it appears they may have numbered as many as ten at Sunday’s dinner.

For a burger joint, Capital Burger is not cheap (though judging from the menu, it may be well worth the price for those who can afford it). It’s still not clear why she needed $3,000 in cash — as much as (or more than) some families have to live on for an entire month — for a meal and some Easter gifts, when most people would use a credit card. But that’s her business, isn’t it?

Two big questions remain: First, how did the thief manage it? Did this masked cat burglar crawl by on his hands and knees, unnoticed by the crowd? Did he do a sudden cartwheel past their table, snatching the bag from the floor as he vaulted across the room and out the door to the street? Did he rappel from the ceiling on a wire?

Or have I just been watching too many old Cary Grant movies?

The second question is, to my mind, more important: What were the Secret Service detail doing at the time? Were they part of the dinner party? Eating at a separate table? Watching TV? On a bathroom break? Whatever the answer, they clearly weren’t focused on the person they were supposed to be protecting. And I suspect that — unlike a certain Secretary of Defense who seems able to commit the most serious security breaches without having to answer for them — there are some Secret Service agents in trouble today . . . as they should be.

As for the victim herself, she is not without culpability here. “Homeland Security,” by definition, begins at home. Shouldn’t that include being aware of one’s own safety at all times? Or does she not know the difference between life in Washington, D.C., and the ranch back in South Dakota?

Lesson #1, Kristi: Big cities contain all sorts of people, including spies, terrorists, and “ordinary” criminals of all types, from armed robbers to purse-snatchers. You have to be careful, even during happy family events.

It’s your job, for God’s sake!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/22/25

This is me, after only eight hours of trying not to think about all the things going on in the world that would make perfect subject matter for a couple of my snarky blog posts.

I thought that taking a couple of days off to clear my mind of all of the insanity would be easy. Instead, here I am, writing about not writing.

Because I keep wondering what’s going on in the world that I’m not aware of: How are the folks in Ukraine? Who will be the next Pope? What secrets has Pete Hegseth given away today? Did the police recover Kristi Noem’s DHS access badge (not to mention her $3,000)? Have I made it onto the Kremlin’s “foreign agent” list yet?

But as it turns out, this is really, really hard. I may have to taper off gradually . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/22/25

Not sure of the reason, but I’ve been feeling as though I’m running on empty of late. It’s probably just a symptom of PTSD — Preternatural Trump Shitstorm Derangement — and I’m thinking a bit of hibernation might help, wherein I eat lots of chocolate, drink a bit of wine, and binge-watch “Would I Lie To You?” on BritBox in my pajamas.

So I’m here to tell anyone who may be reading this that I’m taking a break from blogging to attend to other matters . . . not sure exactly what yet . . . and giving the world a bit of a rest. Don’t know how long it will take — maybe just days, maybe a little longer, or only until there’s a headline I can’t resist. We shall see.

In the meantime, I feel confident that the earth will keep turning without my input.

At least, I hope so.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/21/25

. . . I find it incredibly funny that the handbag of the person in charge of America’s security was stolen — not just under her nose, but also the noses of her Secret Service detail — while dining in a Washington, D.C. restaurant.

Well, no . . . not side-splittingly “funny” in the same sense as a Robin Williams improv performance; but from a more ironic, Agatha Christie sort of outlook. Just picture it:

The U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security, Kristi Noem, is dining in what I presume to be an upscale restaurant in Washington on Easter Sunday evening, when — according to news reports — “an unknown white male wearing a medical mask steal[s] her bag and leave[s] the restaurant.” [Josh Campbell and Kit Maher, CNN, April 21, 2025.]

Early reports have not yet provided other details, such as the number of people at Noem’s table; where she had placed her bag; the number and location of her Secret Service protectors; or the name and neighborhood location of the restaurant.

The CNN report did, however, provide a description of the contents of Noem’s bag: her “driver’s license, medication, apartment keys, passport, DHS access badge, makeup bag, blank checks, and about $3,000 in cash.” [Id.]

Where do I even begin? Maybe with the $3,000 in cash. Who, in their right mind, walks around Washington — or any city in the world — with that kind of cash? Although, considering her job, perhaps she has to be ready to travel at a moment’s notice . . . which would also explain the presence of the passport.

But those are the least of her concerns. Right now, some very slick operator is walking around with Noem’s home address, keys to her apartment, and her DHS access badge.

What is funny is the mental image I have of a Keystone Kops operation taking place in D.C. right now, wherein everything is being tracked, deactivated, locks changed, passport and driver’s license reissued, bank account frozen, prescription refilled, and someone making a quick trip to Sephora for the right shade of makeup — all in a matter of hours, rather than the weeks it would take any of the rest of us to accomplish the same things.

And what’s ironic is that this has happened to — let me repeat once again — the Secretary of Homeland Security.

*. *. *

What is wrong with this picture? The Secretary of Defense having classified conversations with uncleared people over open communication channels; a serial baby daddy randomly decimating what were, for the most part, well-running government agencies; and now — yes, I’ll say it one more time — the Secretary of Homeland Security losing her most important possessions in public.

What’s wrong is this: our country is being run by real estate investors, midwestern farmers, and apocalypse preppers who appear to be doing their damnedest to bring about the apocalypse.

And those who are best qualified to protect us — and charged with doing that very thing — are sitting on their haunches in Congress and in the Supreme Court, enabling the puppetmaster in the Oval Office to continue his Punch and Judy show, completely unchallenged.

Come to think of it, it’s not funny at all.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/21/25

On this date in 1978, a Korean Air Lines passenger jet en route from Paris to Seoul veered into Russian air space and was intercepted by Soviet jets. Although instructed to land at a specific airfield, the KAL plane instead made a rough landing on a frozen lake about 300 miles south of Murmansk. Two people were killed and several others injured during the landing. [“This Day In History,” History.com, April 20, 2025.]

Although South Korean officials claimed that “navigational errors” had caused the plane to fly off course, Soviet officials were not convinced. Nevertheless, the Soviet Union did allow a civilian American aircraft to retrieve the survivors. [Id.]

That little bit of history brought back a much clearer remembrance of a similar, but even more devastating, incident just over five years later. The following is from one of my earlier posts, but in light of the present state of U.S.-Russia relations, it seems worth repeating.

*. *. *

September 1, 1983: Korean Airlines flight shot down by Soviet Union. This one is personal, and still makes my heart ache to think about it.

I was in the office when the call came from the Dean of Columbia University Law School, telling me that John Oldham had been on that Korean Air Flight 007 to Seoul, en route to China for his summer of study and teaching. “No! Not the one the Soviets shot down!”

Tragically, it was.

John was an amazing young man — smart, hard-working, decent, with a bright future. Just having graduated from law school, he was scheduled to join our firm; but first he had been offered an internship in Beijing for a year of study, with a side job of teaching English. He had been scheduled to leave a day earlier, but had changed his reservations in order to accommodate a friend who needed help with something. That was John.

And now he was gone.

It fell to me to tell everyone in the office . . . but first of all, Walter. That was my immediate boss, Walter Sterling Surrey — a prominent international attorney and senior partner of the Washington-based law firm of Surrey & Morse — with clients doing business throughout the world, including China and the Soviet Union. But he was at a dental appointment that morning, so I had to tell him by phone, before he might hear it somewhere else.

When I called him at the dentist’s office and broke the news, he said nothing for a moment. Then: “Call Tregub. I want him in my office at noon. No excuses.” And he hung up.

Valeriy Tregub was our commercial contact in the Soviet Embassy. When I reached him by phone, there were none of the usual niceties. I told him bluntly, “One of our people was on that plane. Walter wants to see you here at noon.” And he didn’t argue.

When Tregub arrived, he looked as though he’d already been through hell; and his meeting with Walter didn’t help. I learned later from Walter that he had told Tregub what he thought his government should do — accept responsibility for a terrible, accidental tragedy, and offer restitution — but of course, they did just the opposite, denying fault and accusing the Koreans of spying.

And to this day, there has been no justice for the 269 passengers and crew members on that flight . . . John Oldham included. He would have been around 65 now, probably married with children and grandchildren, and likely looking forward to retirement from a successful and meaningful career.

But that never happened for John . . . just as it will never happen for the tens of thousands of those killed during the past three years, and still being killed, on the battlegrounds and in the cities and villages of Ukraine. Because it never stops.

In 1983, it was Yuri Andropov seated in the Kremlin; today it is Vladimir Putin. It seems that only the names have changed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/21/25