Exciting news! Remember Laverna, the mischievous surfboard-stealing otter from Monterey, California’s coastal area? The one the authorities have been trying to capture and re-home because she’s been annoying the human surfers who have . . . let’s be honest . . . been impinging on what is rightly her home, not theirs? The same one who has been evading them for months now, and who has the following comment for those humans:
“Pffttt!”
There’s been no word of her for a while, and I’ve been worried about her. Well, at last there’s been news . . . and great news at that. Laverna was spotted recently, and with her was her brand-new pup! That’s right — Laverna is a Mom. And the so-called experts who thought she was just an incorrigible little thief now admit that her behavior was simply the natural instinct of an expectant mammalian mama protecting her baby’s habitat. In other words, she was hormonal.
Now, we women have fought tirelessly against those males who persist in blaming everything we say or do on our hormonal “problems.” But in this case, it turns out to be true . . . and the result for Laverna and her little one couldn’t be more favorable: they will not be re-homed, and will be able to live peacefully in Monterey Bay for as long as they like. Justice has prevailed.
Now I look forward to details about the little pup. Male or female? Does it have a name yet, other than just a number? Any readers have suggestions? I’m thinking about “Justice” (it’s shorter than “Retribution”). I’d love to hear your ideas.
It’s a happy day at Blog HQ . . . “Justice” has indeed been served.
For those of you who may have missed them — and to keep you from forgetting me — I’ve decided to re-post some of my earlier episodes, particularly those involving my overseas adventures. So here for your reading pleasure (I hope) is my first trip — as a not-so-average American tourist — to Russia. Enjoy.
In 1984, I enrolled in an evening course at the local community college. My children were grown, and I found myself luxuriating in some quiet time in the evenings and on weekends. Watching what passed for TV entertainment was not an exciting option, and I’m simply not an artsy-craftsy person (no talent); so I decided on the next most logical thing to fill my free time: the study of a second language. Why not?
Pick A Language . . . Any Language
Actually, at the time, I was envious of some of my co-workers who were bilingual or multilingual. When I thought about studying a foreign tongue, I recalled high school French class, where I had learned the grammar and vocabulary but exhibited what any self-respecting Parisian would consider a truly insulting accent. So that’s when I came up with the obvious next choice: Russian. “Why obvious?” you ask? Well, it was a genetic thing. All four of my grandparents had emigrated in the early 1900s from what is now Ukraine but was then part of the greater Russian Empire, and their entry documents to the United States listed their nationalities as Russian. So I have always identified as a second-generation American of Russian descent, until recently; now I proudly introduce myself as a second-generation American of Ukrainian descent, for obvious reasons. But something about Russia stays with me: her history, her culture . . . even her interminable misery.
Our class, which met twice a week, started out with about 27 students. By the end of the first semester, we were down to a close-knit, hardcore group of 12 survivors. Some called us masochists, but we didn’t agree. Together with our amazing teacher — a delightful lady from Moscow named Ekaterina, who was now a citizen of the U.S. — we had a wonderful time exploring the intricacies of an impossible language, and delving into Russian history, literature, and politics on the side. One day, when Ekaterina learned of my Russian/Ukrainian ancestry, she shook a finger at me and exclaimed, “Aha! It’s in your blood” — thereby consigning me to a lifetime obsession with all things Slavic.
Still Rolling . . .
After three years, one of my classmate friends, a German woman named Gisela, and I decided it was time to get a first-hand look at the mysterious place we had been studying for so long. In 1987, we began planning and putting aside money for our trip, and in August of 1988, we were off. Which is just what our families and friends thought we were when we told them where we had chosen to take our big (and my first) overseas vacation. We didn’t care. We signed up with a tour leaving in mid-August, packed some clothes, walking shoes, and every over-the-counter medication we could think of, and headed into the unknown.
But first . . .
Oh, yes, first there was my boss Walter Surrey’s reaction. When I told him of my plans, his initial thought was, “Well, what am I going to do for two weeks?” Then, sensing a business opportunity, he remembered Viktor Akimov. And he also remembered a client who had been trying to sell his company’s product, an electric men’s shaver, in various parts of the world including Russia. And here was I, the perfect middleman. So, contrary to Russian law restricting foreigners’ business activities under tourist visas, two electric shavers also went into my luggage as “gifts” for Walter’s old friend Viktor.
We sent a telex — high-tech in those times — to Viktor, advising him of my impending arrival and itinerary. We did not hear back from him before my departure date, but I had his phone number with me, and instructions to ditch the shavers before coming home if I was unable to find him.
After an exhausting trip from DC to New York and overnight from New York to Moscow (an eight-hour time difference), we arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport looking like a bunch of . . . well . . . just what we were: bedraggled American tourists. We were greeted by Tamara, our official Intourist guide (one of a slew of government-controlled organizations directly answerable to the KGB), claimed our luggage, and headed for Passport Control. There were two lines open, and I was steered to one that was manned by a tall, blond, handsome young man with an appropriately stern facial expression. I put my passport, open to the front page, in the little tray at the base of the bullet-proof glass window. He picked it up, checked the visa, looked at the picture, looked at me, looked at the picture, looked at me, looked at . . . oh, well, you get the idea. Then he asked, in his best, heavily-accented English, “This your photo?” At the time, I was a 40-something, reasonably decent-looking redhead, not easily disguised, so yes, it was obviously my photo. I replied, in my best, American-accented Russian, “Yes, that is I.” Ekaterina was a stickler for grammar.
Tall-blond-and-handsome began again: looked at the passport, looked at me, looked at the passport, etc., and finally asked: “You sure this your photo?”
Enough, already. The impatient, impetuous, and somewhat impish American in me burst forth, and I smiled, this time answering in English: “Well, it’s not Raisa Gorbachev.”
Oh, my God! This was the hockey puck fiasco all over again (see last week’s episode), but worse — I was now on their turf. I began to wonder what the inside of a Russian prison looked like and what the usual sentence was for being an American smart-ass.
But miraculously, “Sourpuss” broke rank and actually smiled. Barely managing to stifle an audible laugh, he stamped my passport and waved me through, and I knew I had made his day. Welcome to Moscow, Mrs. Gorbachev — or whoever you are.
Cosmos Hotel, Moscow
After a long and thorough clearance procedure through Customs, we were finally in a bus on our way to the impressively large Cosmos Hotel, nowhere near the center of Moscow but still within the city limits. The outside was fairly nice; the interior, not so much. Face it: it was shabby, without the chic. Our luggage made it off the bus and into the lobby, and when everyone else had claimed their two bags, there remained . . . nothing. An empty cart. My bags were nowhere to be seen.
“TAMARA!!!”
Poor Tamara. Missing luggage was the last thing she needed to deal with. Muttering a very Russian “Oy,” she set to work earning her pay. She consulted someone at the front desk, who shrugged and said something unintelligible while waving a hand in the direction of a staircase. Tamara told me that I had to go — by myself, since she couldn’t leave the rest of the group — downstairs to “Lost and Found.” In the basement. Of an enormous Russian hotel. In Moscow. Alone. Even Gisela wasn’t allowed to come with me.
With our exhausted and puzzled group waiting anxiously in the lobby, I steered my shaky legs down the steps to a large, dimly-lighted, unfurnished and unoccupied room. I called out — “Hello?” — and waited. After a few seconds, I called out again, louder. “Hello?!!” Finally, a man emerged from behind a closed door, and I told him I was looking for my two suitcases. Showing him my baggage claim check, and carefully spelling my name, I waited while he went back through the same doorway. About 12 hours later — all right, it was just a couple of minutes, but it felt . . . you know — he returned, miraculously with my actual bags, which seemed no worse for the wear. I resisted hugging him, but did say thank you about 100 times, and struggled back up the steps, shlepping my bags behind me. My fellow travelers heaved a collective sigh of relief when I returned in one piece, and we all headed for our assigned rooms. But as Tamara handed Gisela’s and my room keys to us, I swear she looked at me strangely. Or was I simply coming down with early symptoms of Soviet paranoia? I didn’t have any pills for that.
Gracious Living at the Cosmos Hotel
By now, we had been in Russia for several hours, between the lengthy airport processing, the bus ride, and the mystery of the disappearing suitcases, and it was nearly time for lunch with our group in the hotel dining room. There was just enough time to take our things to our room. Gisela and I reached our floor and introduced ourselves to the dezhurnaya — the female concierge (a.k.a. watchdog) on every floor — entered our room, set our bags down, began to look around . . . and the phone rang. “What the hell . . . ?”
Well, when a phone rings, you answer it — right? So I did, and a man whose voice I didn’t recognize asked for me by name. He introduced himself as Georgi Karpov (not his real name), a colleague of Viktor Akimov, who he said was on holiday and had asked him to get in touch with me as requested in Walter’s telex. All of that made sense, but what was totally spooky was the timing of his call, as though he had known precisely when we reached our room. Maybe it really was coincidence. Or that pesky paranoia.
In any event, we arranged to meet in the hotel’s coffee shop the next morning at 9:00, right after the group’s scheduled 8:00 breakfast. And then I had to tell Tamara that Gisela and I wouldn’t be joining the group on their first tour the following day because I had an early meeting with an official from the Foreign Ministry, after which we had an appointment at the American Embassy. Way to blend into the crowd, Brenda. Predictably, Tamara was less than amused, but had no recourse. I knew that she was, however, required to report any anomalies to her superiors, who in turn reported directly to the scary folks at KGB headquarters. First day, and I’m already on their radar. Oh boy!
After a quick lunch in the hotel dining room, we were herded back onto our bus for a driving tour of some of the city’s highlights — no stops, but views of the outside of the Kremlin, the entrance to Red Square, the front of the Bolshoi Theatre, and the like. The real tours were to start the next day. Then dinner in a rather nice restaurant, back to the hotel, and up to bed. As we unpacked our bags, Gisela and I staged the first of what were to become our nightly chats for the benefit of the hidden microphones in the room; found that the shower actually dispensed hot water; and slept rather soundly, all things considered. So far, so good.
Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow
* *. *
This tale is getting a bit long for a single post, so I will leave you here until next time, when I will expand on Mr. Karpov and his attempted provocation; the “gypsy” (unregistered) cab driver and his attempted provocation; a near-kidnapping (us) and an actual drug bust (not us) in Tbilisi, Georgia; and perhaps a few other improbable but absolutely true tales from the pages of my journals. See you then.
Can’t help it . . . reading (and commenting on) the news is a hard habit to break, and I didn’t say I was going cold turkey.
This is just a quick pat on the back to one of my favorite people in the whole world: Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, who was heard on Friday to tell Russia, in effect:
“You cut our power, we kneecap your biggest economic driver [oil and gas infrastructure].” [Ben Lefebvre, Politico, Nov. 10, 2023.]
“Ta-da!”
Go, Volodya! No bullies in your schoolyard.
*. *. *
My apologies . . . I know that’s no way to address a President, but you are my hero, sir.
All good things must come to an end. How many times during our lives do we hear that? Unfortunately, it’s true. And today marks another end: the end of my daily blog. It is with a heavy heart that I tell you — my very few readers — that I am giving it a rest . . . at least partially.
No, it is not due to illness. But it seems that publishing every day may have been overdoing it. Even reading Shakespeare — okay, especially reading Shakespeare! — can get tiresome after awhile, and I regret to say that my readership has dropped off to almost nothing on many days.
I’ve kept going for the sheer pleasure of writing — I really love doing it. But these little presentations take time and effort. Before my fingers ever touch the keyboard, there’s reading (mostly of the daily news), background research, thought, analysis . . . and only then, searching for my own words. It’s a joyous process, and I shall miss it, and I suspect that I shall direct it elsewhere before long.
But writing for oneself is a lonely undertaking. Maybe I’ve chosen the wrong subject matters; or perhaps a blog just isn’t the right venue. Anyway, it’s time to cut back. But . . .
Yes, there is always a “but.” But I will probably be popping up once or twice a week, as inspiration strikes. And all those old blog posts are still there for the reading. So it’s not goodbye . . . just “see ya.”
Back in the early 1970s, I was a working, single mom whose two young children were attending a local day camp during the summer months in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C. It was a great place, where they had earlier been year-round pre-school students. Now that they were a little bigger — ages 8 and 10 — they were able to enjoy the many summer activities, including swimming lessons, horseback riding lessons, and the occasional field trip.
In 1972, then-President and Mrs. Richard Nixon were enjoying dinner in Beijing, China, with Premier Zhou Enlai, when the subject of two newly-captured pandas came up, and Mrs. Nixon commented that she was very fond of the big, cuddly-looking animals. Impulsively, Premier Zhou is said to have offered, “I’ll give you some” . . . and thus began 50 years of “fostering” of China’s most adorable wild denizens, one pair at a time, at the National Zoo in Washington. The first couple — Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing — lived happily in their new home until 1992 and 1999, respectively, and were the Zoo’s main attraction throughout their lives.
It looks like a cashew nut to me. Go ahead … try it.
Of course, a field trip to the Zoo was a must for the day camp children and their counselors, and so off they went one bright, hot summer day. It started out wonderfully, with the kids enjoying the beautiful park and the variety of exotic animals as they made their way to the Panda House — a large area with both an indoor space and an outdoor garden reminiscent of the pandas’ native China. Because of the heat of the day, Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing were being kept indoors, where their air-conditioned “house,” liberally planted with bamboo, was enclosed behind glass for easy viewing by the visitors. In addition, there was a long metal railing in front of the window, set back a few feet, where visitors were required to stand in order to keep them from tapping on the glass or otherwise disturbing the residents.
Let me explain here a little bit about my daughter. A bright, energetic, happy child, with an insatiable curiosity about everything, she somehow managed to be the unwitting target of any trouble that might be lurking within easy range. And Zoo day was no exception. Standing behind the metal railing with her friends, exactly where they belonged, she did what the others were doing — rested her hands on the railing. But for whatever reason, she moved her hands to the underside of the railing . . . and literally got the shock of her life.
In some way, for some reason, and by someone unknown — none of which were ever explained to me — underneath that railing and extending its full length was a live, exposed electrical wire. And when her hands touched it, the shock was great enough that her hands stuck to the railing and the charge went through her entire body. One of the female counselors — putting herself in danger — grabbed her to try to pull her away, and was herself stuck to my daughter and unable to let go. A second counselor — a young man with considerable strength — then grabbed the first counselor, and was finally able to pull them both away from the railing and the wire.
Not Funny In Real Life
Needless to say, the field trip was cut short. The two counselors were all right, but my daughter had received burns to the palms and fingers of both hands . . . and no one knew what else at that point. What worried her most of all, though, was that she had wet her pants; and at eight years of age, that’s really, really bad.
The bottom line is that, other than the burns, she was all right. They rushed her to the zoo’s on-site clinic, where her burns were treated and her hands wrapped. Then everyone piled back onto the school bus and headed back to school, where the principal called me at work . . . there were no cell phones in those days. I made it from downtown D.C. to the school, about eleven miles away in Virginia, weaving through city traffic and running a few red lights, in a record seven minutes . . . and never saw a police car the whole way there.
Woman On A Mission
When I arrived, she was sitting there, in her embarrassingly wet panties and shorts, rather enjoying all the attention, as her brother sat worriedly nearby. After profusely thanking the two counselors who had saved my daughter’s life, I hustled both kids into the car and headed for the nearest hospital emergency room, where they tried to keep me out of the treatment area because, they said, some parents tended to faint. I told them I wasn’t going to do anything that ridiculous, and that I would gladly sign a release and sit in a corner, but no army was going to separate me from my little girl at that point. As they unwrapped her hands, I could see that the burns were actually not as bad as I had imagined, and I was able to relax a bit. And my daughter — did I mention she’s a Leo, and a bit of a drama queen? — once again stole the show when she turned her big blue eyes toward the doctor and said, “I’m just so glad this happened to me, and not my brother.”
That’s my girl.
End of story: The Panda House was closed to the public for a while, during which time the indoor viewing space was completely redesigned. My daughter is still alive and kicking. And the pandas were blissfully unaware that anything unusual had happened.
Xiao Qi Ji – Son of Mei Xiang and Tian-Tian
*. *. *
I’ve gone through this whole long tale simply to point out the reason that the panda program at the National Zoo has special, sentimental meaning to me. I visited Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing many times after that day, as well as their successors, Mei Xiang and Tian-Tian. The entire country holds them very dear, and none more so than the people of Washington, who received that first pair. Zoos in San Diego, Memphis and Atlanta have been similarly blessed; and now, they’ve all gone home (except Atlanta’s, who will follow shortly). They have been, for five decades, a symbol of friendship between two powerful nations that otherwise have more than their share of contentious issues.
And now, even that link is in danger of being severed. The current program was scheduled to end on December 7th of this year anyway. As has happened at each expiration date in the past, it was expected to be renewed again; but this time, there has been no indication from the Chinese officials as to when — or if — that will happen. I have a sinking feeling it won’t, at least not right away. And if not, the pandas would effectively be held hostage, their travel privileges and their panda passports revoked and held by the Chinese Panda Police; America would feel the loss, as though of our own children; and there would be one more bone of contention between our two countries — the very last thing this world needs right now.
“Panda Express”
*. *. *
Message to President Xi: “What is it . . . spite? Some new sort of panda diplomacy? Pardon my language, sir, but this really sucks. Regardless of political differences, certain things in this world should remain inviolate: humanitarian aid, the Olympics, and the Panda Program, for starters. We Americans, in general, are a sentimental lot. We love our children and our animals. We know the pandas really belong to China, but we cherish them as though they were our own. We’ve taken first-rate care of them for 50 years, delivered their babies, and mourned them when their time ran out. So I will try to remain hopeful that the program may be renewed without interference from political issues. Anything less would be just plain mean.”
No, they’re not twins, separated at birth or otherwise. They’re not “brothers by another mother.” They’re not, as far as anyone knows, related at all. But their life ambitions, their political and humanistic views, and their projected personae are so disturbingly similar as to make one wonder what serendipitous tricks of fate brought them together at this point in their lives . . . and how their relationship will ultimately turn out.
On October 17th, I wrote about Vladimir Putin’s and Xi Jinping’s plans — no longer a mere dream — for a “New World Order” to replace what they term “Western dominance.” And yesterday, using Hong Kong as an example, I delved further into the sort of patient, long-term planning required to execute such a scheme.
Meeting in Moscow – March 2023
Along the same lines, there’s also news this week about the progress of Xi’s ten-year (thus far) “Belt and Road Initiative,” supposedly designed by him to demonstrate China’s intention and ability to assist the poorer nations of the world in rebuilding their economies and infrastructures. What generosity! What nobility! What altruism!
What a crock!
Originally conceived in 2013 by Xi as a program of development and investment initiatives designed to link East Asia and Europe by means of physical infrastructure, it has since been expanded to include a dozen or more countries throughout the world, including Pakistan, Kenya, Zambia, Laos, Mongolia, Afghanistan, and the five (former Soviet) Central Asian nations of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan. And we are expected to believe that the more than a trillion dollars thus far invested by China in this massive undertaking was given solely for the benefit of the recipients.
Seriously?
“Daddy Warbucks”
To begin with, nothing was “given,” except loans. Some of the world’s poorest nations have been plunged so deeply into debt, they are now in imminent danger of complete economic collapse; those loans are coming due, and default is a very strong possibility, even a likelihood in many cases. Then what? That, of course, depends largely upon the terms of the loans — and whatever else Xi may have in mind — and remains to be seen.
But for ten years, Xi has been gaining dominance over those countries, as well as an image of the benevolent uncle, always ready with a helping hand — and an open wallet — whenever and wherever help is needed. That takes time . . . and infinite patience.
As for the other twin — Vladimir Putin — it comes as no surprise, in looking back on his two decades as president of Russia, to realize that he has, in his own way, been maneuvering himself into similar positions in Africa, the Middle East, Cuba, etc., offering food, munitions, technology, training, military support, and the like. And in some mineral- or gemstone-rich regions, he has actually been receiving payment in precious materials, such as diamonds. Lots and lots of diamonds. Not too shabby.
Payday for Putin
So there we have the fraternal “twins,” each doing what he does best and working toward a common goal: world domination. Not simply dominance; I said domination. The difference is subtle, and more than a little significant. And they both know it.
*. *. *
And what happened to Romulus and Remus? Well, after a somewhat bumpy childhood, as young men they set out to build a city together. But they fell out over the best location for it, and Remus made the mistake of insulting Romulus’ ideas for their plan. A fatal mistake, at that; he was killed, either by Romulus himself or one of his minions. And Romulus then went on to build the city-state of Rome according to his own vision. Problem solved.
“To Brotherhood”
So . . . Cain and Abel; Romulus and Remus; Hitler and Stalin . . . Putin and Xi? As always, we — the non-involved public — can only wait and see what shakes out of the trees, and then prepare to live with the bruised fruit. In the case of Messrs. Putin and Xi, I am breathless with anticipation . . . and a fair measure of sarcasm.
When my son was still an infant, I noticed that he always seemed to be a little late in entering a new phase of physical development, whether it was rolling over, sitting up, crawling, or standing. But I also noticed that, rather than spending days or weeks simply trying to do something, one day he would just do it, and would actually be pretty much on schedule after all, according to the “experts.” It took me a while — because he turned out to be a pretty clever little kid — but I finally figured it out.
What success looks like
He had been taking his afternoon nap in his room one day, and I went to check on him to see whether he was awake yet. I peered around the corner of his doorway and found him wide awake, kneeling and holding onto the bars of his crib, trying ferociously to pull himself up to a standing position. I waited quietly out of sight, mentally struggling with him, as he made little grunting sounds and pulled, and pulled, and pulled. And then . . . he did it! He was standing, all by himself, holding on to the top of the crib rail. And I was so excited, I burst into his room, shouted “You did it!” . . . and scared the bejeezus out of the poor baby. Startled, he let go of the rail, lost his balance, and plopped down on his fanny. Of course, he was fine; I picked him up, smothered him with hugs and kisses, and told him what an amazing, wonderful baby he was.
And I learned an important lesson about my little genius: He didn’t want to be seen trying and failing; he wanted to surprise and impress us by doing it right, seemingly for the first time. So he would practice when no one was looking, no matter how long it took, until he mastered whatever it was. He’s still like that.
Just like China.
*. *. *
It would be foolish to underestimate the intelligence and skill — and the patience — of a people who could create a traversable wall, snaking more than 13,000 miles through the mountains of their vast, isolated country, that would be visible from space some 2,000 years later . . . and complete it way back in the year 220 B.C.E. How many years, and how many lives, must that have taken?
The Great Wall of China
And around the same time, to have been capable of creating a collection of more than 8,000 lifelike terracotta sculptures depicting the army of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, including warriors, chariots and horses — each with unique features — to be buried with the Emperor upon his death as protection in the afterlife. And to preserve them in such a way that they would be discovered, almost twenty centuries later, in nearly pristine condition.
Terracotta Army at Xi’an, China
Yet that may be just what we have done. We may have underestimated — not the technical or artistic skills of the Chinese people — but the quiet political skills of their current leader, Xi Jinping, now just months into his third five-year term as President of China.
Oh, we’re well aware of his hard-line method of ruling his nation of nearly 1.5 billion people, spread out over 3.7 million square miles. And we’ve seen his gradual tightening of control over Hong Kong. We’re all too well aware of his designs on Taiwan; and he’s made no secret of his recent weapons testing and technological advances.
But what of this “New World Order” that he and his most recent best friend, Vladimir Putin, have been cooking up for an unknown length of time and have only recently begun to tout openly and loudly? You know, the one in which the United States and the rest of “the West” are relegated to second place, and the world is dominated by their vision of peace and control? Have they been perfecting that while no one was looking, only to spring it on the world when it’s already a done deal?
Soulmates
A perfect example of the implementation of Xi’s Utopian vision is Hong Kong. In 1997, when Jiang Zemin was at the helm of the government of the People’s Republic of China (PRC), Hong Kong had been a colony of the United Kingdom for more than 150 years under the terms of a treaty with China originally signed in 1842 and extended in 1898 for an additional 99 years. Looking ahead to 1997, the Sino-British Joint Declaration of 1984, together with Hong Kong’s Basic Law (the city’s constitutional document), dictated that Hong Kong would retain a “capitalist system and way of life,” and “a high degree of autonomy,” to include executive, legislative, and independent judicial powers for 50 years, until 2047. Under those terms, Hong Kong reached theretofore unprecedented levels of prosperity, and its citizens enjoyed freedoms unknown on the Chinese mainland . . .
. . . and a very active night life.
Xi clearly realized the benefits to be reaped from Hong Kong’s economic success, and few changes were instituted during the early years of his rule. But all of that began to change a few years ago; since then, “Beijing has taken increasingly brazen steps to encroach on Hong Kong’s political system and crack down on dissent. In 2020, Beijing imposed a sweeping national security law on Hong Kong. Since then, authorities have arrested dozens of pro-democracy activists, lawmakers, and journalists; curbed voting rights; and limited freedoms of the press and speech. These moves have not only drawn international condemnation but have also raised questions about Hong Kong’s status as a global financial hub and dimmed hopes that the city will ever become a full-fledged democracy.” [Lindsay Maizland, Council on Foreign Relations, last updated May 19, 2022.]
The creation of a “new world order” does not happen overnight. It takes time, thought, planning . . . and patience. The sort of patience that China has shown in its treatment of Hong Kong since 1997. Is it a coincidence that this new vision is being presented to the world at the same time the reins are being tightened on Hong Kong? Or when the free world is being stretched nearly to the breaking point by two disastrous wars? Or when China and Russia are once more best friends, each offering to step in to “fix things”?
Was it coincidence, all those years ago, that my baby boy finally reached each new level of accomplishment when someone just happened to be watching?
Have you ever felt as though you might be psychic? I know I’m not; but this is one of those days when I almost wonder . . .
This morning, for no particular reason, I wrote about Nikolai Patrushev, Secretary of the Russian Security Council: an old friend, former KGB colleague, and now good right hand of Vladimir Putin. Complicit in the invasions of Crimea in 2014, Syria in 2015, and Ukraine in 2022-23-whenever. A hawk who blames the West — and particularly the United States — for all of the world’s ills, and for what he considers the disastrous collapse of the Soviet Union.
And now, as it turns out, advocate of weapons of mass destruction.
Today, Patrushev — echoing the recent declarations of his boss, Vladimir Putin, and Putin’s BFF, Xi Jinping — has said that the era of U.S. dominance is over. “The natural consequence of the United States’ destructive policies is the deterioration in global security. The risk that nuclear, chemical and biological weapons will be used is increasing. The international arms control regime has been undermined.” [Guy Faulconbridge, Reuters, Nov. 8, 2023, quoting TASS (Russian news agency).]
[Note: What Mr. Patrushev neglected to mention was Russia’s withdrawal — just yesterday, November 7, 2023 — from the Treaty On Conventional Armed Forces in Europe (CFE), or its own war of aggression against Ukraine, which is completely adverse to the Treaty’s terms. Certainly, today’s comments cannot be coincidental.]
As reported by Reuters, Patrushev did not offer specific details as to the possible target(s) of such weapons, but did accuse Washington of “failing to bring peace to the Middle East and of escalating the war in Ukraine by supporting Kyiv.” [Guy Faulconbridge, Nov. 8, 2023.]
These are hardly original thoughts conjured by Patrushev alone. In today’s Russia — as in the seven decades of the Soviet Union’s existence — all policy is directed from the top, and only a fool would issue such a public statement without express direction or authorization from Putin himself.
Only A Fool Would Dare . . .
Unless, of course, those recent, persistent rumors of Putin’s death or serious disability should turn out to be true . . . in which case, this could be the first indication of an attempted power grab. But I’m jumping the gun (so to speak). As I said, I absolutely do not have, or claim to have, powers of divination. But knowing the pathological need of the Russian hierarchy for secrecy, especially in times of internal crisis, it’s awfully tempting to speculate.
Forget the mile-long patronymics (middle names, based on the father’s first name) that are such a traditional — and actually useful — part of the Russian naming protocol. To simplify, we’re talking here about Vladimir Putin and Nikolai Patrushev.
“WHO??” I’m sure I heard that coming from several directions, and not surprisingly. Outside of Russia — and the rarified world of Russophiles — Nikolai Patrushev is not exactly a household name. Which is probably why I overlooked him in a previous blog post when I was contemplating possible successors to Putin in the event of his . . . well . . . departure from the Kremlin. But with all of the recent rumors concerning Putin’s health, the slight possibility that he might choose not to run again in next March’s election, and even his possibly already being dead and mummified, up popped Patrushev’s name. So, being insatiably curious, I of course embarked on a little research trip into his background.
Nikolai Patrushev
I thought this was a pretty nice picture of him; he looks like a man trying out the executive chair at the Security Council table. Easy, Nikolai — I don’t think Putin is gone just yet. Unless you know something the rest of us don’t . . .
But Patrushev does belong at that table, if not (yet) at the head. He is Secretary of the Security Council of Russia, where he has served since 2008. Prior to that, he was employed as Director of the Federal Security Service (FSB), one of the two successor agencies to the KGB, from 1999 to 2008. (Coincidentally — that is, if you actually believe in these kinds of coincidences — 1999 was also the year in which Putin was first elected President of Russia.)
And speaking of coincidences that probably aren’t . . . Patrushev, who is just a year older than Putin, hails from the same home town of St. Petersburg (formerly Leningrad), and has known Putin since the 1970s, when they worked together as young men in the Leningrad KGB. He is now considered one of Putin’s inner circle of siloviki (people of influence), and is said to have played a key role in the decisions to invade Crimea in 2014, Syria in 2015, and . . . no surprise here . . . Ukraine, again, in 2022. He is generally known to be politically hawkish, and vehemently anti-Western.
Old “Friends.”
So, if Putin’s whereabouts are indeed in question, Patrushev is one of the few people who might actually know what’s going on. And let us not overlook the fact that seated right next to (or across from) him at that long Security Council table is the mercurial Dmitri Medvedev, who occupies the role of Deputy Chairman — the Chairman being Putin himself.
Now, that may sound like a nice cozy little triad, except for three very important facts: they’re Russian politicians, they’re all former “spooks” (as we Americans refer to our community of spies), and they all have their eyes fixed on climbing over each other and landing their asses in that cushy executive chair. Which makes them — besides contortionists — “frenemies” at best. And at worst . . . well, I’d say, capable of just about anything.
Well . . . hopefully not that!
*. *. *
At any rate, this situation ranks (in my view, at least) as 2023’s guessing game of the year. Actually, it’s a two-parter: “Is Putin Alive?” and “Who’s Next?” And that second part, whenever the time does come, is bound to be a thriller. Considering Russia’s long history of “palace intrigues,” and the lineup of contestants for this jackpot, I plan to settle in with a big bowl of chips; a family-size bag of M&Ms; and a quart of Stolichnaya’s finest vodka, chilled to warming perfection. It should be quite a show.
It’s heartwarming and reassuring to know that, amidst all the horror of the last 20 months, the devastation caused by the Russian “special military operation” begun in February of 2022, the deaths, destruction and displacements — while most assuredly taking their toll on his body and soul — have not been able to destroy Volodymyr Zelensky’s innate sense of humor. Not completely, anyway. But it took the likes of Donald Trump to bring it back to life.
Zelensky, the EntertainerZelensky, the Commander-In-Chief
We’ve probably all heard about Trump’s boast that, given the chance (i.e., being elected to the presidency next year), he could bring the war in Ukraine to an end within 24 hours. That was certainly enough to make me laugh out loud. And speaking with host Kristen Welker on NBC’s “Meet the Press,” President Zelensky offered this response:
“Former President Trump said that about 24 hours, that he can manage it and finish the war. For me, what can I say? So he’s very welcome as well.
”President Biden was here, and I think he understood some details which you can understand only being here. So I invite President Trump. If he can come here, I will need 24 minutes.”
Trump had previously said he could “solve” the war in Ukraine in one day, and that the negotiation process would be “very easy.” Zelensky said he would need just 24 minutes to explain to Trump that that wouldn’t be as easy as he thinks.
The ridiculous boast is funny enough. And President Zelensky’s response is characteristically witty. But what really tickles my funny bone is the thought of Donald Trump in a war zone. One whistling missile . . . one exploding drone . . . the sight of one Russian soldier, and . . . well, use your imagination as to how Mr. “I-can’t-go-to-Vietnam-because-I-have-bone-spurs” would react. (Mine is running amok.)
Trump, the Great Negotiator
Humor aside, Zelensky addressed the impossibility of trying to negotiate a peace with Putin in the face of Putin’s unacceptable demands for concessions from Ukraine — namely, giving up any part of Ukraine’s territory or its autonomy as an independent nation. Those are not negotiable . . . not by Donald Trump or anyone else.
“He can’t bring peace because of Putin,” Zelensky continued. “If he’s not trying and if he’s not ready to give our territory to this terrible man, to Putin, if you are not ready to give it, if you are not ready to give our independence, he can’t manage it.” [All quotes from The Hill, Nov. 5, 2023.]
Asked if he thought Trump would support Ukraine if he were to be elected in 2024, Zelensky said, “Really, I don’t know. I hope that it depends not only on the president institutionally. I think it depends on the opinion of Americans, of your society. I think that is most important.”
A smart man, President Zelensky. I hope we don’t disappoint him.
