Killing The Messenger Dept: Somehow going still lower, Republicans - aka "you absolute fucking pieces of shit" - just hauled Dr. Anthony Fauci into a Senate hearing to charge the guy who saved three million lives with "sabotaging" a dog heartworm pill, wanting to be a megalomanic "sun god," destroying "Americans' trust in their government" and probs being "responsible for this entire pandemic." In response, Fauci, "the man they cannot forgive for being right," declined to answer any of their "questions."

Wednesday's Stalinist circus shitshow trial from a GOP so desperately bogged down they've resorted to, "Ok, but remember the pandemic?" - and forget the Epstein files - offered dismal proof they're still mindlessly bowdlerizing science and using Fauci - a Cornell-trained, 85-year-old immunologist and infectious disease specialist who spent over 50 years in public service - as its main punching bag. Fauci, who evil bridge troll Steve Bannon once said should be beheaded, served almost 40 years as head of National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (Niaid) under 7 presidents. Reagan hired him, George H. W. Bush cited him when asked to name someone he admired, George W. gave him a Presidential Medal of Freedom and asked him to design a wildly successful AIDS relief PEPFAR that saved 25 million lives, most poor people in Africa.

In the 1980s, HIV/AIDS was one of multiple public health crises largely afflicting marginalized populations, along with Ebola and a first coronavirus, that Fauci confronted with grace and courage. "AIDS arrived attached to a despised population," notes one observer. "Fauci did not look away." He redirected research toward what was then deemed a plague "when it was neither safe nor popular," and when furious, screaming, ill AIDS activists stormed his office, he invited them in, listened to them, decided they were at least partly right and expedited clinical trials so patients could get quicker access to experimental drugs. Fierce AIDS activist Larry Kramer, who once called Fauci "an incompetent murderer," years later called him "the only true and great hero" among government officials of the time.

This week's hearing, called and convened under subpoena by rabid gadfly and Kentucky Sen. Rand Paul, was billed as an investigation into the origins of COVID, a legit scientific question that to some extent remains unresolved. For years, MAGA has chosen to blame an accidental "lab leak" from China's Wuhan Institute of Virology, and Paul has devoted much of his otherwise less-than-memorable political career to arguing, according to that theory, that Dr. Fauci “could be responsible for this entire pandemic” - because NIH once provided the Institute with a sub-grant. Most virologists and other health experts say it was more likely caused by the occasional "spillover event" of a virus jumping from an infected animal to a human, arguing the “preponderance” of evidence points to that natural origin.

Public health officials have stepped up to protest the government's “vilification and harassment" of American scientists,” and a group of 155 scientists wrote an open letter dismissing bizarre MAGA charges against Fauci - he covered up the origins of his own research, bribed or others to join him, holds patents on vaccines, is working with bad actors to suppress the awful truth - as "baseless...No credible evidence has been produced to support these absurd charges." Still, Paul's office spent last weekend dumping over 1,100 pages of Fauci’s private “diary” online; after blowback, they took them down, made redactions and reposted them. Inadvertently or no, they left in Fauci's various descriptions of Trump as “rambling,” “crazy,” “bumbling,” “incompetent,” “an idiot” and “truly an obnoxious adolescent.”

In a somber preamble, Fauci noted over the decades he has testified before Congress, willingly and under oath, hundreds of times. But because he "has spent years playing Twister with these sinuous assholes (and) he knows it doesn’t matter what the spinner says," he went on, "Though it pains me to do so because of the respect I have for the legislative branch of government," following counsel's advice he would invoke the Fifth and "refrain from answering your questions." He also blasted Paul's "unhinged obsession" with him. Then, dozens of times over the infuriating hours, he intoned, "I respectfully decline to answer based upon my rights under the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution.“ Later, an expert noted his carefully neutral body language during the ordeal: "He is refusing to participate in the confrontation beyond what is legally required.”

Paul - the only senator to vote against $8.3 billion in emergency spending during COVID, and the first senator to get it - grew agitated by Fauci's calm stream of refusals. He threatened him with "repercussions" and with a charge of contempt. Heatedly refusing to allow any of Fauci's attorneys to join him - "The attorneys were not recognized," he snarled - at one point he called on security to escort out of the hearing room one lawyer after he attempted to speak with Fauci. "This is the way Anthony Fauci wants to be remembered - for a lawyer not recognizing the rules," he said. "Security, please remove him from the room.” The attorney gently patted Fauci on the shoulder and turned to leave on his own; a guard sheepishly trailed after him. In the audience, Laura Ingraham and other MAGA-ites applauded, because they have no shame and never will.

Rand and other Republicans tried to claim Fauci had no right to take the Fifth because Biden issued him a preemptive pardon that eliminated that privilege, an ongoing debate in some legal circles. What is not debated though Repubs tried to argue otherwise: Invoking the Fifth Amendment is not a confession of guilt, but a foundational right against self-incrimination as long as there exists a valid threat of prosecution. Most pointedly, the Fifth does not represent guilt but "the ordinary caution" of any citizen who is dragged before a hostile panel by a vindictive chairman vowing for years to put him behind bars, and who "understands this hearing was "never a search for information but a search for a crime - of having stood in public and told a frightened country the truth, while a president lied to it."

Public health experts now say roughly 40% of America's million-plus COVID deaths, representing hundreds of thousands of lives, could have been prevented under more effective federal policies. But because they were caused by an idiotic malignant narcissist tragically unable to admit he's ever fucked up - or to allow anyone around him to admit it - the lies keep spewing. Last year the White House published a paper on the lab-leak theory as a rationale to defund the NIH, justify cutting over a billion dollars in state and local health funding, and gut cancer and Alzheimers research; now, citing that lame lie and dreaded diversity, they're trying to put the entire $1 trillion federal grant apparatus under the control of political appointees. This week, in honor of Paul's hearing, Trump wrote Dr. Fauci’s ideas were "CRAZY."

On Wednesday, MAGA dutifully jumped in. Cowardly slimebag Josh Hawley, who fist-pumped then ran away from the mob who smeared shit on the Capitol walls, said Fauci had no right to invoke the Fifth, "This is about contempt for this body and the American people," and, yuge pot/kettle, the good doctor was a lying megalomaniac who "wanted to be the sun god." Bernie Moreno demanded Fauci apologize for his crimes and sneered, "Who the fuck did you think you were?" Roger Marshall, an alleged doctor, said vaccine lies "made Americans not trust their government," though unvaxxed MAGA died at twice the rate of Dems. Ron Johnson called a vaccine that saved millions of lives "an experimental gene therapy, and accused Fauci of lying in his own diary, eliciting the day's only smile from him.

Later, a frustrated Paul told reporters he would hold Fauci in contempt, though it's not up to him. Besides, notes Tom Wellborn, the spectacle wasn't really about answers to questions; it was about a mob of willfully ignorant quacks and losers finding an imaginary villain. "Fauci was the man on the screen," he writes. "He absorbed the rage that had nowhere else to go." Above all, Fauci was hated, not for lying, but for "telling the truth to people who did not want to hear it." He "stood between the American public and a president who wanted the problem to vanish before an election," who suggested insane things - Ivermectin, disinfectant, lights - as Fauci carefully contradicted him, "trying to keep his job long enough to keep being useful."

Fauci wasn't a saint, Wellborn writes, and he wasn't right about everything. But he was "right about the things that mattered most" - it was airborne, masks and distance helped. He "told the truth as the science understood it at the time, and when the science changed, as science does, he changed the guidance, and his enemies have spent years calling those updates lies." Meanwhile, "he saved lives, and they were on the other side." Most vital: To remember "that in the summer of 2026, a man who had given his entire adult life to keeping other people alive was hauled before a hostile Senate by a colleague nursing a personal vendetta... and which of the two men in that room had spent his life saving strangers, and which spent his trying to jail the person who did."

"As some day it may happen/that a victim must be found" - Gilbert and Sullivan's I've Got A Little List

More madness from the surreal saga of a nuclear-armed Iran oscillating between "obliterated" and "threatening our families" so we have to obliterate it though we just agreed to help nuclear-arm the brutes behind 9/11 so go figure. Meanwhile, the Pentagon pursues a gazillion bucks and testosterone-ripped troops even as a flailing president insists the last dead troops all said "very strongly" to keep fighting right before he odiously covered up their deaths so others would. Head-spinning, soul-killing.

To date, "Emperor Commodus of Covfefe's" illegal, disatrous, dim-witted Iran "excursion," a mangling of "incursion" and global clusterfuck with no clear mission, strategy, end goal or clue, has killed over 3,500 Iranians, many of them women and children, wounded over 26,500, and razed much of that country's infrastructure, including fresh water sources. At least 18 U.S. troops have been killed, with up to 500 wounded. A quarter of the world’s oil is held hostage across two vital straits, at least 70% of Americans oppose the war, recession-level prices here loom, and rage, especially among Muslim nations, is palpable, perhaps nudged along by a brilliant Iranian social-media campaign - "ONE VENGEANCE FOR ALL" - that tied America's latest atrocity to those of the past, from Native Americans, "stolen blacks" and Vietnamese villagers to Abu Ghraib, Gaza and Epstein Island.

In the bleak wake of eight missed deadlines, 28 empty claims of a "deal," several failed ceasefires and ongoing blather of a mythical "victory" on the horizon, the war is now widely seen as militarily, politically and morally "unwinnable," and even U.S. money, always there for calamitous wars, is running low. Thus did greasy dunk-tank clown and strung-tight "warfighter" zealot Pete Hegseth appear before Congress last week to plead for a profane $67 billion more in emergency funds - part of a $1.15 trillion defense bill, a 44%, $454 billion increase - added to the $37.5 billion he's already squandered in the name of a vague "generational investment," maybe to get the Strait of Hormuz closed again? Par for the inept course, only Pete, fired from two non-profits for mishandling their finances and adroit at blaming others for bad decisions, seems surprised the money's run out.

Maybe that's 'cause at the start of the Iran misadventure he was so busy posting braggadocious war porn, "some of the most loser shit ever," of tacky bellicose video games cut in with real carnage from Iran - war=Call of Duty - and delivering bombastic briefings to crow about annihilating the enemy "without mercy" in the name of "real warriors." Those briefings have now been quietly "replaced by a vacuum." Frantic to control a grim political narrative, he's held no briefings since May, emptied the Pentagon's press corps of everyone but right-wing hacks, restricted access in ways large and small, banned "unflattering" images of himself - oh vanity thy name is lame snowflake - and otherwise treated America's vital free press as an enemy to be subdued, defeated or at least hoodwinked in order to obscure his own lies, failures, abuses and all-round buffoonery.

By all accounts, Hogsbreath has been serving more as showboating fitness influencer than sober head of a functional military. He now presides over a largely broken Pentagon where morale is dismal, finances are strained, readiness is collapsing and care for troops, veterans and their families is at historic lows. Within the ranks, he's derided as an out-of-his-depth, D-list pretender and "fake-ass manly man" who looks like a Ken doll "stored too close to the furnace," relishes lecturing generals, and "dresses like he's on The Love Boat" - hair gel, makeup, showy pocket hanky resembling military honors - while somehow disastrously managing to kill 170 Iranian schoolgirls on the first day of a misbegotten war he still insists is "a historic, overwhelming victory." From Jeff Tiedrich: "He's what would happen if arrogance and an elevated blood-alcohol level became a real boy."

In a "beyond Strangelovian" move, that blustering boy recently responded to the multiple crises of his Dept. of Deep Masculine Insecurity with a bonkers video from def not his makeup studio, titled "The High-T Department of War," announcing a new program to ensure troops have enough testosterone to stay "on the leading edge of lethality." He's evidently unaware any guy who declares he's "high-T" is probs not - "Real gangsta *ss people don't flex nuts"; also, that behind most war crimes is too much testosterone and a failed moral compass, today's military doesn't do much hand-to-hand combat, studies show testosterone doesn't help focus, fatigue, memory or well-being, and "High-T For Better Killing" is maybe not a great slogan. Still, the guy fixated on "the highest male standard" is calling for mandatory annual screening of those over 30; under 30, it's voluntary.

The general response to this very cool plan has been...mixed. Many noted the discrepancy between his strident insistence on freedom from governments making our medical decisions - hence ending a decades-old flu vaccine mandate (until an outbreak led to its quiet reversal) and gender-affirming health care, which is why a judge may overturn it - and his railing against beards, fat troops, high-ranking women and people of color. Women decried flaky policy decisions inspired by "the far corners of the manosphere" or the ravings of RFK Jr.; some suggested he replace salutes with chest bumps and "Sir" with "Bro"; others wondered who'll be screening Pete "for being a dick." Above all, especially after last week's hearing, a broad consensus has emerged that no amount of testosterone pumped into his body will render him even remotely qualified for his job.

Confronted with lawmakers questioning yet more money for a debacle, Pete blustered, stuttered, sneered, fear-mongered about radical Islamists "coming for our families" with nuclear weapons "to hold us at issue (sic)." He thundered Jack Reed - West Point, Harvard, veteran, professor - should respect "the historic nature of what (Trump's) undertaking"; Reed snapped, "He should be praised for starting a war without authority?" He shrieked at Jon Ossoff for calmly listing the multiple times he's lied "Iran’s military had been, quote, destroyed." When Gary Peters cited those lies and the 30 times he's declared what's clearly "a complete failure" an "overwhelming victory," Pete screeched the word failure "smears the sacrifice of the troops" (sic) and "shame on you." He didn't use it about the troops, Peters retorted, but their leaders: "You, sir, are the failure. You don't have a strategy."

Finally Hegseth, the model avatar for a regime that never accepts responsibility for anything, laid the blame for a Pentagon famed for funding atrocities abroad with little to no accountability seeking $1.5 trillion more in blood money on...Biden and his “gross negligence.” Gross, indeed: “You cannot inherit a war you started.” Dems balked at an obscene price tag that dwarfs even the Iran debacle, noting it includes $800 million for the National Guard to keep pointlessly patrolling D.C, over $1bn to patrol the southern border which is DHS’ job, $900 million to illegally bomb more boats in the Caribbean etc. Also quietly stuck in there was the vile Save America Act (more sic) to further restrict voting, and the random horror of a move to establish a joint US-Israel tech initiative so we can further integrate our military with Israel's universally admired genocidal regime. Still, it passed, barely.

Defense bills tend to win broad bipartisan support, but the House barely squeezed through a $1.15 trillion version of this insane one with the help of six craven Dems, including Maine's fucking Jared Golden. In better news, they also passed a second, largely symbolic but heartening resolution to end the war, with four Repubs joining them. In the Senate, the measure was blocked, 47-49, by fucking John Fetterman. Also last week, the US made a deal to help the Saudis - of hacksaws and 9/11 - set up a civilian nuclear program, despite MAGA terror of Nukes For Muslims! (see war in Iran, whose painstaking deal Trump tore up). Despite longtime fears of a nuclear race in the Middle East, Trump said they have to join the "very respected" Abraham Accords with Israel and sign a hollow "safeguards agreement" with a pinky promise of "no enrichment of material!" So no worries.

Still, some were worried, also enraged. The folks at I Fucking Love Australia were already some pissed at Admiral USS Bigly and his 271 Republicans, "you spineless, belly-crawling, yellow-bellied fucking grubs" and "geography-proof fucking muppets who can't count past their own indictments," not one of whom will stand up to a doddering "windbag at the arse end of his miserable sex-offending, pedo-loving, decomposing life" as a fifth of the world's oil remains bottled up behind Hormuz, just like "HIS OWN JOINT CHIEFS WARNED HIM," using small words and a hand puppet. With Australia down to 29 days of vital diesel in reserve, they fume, "You lot couldn't poll your collective vertebrae and build a fucking prawn...Do your job." And that was before last week's Houthi attack by "a militia in sandals" on two Saudi oil tankers in the Red Sea for breaching their naval blockade.

The bold move by a ragtag militia from the Middle East's poorest country, armed with "cheap hardware from a rusty shed - drones, hand-me-down missiles and a Telegram account" - prompted the sages at IFLA to offer a cogent, useful backstory on just what's going down in a volatile, "centuries-deep cauldron of grievance" into which "waddles Napoleon Blownapart, fresh from a Bibi slideshow in the Situation Room, convinced he can win a regional war with vibes and a Sharpie." They began by citing the Saudis' "one genuinely clever move of the war": When Hormuz shut down, they were ramming up to 3.5 million barrels of oil a day, far more than usual, through the critical Asia/Europe escape hatch of Bab Al Mandeb's east-west pipeline to Yanbu on the Red Sea. Then, "The Houthis just bricked it the fuck up - they welded the back door of the global oil market shut."

Pundits call Yemen's Houthis Iran "proxies,” but "they've got their own grievances, which tell you where this war is headed." IFLA "follows the thread all the way back, since apparently nobody in the White House owns a ball of string." To Houthis and hundreds of millions more, "This is now a defensive war against an attack on Muslim nations," and "you cannot drone-strike a conviction." See Vietnam, Afghanistan, ISIS etc. Not inside that tent: Saudi Arabia, who "picked the wrong side of (their) religion," watched Gaza flattened and only checked their wealth fund balance; now the Houthis "declared them fair game, and no one is holding (a) vigil for them." Righteous bottom line: "Why is the region on fire? Israel. Occupation, annexation, settlements, the slow-motion theft (that) manufactures resistance. Hamas and Hezbollah didn’t fall out of the sky. Dispossession built them, brick by bloody brick."

Brilliant strategist Trump "surveyed that flawless 0-4 record of American wars of choice, a historical record so grim you could read it by Braille, and thought, you know what this list needs? Iran, plus a bonus round against mountain fighters in Yemen who've never once lost." He thought the Houthis no longer wanted to fight; now, he's "disappointed" and "cranked up the rhetoric with his 76th ultimatum." Meanwhile, on "planet fucken consequences," oil prices spiked to over $100 a barrel amidst market chaos, and "the dumbest cunt that ever fumbled the world’s most dangerous military operation opened the gates of Hell with his own two tiny clay-colored hands." Or more accurately the Gate of Tears, Bab el-Mandeb in English. "The old sailors named it for the ships it drowned," notes IFLA. "Turns out it was just waiting all these centuries for a presidency worthy of the title."

Still, he blunders on. The same day he again boasted his war has *only* killed 18 U.S. troops - there's a chart! - vs. "hundreds of thousands" - actually 58,220, none him - in Vietnam, he went to Dover for the dignified transfer of four Americans just killed in an Iran attack at a Jordan airbase. He told reporters he was en route to "honor great heroes, actually." Then, in a "next-level ghastly" move, he put his own vile words in their young dead mouths to claim, "All of them said, very strongly, we cannot let Iran have a nuclear weapon." Appalled responses: "Did they have tears in their eyes? Did they ask why we need to destroy their nuclear program when we've already done it five times? Vastly more plausible: They said 'What the fuck are we doing here?' or 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' and, Can any journalist ask him to name two of the fallen soldiers? Or hell, name two of his kids?"

We can name them: Sgt. Michael Swinton 30, of North Carolina, father to two kids 4 and 6, First Lt. Tyler Feehan, 25, of Hawaii, weeks away from earning his MBA, Sgt Angel Rampersad, 28, of New York, and Pvt. Isabella Gonzales, 19, of Texas. Hours after the ceremony - where the guy who never bothered to know their names gazed blankly, blue suit gaudy among black suits and bowed heads - he went to a MAGA rally at a Georgia high school where he sweated and babbled: "We had transgender for everybody, ravaging through our cities," "We don't need the Hormuz Street in our skirmish...They're not ready to make a deal. They'll be ready soon," "We'll pass the great healthcare plan. It's called Our Great Healthcare Plan," "The communists want to blow up Mt. Rushmore" (boos), "I fought Ossoff before (boos) and we won...He reminds me of Pinky Herman."

The newly dead, wholly unreal suckers and losers to a narcissist incarnate, were clearly far from what passes for the remains of his mind. That obliviousness reflects what former Sec. of Defense and CIA director Leon Panetta charged is a "deliberate effort to withhold information from the American people, a shameful approach to sharing the responsibility we all have (in) a war." Speaking of a New York Times report the Pentagon suppressed news of dozens of military injuries - which the regime called “baseless and malicious” but anyway they're not "strictly required" to publicize them - Panetta said officials are in essence "challenging the press to find what’s really happening, and they will." "They can dodge, bob and weave," he said of a long, base tradition in American politics, "but my experience is that no matter how much you try to hide it, in the end, the truth comes out.”

The truth, says James Talarico: "We are closing schools and hospitals in this country so we can bomb schools and hospitals in other countries" - and working hard to hide it. The latest proof, again from the Times in a rare, welcome burst of journalism: The Pentagon's Casualty Analysis website just lowered the number of troop deaths from 18 to 14, with the four names just brought home scrubbed from the list. Garbled rationales ranged from deaths after Trump's April ceasefire mean no war/no deaths to "site errors due to a temporary data disruption (with) anomalies being resolved." Days later, they're still missing. Michael Swinton's widow Jamiah, asked if she had any details on the disappeared names, said nobody has reached out: "I kind of don’t have words for that.” We don't either. "They died serving our country," wrote Bill Kristol. "They should be honored, not erased." In sorrowful fact, we say they died for little besides a sick con man's lies. For that we are truly sorry. Remember who to blame.

Update: Jesus these inept hacks and clowns can't even keep track of how many gullible young people's lives they've fucked up in the name of their imperialist misadventures. Now, after their data was "quietly updated," it's 18 killed and 624 wounded. Do better, or for the love of God and gullible young people's lives just fucking stop.

The "anomalies": Feehan, Gonzales, Swinton, RampersadPhotos from U.S. Army

We’re inching forwards through the thick smog that has cloaked Tbilisi for days. At first, I thought it was a kind of blueish, pink winter mist that makes the city feel like it’s in an ongoing sunset, until a friend who smokes told me they’d been having trouble breathing in it.

It’s Black Friday. A journey that should only take a few minutes is stretching past an hour and for the most part, Tsaro and I are sitting in silence, occasionally passing a phone between us to translate the few words we do speak. Both sides of the road are jammed. People are rushing for the deals at CarreFour, she sighs.  

This November day is also the 365th day of continuous protests in Georgia against a government Georgians believe is steering the country back into the Kremlin’s orbit after years of moving towards Europe. Dozens of Georgians are languishing in prison, often in pre-trial detention, for participating. The protests themselves don’t make news outside the country so much anymore. Unless, that is, there is some kind of significant development, like the discovery of toxic WWI-era chemicals used by police in water cannons, the same cannons I watched the police turn on young Georgians for hours last winter.

It was while covering one of these still ongoing nightly protests that I met Tsaro Oshakmashvili, a 62-year-old widow with wayward orange curls. And it was through deciding to remain after the October 2024 election, the one international observers say was marred by serious irregularities, that I found myself reflecting upon what authoritarianism can do to how we relate to one another and the duality of Tbilisi. Georgia now has more political prisoners than Russia per capita, and still regularly features as an upcoming destination amongst many UK newspapers. 

Since our meeting, Tsaro has become a public figure after her de-facto adoption of Archil Museliantsi, currently in jail for allegedly damaging property during the protests. Archil is a 30-year-old-law student who was orphaned at six months old. When the pair first met on Rustaveli Avenue, at the height of Georgia’s protests, he turned to Tsaro and told her he was ready to die for his country.

Just a few days after we met, Tsaro and I were accosted by police. I’d been taking photographs outside the gates of a Tbilisi prison. With some effort, she calmed them down and we walked away with my memory card wiped. We got back into her car and sat in silence. She then turned to me and, even though my knowledge of Georgian is small, I saw the glint in her eye and knew what she was saying; “You didn’t delete them all, did you?”

Archil is serving four years for allegedly setting fire to one of the new CCTV cameras used to identify protesters through facial recognition technology. The video used to sentence him doesn’t contain any trace of his face, though. Just a man in a balaclava and a burning piece of paper. His lawyers argued it wasn’t enough to identify him, but he was found guilty anyway. After receiving his verdict, Archil was told he could request a presidential pardon. His reply: “What President? Do we have one?” 

Tsaro now spends her days campaigning around the country in Archil’s name, encourages him to make use of his sentence by pursuing his law degree, and brings him supplies in Gldani Prison. The three books and the tracksuit bottoms on the backseat of the car are for him. 

When we finally arrive, I get out of the car and notice the huge sky and the quiet. Tsaro points towards an empty field with a mesh of electric poles running through it, the city a hazy silhouette in the distance. "That's Archil’s view," she says, and pauses for a moment. 

We go through security, stepping over a sleeping dog, and enter a room divided by large steel bars with an x-ray scanner running through. Archil’s things can go forward, but we cannot. As a non-blood relative, Tsaro has no visitation rights. So we watch on in silence as the items slowly travel through the scanner. It will be three more years until Tsaro and Archil can be in the same room again. It will also be the fourth time they’ve met. 

Later that night, a crowd gathers at Tbilisi State University. An explosion of flares and music signals for the protest to begin. Tsaro marches at the forefront behind a huge banner. She smiles and waves at the camera, her way of signaling to Archil that she's watching him.

I walk with the crowd, face hidden by sunglasses and a cap: enough to not be picked up by facial recognition, but hopefully not too much to violate recent laws that prohibit concealing your face.

Afterwards, I meet a group of friends who have gathered at a nearby bar. A man who is visiting from Argentina is wondering about whether to move to Tbilisi permanently, telling me what a fantastic place it seems to be. I tell him he should, then step into a sideroom, and watch on in silence as two men make use of the empty space to dance.

It’s strange to arrive in a place at such a high-stakes moment and only realize what that means as it happens. From the beginning, Georgia asked little of me and gave everything back in return, operating on such frictionlessness that meant I barely had to ask what it was that I was doing there. Perhaps the same reasons I first started to love it were the same reasons vacationing Russians had during the Soviet Union; myths of the eternal host and a perceived openness to strangers, though that "warm welcome" had started to wear thin. But this wasn’t something I initially stopped to ask myself — this question of Russia’s colonial relationship with Georgia, its occupation of Georgian land, and the influx in 2022 of tens of thousands of Russians fleeing mobilization and war with Ukraine.

Shortly after arriving, I found myself in a reality that held little regard for tomorrow; people of all nationalities — Georgian, Russian, Ukrainian, Belarussian, European, and others — turning to the present moment as a form of coping. But although I sensed that people were escaping, avoiding, I was still doing the math on who was fleeing what, exactly. It would still be many more months until I learnt the difference between what it means to confront oneself versus one’s oppressor and what we owe to the places that receive us.

But the thing that provoked me to start wondering about such things wasn’t Georgia’s existential fight against Moscow. It was a relationship with somebody who was fleeing themselves.

A friend had suggested I come to Tbilisi, proposing that Georgia could make a good follow up to a story I had recently finished about Ukrainians starting a new life in the UK. I spent the first days in the company of international correspondents focused on the upcoming election and what it would mean for the country. Drink in hand; the conversation usually concluded with how much they loved it here and when they were flying out again. I listened, sheepishly, unable to venture an opinion and not clear about what a return to an authoritarian past would look like in practice.

As the days crept forward, I couldn't have said how long I would stay, but my neighbor never asked anyway. Iskra was my age. Her dog, Riri, liked to nap on my bed. Ours was the last of a remote cluster of homes with balconies fashioned from old scraps of wood and living room furniture arranged haphazardly on the street. It was one of the highest points in the city before it gave way to rugged mountainside. The only traffic that went by here was the funicular and the tourists who gawped out of its windows. 

Without saying too much, Iskra and I were getting to know each other, sitting on our shared patio with the city, a dark twinkling pit, below. Between us, a favorite topic was emerging; Georgia, its unpredictability, and a feeling of being at odds with the places we had left behind. Iskra was born in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic and had moved to Amderma, Russia's northern coastline, where her mother had worked as a geologist. The war had made it clear to her that she would not be returning. I was still ambivalent about what it was I carried with me from my own homeland, what that counted for in Georgia, and the idea of returning. It was Iskra who first explained to me the origins of Georgia’s resentment towards the Russians that had moved here after the war. That I was learning it from a person who had spent most of their life in Russia might have felt more ironic, had she not said it with such conviction.

After February 2022, Tbilisi was flooded with people coming over Georgia’s northern border, their arrival enabled by the ease of remote work which muddied the water between dissidents, draft dodgers, those looking for an easier life, and plain wartime tourists.

In the early days, more than 10,000 people might have arrived in a single day, a rate that wouldn't go unnoticed in Tbilisi, a city with a population of 1.3 million. Some pursued anti-war activism, others opened bars catering, at times, to an exclusively Russian clientele. As rents jumped and Russian echoed through the streets, local resentment simmered.

When Russia launched its full-scale invasion, many Georgians recognized themselves in Ukraine. And now, with so many Russians in the city, could Putin use their presence to justify another special military operation and "liberate" Tbilisi, too? Or, would the Georgian government align itself so closely with the Kremlin that he wouldn’t have to?

Georgian Ministers debated what to do. Should they restrict entry, like they had in the Baltic states, or allow people in, fearing that turning them away would simply deliver them back to Putin's army. Meanwhile, locals took matters into their own hands, some venues insisting you could only enter if you recognized Russia as an occupier, requesting that people sign a physical declaration. But attempts to sort so-called "good Russians’" from "bad Russians" amplified hatred, with one venue who employed such policies undergoing cyber attacks from a far-right Russian group as a result. Eventually, some gave up and went home, tired of having to prove themselves the "good" kind, while Georgians endured a crushing gentrification from the very same country whose legacy they had been fighting since the Red Army invasion of 1921.

Arriving abruptly from the UK put me in an unusual position — naive enough to move between worlds without being in the firing line, and outside the divide enough that, in time, I would start to see the particularities of it clearly.

One evening, I was on my way out, looking for something to eat. Iskra was smoking on the patio.

“I’ll join you,” she said.

We descended into the city, the street lights casting a deep amber glow over its surface like dark honey, and arrived outside an Italian place. Amid the chatter, there was one man sitting alone, an untouched plate in front of him. Iskra knew him from somewhere, and the two of us slipped into the empty chairs beside him. 

After a few short words between the two, the man turned to ask me where I was from. When I told him London, his eyes widened “Oh, London? I love this culture,” proceeding to talk endlessly about the 2008 electronic music scene, naming bands I thought I had forgotten, reviving a curiosity I hadn’t felt in some time.   

“OK,” he announced, standing up as abruptly as our conversation began. “I will go to The Creek. I hope you will join me there for a drink.” And we did, entering through the double doors, passing the bar, to find him sitting in the courtyard beneath a fig tree. There we spent the remains of the evening listening to him talk about growing up in a remote Siberian town, the concentration of wealth in Russia, and the challenges of throwing parties in homes that can only fit 20 people. Iskra's eyes glazed over. Not mine.

Two nights later, I met Kostya again. From the beginning, I had questions. What was he really doing in Georgia? Did he leave Russia because he was against the war, or because he didn’t want to be sent to the front? Should he be actively helping Ukraine? What does he owe Georgia now that he is here? But I didn't ask them outright, waiting to see instead of hearing it and resonating with a person who, like me, was fueled by restlessness.

We spent the evening moving from place to place — first a wine bar, next a red-lit basement. He was unable to stay in the same spot for more than 45 minutes. Each time we took a seat somewhere new, he began talking with the same fervor as when we first met; telling me about his childhood pets, cleaning toilets throughout his military service, a brief employment stint doing social media for a local environmental ministry, before realizing “what it really was,” being cheated on by his childhood love, and cheating on all his loves since. Each of his stories is a portal into a parallel world, where words make sense, but the context they operate within does not.

It’s not until we’re sitting on the pavement outside an overspilling bar that I really start to notice him; his box shaped jaw, his eyes that stare upwards from the way he tilts his head forward when he speaks. His accent makes each syllable heavy, like a thud, when suddenly he asks if I want to go somewhere else. We do. And when I announce that I’m done for the evening, he walks me home, to the very top of the city, to a final and precarious footpath that weaves over the mountain side before landing outside mine. We hug, awkwardly. Kostya has already started to walk away when I realise how much I’ve enjoyed his company.

“Thanks for a great night,” I shout. 

“Pfff - thank me?” he replies, turning to address me and walking backwards as he does.   

The following few days run like a strange clockwork. We meet most evenings, at the same time, in one of a handful of places. This, I never questioned. Instead, I relished in feeling like I had found a side door into a place I was still figuring out – meeting people of multiple nationalities in a single night, unable to tell who lived here and who was passing through; though it didn't seem to matter, and no one thought to ask.

“Let’s go to Pith,” says Kostya.

His friend, Artur, a Russian guy of Chinese descent is standing behind the bar dressed, as he usually is, in an oversized checked shirt. The place is empty aside from the three of us and it’s gone closing time. 

“I would like to go to Thailand,” says Artur, drink in hand. 

“Pfff. Thailand? Really? Come on man,” replies Kostya.

“Yes - really. I’ve had enough of this city,” says Artur, slamming his glass on the table. “We’re fucking three hours away from Russia right now. In October, this place is going down. Georgian Dream is gonna get re-elected and Putin will use the country as his playground. I don’t want to be here when that happens.” 

“So, what do you want to go to Thailand for?” asks Kostya. 

“Bro, I’m Asian. I just want to go somewhere people aren’t gonna look at me twice, where I can start a business and live in peace. Plus, I can’t be dealing with the situation between China and Taiwan. I’ve just left a war. I don’t want to be anywhere near the firing line when China invades and the US starts sending over nukes. I want to be sitting on the beach smoking a huge, fucking joint.” 

A few days later, a friend learnt I was in Tbilisi and insisted I meet his friend. I went without Kostya and found myself sitting around a table in the company of Georgian women, many of whom had recently moved abroad, making idle chit-chat over a table of food. A woman to my side gave me a list of things I had to see and do, telling me how often people fell in love with her country and decided to move here permanently. I asked why she left and she went stiff; “it’s different if you’re from here.”  

Another woman turned to me; “So, tell me where you’re staying.”

When my attempts to explain to her were unsuccessful, she pulled out a map on her phone and handed it over. I looked at the screen. Half of Tbilisi was covered in red crosses.  

"Don’t worry," she told me, seeing my eyebrows furrow. “Those are just the businesses owned by Russians we avoid,” before telling me that I must get the same app myself.

I took a closer look. Half the places Kostya and I went were each marked with a red cross. I imagined myself trailing around that map, Kostya at my side, a red cross following us everywhere we go. 

After that night, the writing on the walls, that's become as staple as the buildings themselves, took on a new immediacy. 

“Fuck Russia.”

“Russia is a terrorist state.”

“Russian’s go home.”

“You’re not refugees.”

The city starts to slow as the weather gets hotter. So hot, that even the crickets give up their ceaseless chirping and the smell of trash cooking inside their bags waiting to be collected taints the air.

Iskra and I are sitting in the patio eating watermelon until she suggests heading to a party being held at a nearby dog shelter, the intention being for dogs to leave with new owners. As we approach the fence dividing our place from the sloped wasteland, we’re hit by a smell so rancid that it stops us in our tracks. We cover our mouths, struggling to catch our breath between the chokes and sputters.

“I can't,” Iskra says, shaking her head, her voice muffled. 

Then I glance up and see it: a black cockerel, lifeless, hanging from a tree, a shoestring knotted tightly around its pale foot. Its head tilts to one side, its wings splayed open, motionless in the breezeless air.

The two of us stand there, before Iskra whispers 

“It’s a curse.”

Soon after the black cockerel appears, Iskra moves out, opting for a house on the other side of town that she shares with a Georgian family. We continue to meet. One night, we’re sharing a meal, when she announces she’s leaving. I message Kostya who is at Pith.

As I walk across town, the night is indistinguishable from any other. The city's old stone buildings and cracked pavements are dimly lit by the same amber streetlights. The same hum of nightlife whirls in the background, as people move onto their second, or third, venue for the evening. But tonight, it feels muted, like a party winding down before ever really beginning. Clusters of people stand outside bars, their mouths moving, but faces vacant. 

I can’t tell if anything has really changed, or if I’m just imagining it. Earlier that day, a piece of legislation had come into effect. The Foreign Agents Bill meant any organization receiving more than 20% of its funding from overseas would have to register as “pursuing the interests of a foreign power.” It’s a clever, simple law, lifted from the Kremlin, giving the ruling party power to shut down media, evacuate NGOs, and silence activists. Violent protests to reverse the bill in March 2023 were successful, only for the bill to resurface. This time, the bill passed. This was not just a law. It was a signal that Georgia’s government was importing the Kremlin’s operating system. 

A few days later, Kostya is staring at me from across the table, hardly blinking as he smokes. I stare back, not really seeing him, half wondering if the past few weeks are just something I made up in my head. I’m leaving tomorrow. 

“You know, I really don’t know where I am going next, or what I am going to do. Sometimes I think I also want to go to Thailand,” says Kostya out of the silence. 

“I’ve been accused so many times of being some kind of bad guy here. The amount of times I’ve been made to say "Putin is a dickhead," just so that I can order a beer. I know what's happening in Russia is a lie, but still, I can’t just abandon it. I have to protect it.” 

“Why, though?” 

“Because,” he says. “I have nothing else.”

“They were cold winter days. I put on a coat, and went to the rallies, for the sake of the children” 

— Tsaro Oshakmashvili.

As Election Day, October 26, 2024, approached, Georgia’s State Security Services went on Facebook to warn of an impending Western coup, and a plot to assassinate the billionaire founder of Georgian Dream and former prime minister Bidzina Ivanshvili. A pro-Western elite was supposedly preparing to topple the government and drag Georgia into war with Russia. Outlets that spread Kremlin narratives picked up the story, adding one detail: only Russia — and Putin himself — could prevent such a coup from occurring. I had been back in the UK during the run-up to the elections, and when my flight touched down in the city of Kutaisi on the night Georgia went to the polls, I turned on my phone to find both Georgian Dream and the opposition coalition claiming victory. 

As we shuffled off the plane, a man asked where I was headed. I say Tbilisi and he asks if I wanted a ride with his friends: a motley crew of Georgian and Australian men, each dressed in a version of a navy puffer jacket. When it turned out there were no buses this time of night, I said yes.

I sat up front next to a man called Tornike. I had him pegged as 45 and Iwas shocked to learn he was actually my age. I ask who he voted for. 

“Please” he said in a low, nasally voice. “I didn’t bother.” 

“Why?” I ask. 

“It’s lose-lose either way. Politicians just want money. I’m 31. I’ve got - what? Forty, fifty, years left. I’d rather just enjoy my life.” 

I stepped out of their car and into the bitter wind on Rustaveli. Tbilisi was quiet. Somehow the lights felt more grey than amber. A lone car was driving up and down the broad central drag, blaring its horn, a Georgian flag billowing from its window. A group of men loitered on the empty street and cheered each time a car passed and then returned to standing in silence. 

The next day, I go for a walk. Everywhere I look, I see a city void of life, of people. I message friends.  The only person who wants to meet is Dato, a sparky 24-year-old I got to know over the summer. He picks me up in his car. We tear through the city.

“This government doesn’t give a fuck,” he says, barely breathing between his words. “There is no other way but to do another Maidan. But I really hope I’m wrong.” referring to the 92-day-long pro-European protests in Kyiv’s central square which led to the fall of the then government, the annexation of Crimea just weeks later, and the death of 103 protesters. 

In just over a month's time, Dato will be arrested as he leaves a friend’s house and, later, flee the country.

We go to meet his friend, a successful restaurant owner who tells me he’s ready to pack it all in and leave Georgia for good. It’s not about fighting, it’s about making an exit.

“Will you come back?” I ask him.  

“There will be nothing to come back to.”

Kostya, who’s hosting me, returns at 4 A.M. from a trip to Istanbul. He changes into his pajamas and gets into bed beside me. It’s now been 48 hours since the election result. Evidence of voter intimidation and ballot stuffing starts to mount. Increasingly, it appears the election was stolen. A demonstration organized by opposition leaders is being held outside parliament that evening. I ask Kostya if he’s coming, but he’s going to Pith to see friends. “For my welcome home party,” he says. 

That night, the news coverage shows men holding banners stating “Georgia is not Russia.” Young women embrace amid a riot of EU and Georgian flags; people clutch their hearts as the national anthem sounds. But when the opposition finally unveils their grand plan to fight, the mood changes. 

“Our plan,” they say, “is you.”

Later that evening, I sit on Kostya’s bed while he smokes on the balcony, the cold slipping in through the open door. The harsh overhead light glares above. I tell him about the deflated protest, the sense of hopelessness settling over the city, and the stories of young Georgians planning to leave the country for good.

“I’m sorry, but these people killed my empathy,” he says, stepping in from the balcony.  

I remind him why he came here in the first place, but Kostya waves off my concerns, insisting that life here could never compare to Russia, recounting the stories of people sentenced to years in prison for holding up blank protest placards, for reposting anti-war content online, for replacing price tags at a supermarket with messages to stop the war, or throwing plastic water bottles at police. As if a protest like tonight's would even get the chance to happen in Russia, he says. They'd arrest you the moment you gathered. The police would know before you even start. “Maybe now,” he says, “they will understand what it’s like to be us.”

I spend successive evenings attending protests, interviewing people and taking photographs. I pitch news outlets. One story I have is about members of the LGBT+ community fleeing the country. Only the month before, the Family Values Bill passed which prohibited all pride events and public displays of the rainbow flag, banned gender transition, adoption for same sex couples, and allowed censorship of films and books. The law is an almost direct copy of Russia’s anti-LGBT law. One man told me how he was stripped and beaten by police when they found LGBT content on his phone. Editors express only vague interest. In Tbilisi, history is accelerating. In the rest of the world, Georgia barely registers

I go out with Dato and his friends. All anyone can talk about is the election. “If we lose this, we lose our identity,” says Dato, standing to his feet in an impromptu speech. “Where are the Russians who fled here because of the war? If they came here because of Putin, why don’t they join us in the fight?”

I put the question directly to Kostya the next day, asking him if he thinks it's his duty to join. But, really, I just want him to admit what’s really at stake; that the stories he has been told are a lie, that the same stories are used to justify wars that he can escape, that protecting those stories isn’t really escaping at all, it’s remaining trapped in the same narratives that people on the streets outside are now fighting.

But the answers I want aren’t the answers I get. 

“My country?” he asks, indignantly. “What about Europe? They are the ones making problems here.”

How would I feel, he asks, if Russia started creating bases on the UK’s borders? Just as NATO is doing in Ukraine. It’s strategic, he says, the EU flags at Georgia’s airport, the funding, the way EU leaders ferry themselves in and out of the country and address crowds at opposition rallies, painting themselves as Georgia’s savior. Europe has created this situation, not Russia.

“Anyway, whatever. I just want to live my life. I’m OK with being here and them hating me.”

“But this is the crux of the hate.”

“Let them hate,” he says. “I’m tired of all the fucking hate.” 

When I return, he tells me not to speak, and that we should end it. I glance at the cigarette trembling in his hand and ask for ten minutes alone to pack my things.

The bleakest day yet comes on November 25, a month after the election and the day Georgian Dream members are sworn in. The city is cloaked in wet fog. The protesters’ plan is to block the legislators from entering parliament, but with hundreds of masked policemen forming a wall around the building there is little that can be done. Within minutes, the plastic grinning faces of parliamentarians are projected from live screens, signing their oaths of office. The crowd stands motionless in the rain, wet Georgian flags hung around their shoulders. 

Suddenly, people surge towards the iron fence erected around the building, pounding their fists against it. The desperate hammering brings relief. For a moment, it feels as though something, anything, might finally happen. But hours later, as I file photos from a cafe across the street, people are still banging on the fence, and Georgian Dream has long left the building.

On November 28, the news arrives that Georgian Dream will be suspending EU accession talks, suspending the only future that isn’t linked to Moscow. The response is immediate. Rustaveli floods with tens of thousands of people for a bitter standoff with the police who chase and beat individual protestors into the following morning. They begin to pick protesters off one by one while walking their dogs or collecting their children from school. Each evening, the crowd rejuvenates and the cycle repeats.

Somewhere in the crowd, Archil meets Tsaro for the first time. Together, they endure the cold, the tear gas, the water cannons, the indiscriminate arrests, the raids, the beatings by police. And despite having only just met, what they experience erases the distance between them. "We went through such terrible days… that, of course, there was no difference anymore,” Tsaro later told me. “This was my son. He was a son of the same Georgia.”

By the start of 2025, all major opposition leaders will be arrested; while attempts to legally ban all opposition remain underway today, effectively creating a one party rule. Obstructing the road is enforced with fines or detention, while obstructing the pavement becomes listed as a new offence. A man is charged for insulting the police online. Another is charged with throwing a water bottle at police and sentenced to two years. I think of Kostya's words, that Georgia will never be anything compared to Russia, and don’t feel so sure.

Where does Georgia go from here? Czech MEP Marketa Gregorova recently said Georgia was undeserving of its EU candidacy status and that, with Viktor Orbán gone, there would be no one left to oppose targeted sanctions against officials. Meanwhile, Russia has deepened ties with South Ossetia. Part of the new agreement grants Russian citizens the right to take up official positions in the occupied region. One month after declaring the new partnership, South Ossetia’s Prime Minister stepped down. His replacement; Marat Kambolov, a Kremlin-appointed Regional Administrator. In May, Georgian Dream launched a new unit for monitoring online “hate speech” against officials, with 60 cases already being filed. 

People still stand outside parliament as 118 prisoners of conscience serve out their sentences. Some who continue to protest ask where the younger generation have gone; others say it's the sheer scale of the crackdown and the extended power police have that keeps them away. Just a few weeks ago, a friend told me he was leaving. "Society here is broken," he said. Sitting on our shared terrace, I recently asked my neighbor, in his sixties, if he attended the protests back in 2024. He just laughed. “This is nothing new for Georgia.”

The other day, I passed Kostya in the street. It was the unmistakable sound of British English from the woman he was with that made me turn his way. Two years later, the irony is that perhaps he was right; the younger generation, the ones who haven’t left, say they do have a deeper understanding of what it is like to live beneath authoritarianism — the main difference being that it didn’t cost them their empathy.

When I visit Tsaro at home, she shows me pictures of Archil on her phone, cooing how cute he is, joking that he makes her own children jealous. But I also know that she feels the full weight of this moment from the times that I have seen her cry while reading his letters.

There was something else Tsaro said that day we were intercepted by police, something that surprised me more than her small hope that I’d somehow defied the police.

“You know, not all police are bad. Some are really good people,” she said, using my phone to translate. “I felt sorry for them. They told me we have families, too. If they don’t do something, they’ll be fired and unemployed. That’s why they are afraid.” Then, smiling once again, said she was looking forward to telling Archil the story later and that he would certainly find it very funny.

Tsaro has now spent many weekends campaigning across the country with the Mothers of Conscience, a collective of mothers whose children have been imprisoned for protest-related charges since 2024. One member, Marina Terishvili, whose son is serving two years, lost her other son on the 9th April 1989, the day Georgian demands for independence from Moscow were met with shovels, tanks, and toxic gas at the hands of the Soviet authorities. Many people’s names did not make it into the official tally of the dead that day. They died months after exposure to the gas.

The Mothers often deliver newspapers written by their children from behind bars. I've joined them on these newspaper runs, and recently took a copy with me to translate back home. In it, I found a note from Archil:

“Stand by a stranger, this is what gives me strength and motivation to fight, fight when I see how people care for each other, fight when I see how they support and stand by me, a stranger to them.”

The collective responsibility people take for others, standing by strangers, is something I still see in Tbilisi, even if that community is now confined to the patches of pavement where it is still legally permitted to protest, or to the contents of a package delivered behind bars, or to the sofa in Tsaro's living room, the one that Archil is planning to sleep on when he is released. Such acts of solidarity exist in a space authoritarianism cannot so easily reach: the space between people, another homeland. 

The post  Standing with strangers, a Tbilisi story appeared first on Coda Story.

In "almost Shakespearean grotesquery," our cringe Buffoon-In-Chief just thrust himself into the World Cup final only to be unceremoniously booed, snubbed and cropped out of team photos. Then he again assailed Canada for smoke from their wildfires, though ours are much worse and they've often helped us with them. Still, our ever-gracious northern neighbor launched a new initiative to dutifully sweep the Rockies, vacuum the forests, hand-rake pine needles. Its acronym: F.U.C.K.O.F.F.

The headlines for Trump's Sunday gatecrash of another major sports event that really, really didn't want him there tells the vainglorious and mortifying tale: "Most Universally Hated President In History Mercilessly Booed," "Crowd Boos, Player Snub and Failed Photobomb: Trump's Big World Cup Day Out," and "Confused Old Fuckwit Imagines He's Won the World Cup." The Guardian also wins a Snark of the Year Award for the caption to its photo of FIFA's Infantino deep in conversation with a clueless Trump, both men standing under a blizzard of confetti, after he literally had to drag him off-stage: "Gianni Infantino carefully explains to Donald Trump he is not part of the Spanish team."

Some of the over 82,000 fans at New Jersey's Met-Life Stadium, where Spain trounced a listless, chaotic, often-thuggish Argentina 1-0, had earlier made their feelings clear when video briefly showed Trump ensconced in his glass-encased VIP digs and scattered boos rang out. By the time he finally lumbered and waddled stoop-shouldered onto the field at the end, it sounded like all 82,000-plus had reconsidered and joined in to jeer. Trailing behind him, looking like hostages trying to keep a safe distance to not catch any cooties, were Mexico's and Canada's leaders, the tournament's purported, far-less-despised hosts. Implausibly given....everything, but thanks to Infantino's long gross obsequiousness, Trump got to hand out awards.

And he did, though not without some drama: Several players hesitated, recoiled or refused to shake his hand. Then it was time to hand out the (seductively gold) World Cup. Little needy Donnie, a malignant narcissistic lump, swooped in to awkwardly “help” Infantino carry it like a five-year-old hungry for the feckin' ice-cream cone his dad is holding, “a lonely, grasping figure refusing to release a trophy he didn’t win.” Once they handed it to Spain’s captain Rodri, Trump, “malice wrapped in vanity,” painfully lingered in the limelight - camera! also person, woman, man TV - as Infantino struggled to yank him away for the iconic team hoist photo: "OK, grandpa, time to get back to your chocolate pudding." In the end, a patient Rodri gently nudged him out of the shot, but cringingly not off the stage, where he stood dazed and wobbling, our national farce and tragedy.

Steve Schmidt noted the clumsy resulting image's era-defining power, its display of the "breathtaking psychological fragility" of a "President Norma Desmond...incapable of understanding that the greatest office in the world confers responsibility, not ownership." "The character has been devoured by the caricature," he wrote of "self-parody made flesh," the small man so consumed by the need for adulation that, "Every trophy is his trophy. Every triumph is his triumph. Every stage is his stage." Later, in photos released both by FIFA and the Spanish team, Trump had mercifully, miraculously disappeared from both shots, because this is why God and Al Gore invented photoshop.

The awkward bit of theater with Spain came, lest we forget, in the wake of Trump's weeks of vilifying the nation and their prime minister Pedro Sánchez - first, for their refusal to allow the U.S. military to use Spanish bases to help illegally bomb Iran, then for the alleged failure of "bad" and "hopeless" Spanish people to pay enough for NATO defense spending. Despite Trump's ugly threats to "cut off all trade" with a longtime ally unforgivably following the law, it all suddenly vanished before the cameras, where Trump congratulated "a great team," even though they speak Spanish, and claimed there was "no tension" with the country’s leadership. Actually, he smirked, "I have no tension with anybody."

Tell it to Canada, which Trump has been moronically berating for "Willful Negligence," aka inexplicably allowing smoke from over 800 wildfires raging across some of Canada's 347 million acres to drift over our pristine shores. A few days earlier, joined by equally stupid MAGA lackeys, he raged the U.S. "is being unnecessarily invaded by filthy, polluted, and unhealthy air" at an "incalculable" (a big word he probs didn't write) cost, and "maybe they should pay us some damages" or billions more in tariffs, and he'd call Carney "to find out what they are going to do about it." "We are holding Canada responsible," he thundered, "for the fact that they are not properly maintaining their Forests, and Brush therein."

Like his long-ago claim during California wildfires that Finland's president told him they rake their forests and have no such problems - Finland when asked: "WTF" - this is an idiot's fever dream. Facts owe: This year, America has seen over 40,000 fires burn roughly 3.9 million acres, 157% its ten-year average. There are now over 70 uncontained U.S. fires being fought by nearly 18,000 people, with much of the Northwest - Colorado, Oregon, Washington - at National Preparedness Level 5, the highest, and up to 58 new fires a day. Air quality alerts affecting a million Americans are due to those fires, to blazes across 70,000-plus acres in Minnesota, and to 3,600 fires across 1.8 million acres, below the five-year average, in Canada.

In the face of politely unnamed U.S. pols mindlessly "chirping away," notes Ontario Premier Doug Ford, he has already asked for firefighters or "anything they can send" to help fight nearly 200 fires, some of which have crossed into Canada from Minnesota, that have forced entire First Nations to evacuate and many residents to sleep in their cars. Rather than complain maybe send help, he adds, "because we have done the same thing for our American friends," again and again. Even as Canadian officials issue air quality warnings from U.S. fires drifting north, a 56-year-old Canadian helicopter pilot from B.C. just died in a crash battling a fire in Colorado, the fourth firefighter death there this summer.

Meanwhile, a mindless, science-denying MAGA has ended support for dozens of climate initiatives, dismantled our largest climate research center and pushed for more fossil fuel carnage. On Sunday, with much of his country visibly on fire, Trump attacked the National Academy of Sciences - chartered by Abe Lincoln mid-Civil War "because even a nation shooting at itself understood it needed scientists" - because it's "run by Radical Left Dumocrats” who published costly, "fraudulent," “totally discredited” climate change manuals, which he ordered "Suspension and Debarment" officials to review. Also - cue dumbest timeline ever - Repubs jumped in to decry DEI-loving advocates who (gasp) may have tried to stop blessed oil and gas projects.

Still, Canada is a tolerant, peace-loving nation that tries to accommodate all comers, even a malevolent asshole who's never gotten any closer to a "forest" than Central Park, if even there. It also values its natural resources, including a 270-million-acre boreal forest, much of it roadless, whose vast ecosystem serves as a global carbon sink to purify air and water, regulate climate and offer a safe breeding ground to billions of birds. And if some random asshole neighbor to the north chides its inadequate forest management, Canada seeks to rise to the occasion - to, as it were, Be Better. Thus was born a bold new initiative from its Department of Forest Tidiness, which is now "pleased to confirm the message has been received loud and clear."

Canada's Forest Undergrowth Clearing & Kindling Operation for Foreign Friends, aka F.U.C.K.O.F.F., renders every able-bodied person ages 16 to 65 responsible for removing leaves, twigs, moss, bark, sticks, branches, pine needles, deadfall and shrubs deemed "insufficiently tidy by Congressional observers." After receiving government-issued rakes, gloves and safety vests, they must arrange all debris "into neat bilingual piles," to be painstakingly inspected by forestry officials. Further actions may include sweeping the Rocky Mountains, power-washing the Canadian Shield, vacuuming deserts, raking California, installing smoke-detectors across the Yukon and mandating that all fires contain and respect clearly marked provincial borders.

In Ontario, workers will be assigned 6.7 acres (40 NHL hockey rinks) of dense untracked country and a 26-hour work week; elsewhere, shifts surge to a hefty 18.3 acres (110 rinks) and 70 hours a week. Morning commutes start with a three-day canoe trip and 15-km hike through swamp; on-site, workers will hand-groom 300 billion trees, hand-rake an infinity of pine needles, make local beavers submit environmental impact reports and dodge grizzlies as needed. Finally, it notes, "Canada thanks Congress for sharing their extensive knowledge of forestry, wildfire behavior, climate science, geography and upkeep of a country containing 9% of the world's forests, and looks forward to receiving further practical advice from Washington."

Online, many Americans, after reportedly snorting their coffee through their noses, thanked Canada "for being great neighbors and allies," and apologized for - hands held hopelessly wide - "all this." "We are so, so sorry," said one. Another: "We're so incredibly sorry." Canadians joined in: "I'm in Alberta - I'll send water," "In B.C., have to get my mountaineering gear first. Sorry. eh?" and a generous offer to add a new organization, Canadian Undergrowth, Nature, and Tree Services: "I believe that with your cooperation, F.U.C.K.O.F.F plus C.U.N.T.S could really show Americans we take their health and well-being seriously." Organizers estimate their work will be completed "somewhere between Thursday afternoon and the collapse of human civilization," which should be any day now.

A día de hoy, se habla constantemente de amor propio, independencia emocional, autosuficiencia, libertad… puede surgir una pregunta: si una persona está realmente bien consigo misma, ¿para qué necesita a los demás? Hace casi dos mil años, el filósofo romano Séneca ya reflexionó sobre esta aparente contradicción y llegó a una conclusión que sigue teniendo plena vigencia: sentirse completo no significa renunciar a la amistad.

En sus "Cartas a Lucilio", el pensador estoico sostiene una idea que, a primera vista, puede parecer paradójica: "El sabio, por más contento que esté consigo mismo, quiere sin embargo tener amigos". Para Séneca, una persona sabia no depende de los demás para ser feliz. Su bienestar nace de su propia forma de afrontar la vida y no de circunstancias externas, como el éxito, el dinero o la aprobación ajena. Sin embargo, eso no significa que deba vivir aislada. La amistad, lejos de ser una necesidad derivada de la carencia, es una elección que enriquece la existencia.

Esta visión rompe con la idea, bastante extendida hoy, de que quien disfruta de la soledad no necesita establecer vínculos profundos. El filósofo defendía precisamente lo contrario: una persona que se siente bien consigo misma está en mejores condiciones para construir relaciones auténticas, porque no busca en ellas llenar vacíos emocionales. Es decir, sus relaciones son más que sanas porque no hay un interés específico más allá de estar cerca de personas que aporten y sumen.

Séneca explica esta diferencia con otra reflexión especialmente significativa: "El sabio está contento consigo mismo, no porque no quiera tener amigos, sino porque le basta poder tenerlos". La clave está en distinguir entre necesitar y desear. Necesitar implica depender de otra persona para mantener el equilibrio emocional; desear, en cambio, supone elegir compartir la vida desde la libertad. Según el estoicismo, la amistad más sólida nace precisamente cuando ninguno de los dos amigos espera que el otro resuelva sus inseguridades o carencias.

Este planteamiento resulta especialmente interesante en una sociedad donde la soledad suele interpretarse como un fracaso personal. Muchas personas sienten ansiedad ante la posibilidad de quedarse sin pareja o de perder determinadas amistades porque asocian esos vínculos con su propia estabilidad emocional. Séneca proponía un enfoque diferente: aprender primero a sostenerse a uno mismo para poder relacionarse con los demás desde la serenidad y no desde el miedo.

Eso no significa restar importancia a la amistad. Al contrario. El filósofo la consideraba uno de los bienes más valiosos de la vida, siempre que estuviera basada en la confianza, la honestidad y la virtud. De hecho, criticaba las relaciones interesadas, aquellas que solo existen mientras proporcionan algún beneficio. En otra de sus enseñanzas afirma: "Ama si quieres que te amen", una frase con la que resume que la amistad no puede construirse desde el cálculo o la conveniencia, sino desde la generosidad y la reciprocidad.

La filosofía estoica tampoco niega el dolor que puede provocar perder una amistad. Lo que propone es no convertir ese sufrimiento en una dependencia que impida seguir adelante. El sabio aprecia profundamente a sus amigos, pero sabe que su paz interior no puede quedar completamente en manos de factores externos. Dos mil años después, el mensaje de Séneca continúa ofreciendo una perspectiva sorprendentemente actual. Estar bien con uno mismo no significa prescindir de los demás; significa poder elegir compartir la vida con ellos desde la libertad y no desde la necesidad.

El debate migratorio en España suele estar centrado en las personas que vienen a nuestro país a vivir, pero también hay nacionalidades que abandonan el territorio debido a cuestiones como el encarecimiento del precio de la vivienda o a sueldos que no crecen lo suficiente respecto al nivel de vida. "Es el dato que no suele llegar a los titulares", ha comentado el inversor y analista económico Marc Vidal en el programa Herrera en COPE.

En concreto, Vidal se ha referido al hecho de que aunque haya 2,5 millones de europeos viviendo en España, un tercio de los rumanos y búlgaros que vinieron en su día ya se han marchado, tal y como recoge el Instituto Nacional de Estadística (INE). "En su censo anual de población, en 2012 había cerca de 900.000 rumanos viviendo en España, y en 2025 ya solo quedaban 609.000, es decir, casi un tercio se ha ido", ha explicado.

El en caso de los búlgaros, prosigue, "empieza a suceder algo parecido". Según el analista, "no es gente cualquiera", ya que forman parte de la Unión Europea y, por tanto tienen pasaporte comunitario y libertad total de movimiento, por lo que no necesitan ningún tipo de permiso para quedarse. Sin embargo, "han hecho las maletas y se van a sus países".

El motivo de este éxodo de rumanos y búlgaros reside en los "salarios estancados, nichos laborales sin recorrido y una vivienda que es cada vez más cara", ha enumerado Vidal.

Sin embargo, en sus países de origen, como en Rumanía, "pagan algo más y el dinero cunde mejor". Estas personas "vinieron, compararon y han decidido volver", ha aclarado.

"Se habla mucho de los que vienen, pero de los que se van no se habla tanto, y esto tiene su factura", ha advertido Vidal. En este sentido, explica que "el que se va no suele ser un jubilado", sino que "es un trabajador en edad activa y muchas veces además cualificado".

En el caso de los rumanos, el sector que más se ve golpeado es la construcción, "justo cuando hace falta levantar más vivienda que nunca". "Es una mano de obra que se vuelve a su país, que aunque no les pague más todavía, sí tiene unos costes de vida que les compensa", agrega el analista económico.

Por ello, Vidal habla de la "gran paradoja" que ocurre en estos momentos en España: "Tenemos récord de turistas, casi 97 millones en 2025, según el INE. Nos llenamos de quien viene a gastar en una semana, y nos vaciamos de quien venía a quedarse décadas".

"Esto es algo que debería de hacernos reflexionar. ¿Qué dice de un país donde una buena parte de la gente que puede irse, se va?", ha sentenciado.

Patrocinado

O simbolismo de uma toupeira que nasceu com limitações visuais, mas desenvolve sentidos extraordinários que lhe permitem orientar-se e prosperar, transformando dificuldades em "superpoderes" para aproximar e proteger as comunidades.

Patrocinado

Patrocinado

While much of the media industry focused on the churn of headlines, we became increasingly interested in the undercurrents beneath them: the hidden systems, infrastructures and ideologies shaping events across borders and over time.

Again and again, our reporting led us back to the same realization: for a long time, the struggle over information was understood primarily as a question of censorship or access. Who controls information? Who gets to publish? Who gets silenced?

Those questions still matter. But they no longer fully describe the world we live in.

Today, the struggle over information is about who builds the systems through which reality is organized, distributed and trusted. From state propaganda to algorithmic feeds, from platform monopolies to AI-generated noise, the battle is not over facts. It is over the infrastructures that determine which narratives spread, which voices are amplified and which communities remain connected.

Over the past year, these questions led to a collaboration between Coda and The Continent, the pan-African newspaper founded in Johannesburg by Simon Allison and Sipho Kings. Although our reporting emerges from very different histories and geographies, we found ourselves arriving at remarkably similar conclusions about power, fragmentation and the future of journalism in an age of informational instability.

This two-chapter essay is the beginning of that collaboration, and marks the start of a new project called The Atlas. Pilot edition is available here — please feel free to share with friends, family and colleagues, preferably in its entirety.

In Chapter One, I return to the world of my Soviet childhood: propaganda, samizdat and the search for trustworthy signals through noise.

In Chapter Two, The Continent co-founder Simon Allison presents the Parable of Sinn Sisamouth: the story of how some of the greatest songs ever written were nearly lost, and then found, and then lost again. 

Taken together, these essays ask what journalism becomes in a world where information is no longer organized primarily to inform, but to capture attention, manufacture reaction and shape perception at planetary scale.

The Atlas grows out of that question.

Chapter One: Through the Static

Whenever I am asked why I decided to become a journalist, an image from my childhood pops into my head. It’s dusk. I am 10, sitting in the kitchen with my mom. She is glued to a shortwave radio. Outside, the Soviet Union is on the cusp of collapse. Georgia, where we are, is on the brink of civil war. We didn’t use the term back then, but fake news was all we got through official channels. Real news — coming from the West — felt like a lifeline. I was in awe of the crackling radio that held my mother’s full attention. I wanted to become that voice.

Years later, I got my dream job at the BBC and spent much of my adult life moving between wars, uprisings and authoritarian states. Again and again, I found myself in places where truth was contested terrain: Baghdad, Damascus, Donetsk, Sana’a. But over time I realized something fundamental had changed. Modern authoritarianism no longer relied primarily on suppressing information. It had discovered something more effective.

Information could simply be drowned out by static.

That realization became stark for me in eastern Ukraine in the summer of 2014. I arrived in a field of bright yellow sunflowers where the bodies from Flight MH17 still lay scattered across the ground. A Russian missile had blown the passenger plane out of the sky, killing all 298 people on board. Yet almost immediately, the Kremlin flooded the information space with competing explanations. It was a Ukrainian fighter jet. A failed assassination attempt on Putin. The plane had been filled with corpses before takeoff. Each theory contradicted the next, but that hardly mattered. The point was not to persuade, it was to exhaust. It was to create so much noise that truth itself began to feel unstable.

Over the following years, I watched versions of the same logic spread far beyond Russia. Social platforms transformed public conversation into a permanent stream of outrage, performance and distraction, collapsing vastly different kinds of information into the same endless feed. War footage, propaganda, conspiracy theories, journalism and gossip all began competing inside systems designed not to inform people but to capture and hold attention.

Noise became the new censorship.

And increasingly, I found myself thinking about the world of my childhood again. Not because history was repeating itself neatly, but because the emotional landscape felt strangely familiar: confusion, exhaustion, distrust, the constant sense that reality itself was becoming slippery. Back then, people searched desperately for clear signals through the static of Soviet propaganda. Today, we are drowning in a different kind of static, but the instinct, the search for clarity feels remarkably similar.

In the Soviet Union, people developed ways of navigating that confusion. Among my strongest memories from that time is the sound of my parents’ typewriter late at night. Friends would pass around copies of banned Soviet literature and my parents would sit at the kitchen table all night, retyping them page by page so they could be shared again. It was my first encounter with samizdat, although I didn’t know the word then.

Looking back now, what strikes me is that samizdat was never simply about forbidden texts. It was about building trusted alternative systems of circulation when official systems had lost credibility.

At Coda, we have spent years building journalism against the logic of noise. We slowed stories down. We followed themes instead of headlines. We built a reporting system designed to connect events across borders and over time, helping readers see patterns instead of fragments. But as our globally distributed newsroom adapted to an increasingly fractured information landscape, it became clear that journalism alone was not enough. Distribution shapes understanding as much as reporting does.

Around the same time, in Johannesburg, Simon Allison, Sipho Kings and their team were building something that challenged many of the assumptions dominating digital media. The Continent, their pan-African newspaper, spreads largely through direct sharing networks: passed from reader to reader rather than pushed by algorithms.

Different histories had brought us to remarkably similar questions. What does journalism look like when trust is collapsing, attention is fragmented and the systems that carry information have themselves become instruments of power?

Out of that convergence came The Atlas: a new publication that brings together Coda’s methodology of following systems across borders and over time with The Continent’s radically distributed model for reaching readers beyond algorithmic feeds.

The Atlas is built on a shared conviction: as fragmentation, distrust and informational overload spread across the world, some of the clearest ways through will come from places that have already spent decades navigating propaganda, instability and contested reality. Places once treated as peripheral are becoming essential to understanding the defining question of this age: how can meaning survive systems designed to overwhelm it.

Chapter Two: The second silencing of Sinn Sisamouth

Imagine if your favourite song disappeared, forever. 

Almost every album I have ever loved was recommended to me by my friend An-Rui. A few months ago, he sent me a track by the undisputed King of Khmer Music, the Golden Voice, the Cambodian Elvis himself – Sinn Sisamouth.

I had never heard of him.

I didn’t respond at first, so he nudged me. That night, after the kids were asleep, I put on my headphones, sat in the garden and immediately lost myself in Cambodia’s psychedelic rock scene of the 1960s and ‘70s. I don’t know enough about music to explain exactly what I fell in love with, but within weeks I was, according to Spotify, among the top one percent of Sinn Sisamouth listeners worldwide.

An-Rui had added a note to his recommendation. “the songs are happy but since i know what his fate was and i don’t understand the words, it sounds incredibly sad to me”.

The story goes something like this: A small-town boy with an extraordinary voice moves to the big city, and conquers all before him. He writes hundreds of songs, bridging Khmer musical traditions with new western influences: jazz, rock & roll, bossa nova, blues, the Beatles, and, of course, Elvis Presley. He toured the country. He toured the world. He made music with an actual King, Norodom Sihanouk, and became Cambodia’s most beloved rockstar.

Then, in 1975, the Khmer Rouge seized power. In the course of committing a genocide, the communist regime disappeared Sinn Sisamouth, and banned his music. He has never been seen, or heard from, again.

But his music never died. It lived on brittle records, hidden for generations under floorboards. It lived on scratchy cassettes, passed hand to hand among the diaspora.

It was only decades later that his music was digitised and remastered, and made available on streaming platforms to the likes of me.

When I listen to Sinn Sisamouth, I can’t help but think about how easily we could have lost his masterpieces entirely. And I wonder what else might have been lost that we have not been able to recover.

And then it happened again.

There’s a particular track that I like to play in my car, where I can turn the bass up as high as it goes. I was driving one afternoon and looked for it on Spotify. It was gone, even though the rest of the album was there. 

I looked again on my laptop at home. Nothing. Gone from Spotify. Gone from Apple Music. Gone from YouTube. Like it had never been there in the first place. I started to wonder if I had gone crazy, and maybe imagined the song entirely. And then I started to panic: What if I never heard it again?

Eventually, I found a bootleg YouTube version, using a different transliteration of the Khmer title – Kanlang Pnheu Pran, instead of Konlong Phner Bran. Before I tracked that down, I had to wade through dozens of AI-generated Sinn Sisamouth ‘cover versions’, all uploaded to YouTube within the last few months. If I had never heard it before, I would never have been able to tell which was the original.

It’s not unusual for songs to disappear from the Internet, especially when the music is from non-English-speaking countries. I’ve had similar experiences with the music of Sharhabil Ahmed, the Sudanese jazz legend, and Ethiopia’s Tilahun “The Voice” Gessesse.

In fact, it’s not unusual for other kinds of information to disappear from the internet; to be edited after the fact; or to be simply lost among all the digital noise. Digital information is incredibly precarious, and becoming more so by the day. AI slop is taking over social media platforms. Algorithms determine what information we can and can’t see, shaping our cultural and political preferences. And powerful interests are becoming increasingly bold when it comes to brazenly manipulating information in their favour – or, of even greater concern, restricting the flow of information across borders.

Amazon changes the contents of books on people’s Kindles without telling anyone. News websites quietly alter critical stories, post-publication, to remove evidence of wrongdoing (my favourite example: the Financial Express published a story critical of India’s richest family; only to replace it with a glorified press release a few days later. They neglected to amend the URL, however, which contains the original headline). Governments shut down internet access on a whim, or legislate which apps and websites are available to specific populations.

For journalism, this is an existential threat. Our job is not just to hold power to account – it is also to write the first draft of history. But if we can’t preserve that first draft, or distribute it effectively, then what, exactly, is the point?

The Continent and Coda Story are working together to try something different. We want to publish news about the world, produced and verified by humans, that cannot be edited after the fact; and to distribute it in a way that dramatically decreases our reliance on unaccountable algorithms or search engine optimisation. The Atlas — pilot edition available here — is our answer to the precarity of information online. It’s a work in progress.

Stay tuned: if we’re going to succeed, we’ll need your help. And if we do succeed, the secret of our success will be those very same transnational networks that kept the music of Sinn Sisamouth alive. Communities of like-minded people, of friends and families will always find a way to stay connected, no matter how vast the distances between them, or how great the obstacles. So what does a global newspaper look like if we design it with exactly these communities in mind?

As soon as I found that bootleg on YouTube, I ripped an MP3 copy and sent it to An-Rui on Signal. “KEEP THIS SAFE,” I told him. I don’t know what happened to the song on Spotify, or if it is ever coming back. But I can’t take the risk of never hearing that bassline again. And here it is, in case you want to hear it too.

The post The new samizdat appeared first on Coda Story.

Nigel Farage, the leader of the UK’s right-wing Reform UK party, has taken millions of pounds from crypto people, including one convicted of financial crimes in the United States. There are, despite Farage’s insistence to the contrary, questions around whether he followed the rules. Nonetheless, his party has swept local elections. There’s a lesson here for progressive parties everywhere, including in the United States where senators are seeking documents relating to financial ties between the commerce secretary and Tether. What if you get your ‘gotcha’ moment, turn around to the voters with a broad smile… and they vote for your opponents anyway?

Believers in democracy need to start advocating for more transparency, more enforcement and more restrictions on murky finance if they want to stop unaccountable money from buying influence in their countries. It is not enough to rely on journalists and activists to produce the occasional investigation, and expect voters to do the rest: we need properly-resourced agencies that can keep dirty money out of our systems if we want them to remain clean. If history tells us anything, it’s that criminals get elected all too often.

This is urgent. Tether made more than $1 billion in profits this year, in the first quarter, and is thinking hard about the midterms and how candidates might be encouraged to fight for crypto. And that’s just one company. Progressives who believe in fairer finance, a state’s right to regulate its own economy and the power to oversee who’s buying whom, don’t have that kind of money to spend to influence elections, so they need to start making the argument for campaign finance restrictions much more forcefully.

But there’s another point here too. I am working on an article about money laundering at the moment, and was chatting to two UK detectives last week. They led a successful operation in their city (I’ll post the article when it’s done) and I asked if they thought it had made a lasting difference. “With all crime, you take one out and there is another,” one of the detectives told me. “I'd like to think it has made a dent but there will always be more.”

In the case they worked on, gangs were bringing cash generated via the cocaine trade to be laundered into crypto (no prizes for guessing which cryptocurrency they preferred). The detectives identified £53 million in turnover over two years. It’s great that they jailed the ringleaders, but you can see why they’re not getting too carried away. That total is about a quarter of a percent of the UK cocaine market’s turnover, so the gangs really won’t have noticed the loss. And, for the police, it was five years’ work.

To a fairly large extent, since the first U.S. operation in Miami in 1980, when we’ve spoken about fighting dirty money, we have really been talking about stopping cocaine gangs by taking away their ability to make a profit. And, despite occasional successes like the one I’m writing about, this approach has overall been a catastrophic failure. Cocaine is cheaper, more abundant, and more widespread than ever before.

This is important for many reasons, obviously because entrusting the supply of a dangerous substance to criminals is bad, but also because the existence of a vast underground financial system to move the cocaine trade’s profits creates a mechanism through which Russian spies, terrorists and others can hide their cash too. For me though, the real problem is that we have an urgent threat to democracy posed by hidden unaccountable money. Instead of tackling that problem though, our police officers are fighting an endless war against drugs that was lost decades ago.

My modest proposal therefore is to legalise cocaine. It’s available everywhere already, so there’s no downside. We should tax it, regulate it, make sure kids can’t buy it and, as a useful side effect, take all the liquidity out of the underground economy. Our police officers could then stop running to go backwards, and instead fight a battle they might actually win, which is to stop fascists and kleptocrats from buying our democracies.

Use oligarchs to undermine Putin

Here’s a good article from The Economist by “a former senior official in the Russian Government,” arguing that Vladimir Putin is losing his grip. Now, I’m always a little cautious about articles that tell me what I want to hear, as well as the veracity of information and analysis provided by Russian officials, former or current, but it does make some very interesting points.

Of particular interest to me is the idea that Russia’s elite is annoyed with Putin because its members are worried about having their assets stolen, with $60 billion worth of property nationalised or seized by corrupt officials in the last three years. 

“Previously their property rights were outsourced to the West. They used London courts, offshore structures and international arbitration to resolve conflicts or seek protection. Now conflicts must be resolved domestically, without functioning institutions. Demand for rules grows more urgent as redistribution of assets gathers pace,” the article states.

One of the reasons why democracy failed in Russia is because the oligarchs were able to keep their wealth offshore, and thus to essentially colonise their own country, secure in the knowledge they were themselves immune from the unfairness. It would be a pleasing irony if the horrific war in Ukraine ended up undermining not just Putin, but Putinism as a whole.

There is a huge opportunity here for Western governments to capitalise on the dissent, and to start quietly offering sanctions relief to Russians willing to break with Putin, and who’re prepared to surrender a decent chunk of their wealth to help Ukraine in return for being able to keep the rest. There aren’t enough police officers to actually bring the cases needed to investigate, prosecute and confiscate the oligarchs’ wealth anyway (see item above), so we may as well start negotiating and see what they’re willing to do to get it back. In short, this is a big week for me making unfashionable policy proposals.

AI-generated launderers

There’s debate in the United States about getting rid of the Corporate Transparency Act, with Jeff Bezos’ Washington Post supporting repeal, even though the law has never actually been implemented. Opaque shell companies are a weird outgrowth of capitalism that corporations’ original inventors — who wanted to create insurance for entrepreneurs, not getaway vehicles for crooks — never intended to happen, so it’s very odd that they’re now being presented as some kind of human right.

If you want a reason why the appallingly lax American system should be cleaned up, here’s a post on X about someone who tasked two AI agents with making money, and came back to find out they’d registered a Wyoming LLC all by themselves. This suggests the opening of a whole new frontier of automated money laundering, and the consequences are frankly pretty terrifying. The Corporate Transparency Act should be strengthened, not abolished.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post Legalize Cocaine to save democracy appeared first on Coda Story.

On April 24, Brazil’s competition authority, the Administrative Council for Economic Defense (CADE) announced it was opening an investigation to assess whether Google’s use of news content amounted to unfair competition practices against the Brazilian press. The announcement was welcomed by civil society organizations that have tried to push regulation to limit the reckless power of Big Tech for years. Ajor, Brazil’s Digital News Association, said that “a balanced relationship between digital platforms and journalism organizations is fundamental to the flourishing of journalism committed to the public interest. By ensuring a fair competitive environment, Cade directly advances that goal.”

In spirit and intent, CADE’s investigation into Google is similar to legislation in Australia that recognized that value is being extracted from news publishers without proportionate recompense. In Brazil, the case has been debated since 2019, but the adoption of AI Overviews helped alter the perspective of Brazilian judges. The overviews are artificially generated summaries that synthesize information from several sources and appear at the top of Google Search results. They “raise potentially more concerns,” ruled Judge Camila Cabral Pires Alves, “as they may more profoundly alter the economic function of the interface and expand the ability to retain attention within the platform's own environment.”

CADE will now investigate whether Google should be sanctioned for “alleged abusive exploitation of a dominant position, in light of the technological evolution of the conduct.” While there is perhaps a greater global appetite to regulate the impacts of AI – even the Trump administration has recently acknowledged that some oversight may be necessary – the CADE judges have been under considerable pressure from Big Tech executives to stop investigations into how their control of the market harms Brazilian businesses. 

For those of us who have reported on Big Tech, this aggressive lobbying is not surprising. Companies like Google, Meta, Twitter, TikTok, Amazon, and Microsoft have long attempted to interfere in any decision or legislation that can harm their interests in Latin America. According to a joint investigation by journalists across 13 countries, Big Tech lobbyists got away with convincing legislators in Colombia to weaken a rule meant to protect children’s mental health and prevent enforcement of privacy regulations in Ecuador. It took a team of over 40 journalists from 13 countries to uncover this while reporting on the ‘Big Tech Lobby’ in the continent and across the world.   

Threats by the U.S. government to retaliate against any country or international entity that sought to regulate Big Tech added another layer to an already complicated and uneven relationship with Silicon Valley. “Digital Taxes, Digital Services Legislation, and Digital Markets Regulations are all designed to harm, or discriminate against, American Technology,” wrote Donald Trump on social media. “Show respect to America and our amazing Tech Companies or consider the consequences!” During the past year, Trump’s envoys have forced dozens of governments around the world to dilute or even shelve regulation in exchange for lifting tariffs. 

In “Big Tech’s Invisible Hands,” which I coordinated alongside Maria Teresa Ronderos, from CLIP (Centro Latinoamericano de Investigación Periodistica), journalists mapped a total of 75 executives that were part of “public policy” or “government relations” teams in Brazil. Tech companies utilized a “revolving door” in which public sector employees could go straight into highly paid jobs leveraging their contacts and influence. Doors opened more easily. Invitations to hangouts and events were more likely to be accepted. 

Lobbying in Brazil is dialed up to eleven. The country has 163 million internet users, with over 150 million on WhatsApp, and over 120 million on YouTube, Instagram and Facebook. With AI, Brazil is a similarly large, influential market. Portuguese is the sixth most widely-spoken language in the world, with 70% of speakers based in Brazil. Which means that, if an LLM has been trained in this language, it probably used content created by millions of Brazilians going about their business of making friends, debating politics and football online. It’s not just about journalists; we are all unpaid labor for Big Tech. 

In the words of Arthur Lira, the Speaker in Brazil’s Congress who filed a criminal complaint against Big Tech executives in 2023, companies adopted a variety of tactics “to shut down democratic debate and intimidate lawmakers” and defeat any attempt at using legislation to force accountability. Google, he said, used its search homepage, used by over 85% of Brazilians, to spread fear that proposed laws would “make the internet worse” or “make it harder to know what is true or false on the internet.” A report by the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro found that Google invested in ads on its own platform so extensively that it tweaked the search, prominently featuring the word “censorship” in connection to the Brazilian bill. Google also hired Michael Temer, a lawyer and former President of Brazil, to influence lawmakers and Supreme Court Justices. Of course, it was not Google alone. Meta executives, for instance, even argued that proposed legislation in Brazil could lead to the Bible being censored.

But Brazilian lawmakers, the Supreme Court, and civil society have persisted. On August 28, 2025, the “Felca Law” was approved, after a video by the influencer Felca denounced the exploitation and exposure of children on social media. The law establishes that digital platforms must take measures like verifying user age, implementing parental controls, and preventing children's exposure to adult content, gambling, and pornography. They must create reporting channels and may face fines of up to 10% of their annual revenue in Brazil.

Brazil’s president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva and Donald Trump have had a testy relationship, in part because of Lula’s criticism of Big Tech. In February, at the AI Impact Summit in New Delhi, Lula called for global governance of AI, warning: “When few control the algorithms, it is not innovation, but domination. Regulating the so-called Big Tech companies is linked to the imperative of safeguarding human rights in the digital sphere, promoting information integrity, and protecting our countries’ creative industries.”

By sticking to his guns, Lula may now be seeing the tide turn. He was in the White House on May 7, and though neither he nor Trump took questions, both appeared encouraged by the meeting. “Very dynamic,” was how Trump described Lula, while Lula said he was “very, very satisfied” with how the talks went. With a general election in Brazil approaching in October, Lula will be sensitive to how the White House, as it has done in other elections, and Big Tech might offer vocal support for right wing candidates.

But his willingness to stand up to Big Tech is popular with voters. A recent poll found that 78% of Brazilians want to see tech companies being held responsible for the content they publish. Another poll found that 55% of Brazilians defend regulating Big Tech, with 43.9% against it. 

And as scams, fake news, and AI slop dominate ever larger swathes of all our digital space, in Brazil, as in much of the rest of the world, the entire experience of the internet is becoming more unappealing. Big Tech, with the assistance of the U.S. government, may be succeeding in slowing down the pace of regulation and watering down the content of that regulation, but in the long run its victories might be pyrrhic. People have had enough and their governments might be forced to listen.

The post How Brazil is starting to rein in Big Tech appeared first on Coda Story.

On May 3, an unusual procession moved through Washington DC. Several hundred people walked beneath the monuments of the American capital carrying portraits of Red Army soldiers. Children waved Soviet flags. A live orchestra played wartime songs at the World War II memorial. The Russian embassy had filed the permit; the DC Metropolitan Police provided an escort. Russian state media celebrated the event as proof that, with the return of Donald Trump, historical truth too had returned to America.

One organizer told Russian state television: “We love, respect Russia, honor the memory of our heroes.”

Similar marches took place in Paris, Amsterdam and Busan. In Berlin, authorities announced that Soviet flags, Russian symbols and military songs would once again be banned near Soviet war memorials during May 8 and 9 commemorations.

But in Moscow, Victory Day itself appeared haunted by fear.

For decades, May 9 has been Russia’s most sacred annual political ritual, binding victory, patriotism and state power into a single language. But this year, Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov was reduced to announcing that the Immortal Regiment march in Moscow would continue only “in electronic format.”

The run up to this year’s Victory Day became the most anxious Moscow has experienced in recent memory. The Kremlin canceled the traditional procession in the Russian capital, moving it online. Military equipment was removed from the parade. Mobile internet access across Moscow was intermittently shut down in the days leading up to May 9. Spectator numbers in St. Petersburg were reportedly slashed from thousands to just a few hundred. The Victory Parade in Kaliningrad was canceled entirely. Russian media outlets published extraordinary reports about Vladimir Putin retreating deeper into protected bunkers amid fears of Ukrainian drone strikes and assassination attempts.

Russia’s Foreign Ministry even warned foreign governments to evacuate diplomats from Kyiv before May 9, threatening massive retaliation if Ukraine targeted the celebrations with drones.

And then came another extraordinary twist. Volodymyr Zelensky publicly “allowed” the parade to proceed. In a deliberately tongue-in-cheek decree issued after negotiations around a temporary ceasefire, the Ukrainian president formally excluded Red Square from Ukraine’s operational strike plans for the duration of the celebrations, even listing the exact geographic coordinates of the square itself.

Watching it all unfold, I kept wondering whether empires collapse more easily than the systems of feeling they create. The Soviet Union fell apart more than 30 years ago, but the architecture built around victory, sacrifice and historical grievance survived it, stretching across borders, diasporas and rival political projects. What began as Soviet myth-making about liberation has evolved into a transnational political language through which governments, activists, diasporas and rival ideological movements compete over legitimacy, victimhood and belonging.

Over the years, at Coda, in our Rewriting History current, we have tracked how the remembrance of World War II became central to Putin’s machinery of legitimacy and repression. Soon after he came to power, Russian public culture became saturated with stories of the Great Patriotic War. Watching Russian state television often felt as if the war had ended yesterday. New films, schoolbooks, drama series, speeches, parades and television specials turned victory into the emotional foundation of Putin’s Russia. Scholars of Russian memory politics have described how, under Putin, collective memory of the war became a tool for claiming legitimacy, discrediting opposition and presenting the Russian state as the eternal defender against fascism.

 It resonated because it tapped into genuine emotion passed on for generations. It was never just propaganda. It rested on something real: the scale of Soviet loss and the private grief carried by millions of families.

The Immortal Regiment began in 2012 in the Siberian city of Tomsk as a local act of remembrance. Ordinary people walked through the streets carrying photographs of relatives who died in the war. By 2015, Putin was leading the Moscow procession himself, while state-backed organizations coordinated chapters in dozens of countries. But in Putin’s Russia, where victory had already become the central organizing myth of the state, the boundary between private mourning and political mythology dissolved.

The speed of that transformation still feels important to me. It says something about the way modern political systems absorb private emotion and fold it back into the language of the state.

The Kremlin framed these Victory Day rituals as a defense against what it called Western attempts to “rewrite history” by minimizing the Soviet role in defeating fascism or equating Stalinism with Nazism. Ukraine and many Eastern Europeans came to see the marches instead as vehicles for imperial nostalgia and wartime propaganda. 

But the argument, it seems, is no longer only about what happened in the past. It is about who gets to turn memory and grief into political legitimacy in the present.

This year Germany found itself in the extraordinary position of having to ban Soviet flags and military songs near Soviet memorials, effectively regulating the symbolic language of antifascism itself. Historian Timothy Snyder once warned that “if fascists take over the mantle of antifascism, the memory of the Holocaust will itself be altered.” That is precisely the moral and historical dilemma Berlin has now forced into the open. What happens when the symbols of genuine antifascist sacrifice become inseparable from the imagery of an ongoing war? When the flags carried by the soldiers who liberated Auschwitz are also flown at embassy-organized rallies while Russian bombs fall on Kharkiv? 

At Coda, we explored some of these tensions years ago, in our documentary “What To Do With Stalin,” which examined the strange afterlife of Stalin’s image across the former Soviet world. While filming in Georgia, we encountered arguments that now feel strikingly familiar: whether remembering Stalin represented patriotism or denial, historical pride or historical amnesia.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdfTH6rfe7E

Even then, it was obvious these battles were never really about the past.

Putin himself acknowledged as much during this year’s Victory Day speech, describing the war in Ukraine as a “just” continuation of the struggle against fascism and accusing the West of fueling confrontation with Russia “to this day.” Hours later, he suggested the war might finally be over. “I think that the matter is coming to an end,” he told reporters.

Victory Day 2026 may ultimately be remembered not for the military parade itself, but for revealing how unstable that memory system has become. Moscow performed triumph while fearing attack. Berlin restricted Soviet symbols in the name of democratic security. Washington hosted embassy-linked Soviet commemorations beneath American monuments.

I was ten years old when the Soviet Union collapsed. For those of us who grew up inside it, the end of the empire felt at once chaotic and exhilarating. Borders opened, old certainties disappeared and ideology lost its grip almost overnight. I still feel fortunate that, as a child, I witnessed an empire built on terror and repression collapse into history.

In the decades that followed, we watched Russia slowly turn the symbols and emotional reflexes of the Soviet system into instruments of political power once again. Victory Day became one of the most potent of these instruments: a ritual that fused together grief, patriotism, historical trauma and state legitimacy into a single, powerful sentiment.

Russia’s ambassador to Washington, Alexander Darchiev, praised what he described as the Trump administration’s dramatically changed attitude toward Victory Day commemorations. The holiday, he said, now played “an unequivocally positive role” in Russia-US relations. He pointed specifically to the marches held in the center of Washington, DC.

But the more I think about this year’s Victory Day, the less it feels like a story about Russia alone. When the Soviet Union collapsed, many of us assumed its emotional architecture would disappear with it. Instead, parts of it were patiently cultivated and repurposed for a new era by the men in charge of Putin’s Russia.  

The emotional logic that once underpinned the Soviet system no longer belongs only to Russia and the shattered geography of its former empire. Grievances, historical trauma and rituals of belonging now shape political life all around the world. Digital networks and algorithmic systems did not create these emotional impulses, but they amplified them at a scale the Soviet state could only dream of. Perhaps that is the true afterlife of an empire: not the survival of its borders or ideology, but of the emotional systems it builds to organize fear, belonging and historical destiny.

Additional research by Masho Lomashvili and Irina Matchavariani

The post The afterlife of empire appeared first on Coda Story.

A coup is underway in Mali, though it has not brought down the governing junta just yet. The country’s military leader, General Assimi Goïta has, after days in hiding, appeared in public to claim, unconvincingly, that the “situation is under control.” But rebel forces — an alliance of Al-Qaeda affiliates and Tuareg separatists — have taken over provincial cities and are calling for a blockade of the capital Bamako. Mali’s military junta hangs on by a thread, in a familiar regional story of violence, civilian suffering and international intrigue.

On April 25, coordinated attacks across Mali exposed the junta’s fragile hold over the country. Jamaat Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM), the al-Qaeda affiliate that has driven insurgency across the region for over a decade, joined forces for the first time with Tuareg separatist groups — who have been fighting the central government for even longer — to simultaneously strike cities hundreds of miles apart, including the capital Bamako, Gao, Kidal, Sévaré, and the garrison town of Kati. A suicide car bomber drove into the residence of defence minister General Sadio Camara, killing him along with his wife, two grandchildren, and several civilians. Camara was one of the most influential figures in Mali's ruling junta and had been widely seen as a possible future leader of the country. He was also the key architect of Mali's military alliance with Russia. Mali, Burkina Faso and Niger, which together form the Alliance of Sahel States (AES), have all in recent years realigned away from France, the former colonial power in the region, and towards Russia.

Russian mercenaries, in the form of the Wagner Group and more recently the Africa Corps, have backed military juntas in the Sahel, after coups in Mali, Burkina Faso and Niger led to the withdrawal of French troops from France’s former colonies. But during these latest rebel strikes, it was Russian fighters that were chased out of the northern city of Kidal to the sound of jeers. Africa Corps, the Kremlin-controlled paramilitary group, described the insurgent attacks as a "coup attempt" backed by "Western intelligence services." RT amplified these claims, accusing France and the West of orchestrating the violence, even as it claimed Russian fighters successfully repelled rebels. In 2024, Ukraine’s military agency said it had provided information to help Tuareg rebels ambush and rout a Wagner convoy, killing dozens of Russian mercenaries. Both Mali and Niger have cut diplomatic ties with Kyiv. Burkina Faso has described Kyiv as a destabilizing force in the region, making the Sahel effectively a front in Russia’s war with Ukraine. 

The Kremlin’s combination of misinformation and mercenaries helped exploit growing anti-Western sentiments in the Sahel to give Russia a propaganda win in the region. Former colonial powers such as France didn’t help themselves, as can be seen even now in Madagascar, the latest nation to expel a French diplomat and accuse Paris of fomenting unrest. But the success of Russian propaganda hasn’t been matched on the ground. As Mali struggles to contain a rebel alliance that has fresh impetus and energy, Moscow’s control is weakening and the effectiveness of its military support is under question. Already, with Russian weapons in short supply because of war with Ukraine, it is China that the Malian junta turns to for arms. China’s strategic efforts in the Sahel have been similar to its efforts in the rest of the African continent – a focus on securing infrastructure contracts as part of the Belt and Road Initiative and securing access to mineral resources. But rebel attacks in the Sahel are bad for Chinese business. In February, the Chinese embassy in Niamey, the capital of Niger, warned Chinese companies to take their workers out of the firing line as rebels increasingly targeted Chinese infrastructure projects, including a $4.5 billion oil pipeline from Niger to Benin.

In 2024, the United States was forced to leave neighboring Niger after a coup, to withdraw from a $100 million base. It seemed the U.S. was losing ground to both Russia and China in the Sahel. Earlier this year, though, as security concerns in the Sahel escalated sharply, the U.S. adjusted its approach, choosing to deal pragmatically with military juntas. By late February, the U.S. lifted sanctions on top Malian officials, including General Camara, the recently slain defence minister. It may see closer cooperation with Sahel countries as essential to its security interests and a way to undercut Chinese access to Sahelian resources.

The three Sahel states, Mali, Burkina Faso and Niger, have turned away from France and Europe and towards Russia, while increasingly flirting with the U.S. and reliant on Chinese weapons. The result has been disaster. All three Sahel states are ranked in the top 5 for countries impacted by terrorism. And the humanitarian toll has been severe. Millions of people face internal displacement across the region and cuts in aid programmes mean many millions, especially children, also face acute hunger. But, as the great powers circle the region, jockeying for geopolitical gain, the talk remains about the logistics of propping up failing juntas, providing military solutions to human crises, and maintaining power rather than confronting problems.

Mali, Burkina Faso and Niger – all led by military authorities that came to power in a coup – have also isolated themselves from the rest of their neighbors by withdrawing from the West African regional bloc, Ecowas. Meanwhile, they sell their model as an alternative to Western-style democracy, a narrative that Russian propaganda networks have been all too eager to promote. But the strength of the insurgency against Mali’s government, and Russia’s apparent inability to protect it, sends a different message to the rest of the African continent.

The post Why an insurgency in Mali matters in Moscow appeared first on Coda Story.

My name is Darina,” says an elfin teen, ponytail pulled through the back of her cap, and “next year I’ll be earning 150,000 rubles (nearly $2,000) a month.” Darina works at what she calls “the world’s largest drone factory,” helping to assemble versions of the Iranian Shahed drone. “My parents are proud of me. Wanna do the same?” She asks as she advertises a polytechnic in Tatarstan. The Russian government, in the face of war and looming demographic disaster, has been relaxing child labor laws since 2022, making it easier to put 14-year-olds to work. Now, legislators are open about the need to reform “outdated” restrictions on employing minors in industries that were “considered dangerous 20 years ago.” Drone production is not the only part of the war effort to which teenagers are being recruited. This month in a “content camp” in Moscow, soldiers and state media propagandists trained 120-plus teens on how to make videos, use AI, and grow their audiences as aspiring influencers. Vladislav Golovin, a former soldier and a leader of Russia’s Young Army Cadets National Movement, said the program had “created a huge team of kids who understand how to broadcast government values.” 

But many young people, subject to year-round conscription, subject to internet shut downs and subject to surveillance, have little desire to spread propaganda. Instead, according to Google Trends data, growing numbers of Russians are seeking information on how to emigrate. A new exodus would accelerate Russia’s deep demographic crisis. Already, up to a million people are thought to have left Russia since the full scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. According to one recent count, nearly 210,000 Russian soldiers have been killed in the war with Ukraine, with other estimates suggesting over 1.2 million casualties, including 325,000 deaths. And Russian fertility rates are the lowest they have been for 200 years. Anton Kotyakov, the labor minister, has told Vladimir Putin that the country faces a labor shortage of 11 million people by 2030.

So concerning is this crisis that Rosstat, the national statistics agency, has stopped publishing monthly demographic data. State officials and local governors have been told to compete to come up with the most innovative solutions to a seemingly intractable problem. The pressure on Russian officials and the Kremlin is leading to desperate measures, including guidance from the Russian health ministry that women who say they do not want to have children should be referred to a psychologist. Nothing the Russian state has tried has worked, from financial incentives (extended even to schoolgirls under 18) to banning advertising that supposedly promotes “child-free” lifestyles and so-called “LGBTQ propaganda.”   

Alongside “anti-woke” policies disguised as family values, is rising xenophobia and anti-immigrant rhetoric that has led to a marked decline in the number of foreigners living in Russia. The Kremlin’s anti-migrant policies include a new system to monitor migrant workers through biometric registration, location tracking, and intensified police oversight. The Russian parliament is currently debating enhancing the number of offences that can be punished by deportation or substantially increased fines. Much of it is targeted at Russia’s Central Asian migrants who make up an overwhelming majority of immigrant labor. Some Central Asian governments, notably Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, have now urged their citizens to think twice about going to Russia for work. 

Russia has been publicizing political stunts such as its “shared values visa” in which applicants from 46, largely developed, nations are given temporary residence permits if they profess to support “traditional Russian values.” The visa, the Kremlin has said, is “Russia’s response to what it perceives as the harmful effects of Western neoliberal policies.” But only a tiny fraction of the immigrants Russia needs will be Westerners who apply for such a visa; instead, Russia has been diversifying its pool of migrant workers by looking further east. Around 72,000 work permits were issued to Indian nationals in 2025, up from just 5,000 in 2021. Russian officials have signaled they are ready to accept “unlimited” numbers of workers from South Asian countries like India, Sri Lanka, and Myanmar.

While the Kremlin is looking to South Asia and Africa to address its immediate need for workers (and soldiers), the ambition in the longer term is to boost Russian birthr rates, despite the signal failure of ongoing attempts. 

In the U.S., there have been several moves borrowed from the Kremlin’s playbook, including the restriction of abortion, the attempt to deny women birth control, and even alarm at the fall in teen pregnancies. But data released this month showed that women in the U.S. gave birth to 710,000 fewer babies in 2025 than they did in 2007, a reflection of two decades of steadily dropping birth rates. Russian demographer Salavat Abylkalikov, at the Leibniz Institute for East and Southeast European Studies in Germany, says “if the birth rate has fallen below the level of simple reproduction, it is almost impossible to raise it back.” Especially when financial incentives cover just a fraction of childcare costs. 

In any case, Abylkalikov says, “in Russia, death is much more profitable than birth: in Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, the government provides around 1,000,000 rubles (about $12,000) for each child, but if one person goes to war and dies, the family receives up to 12 million rubles in total. That's more than $120,000. This is the economy of death.” The evidence, from countries like Russia, Hungary and the U.S., is that appeals to tradition, to religion and to female “responsibility” do not work, when support for families is limited. And while migration is an obvious fix to demographic questions everywhere, it’s politically toxic.

Russia knows it is hurtling towards demographic doom but can do little to halt the momentum. Its policies are riddled with inconsistencies — a strong line in anti-migration rhetoric and bullying, while being forced to import workers and soldiers from Asia and Africa; a patriarchal view of women’s roles, mostly confined to the domestic, while increasingly reliant on women to take the jobs of the men who are fighting and dying in Putin's war; and encouraging more women to give birth, while employing children to build drones. With family values like these, no wonder young Russians are hesitant to procreate.

The post Teens making drones: Russia’s demographic collapse appeared first on Coda Story.

“They’re shooting smoke at protesters.”

“They broke doors.”

“They brought an armored vehicle.”

In Aarhus, Denmark, Hemad Nazari lay in bed, refreshing his phone.

It was early evening in Iran on January 8, when the messages began arriving from Rasht, the northern city where he grew up.

Nearly two hours later, another message appeared: “We are trapped in our home.”

Then the messages stopped.

For the next eight days, Hemad heard nothing from his family.

He wasn’t the only one. Several million Iranians are part of an educated, relatively prosperous diaspora spread across the world, particularly North America and Europe, a diaspora that grew from the mass emigration of professionals and intellectuals after the 1979 Iranian revolution.

Nazari lives in Aarhus, Denmark’s second-largest city. He works for a real estate company. He’s a photographer, an active part of the local climbing community, and over the past year, he has been cycling across the world with his girlfriend.

It looks and feels like freedom. And in many ways, it is.

But Nazari hasn’t set foot in Iran for eight years. In that time, he has met his parents three times — twice in Turkey, once in Nepal.

As for now, with a nationwide internet blackout still in effect amid a flickering, faltering peace process, he can, like everyone else around the world, only watch — and wait.

Hemad Nazari left Iran in 2016, at 27. He was not at the time a political exile. He was a civil engineer with a steady job and a passport that made most borders difficult to cross. He wanted to travel. To see the world. To live somewhere else for a while.

The sanction-ridden Iranian economy was in a state of collapse. Nazari’s salary, once worth a few hundred dollars a month, shrank rapidly as the currency fell. Saving money became meaningless. Planning a future felt abstract — a concept more than a tangible goal.

So he left. He went to Vietnam first. Then Nepal, Georgia, Turkey. What began as travel, slowly turned into something more permanent.

“I didn’t leave because I thought Iran would change,” he told me. “I left because I could see that it wouldn’t.”

And it wasn’t because people were satisfied, or afraid of change. The January protests, in which many thousands of Iranians were killed, were no eruption, no sudden flaring of anger.

Since 2019, Iran has experienced three major waves of mass protest. That year, demonstrations sparked by a sudden rise in fuel prices spread rapidly across the country. The response was immediate. There was, typically, a near-total internet shutdown and, according to a Reuters investigation, as many as 1,500 people may have been killed during the crackdown. Human rights groups said more than 10,000 people were arrested during and after the protests, with many of them held incommunicado and at risk of being tortured or facing capital punishment.

The demonstrations ultimately collapsed under isolation and fear.

For Nazari, whose travels had enabled him to put distance between himself and his homeland, the 2019 protests made it apparent that Iran was no longer an option for him, no longer a place he wanted to call home. He was not a persona non grata. There was no letter. No summons. No official declaration. Nothing that could be quoted or appealed.

Instead, he had changed.

When the internet inside Iran is shut down, information can only escape through fragments: phone calls, short videos, people with rare access still intact. From abroad, Iranians like Nazari become intermediaries by default. He translated. Shared. Verified. Some of his posts were picked up by Persian-language television channels broadcasting from outside Iran, including BBC Persian and Iran International. Channels watched closely by the authorities.

Nazari did not think much of it at first. He was not an activist by profession. He did not belong to an organization. He was simply using his name, his language, his access. But others who had said less had been detained on arrival in Iran. Cartoonists. Writers. Ordinary social media users. Some disappeared into prison for years. Some emerged broken. Some did not emerge at all.

“You don’t need to be told,” Hemad says about knowing he couldn’t go back. “You understand.”

In early 2020, after Iranian forces shot down a Ukrainian passenger plane and initially denied responsibility, crowds returned to the streets. Once again, arrests followed. So did the silence.

Hemad Nazari’s activity increased again. His real name was public. His face was visible; he didn’t hide. It was a choice he made despite the risk not just to himself, but to his family. “If they can’t get to you,” he told me, “they get to the people around you.”

Since then, eight years have passed.

“It’s not that I chose not to go to Iran,” he says. “It’s that every time I tried, the door closed again.” He does not refer to it as exile. But, in a manner of speaking, he had been made stateless, effectively stopped from going home, from seeing his family, from resuming the life he knew.

By  late December 2025, daily life in Iran once again became untenable. Food prices surged, paychecks were worth less every day, and families thought only about short term survival, unable to think even a month ahead.

According to Nazari, official inflation figures — though already extremely high — failed to capture the reality on the ground. By February, he told me, the cost of basic goods rivaled those in Denmark. Wages, he said, stagnated “at around $110 or $120 a month, with many people earning much less than that.” The minimum wage, the official figures from Iran’s Supreme Labor Council show, increased by 45% and still only reached $110 per month.

“The protests were fuelled by the economy,” Hemad says. “When shopkeepers and traders joined, it was a sign that frustration had reached a boiling point. But people don’t just want better prices. They want freedom. They want new leadership.”

In Rasht, his hometown in northern Iran, even families with children took to the streets in protest. “In my city, a lot of mosques are gone,” he says. “They burned them down. That tells you something.” What struck Nazari most, though, was not only who was protesting, but what they were saying, what they appeared to want. 

“For the first time, the main chant on the street was the name of the prince,” he told me. “The son of the former shah: Reza Pahlavi.” Nazari is quick to stress that he himself is “principally a believer in democracy.” But the chants were telling. 

“For 40 years, only loyalists dared utter the name Pahlavi. Now it’s spoken openly across all layers of society,” It was not about restoring the past. Instead, suggests Nazari, “for the first time, we had a plan.” People, he says, “were asking, ‘what happens if the regime collapses?’ And for the first time, there was an answer.”

In January, there was, as Nazari describes it, a rare sense of readiness among people he knew inside Iran. Friends who had never protested before were sending messages saying they would go. Family members spoke with a kind of cautious hope. This time, it felt different. It felt like change was possible.

Two days earlier, the son of the former shah had issued a public call for people to take to the streets on January 8 and 9 — not to follow a detailed program, but to say openly what they had long been afraid to say. 

From Denmark, Nazari watched the buildup hour by hour. On January 8, as protests reached their peak, the internet went dark. The blackout was not unprecedented. Iran’s authorities had used these tactics before. Inevitably, as access disappeared, reports of mass arrests and the use of live ammunition to dispel crowds spread through the few remaining channels still connected to the outside world. 

In Rasht, Nazari’s close friends sent him a video from their apartment window. Smoke drifted through the street. Shouting echoed between buildings. Gunfire cut through the noise.

During the blackout, Nazari continued to receive fragments of information — through people with Starlink terminals, through friends who still had limited access. By January 10, the informal network of activists and diaspora Iranians he was part of believed that at least 2,000 people had been killed.

Eventually, his mother managed to call him. “We’ve been trying to reach you,” she said. With international charges for calls piling up every second, they had been trying to call him for days. Since that brief call, contact has been sporadic. A snatched few minutes. And then silence again.

“People showed everything they had,” Nazari says of the protests. “They did what they could do.” He’s trying not to romanticize what happened in January, he tells me. He’s not saying, he insists, that the protests were heroic. “Iranians,” he says, “are just desperate.” As for Nazari, he tells me up until the U.S. and Israel attacked Iran, he was “constantly debating whether to go home.” Right now, he adds, “it could have severe consequences, potentially a death sentence.” But, he pauses, “if it comes to civil war, I will go. My life doesn’t matter.”

For years, Nazari believed — as many Iranians did — that pressure, negotiations, sanctions, or appeals to international institutions might eventually force the regime to change. Over time, that belief had eroded. By January, he says, “it was gone.” It’s why he supported the attacks on Iran by Israel and the U.S., the execution of Ayatollah Khamenei and key regime figures.

“I’ve been saying for years that they are not going to leave peacefully,” he says. “They will fight. If the choice is that many people die, including me and my family, but the country becomes free — and then in 10 years we are back as a people, it will be worth it.”

He stops himself.

“I don’t say this because I like death, I say it because I don’t see another way. There is no peaceful path left.”

But  the hope Nazari felt when Donald Trump said the United States would respond forcefully if Iranian authorities continued killing their own people, has also now died.

On February 28, when U.S. and Israeli strikes on Iranian leadership and critical infrastructure began, some diaspora Iranians gathered to celebrate what they saw as the fall of a regime figurehead they had opposed for decades. Others responded with shock, caution, or grief, warning of what might follow.

In Denmark, where roughly 25,000 people of Iranian origin live, that divide played out in public. In Aarhus, several hundred Iranian Danes gathered in the city center with flags, music and open calls for regime change. Some thanked the U.S. and Israel for the strikes. At the same time, a pro-regime memorial for Ayatollah Khamenei in Copenhagen drew around 200 participants.

Their response to U.S. actions were playing out in a country where the broad view of the U.S. as a friend and force for good in the world had shifted sharply. In Denmark, as war in Iran broke out, people were still thinking of Greenland and Trump’s threats to annex the territory. In a January 2026 poll, 60% of Danes said they now see the U.S. as an opponent rather than an ally, while just 17% still considered it an ally.

Among Iranians, inside Denmark as in the wider diaspora, this ambivalence towards the U.S. is all too familiar. In a recent article in the Dagbladet Information, Iranian-born activist Nahid Riazi warned against celebrating a war that seemed to have little to do with emancipation for Iranians.

“Who says that war brings freedom?” she wrote. “It is us who are being hit. It is our children who are being destroyed.” 

Nezari says he has heard this argument. He does not dismiss it. But, he asks, “what is the alternative?” If the war stops, he says, “and the regime stays, how do you guarantee they won’t keep killing people like they have since 1979? How do you guarantee they won’t start the street executions again?”

Trump, despite the failure of the first 21 hours of peace talks in Pakistan, continues to say the war is “very close to over,” that the Iranian government wants to make a deal. A deal, presumably, that enables them to stay in power.

The Islamic Republic may have been dealt a devastating blow, but it remains intact. Its leadership structure has shifted but not collapsed. To Nazari, that does not show resilience so much as the nature of the system itself.

He rejects the idea that the Islamic Republic functions like a government in any conventional sense. It behaves, he says, more like a cartel or an armed network — something held together not by institutions, but by force and succession. Too many powerful men remain alive, still able to operate. And a system like this, he argues, does not surrender because its center has been hit. It keeps going until every center is removed.

“Not until all the heads are cut off,” he says.

But U.S. attempts to bully the world into joining a war where the goals remain so varied and nebulous have been unsuccessful. The popularity of the war inside the U.S., even among Trump supporters, is low. The uncomfortable question now is what comes next — and whether anything has truly changed.

Still, Nazari argues that the current state of purgatory, in which the war is neither ongoing nor over, is not evidence of failure, but of what was always going to happen.

“We were not living in Iran,” he says. “We were living in a military compound with cities in between.” Even if negotiations resume, he believes something irreversible has already happened. The fact that the regime’s leaders now have to hide underground means, to him, that there is no real return to the old order.

“There’s no going back to how it was,” he says. But for now, Nazari is still in Denmark. His family is still in Iran. He still holds his phone close, hoping for news. Any news. Like Iranian exiles everywhere, and like the war itself, he is trapped in stasis, caught between distance and a sense of responsibility to his homeland — deeply involved, fundamentally powerless, yet unable to look away.

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On the night of January 16, 2024, Egana Djabbarova was awoken by her wife and told that she needed to leave the country immediately. Djabbarova, her wife said, had been denounced by pro-war activists and framed as an enemy of the country. She had recently published her novel, “My Dreadful Body,” with a small, indie press that had been praised by mainstream critics, unexpectedly propelling her into the public eye. One of the book's central themes is surveillance: growing up in a community with strict behavioural codes, the protagonist's every move is under scrutiny.

In a dark echo of her work, Djabbarova was now under online surveillance herself. “I was just the perfect enemy,” she tells me, “because I’m queer, I’m not Slavic, I worked on decolonial and feminist projects… So boom, it happened.”

She is speaking to me from Hamburg, where she now lives. Djabbarova is part of the so-called fifth wave of writers exiled from Russia, alongside Maria Stepanova, Lyudmila Ulitskaya, and Maxim Osipov to name a few. Her upbeat tone during our call gives little indication of the arduous journey she has endured since fleeing Russia. Upon receiving a humanitarian visa from Germany, she spent months in a refugee camp. She lived, she says, “in a container house, literally a shipping container. You feel like you're not a subject, not a human being.” 

More permanent accommodation has provided a degree of safety and stability, but a sense of precariousness lingers. She describes her position as an exile as “strange” — on the one hand she has been welcomed into Germany’s cultural elite in winning the Hamburger Literaturpreis; on the other, she feels like a “ghost,” unable to express herself in German and often bewildered by the unfamiliarity of everyday tasks in a new country, and in a new city which, she tells me jokingly, is quaint and polite like the well-behaved boy next door. 

But there’s a deeper, historical layer to Djabbarova’s story of exile. Her father was a refugee from the region of Nagorno-Karabakh, while her mother was forced out of her family home. “Homelessness and exile — this is my heritage,” she says. Being othered became a common theme of Djabbarova’s childhood, as a child of Azeri parents living in Yekaterinburg. “In Russia you are constantly reminded that you're not Russian,” she says. “Then during the summer you visit your relatives in Azerbaijan and they laugh because you cannot speak Azerbaijani properly.”

This sense of double estrangement is mirrored in “My Dreadful Body” (published in Russian in 2023 and recently translated into English by Lisa Hayden). At only a touch over 100 pages, it is a slim but powerful account of the pressures on one woman growing up among the strict codes of an Azerbaijani family living in Russia. A sense of surveillance and conditional belonging defines the narrator’s upbringing: “In the world where I grew up,” she writes, “gazes penetrated every little corner. The evil eye, the neighbors’ eyes, the relatives’ eyes, the random pedestrian’s eyes, the unscrupulous men’s eyes, the women’s unhappy eyes. Life in the community was reminiscent of a reality show with constant video surveillance: no action, word, or undertaking went unnoticed.”

The story is based on Djabbarova’s own life. “Maybe 70-80% of this story is absolutely true”, she confirms. The narrator is named Egana, she grows up in an Azerbaijani family in Russia, too Russian for the family, not Russian enough for her friends at school. She also, like Djabbarova, suffers from a debilitating autoimmune disorder that is eventually diagnosed as dystonia, a neurological disorder that causes involuntary muscle contractions. During one episode, she describes her body as resembling “willow branches gone mad from a strong wind” — a potent image of struggle against external forces. Djabbarova describes the book as a way to reclaim her body through language. “I was trying to tell this story in a poetic way. I wanted to change my body into poetry.” 

Each chapter of “My Dreadful Body” begins with a different body part (“Eyebrows,” “Eyes,” “Hair” and so on), like the poetic blazons spun by Renaissance poets. Where those poems encouraged an idealized, sensationalized reading of each body part, Djabbarova’s chapters are more sober explorations of the physical limits — and personal and cultural stories — these body parts contain. 

In one of many poignant scenes, the narrator’s head is shaved in preparation for a procedure. She cries on seeing her “shorn scalp,” but the sadness is not aesthetic, it’s ancestral; the act marks a symbolic rupture with her lineage. “My past,” she writes, “the past of all the women in my family, the memory of my ancestors, the history of a single body — all that now lay on the cold floor.” After this scene, her grandmother’s dictum that only long hair was considered beautiful, rings even more sharply. 

Illness then emerges as another form of exile, from one’s sense of self, from what’s perceived as “normal” in society, from the culture and community one belongs to. “They do not see you as a subject, as a human being, and they do not recognize your existence… I realized if I wanted to be seen as a subject, I needed to do it myself.” Djabbarova is talking about the plight to be believed about her symptoms here, but she could easily be talking about the often dehumanizing experience of exile. In both instances there is something fundamental under question, or as Djabbarova puts it, “You’re trying to prove that you have the right of being. You’re trying not to be erased.” 

We often talk about exile in the context of loss, but how might exile liberate? Paradoxically, Djabbarova tells me, her diagnosis became a form of liberation. “I always felt I had so many expectations on me as a girl, as a woman, so when I was finally diagnosed it was a liberation because my parents realized I would never be this type of girl.” Exile breeds a particular creative liberation, too, evidenced by the fact Djabbrova wrote the novel from Taiwan where she was briefly teaching Russian. “Here I had enough distance from my own life and my own experience,” she says. “Maybe it’s easier to write about your story being on an island in the Pacific Ocean.”

Writing is arguably the real heroine of Djabbarova's novel. For the narrator Egana, it is a place free from surveillance and a source of protection, “like an invisible amulet.” Poetry, she told me “was the only safe space for me because nobody was asking anything of me. It's the only place where I don't feel judged. I don’t feel ashamed. I don’t feel questioned.”

The chapter “Hands” opens: “The most important parts of a woman’s body were her hands: they prepared food, rocked children, did laundry, ironed men’s shirts, sewed clothes, swept, washed the floor, and dusted.… Any woman in our family knew that her hands were not given to her for writing.” To use her hands, then, to write becomes both a symbolic and quite literal form of resistance against such gendered codes.

Notably, Djabbarova is not alone in invoking the body as a space to explore the upheavals of exile. In Maria Stepanova’s autofictional work “The Disappearing Act” — recently translated into English by Sasha Dugdale — the narrator attempts to purge herself by volunteering to be cut in half as part of a circus trick. Djabbarova’s approach to reclaim identity and agency through the body is less literal, and more personal, but through this specificity she has landed somewhere indisputably universal. 

“I realized the only way I can write this novel is through my body,” she says. “Because the only way I can rehabilitate my being, my agency, my subjectivity is through my body. And that's why I wanted every reader to feel my body… It's really important for all of us not to forget that this right of being is basic. It's not given. It's something you have from birth." 

At the end of our conversation, Djabbarova (who has been speaking in English) struggles to recall a word and jokes that learning German is slowly pushing her English out. “Certain words I only remember in German!” she laughs. Is this the beginnings of a kind of homemaking for Djabbarova, a sign that the seeds she has scattered in her new country are taking root? Like her protagonist, who finds solace and safety in words, it seems that Djabbarova’s most trusted tool for survival, for managing the condition of exile, is language. 

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THE RECKONING PROJECT AND CODA STORY PRESENT

Russian officials and propagandists built cover stories for war crimes before those crimes were committed. Lawyers call this an information alibi. And they think it's prosecutable.

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