On September 16th, Russian-allied Belarus released 25 political prisoners following talks with U.S. special envoy John Coale. They landed to a warm welcome in neighboring Lithuania — just the latest in a continuing effort to release all of the hundreds of hostages remaining in Belarus.

While Coale characterized the release as “a show of goodwill” on the part of Aleksandr Lukashenko’s oppressive government, there was a price to be paid for the lives of the innocent victims: the lifting of U.S. sanctions that had been imposed against two Belarusian companies following Minsk’s agreement to allow Moscow to use its territory as a launchpad for its invasion of Ukraine. [RFE/RL, September 16, 2026.]

And experts have pointed out that Lukashenko is simply continuing to arrest more people to replace those who have been freed. According to Vadim Mozheiko, director of the Krakow-based Kosciuszko Institute:

“For Lukashenko, the most important thing is . . . strengthening his political agency . . . given his lack of domestic legitimacy.” [Id.]

Separately, Mozheiko added that “a significant proportion of those released were forcibly deported from Belarus . . . yet another form of repression.” [Id.]

Further, a United Nations report on September 15th stated that:

“Belarusian authorities are using the country’s criminal justice system as an instrument of repression, systematically targeting and persecuting individuals deemed to oppose the government. Plainclothes officers routinely detain individuals they label as critical of the Government without warrants, subject them to beatings and stress positions, deny access to lawyers, and force them to record humiliating ‘repentance’ videos under duress and threats against their families.” [Id.]

While we celebrate the release of every single hostage, we must not lose sight of the continuing use of innocent civilians as pawns in Russia’s — and, by extension, Belarus’ — criminal pursuit of the war against Ukraine.

The fight continues.

*. *. *

So once again, let us again remember the other prisoners still being held hostage by Putin and his cohorts:

Prisoners of War:

The 20,000+ Kidnapped Ukrainian Children
The People of Ukraine

Immigrant Detainees in Russia:

Migrants from the Central Asian nations of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan,
Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan

Endangered Exiles:

Pavel “Pasha” Talankin
Mikita Losik
Yulia Navalnaya
Oleg Orlov
Countless Journalists and Other Dissidents

Political Prisoners:

In Afghanistan:

Mahmoud Habibi (Afghan-American)
Paul Overby (American, missing since 2018)

In Azerbaijan:

The “Azerbaijan 7”:
– Farid Mehralizada
– Ulvi Hasanli
– Sevinj Abbasova (Vagifqiai)
– Mahammad Kekalov
– Hafiz Babali
– Nargiz Absalamova
– Elnara Gasimova

In Belarus:

Andrei Chapiuk
Uladzimir Labkovich
Andrzej Poczobut
Marfa Rabkova
Valiantsin Stafanovic
Yuras Zyankovich

In Georgia:

Mzia Amaglobeli

In Russia:

The “Crimea 8”:
– Oleg Antipov
– Artyom Azatyan
– Georgy Azatyan
– Aleksandr Bylin
– Roman Solomko
– Artur Terchanyan
– Dmitry Tyazhelykh
– Vladimir Zloba

James Scott Rhys Anderson (British)
Aleksandr Andreyev
David Barnes (American)
Yevgenia Berkovich
Gordon Black (American)
Hayden Davies (British)
Yury Dmitriyev
Anastasia Dyudyaeva
Antonina Favorskaya
Konstantin Gabov
Robert Gilman (American)
Stephen James Hubbard (American)
Sergey Karelin
Timur Kishukov
Vadim Kobzev
Darya Kozyreva
Artyom Kriger
Michael Travis Leake (American)
Aleksei Liptser
Svitlana Loi (in Ukraine)
Mikhail Loshchinin
“Madame Z” (in Ukraine)
Grigory Melkonyants
Boris Nadezhdin
Nika NovakSvetlana Petriichuk
Leonid Pshenychnov (in Russian-occupied Crimea)
Ilya Remeslo
Nadezhda Rossinskaya (a.k.a. Nadin Geisler)
Lev Schlossberg
Sofiane Sehili (French)
Igor Sergunin
Dmitry Shatresov
Robert Shonov
Grigory Skvortsov
Eugene Spector (American)
Joseph Tater (American, disappeared)
Karina Tsurkan
Arseniy Turbinin (age 18)
Laurent Vinatier
Robert Romanov Woodland (American)

You have not been, and will not be, forgotten. Stay strong.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/26

With the Jewish High Holiday, Yom Kippur, starting at sundown tomorrow (Sunday), I’ve been preparing my psyche for the seriousness of the occasion by keeping my writing on the light side for the past couple of days. As many of you probably know, Yom Kippur is what is known as the Day of Atonement . . . or, as we liberals like to call it, Instant Lent.

Despite my obsession with the daily news — most of which is terrible because if it ain’t bad it ain’t news — I have always found it difficult to remain too serious for too long. And I can almost believe that the following was written with me in mind:

“Laugh whenever you can. Keeps you from killing yourself when things are bad. That and vodka.”

– Jim Butcher, “Changes” (The Dresden Files, #12)

With that said, I believe I’ve gotten the giggles out of the way and am now ready to face 24 hours of atoning for my sins of the past year — which, I am able to report, have been relatively minor of late . . . not always by choice, but sometimes because I’m too old and too tired for the big stuff anymore.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/26

When I began thinking about a topic for today’s post, it quickly became obvious that my choices from the news were all unacceptably depressing: Iran’s none-too-subtle hint at having the leaders of Israel and the U.S. removed from office before they will even discuss a settlement; Russia’s continued missile attacks on Ukraine and drone incursions into NATO countries; Alex Ovechkin’s slap in the face of his U.S. hosts as he stood behind Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov in support of Russian aggression; Russia’s threats against Poland, Lithuania, and others; Donald Trump’s premature celebration of his alleged takeover of Greenland; and so on, and on, and on.

You get the picture. It was all just too demoralizing. Which is why I decided instead to continue my “Life With Walter” series, and lift my spirits — and hopefully yours — with a little humor. So today it’s off to Rome, and the hotel booking that went horribly wrong.

Walter was in the habit of arranging his personal travel by himself; only his business travel was handled by our travel agent. And most of that involved complex reservations to locations like China and the Soviet Union — places where his corporate clients were hoping to do business before their competitors got a foot in the door. Difficult places.

So when a negotiation was scheduled to be held in Rome, both the travel agent and I were in unfamiliar territory. And, unlike his other trips when he traveled solo, he was being accompanied on this one by one of the younger attorneys in the firm, who happened to be female; and Walter being an older gentleman — and the time being the early 1980s — he wanted to be sure that she would have every comfort on her first overseas business trip.

When I asked the agent to arrange an itinerary to Rome, flying business class, with two separate rooms in a first-class hotel, she was somewhat stymied; this was not one of his usual business destinations, and she didn’t know his preferences. Flights were no problem, but did he have a specific hotel in mind?

I had already asked him about that, as I was not familiar with Rome’s accommodations. And he had waved a hand in the air, mumbled some generic name — I think it was “The Palace,” but I’m not sure today — and left it at that.

So that’s what I told the agent.

A few minutes later, she called back with some unsettling news: there were no fewer than five “Palace” hotels in Rome. Did I have any idea which one he meant?

Uh . . . no. I did not, and Walter was out of the office. So I did what I always did: made an executive decision. I told her to book the most expensive “Palace” in Rome.

A few days later, Walter and the young associate, we’ll call her Pat, took off for their Roman adventure. That being a time before cell phones, when overseas calls were sometimes difficult and always outrageously expensive, I didn’t expect to hear from him for a while. I tracked their flight to make sure it had landed safely, and settled down to catch up on a backlog of paper work during what I anticipated would be a quiet time . . .

. . . until the phone rang, and it was Walter, calling from Rome. Oddly, he sounded a little too cheerful.

The conversation went something like this:

Walter: “How’s everything going?”

Me (sensing trouble): “Uh . . . fine. How are you?”

Walter (chuckling): “Oh, fine. But I have a question. What hotel did you book us into?”

Me (immediately on guard): “The travel agent booked you into The Palace, just as you asked.”

Walter (now with Pat laughing in the background): “Did she say which Palace Hotel?”

Me: “Well, she said there were several, so I told her to choose the most expensive one. I hope it’s not too pricey.”

Walter: “Oh, no, the price is no problem . . . [pregnant pause] . . . but the place is a g**damned whorehouse!”

Me (listening to Walter and Pat now laughing uproariously in unison): “Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . WHAT??!!!”

Yes, I had booked my boss, and a lovely young associate, into what was apparently the most expensive bordello in Rome.

Oh, yes, I did.

As I’ve indicated before, one of the best parts of those ten years with Walter was our shared, somewhat warped, sense of humor. Many’s the time that was all that stood between me and the unemployment line.

This was one of those times. After a good two minutes of a very expensive transatlantic belly laugh, I was finally able to compose myself long enough to ask him what they were doing about a place to stay. He said that, despite Pat’s having received a couple of fairly tempting offers in the lobby of the house of ill repute, he had spoken with the manager, who immediately understood the problem and helped them arrange reservations at the correct hotel, where they were now safely ensconced. Apparently, it was not the first time this had happened.

Needless to say, it took a while for me — and the travel agent — to live that one down. But it was all in a day’s work in Walter’s world.

God, how I miss those days!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/26

I’ve never actually had the pleasure of visiting France, although technically I have been there: once, more than 30 years ago, when I changed planes at Charles de Gaulle Airport. I was on my way to Moscow, and had been booked from D.C. on Air France, with a change in Paris.

And I have to say, the food on that flight was the best airline food I’ve ever eaten.

But it never occurred to me that, if I were ever to move to another country permanently, I might choose France as my new home. While the country certainly has a lot to offer, my one year of French language study in the 9th grade was enough to convince me I’d never fit in.

Still, a person can change their mind. And this picture, which someone posted on Facebook the other day, is what might do it for me:

I mean, seriously . . . compare it with this most recent food pyramid issued by the current Secretary of Health and Human Services, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.:

Which one warms the cockles of your heart? Broiled chicken, steamed broccoli, and skim milk? Or a fragrant, slow-cooked cassoulet, warm croissants slathered in French butter, and a vintage French wine?

Okay, the “grandmother’s pyramid” was satirical (I think); and Kennedy’s creation — while regrettably intended to be taken seriously — is a garbled mess. But think about it this way.

Forget cholesterol for the moment. Forget diabetes, your blood pressure, and your kidneys. Think about the rest of your life, however long it may be — something which, by the way, none of us can predict. Do you want to spend those years counting grams of fat and sodium? Or would you rather look forward to a future of sheer, indulgent, downright sybaritic bliss?

For me, there’s no contest; Grandmere’s boeuf bourguignonne wins, hands down.

And if you’re thinking about the prospect of a shortened life expectancy, forget it. Because the average person in France currently outlives the average American by four to five years. There is much to be said for all of that joie de vivre.

Unfortunately, moving to another country is probably not a viable option for most of us, myself included. But I am inclined, at the very least, to begin a search for the best French restaurants in my area.

Maybe they’ll even deliver.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/18/26

This is a date I can never forget. First, because it is the anniversary of my mother’s death in 1991, at the age of 84.

And second, because it was my sister Merna’s birthday.

That’s right — our mother died on her older daughter’s birthday.

It had been a stressful couple of weeks. I was just back at home after a summer spent working overseas in Prague (a whole other tale). And now our mother was hospitalized with congestive heart failure, and the two of us were trying to concentrate on our respective jobs while coordinating our daily visits to the hospital and worrying about what lay ahead.

On the 18th, we had agreed to go to the hospital that evening, before heading out for our customary birthday dinner. As I was getting ready for work in the morning, Merna called to say she had checked in with the hospital, and that Mother had had a restful night. Good news.

But before I could get out the door, the phone rang again. The hospital had called her back to say that, contrary to expectations, Mother had just passed away.

Well, there went dinner.

At least, that’s how we joked about it later . . . much later. At the time, it was the furthest thing from our minds (although I did remember to cancel our reservation). But first we had to notify our offices, then came the phone calls to family and friends, and finally the funeral arrangements . . . in Rhode Island.

Did I mention that we lived in D.C., but were originally from New England?

And that we’re Jewish, which meant that everything had to be done quickly?

Thanks to a whole lot of help from family members in Rhode Island, it all got done . . . rather smoothly, actually, and without any of the customary sibling disagreements. Sometimes a shared loss can bring people closer together.

It wasn’t without its moments, though. I’ve written about it before: the funeral director who tried to sell us his most expensive casket (did I mention that we’re Jewish?!!); my daughter packing seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush for the trip; the Rabbi in Rhode Island who looked like Mottel the Tailor from Fiddler on the Roof; the rainy day that turned sunny just as we reached the cemetery; and the therapeutic laugh-fest later that night at our aunt’s house, after all the friends had left.

And on the return flight home a couple of days later, there was a party to plan for all of the friends from the D.C. area who hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. And I must say, it was one hell of a party. Mother would have loved it.

Everyone mourns in their own way.

Merna and I grew closer after that. We were best friends, sharing a mutual love of the theater, searching out new restaurants, shopping, and traveling together. We lived just a block apart, yet we called each other a dozen times a day on the slightest excuse, or for no reason at all. After all, who knew us better — or shared a longer history — than we did?

I lost Merna 26 years later, on October 24, 2017, after a two-year struggle with cancer. I was her caregiver during those two years, spending more time at her apartment than my own, until she finally went into hospice and surrendered to the inevitable.

I still reach for the phone to call her sometimes. A lot of times.

Happy birthday, big sister. I miss you.

*. *. *

Thanks to my readers for letting me share this day with you. As I said, we each mourn in our own way . . . and writing seems to work for me.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/18/26

Around 7:00 a.m. today, I woke up to the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” . . . and I thought I was going crazy until I realized it was all in my mind.

As the fog of sleep cleared from my head, I recalled that I had been dreaming of being at some sort of performance in a huge venue where someone began tentatively singing the first lines of America’s National Anthem. Others in the crowd — myself included — joined in, until the person in charge of the program tried to silence us. But we kept singing, louder and stronger, defiantly hitting that impossible high note on the word “free.”

And I recall the overwhelming feeling of joy and pride as the moderator gave up the fight to silence us.

That was just a dream, most likely precipitated by my obsessive immersion in the daily news. But it reminded me of a real event more than 30 years ago in Moscow. (Yes, that Moscow — the one in Russia.) It was July 4, 1993, and I had two tickets to a performance being given by a troupe of American Broadway performers at the historic Estrada Theater. By chance, an American friend was visiting that week, and she was my “plus one” for the evening.

As the performance began to a packed hall, the orchestra struck up the Russian National Anthem, and the crowd respectfully stood up, as was expected. And then we heard The Star Spangled Banner being played — in Moscow — less than two years after the fall of the Soviet Union. Again, everyone stood. But this time, there was singing.

There was a surprisingly large contingent of Americans in the crowd — the U.S. Ambassador and members of the embassy staff, business representatives, and a number of short-term expatriates like myself. And hearing our anthem, in that setting, stirred something in us that I had never experienced before . . . or since. It was pride: the simple pride of being an American — an American from “the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

I want that feeling back. I had it briefly this morning, in my dream. But I want it back for real. I want the horror show in Washington to end, and the real America to re-emerge. And until that day, I will keep my dream — and that evening in Moscow — alive in my head and heart.

Because, as bad as things are right now, I believe that this, too, shall pass.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/17/26

I never thought I would have the audacity to argue with the wisdom of the ancient Greek philosophers. But today, I have to call into question the words of one of the most renowned of that ilk:

“Change in all things is sweet.”

– Aristotle

I beg to differ.

Today I have my first appointment with a new internist in my new location. And I really hate having to change doctors. I have been imagining what his first impression of me will be. Most likely, he’ll think I’m cognitively okay, but a total physical wreck. At least, I hope my brain doesn’t suddenly stop functioning when I walk into his office. As for the body, there’s no debate: I am old and decrepit.

That’s not something that happens overnight; it’s gradual, and it sneaks up on you until one day you look at yourself in the mirror and you see . . .

I liked my last doctor. She was kind and understanding, and she followed my gradual decline at six-month intervals. But this new guy is going to see me for the first time as I am today, without benefit of having known the younger, active, un-wrinkled me. He’ll get the list I have prepared for him of my known ailments (not too bad for a person of my age), my medications (again, not too many), and then . . . my past surgeries. That list is as long as my arm, but the procedures were not for major health issues. The truth is, I am an orthopedic surgeon’s wet dream come to life.

Over the years, we all change — some of us more than others. It’s inevitable. And, contrary to what Aristotle believed, not all of it is sweet. Some of it is a big fat pain in the ass.

Anyway, I’ll let you know if I pass the Medicare-mandated cognitive test this afternoon. I hope I’m at least as smart as Donald Trump, who, as we all know, has aced it — over and over and over again.

The difference is, I know it’s not an IQ test.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/17/26

From all indications, a four-way breakup is not imminent . . . but the first cracks are beginning to show.

On September 14th, leaders of the Scottish National Party (SNP), Wales’ Plaid Cymru party, and Northern Ireland’s Sinn Fein — all considered center-left parties — signed a Memorandum of Understanding calling on the UK Government “to prepare for, plan and facilitate constitutional change.” [Geo All Day, posted on Facebook, September 15, 2026.]

While each of the parties has different goals, they have one thing in common: their desire for greater national self-determination.

The agreement does not set a timetable for referendums; and any proposed constitutional change would take time, depending on elections, public opinion, legal processes, and negotiations involving all three regions as well as London. But it raises the question of whether the three movements will remain separate, or unite to bring pressure on the United Kingdom that might result in an eventual breakup.

With all of the problems facing the European continent at present, the last thing they need is a geopolitical and economic trauma of this magnitude. Where would such an event leave England on the world stage? Would they reconsider Brexit, and decide to join the EU after all? Would the other three be strong enough and economically viable enough to stand on their own?

Luckily, these are not questions that have to be answered today. But they do raise the possibility of yet another re-drawing of the world map in the not-too-distant future.

One thing I can state for certain: Life is never dull.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/17/26

Yesterday I talked about my fear of artificial intelligence, and how that fear has been validated by the alarms now being raised — by the leaders in the AI industry itself — urging the immediate initiation of appropriate safeguards against the possible apocalyptic consequences if the current AI growth is allowed to continue unchecked.

One would think that, when the very people who created the monster and who stand to profit enormously from its expansion begin to caution against its overuse and misuse, the people in Washington charged with implementing those protections would take heed. And in all likelihood, many of them have.

But not Donald Trump. Oh, no . . . not the stable genius who sits on his golden throne, counting his crypto currency as he dictates his latest social media screed to his loyal aide and plots his next hideous, oversized, gold-plated tribute to himself at taxpayer expense and the rest of the world be damned.

Because he knows better than the creators of the technology. In fact, he knows better than everyone about everything. And if you don’t believe me, just see what he had to say yesterday when asked about placing controls on AI:

“The only control or ‘guardrails’ that AI needs is a STRONG AND SMART (High IQ!) PRESIDENT, and the U.S.A. has that, in spades!”

Then he added: “I am the Hoax Buster,” saying that all warnings about AI are just a hoax, even wilder than the“RUSSIA, RUSSIA, RUSSIA HOAX, or the Global Warming Scam. Thank you for your attention to this matter! President DONALD J. TRUMP.”

(Source: Heather Delaney Reese, “It’s a Lovely Life,” September 15, 2026.)

He returned to the subject in a later post that evening, because obviously he hadn’t yet gotten the bile out of his system, with this:

“The AI Hoax being perpetrated by the Radical Left Dumocrats [sic] is reminiscent of their Global Warming Scam of not so long ago, where everyone was going to die from extreme heat. What happened? MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!!! President DJT” [Id.]

What happened, of course, was that little flood in Nepal; but never mind, because in Trump’s parallel universe there is no global warming, there is no threat from the uncontrolled growth of AI, and all of the scientists and other experts are, in his words, “Revolutionaries, but Revolutionaries for a Bad and Evil Cause.” [Id.]

And we’re supposed to buy that.

I’ll tell you what: If you believe him, then I’ve got a bridge in New York I can let you have . . . cheap.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/16/26

As I understand it, the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts — the physical building and grounds — is the property of the United States Government, although its operation is the responsibility of a public-private partnership. (Note that I said “responsibility” . . . though that hardly describes what its current Board of Trustees has exhibited over the past 20 months.)

It was, of course, built in tribute to the memory of the late President John F. Kennedy — a visible, ever-present thorn in the side of the current occupant of the Oval Office: a reminder that it is unlikely that anyone will ever think of honoring him in similar fashion.

What the Kennedy Center is not is the personal property of Donald Trump. It is not his container of Play-Doh, to be shaped, mashed into an unrecognizable pile, and reshaped as the mood strikes him. But — despite Constitutional prohibitions, court orders, and all of the laws of common decency — he has now taken it upon himself to shut it down in an infantile fit of temper because he has been told he may not add his name to the facade of the building.

His hand-picked Board of Trustees announced yesterday that it had voted to close the building, allegedly for repairs needed for “safety reasons.” But in a social media post, Trump said the repairs — for which Congress has already allocated $257 million — would only be made if the Board is allowed to add his name to the building.

Never mind that a federal judge has twice ruled that that cannot be done without Congressional approval. In his ruling yesterday, Judge Christopher Cooper said:

“Simply put, Defendants cannot install memorials for President Trump or anyone or anything else at the Kennedy Center without Congress’s blessing.” [Steven Sloan and Ashraf Khalil, AP, September 15, 2026.]

So what do you do with a stalemate?

Well, no one has asked for my opinion (nor are they likely to), but I’m going to offer a suggestion anyway.

Trump and his Board of Merry Sycophants have already indicated that the Center would be closed for repairs and redecorating for about two years in any event. So I say, let it remain closed, without the gaudy, Trump-style “upgrading,” until this administration is history. Since the building and grounds belong to the government, its general maintenance during that time should be attended to by the appropriate federal agency, to prevent its falling into complete disrepair.

Then, shortly after January 20, 2029, whatever repair work really needs to be done can be undertaken, with a grand reopening to follow as soon as possible. At that time, only John F. Kennedy’s name will be on the facade; that beautiful bronze bust of JFK will be back in its rightful place in the Grand Foyer; a new Board of Trustees — comprised of people with the requisite knowledge and appreciation of a full range of performing arts — will announce the new season’s schedule; and Washington will celebrate a return to the cultural diversity for which the Kennedy Center has always been known and loved.

It may turn out to be more complicated than I have imagined, but it can be done. It has to be, because we cannot allow the nation — or its capital city — to be indelibly ruined by a malignant narcissist who is incapable of facing reality.

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts is legally owned by the United States Government; but in spirit it belongs to the American people, as Kennedy himself would have wanted. And We the People want it back.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/16/26