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imakemywings · 3 years

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A December Thaw

Fandom: Hetalia

Pairing: f!America/Russia

Summary: As the end of the Soviet Union closes in, Ambassador Braginsky is recalled to Russia, and it begins to sink in that his long-standing rivalry with Ambassador Jones is finally over. It is not so pleasing a thought as he might have expected.

AO3 | Pillowfort

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Leningrad, November 1991

What are you doing in Leningrad?

Ambassador Jones had remarked on…more occasions than Ivan could or cared to recall that his brain had rotted away from too much vodka, but this was the first time he had thought perhaps she was right.

Looking for you, dummy!

How long had he been standing in this spot, replaying those handful of sentences in his mind?

What are you doing in Leningrad?

Looking for you, dummy!

Perhaps it was the surreal few weeks that had proceeded the conversation. Maybe that was why he felt like he was wading through a river of molasses trying to process it. Playing mind games was just part of what the Americans and the Soviets did—it their way of waging war without actually firing a gun at each other. And Ivan—well, no one had ever accused him of having finesse, but his opponents had a tendency to buckle and acquiesce under his paper smile and cutting gaze. Not Jones, though. Defiant to the last, he had expected her to be toasting the fall of the Soviet Union in Berlin with the rest of the American ambassadorial staff (and after the knock-out, throw-down fight they had had in ’89 when the wall came down, he had not been keen to stick around and hear her thoughts on the present situation).

What are you doing in Leningrad?

What had he said after that? The meaningless pleasantries that had come only minutes earlier had evanesced from his mind and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember exactly how they had said goodbye, only that it had come so quickly after he had first seen her, so quickly he had not yet overcome his shock at seeing her in Russia.

Looking for you, dummy!

She would be going back to Berlin, then. And he…he was probably going to lose his job, and if he was lucky, Russia would still have a government by the end of the year. This had been coming since the wall fell—hadn’t they all known that?

There wasn’t room in Ivan’s life for what he wanted. There was only room for what the Party needed. He had done his job, to a T, to the end. But now…the government was gone to pieces. The union was crumbling like a sandcastle at the end of a hot summer day as the tide washed in around it. He was no longer needed in Berlin, and so he had been called back, to serve whatever position was most necessary—or to be cast off as refuse of a past era.

And he was probably never going to see Ambassador Jones again.

What are you doing in Leningrad?

Looking for you!

“Shit!” The exclamation burst out of him and a woman passing by with a little boy clinging to her hand scowled at him.

She was right, you are a dummy! Ambassador Jones was supposed to be in Berlin. The American government never would have given her leave to travel to the Soviet Union—or what was left of it—at a time like this! Ivan looked around, but Amelia was, of course, gone—because he had said goodbye, like the socially inept moron that he was, and let her walk away.

Leningrad was not a small city, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask where she was staying—not that he would count on himself to remember it, since the entire day was a fog, and Ambassador Jones merely the strangest thing to walk out of it so far. Still, she was probably downtown…if she had no ulterior motives for being in the city, she was probably looking to catch the quickest plane back to Germany that she could, before anyone had cause to realize she was gone.

Ivan was generally not one to make public scenes—it was unbecoming—but that rule had always been applied somewhat less stringently when it came to bickering with the American ambassador, and in this case, there was just no way to make a 6’4” man of Ivan’s breadth running down the street not a scene. Given the way the political scene was, Ivan didn’t think it was unfair to hope everyone was too consumed with their own worries to trouble themselves with what one lone weirdo such as himself was doing, even in a public space.

Would she really just pop in to Leningrad and fly right back out like that? Surely, she had not come merely to exchange a few sentences of small talk with him and then leave? With all the effort it took to get her over the border?

Looking for you, dummy!

Jones’ exuberance meant sometimes people didn’t realize how close to her chest she played her cards. That last night in Berlin, though—at the Waschbär—it wasn’t like they had a habit of getting drinks together (or being seen together in public at all—it just wasn’t the image their countries wanted)—but she had asked and he had thought it was his last chance to put the thumbscrews on her before he lost the clout of the Soviet Union behind him—he hadn’t, though. Usually, the only way to shut Jones up was to put her on a plane (the solution being not the plane itself, but the distance it put between you and her). Not that night—the silences had stretched on, with a few half-heartedly barbed remarks sprinkled in, not even enough to flavor the conversation. The clink of ice against their drinking glasses made more noise than they did.

At the time, Ivan had too much to think about to spend time musing over why Jones chose that night to kick down the embassy door and suggest they get a beer. Circling the shambling body of the Soviet Union, waiting for her chance to start ripping into the carrion, he supposed. Drooling and cackling like a hyena, baring her teeth to devour; ever-hungry, ever-wanting—how American of her.

At the end of the night, he had kissed her goodbye with a do svidanya and thought less about conceding that she, in the end, had won, and more about how sorry he was their chess game was over.

What are you doing in Leningrad?

There was a different look in Amelia’s eyes when she told the unvarnished truth. An American earnestness that she just couldn’t fake, and it had taken him most of his career to start recognizing it.

Looking for you.

Did she think they had recalled him just to ship him off to the gulag? Now? Well—he supposed it wasn’t totally out of the question (it was never totally out of the question), but Jones should know better than to fall prey to Red hysteria now (now, when the future of the Party itself seemed to be in a tailspin, although it wasn’t out of place in history for a dying regime to lash out with the violence of a wounded animal)!

Ivan was out of breath—damn the American for making him run (And was he really this out of shape? Damn her for making him realize that.)—and the impossibility of locating her before she reached the airport was bearing down on his shoulders. He sucked in deep breaths, and urged himself to keep going. At the very least, he thought, he had to put in his best effort. She had come all the way to Leningrad, after all (And he wasn’t that old! Was he…?).

As he crossed the Neva, he saw a woman on the walkway below, at the icy riverbank, dragging a small beige suitcase behind her, and yes—he recognized the blonde bob peeking out from under that cap!

“Amelia!” he shouted, and saw her pause in confusion, hearing the phantom of her very American name in a very Russian city. “Amelia!” Then she started to turn, and even from up on the bridge he fancied he could see the furrow of her brow, the befuddled parting of her lips.

“Braginsky?”

“Marry me!” His breath billowed out in a cloud over the bridge railing.

“What?” she bellowed back, because either she had not heard him, or she was certain she had heard him wrong. Either one was fair. She responded to his Russian with Russian, with that same terrible accent, all Kentucky twang despite years of practice (in large part, he was certain, because she didn’t want to sound like a native Russian speaker).

“I said—” He cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned over the railing, “let’s get married!”

“Are you serious?” She was facing him fully now, her head tilted back to look up at him, her lipstick, red as a maraschino cherry, bright against the rest of her face.

“Yes! What do you say?” His heart was trying to punch through his chest, but he was pretty sure that was just from running through half of Leningrad in a suit and dress shoes. He squinted down at her, as if he could bring her face into better view, and read her expression, but he didn’t have any luck. Fortunately, she made quick work of simplifying the task, when her face broke into that toothy, ear-to-ear grin

“Hell yeah!” she called back in English. “Let’s do it!” It was no more bewildering than the rest of the week had been. She was heading for the nearest staircase, so Ivan forced his whining legs back into motion and they met at the top of the riverbank, Jones seeming no worse the wear for having dragged her suitcase up the concrete steps.

“So do you have a ring?” She was holding her hand out, and when he stared at her, she prompted him.

“Uh…no.”

“Seriously? You honestly just pulled this out of your ass, didn’t you? Just then, when I was talking to you about Leningrad, you decided to do this.” Ivan looked at the pearly gray clouds scudding across the sky and did not answer. “You could at least lie!” She laughed and Ivan wanted to grab her, and make sure she never got back to Berlin.

I don’t want you to leave. Why was it so hard to say that?

“Ivan.” Jones squirmed, and he became aware he had, in fact, grabbed her, and was gripping her upper arms more tightly than most people would have tolerated. Ah, shit—he used to be better about maintaining at least a veneer of professionalism with her, but she had a way of degrading it, year by year, so that he was now hollering marriage proposals at her in the middle of a crowded city.

“Sorry.” His voice came out sticky and slow, and he let go of her. “Are you leaving Leningrad now?” Did you come all this way just for me?

“Well, we’ll worry about the ring later,” she said, ignoring his question. “I saw a church back that way…” She gestured up the street.

“A church? What do we need a church for?” Jones stared incredulously at him.

“For the wedding? You proposed to me, dummy. Remember? Just now? Did they fry your brain already?”

“Seriously? You want to get married in a church?”

“Yeah, duh. Where did you plan on doing it, the local Party headquarters?” Ivan considered she might have a valid point—not about the church, but that the sheer amount of paperwork and bureaucracy they would have to wade through to get a marriage between a Soviet diplomat and an American cleanly on the books would make World War I look like a brief affair. And it was probably going to cost him. “Anyway, you didn’t even get a ring before screaming at me from a bridge, so I don’t think you get to pick the location. Come on.”

“What, now?”

“Sure, now! I’m supposed to be in Berlin right now, remember? And I really can’t see my sister flying into Leningrad for this anytime soon.” What had he expected, when he proposed to her? For her to say no? It certainly hadn’t been for her to say yes let’s do it right now! Maybe…maybe he had expected her to say no. To laugh, and make a joke about his drinking, and wave as she headed off to the airport, undeterred on her path back to Germany’s American embassy, and out of his life, as neatly as she had sailed into it. Had he really chased her through Leningrad for that? And what was he supposed to do now that she was standing in front of him, near enough to touch, and he was thinking again about before?

What are you doing in Leningrad?

Looking for you!

“You were worried,” he said. “About me. That’s why you came to Leningrad.” It was Jones’ turn to avert her eyes.

“I don’t know if you noticed, Braginsky, but your country’s gone to hell in a handbasket the last couple of years. We’re not exactly looking at a stable situation here. Who knows what they’re going to do now?”

“You were worried about me!” He grabbed her again, more gently this time, and beamed. “You thought something terrible was going to happen to me!”

“Stop that!” Amelia swatted his hands off. “Berlin will be so boring without the Soviets. You are coming back, aren’t you? The recall isn’t permanent?” Watching the careless shrug of Ivan’s broad shoulders was like watching a small earthquake.

“What need do we have for a Soviet ambassador to Germany if there is no Soviet Union?”

“Russia will still need an ambassador, right?” she pointed out. She didn’t even try to suggest that Ukraine might vote to keep the union together. In the past, he might have argued; now he just shrugged again. They had had a similar conversation during the reunification, wondering what would become of them—the ambassadors to West Germany—when there was no more West Germany. Fortunately, they had the upper hand over their East German counterparts, and secured positions as ambassadors to a united Germany. But this…this was different.

“No one knows what will happen. Or the people that do are not talking to me. Sometimes I think they think I spent too much time in the West. Not Soviet enough.”

“You? Not Soviet enough? Captain Commie?” Amelia snorted, and jerked her head so that a single blonde curl came loose from the rest and hung against her cheek, flushed pink with the cold air. “If they think that, they’re as stupid as they look.” Ivan said nothing—he never had shared Jones’ optimism about…well, anything—and then into the silence, she looked down the Neva and said, “Anyway, I’ve gotten used to seeing your nose around. Berlin’s going to be different now.”

“Berlin’s been different for years,” he said.

“Not like this.” Silence, again. Ivan looked at his watch, and a passing truck squealed its horn at Lada that truly looked like it was being held together with nothing more than prayer.

“When does your flight leave?”

“Evening,” she said.

“We have time to go to the church, then.” She smiled—not the earsplitting grin from before, something more subdued, but not lacking in feeling. Ivan had a tight feeling in his chest, like perhaps he was about to go into heart failure, and he could not recall that Ambassador Jones had ever smiled at him quite like that.

“I reckon so.” He offered her his hand, but instead of taking his arm, she passed off the handle of her suitcase. “Thanks, Ruskie.” Smirking at the faintly offended look on his face, Amelia strode past, while Ivan briefly—briefly!—considered chucking her valise into the Neva, just to see her reaction.

When they got in and explained to the priest what they wanted, he squinted at them from over a beard that made Ivan think back to grade school stories about the Mad Monk, and kept on scrutinizing them like he could squeeze some other truth out of them that way. When it became apparent that Ivan was with the Soviet government, he very nearly booked it out the back door, and Amelia’s American accent was doing nothing to soothe him. It took almost forty minutes to convince him they were serious, and they weren’t planning to spring a trap and having him shipped off to a gulag for some concocted offense.

At last, in an empty church at two in the afternoon, at the feet of a scraggly-haired priest still half-tensed to flee the room, Amelia (F.) Jones and Ivan Braginsky were declared man and wife (after being made to remove their outerwear, perhaps to make the situation feel a little less hasty), and Amelia got in one more jab about the absent ring before they exchanged a gentle, chaste kiss. It was the first one that came with no animosity or taboo or regret, the first one that was sanctioned, and yet, he felt it was as tentative they had ever been with each other, as though they were both still waiting for the other one to break out laughing at how long their joke had lasted.

When they stepped back out into the daylight, it was almost like nothing had ever happened. Amelia had her suitcase again, but she looked around as if she’d forgotten what she’d been doing before Ivan interrupted the day by marrying her.

“I guess…I’d better go, then,” she said. “Say, if there’s any chance you can stop by the embassy…” Ivan was already shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I will try to get paperwork started here.” Although what good it would be if the union didn’t exist anymore in a month, he wasn’t sure.

“Uh-huh.” She shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting the way she always did when she was restless, or thinking too much. “So…see you…later…?” She let go of the suitcase, and opened her arms, and Ivan figured he probably ought to give his wife a hug goodbye. He slid his arms around her waist, and felt her embrace close almost hesitantly around his shoulders. She fit neatly into his grasp, and he tightened his arms, pulling her tight to him and breathing in the smell of her perfume, nose nearly buried in her collar. Amelia hung onto him and he felt her fingers dig into the back of his coat. For a long moment they stood that way, and said nothing, and Ivan’s throat felt tight, because the wedding hadn’t changed anything—Amelia was still leaving, and he was still losing his job, and there was still far too much of a chance they might never see each other again.

It felt wrong, to let the moment pass without saying anything, but what could he have possibly said that would encompass his feelings? Everything that came to mind felt trite and almost insulting in its inadequacy. Ten years—over ten years he’d seen or heard from or thought of this woman every single goddamned day, and now, just like that—their lives were suddenly barreling down opposite-facing tracks. Hadn’t he read enough literature to know what to say at a time like this? Wasn’t there some line of Eugene Onegin or Anna Karenina that was appropriate?

“I’ll get the paperwork started back at the embassy for your name change,” she said, and Ivan’s brow furrowed. He drew back enough to look at her face.

“What?”

“For your name. You know. Since we’re married. You didn’t think I was going to become Missus Braginskaya, did you?”

“You think I’m going to take your name?” he asked, lips pursing in affront. “Mr. Jones doesn’t even sound like a real person. Sounds fake.”

“What do you think people call my dad, dipshit?” She lapsed into English for this insult, apparently not finding a suitable Russian equivalent. Generally, she preferred to insult him in English.

“I’m not taking your name.” She grinned, and even when Ivan knew she was laughing at him, he couldn’t help letting her get under his skin.

“I guess we’ll talk about that later too,” she said.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. The street the church was on was quieter than by the bridge, and Ivan was glad for the relative peace to have their quarrelsome goodbye in. “I am not taking your name.”

“Well that’s not very communist of you. Aren’t we supposed to share?” Ivan scowled, and Amelia smirked, as smug as ever when she twisted that look out of him.

“Not very capitalist of you to give me yours for free,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll charge you then,” she said.

“Oh, yes? And what are you charging for your name these days?”

“I’ll settle for a nice ring.”

“You aren’t going to let that go, are you?” he said, but at the moment she said it, he lost the desire to carry on even a faux argument with her.

“You bet I’m not. You proposed to me with no ring and no plan. We can’t even decide who’s changing their name. It’s hilarious.” Ivan was touching that loose curl of hair, twisting it gently between his fingers before laying it back against her cheek. “Hey,” she said softly, biting her lower lip, resting her hands against his chest. “Be careful, okay, Vanya?” He couldn’t stop the flush that burst across his face, down to his neck, and the sound of that diminutive on her lips, which he heard more or less exclusively from his sisters. Amelia had never used it before. When she spoke, he could see in her eyes what she had kept from him before, what she had played off with jokes and flippant hand gestures and white-toothed smiles: she was still worried.

“I will be,” he said, touching her cheek, tracing a line down to the edge of her jaw, and then up to her ear. “And you, too?” She held his gaze, that dark, anxious look a veil across her face, and he leaned in to kiss her. Amelia tilted her chin up. Her breath was warm against his mouth, and tasted like the mints she kept in a tin buried at the bottom of her purse, and Ivan wanted to trap her in Leningrad and make sure she never went back to Germany, or anywhere else; he wanted to drag her under the ice of the Neva with him, where everything would be quiet, and no one would be able to pry them apart.

“Send me a postcard, huh? Since I’m sure they’ve got all your phone lines tapped.” Ivan gave a short, hollow laugh.

“Sure, I will send you a honeymoon postcard.”

“I think it’s traditional for us to send them from the same place to other people, but we’ll make it work.” She could have left by then—for what was she waiting? I don’t want you to leave. Was she desperately trying to think of some way to say this too? Were the words on the tip of her tongue too, no matter how impossible they were? But she’d said it already, hadn’t she?

What are you doing in Leningrad?

Looking for you!

“I guess—”

“Ivan—”

They both stopped and stared at each other, standing too close to be casual and so much further apart than Ivan wanted to be (How long would it take, to get her back to his hotel room, where they could sit in bed and watch Doctor Zhivago and have something hot to drink and speculate about the future of his country?). When it became clear no one was finishing their original statement, Amelia said something else.

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

“And you too,” he said again, a hoarse note in his voice. Amelia punched him in the arm, and smiled. She was good at that—smiling like nothing was wrong. This one didn’t do a good enough job of reaching her eyes though—or else he’d gotten too good at reading her to be fooled.

“See you in Berlin.” She spoke with such confidence as she grabbed her suitcase handle, as if it was something they were all agreed on, as if it were a certainty. Was that an American thing, or an Amelia thing? He wondered that a lot.

“See you in Berlin.” Hands clasped behind his back, he watched her head off down the road, and then called, “See you in Berlin, Missus Braginskaya!”

“Like hell!” she shouted back. “Make sure you get me that postcard, Mister Jones!” Maybe he had hoped he could rile her enough that she would come back, and they could spend a few more minutes bickering, to keep her in Russia just a little while longer, just two minutes more, but she only turned her head to call back to him, not even slowing her step.

What are you doing in Leningrad?

“Leaving too soon,” he murmured, standing still until Amelia had gone from his sight. The pain throbbing in his breast was not something to which he was accustomed, and he touched his chest lightly. Was this heartbreak? Was this what authors meant, when they talked about broken hearts and lost loves? “Not lost,” Ivan said aloud. “Just…gone. For a little while.” Why couldn’t he have Amelia’s assurance they would see each other again? He waited a few minutes more, expecting the pain to subside, but it did not. It just went on, and on, and on! Was it to be endless?

It wasn’t too late to chase her down at the airport, he thought. But to what end? To desperately cling to her coattails and beg her to spare just a few more minutes? To delay their inevitable goodbye just five minutes more? To start an argument just to make her miss her flight and keep her there just a bit longer? How had he walked out of Berlin, convincing himself it was just fine if he never saw her again?

“I will see her again,” he told himself firmly. “I will.” He would make it happen—for Amelia, the effort was worth it.

Looking for you.

#rusame #hws russia #hws america #fem!america #hetalia #nyotalia #nyo!america #rocky writes #I can't believe I'm posting Hetalia fic in 2021 #but hell if these two aren't a comfort pairing

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crystallinecrimsonmoth · 3 years

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Moon City Don't Judge - Chapter 1

1983, NSAS Headquarters, Edinburgh, Scotland

“So this is for the newest Jamestown mission, then? What number are these Yankees on now?”

“Jamestown 85.”

“Oh, well I sure am flattered to be allowed in this late in the game. What did they tell you?”

“They’re trying to look international after the Russians had that mission with the French.”

Heather McKay snorted at that, taking the folder from Marcus and flicking through the pictures of the recent mission that had been broadcast on TV for the whole world to see just how friendly Russia were now.

The image of two astronauts with contrasting flags on their arms made her smirk a little. Since unilaterally declaring independence after World War Two, Scotland had become a far more passive nation, leaving larger countries like the US and the Soviet Union to sort out their own scraps unless they were absolutely needed to step in.

“So, they want to make nice with a passive country.”

“Exactly. I’ve been chatting with Molly Cobb, she’s head of astronauts now over at Houston, expecting one Mr McKay, second Scot in space.”

Heather laughed, nodding as she set the folder down and grabbed her water bottle from its resting spot on Marcus’ desk.

“I thought that was just a trick we played on rookie engineers and astronauts, not seasoned professionals.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and shrugging.

“Messing with Americans is just as fun, even if they are fellow astronauts.”

“Seekers of independence from the crown playing pranks on each other. How mature.” Heather grinned, lifting her jacket from the back of her chair and shrugging it onto her shoulders.

The folder was still open on the table as she gave it one more scan, sighing.

“That’s early as hell to be rising, Marcus.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead, you know that better than anyone, astronaut.”

“Sure do, desk jockey.” The younger woman smiled at him when he gave her a deprecating look, offering him a fist bump as a goodbye.

“Have fun in Moon City, kid.”

Flying to America commercially felt like being stuck in a tin can for hours on end, though Heather was sure if she’d tried to fly it alone, she would have fallen asleep and crashed by now. She spent the time with her seat leaned back a fraction and a personnel file in her lap for the people she’d be working with. She knew Margo from a few years before when she had advised her on how to deal with a young Aleida Rosales and they had kept in touch since, so she passed by her file with ease and moved onto the astronaut section without realising she’d skipped the profile of her newest colleague, Molly Cobb.

With so many names to memorise and personal facts to store away in her head to be used at a later date, Heather barely had the energy to look at Cobb’s profile, her closing eyes skimming the information about the death of Wubbo Ockels before finally shutting as she passed out from exhaustion.

“Mrs McKay? Mrs McKay, we’ve arrived at Houston Intercontinental, it’s time to depart the plane.”

Heather came around to find a made-up flight attendant peering at her and shaking her shoulder gently, lacquered brown eyes focused on hers.

She flinched briefly at the sight before nodding when she took in the woman’s words, sliding out from her seat and looking at her once she’d grabbed her carry on from the overhead bins.

“What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon, Mrs McKay, you’ve gained six hours.”

“Not Mrs, please, I’m not married.” Heather smiled kindly at the woman, nodding when she excused herself and exiting the plane into the fresh air.

At least, she had hoped it would be fresh. Instead, it felt like the Sahara compared to Edinburgh; the heat turned right up in Texas during June. It made her glad the man who put her through security knew who she was and went out of his way to help her through quickly.

She had a feeling that would be a rare thing in a country where nationalism was rampant. If you weren’t an American in the United States, you weren’t worth anyone’s time.

Luggage claim took longer than security for once, chewing the Scot out fifteen minutes later back into the hot Texan sun where a man in a secret service type suit stood beside an entirely black car with tinted windows.

“Miss Mickey?”

“It’s McKay. You would think with a fancy car service, the ability to say my name correctly would be included in the package.”

“Apologies, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to take you straight to the hotel.”

Heather nodded, giving him her suitcase and guitar to load into the trunk before sitting in the back of the car, relaxing into the comfortable leather after hours upon hours in a spiny airplane seat.

With tinted windows surrounding her, the sun was blocked out to make the rest of the journey easier with less heat, so she was fine to actually talk to the driver when he took off from the airport.

“I didn’t expect so much security around my arrival. It’s almost as if I’m a cosmonaut.”

“No, ma’am, the president was only concerned that the Russians may attack you to start a war with your passive nation.”

She sighed in the back seat, shaking her head as she leaned against the headrest behind her.

“I don’t believe they would. Scotland is no enemy of the USSR.”

“I meant no offense, ma’am, only to say that your head of state agrees with the president. He knows the danger too.”

Heather rolled her eyes at the mention of the Scottish leader, remembering the twelfth head of state from a meeting a few months before. She had much preferred the man who saw her off into space six years before.

“The head of state’s a misogynistic prick.”

The driver didn’t say anything in response, only smiling to her in the rear-view mirror which she found amusing. He obviously agreed but chances were there was a wire in the car to make sure he didn’t criticise his own government. How confident that made her feel about being in one of the two most controversial countries on the planet.

She’d researched the distance between the airport and the space centre before she left Scotland, wanting to make sure she knew her surroundings and not exactly thankful that there was an hour between them.

She had a feeling she’d be relying on her driver a lot during this trip if she were to get anywhere other than the space centre.

The rest of the journey was quiet, what Heather would call typical American scenery of square buildings and grey roads passing them by until they finally reached the hotel. She could see the space centre in all its glory across the road, large and looming over the water beside it.

“Much less attractive than NSAS headquarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“No pretty castles to convert in this country, ma’am. We make do with concrete and glass.”

“Looks like a bunch of grey shoeboxes to me.” Heather scoffed as she took the suitcase and instrument from him, slipping on her sunglasses and hat to avoid the sun above them.

“Maybe you can give them some design tips tomorrow, ma’am.”

She nodded, grabbing her backpack from the seat and throwing it over her shoulder with her guitar case, following him into the hotel once the car was locked and sifting in her bag for the hotel information Marcus had given her so she could check in.

“I have a copy of your booking if you can’t find your own.” She looked up at her driver to find a fresh sheet of paper in his hand and grinned, taking it and handing it to the receptionist when they reached the counter.

“Fucking bless you, boy.”

“Of course, ma’am. If that’s everything you need?”

“Yes. No, sorry, do you know where the Outpost is? My head of astronaut affairs gave me that name for the local pub, but I’m all turned around here.”

“The Outpost is across the road and five blocks to the left, Miss Mickey. You can’t miss the sign.” The receptionist spoke up before the driver could, causing the other woman to nod, taking off her glasses now that they were inside and smiling at both of them.

“Thank you. Kid, I meant to ask what your name is. I hate to have you driving me around when I don’t know who you are.”

“Liam Russett, ma’am, at your service and surely older than you so there’s no need to call me kid.”

Heather snorted at that, shaking her head as she hooked her glasses on the collar of her shirt.

“Well, if that’s true, you should get yourself a new job rather than driving around child astronauts.”

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am, really. You have my number for when you need driven somewhere. Have a nice night, Miss McKay.”

“You too, Liam.” She waved to him and grinned when he waved back, turning to talk to the receptionist.

“Hi, sorry for making you wait.”

“I’m used to it, don’t fret. Okay, Miss Mickey,”

That pronunciation wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“…you’re booked in for the next week and two weeks after your return, courtesy of NASA, but you can stay for longer after your mission if you should wish to set that up. Here’s your key and if you’re joining us for the full breakfast tomorrow, we start serving at 8am.” The woman behind the desk smiled kindly, getting another bright smile from Heather as she shifted her bags into the elevator to the side of reception.

“I’ll probably catch a donut at the centre tomorrow, but I will keep the breakfast thing in mind for another day! Thank you!” She called over her shoulder as the doors shut and she started going up to the sixth floor.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt like a cat dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair was sticking to the side of her face with the sweat, the hat plastering part of her fringe to her forehead when she took it off. Her cheeks were red from the sun too and it occurred to her that she’d need sun-cream if she was going to be stuck in America for longer than a day.

As she stepped out onto the right floor and shifted open her hotel room door with a bit of struggle, the phone on the table started ringing.

Heather groaned, shutting the door behind her once her stuff was inside and picking up the call quickly, putting the receiver to her ear.

“Heather McKay, who’s calling, please?”

“Heather, you got there okay, good. How was the plane trip?”

“Hell, I’d honestly prefer a fucking Saltire shuttle.” The young woman expressed to Marcus on the other side as she flopped down on the mattress, glad for the comfort.

Her fellow astronaut laughed on the other end of the call, leaning back on his own armchair.

“Christ, worse than Saltire? Aren’t I glad I volunteered you for this mission and not myself?”

Heather rolled her eyes, staring out of the window that stretched her wall. The sky was a perfect blue with the sun shining down on the city, reminding her of decent summer days at home when she’d kick up sand on the beach. It was a relaxing memory to think about after the long journey.

“Yeah, aren’t you fucking lucky? I’m gonna head for the Outpost tonight with my guitar, try and make friends before I show up tomorrow.”

“Your social skills have come a long way since I met you.”

“And as soon as our leader and their leader aren’t bastards, I’ll be much more sociable!” She sighed, sitting up and going to the window to look across the roofs of the shoeboxes across the road.

“I don’t believe that but you’re Molly’s problem for the next month, not mine.”

Heather grinned at his words. She knew what he meant. Out of the first two Scots in space, she was far more foul-mouthed and quick-witted than Marcus, and it had definitely been a problem in the past.

“Don’t you worry, Marky, I’ll make you proud. Say hi to Laura and James for me.” She bid him goodbye before hanging up, returning the phone to its holder, and skimming through the tourist information book in an attempt at finding a place to eat after the hellish plane ride.

In the end, she had settled for a burger from the van outside NASA headquarters, sitting on a stone wall in front of some flower beds and enjoying watching so many engineers and scientists pass by, chatting away about their work.

Science was one half of her busy life and she loved it. Being at NASA was just the cherry on top of her career now, even if she wasn’t a fan of the politics the agency let itself get caught up in.

She listened to the chatter until her burger was a mere wrapper crushed in her hands and was surprised by the time on the clock outside the hotel. She sure hadn’t realised she’d been sitting there for that many hours but keeping a low profile and being jetlagged clearly passed the time faster than she thought.

Heading back up to her room, Heather changed into a fresh t-shirt and flannel before wandering over to the Outpost bar once she ran a brush through her hair. She could feel people eyeing her as soon as she walked in, clearly sticking out like a sore thumb as someone who they’d never seen before.

No one recognised her yet, thankfully. She didn’t need “socialist Scot scum” comments when she just wanted to drink and play her guitar. She let herself look at the astronaut souvenirs in the glass case by the door then approached the bar, smiling at the woman she certainly recognised as Karen Baldwin from the file about her husband.

“Hi, what can I get for ya?”

“A dram of your best Scots whisky, please.”

“Taste of home coming right up. Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m new, start tomorrow. Thought I’d show my face and try to make friends before going to the moon with this lot.”

Karen nodded, the recognition clicking in her head as she slid the whisky to the younger woman.

“McKay, right? Ed was talking about you. First Scottish woman astronaut, and you changed the law on gay rights, didn’t you? Pretty ballsy.”

Heather shrugged, sipping her whisky and relishing in the burn going down her throat for a moment before speaking.

“And yet folks here in Texas would probably see me hung for it, at the very least fined 500 dollar for kissing a lady in public.”

“Some people never want to let go of their traditions, we’ll get there.” Karen smiled, nodding to the guitar strapped to her back with a slight grin.

“If you’re looking to make friends, you should play. They like music.” She told her with a wink before moving along to serve the newest patron in the door.

The young Scot looked around the bar once before taking her advice, sitting at a table in the corner near the counter and starting to play.

“Ring of Fire, good idea.” Karen mouthed to her from the bar, praising her choice of an American song as the front door opened again, none other than Molly Cobb walking through it and smiling at Karen, giving a brief wave.

“A beer, please, Karen.”

“Love is a burning thing… and it makes, a fiery ring…”

She could feel eyes on her, practically every pair in the bar turning to look at her eventually while she played. Usually, the attention didn’t bother her but the distraction of feet approaching her made her fingers tremble slightly on the strings.

Heather didn’t like being such a close focus of attention. She was used to the crowd having boundaries, being on a stage or a higher platform where they couldn’t reach her, but as she finished the song a few minutes later with every person in the bar staring at her, she could feel a wave of nerves run through her.

Molly was right there, sitting right there with her beer in hand and sunglasses pushing her hair back from her face, blue eyes focused on Heather.

“You’re good.”

“I practice.”

“Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Heather laughed in a light tone, strumming the cords of her guitar slightly. This woman had no idea that they were colleagues, that they had first woman of her nation in space in common. She was looking right through her.

“Oh, I just like the astronaut knick-knacks at this bar, plus I thought I’d try to impress the great Molly Cobb with my playing. Did you like it?” She tilted her head, acting as if she were simply an awestruck citizen and not reporting to duty for the woman the next day.

“Well colour me impressed, though that may just be the alcohol.”

“I’d like to see you do better. Your skills seem singular to flying.” She smirked, wondering how long she could get away with her secret identity.

Taking another sip of her whisky, Heather watched the other woman over the lip of her glass. She sure looked a lot more attractive in person compared to the photo in her information folder, but she wouldn’t act on that fact. It would put them both in danger for her to flirt in public here.

Even friends could turn on Molly if she got that close to another woman, Heather knew that.

“Yeah, and what other skills can you boast, sweetheart? Lemme guess, you can play two instruments.”

Oh, you bitch.

“First impressions aren’t your thing, are they? Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll report for duty first thing tomorrow morning in your office, even if you’re a smug bitch. My name’s Heather McKay, by the way.” She held out her hand for Molly to shake as an introduction and smiled kindly when the older woman sighed, shaking her hand.

“Heather McKay, first Scottish woman in space. Marcus told me you were a Mr.”

“Wee trick we like to play on new recruits from other countries, he thought it would be funny to play it on a Yank.” Heather downed what remained of her whisky before ignoring Molly and waving to Karen as she left the bar.

“See you tomorrow, boss.”

#molly cobb x oc #molly cobb fanfic #molly cobb #for all mankind fic #for all mankind #moon city don't judge #fanfiction

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fivestarglam · 3 years

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Following ISIS’s demise, Islamists around the world have been forced to radically reassess their strategy against the West. Dashing the utopian hopes of its sympathisers, the fall of the Caliphate has set back the Islamist cause for decades. Just as when many Communists became disillusioned once their ideology had been implemented in the Soviet Union, ISIS’s barbarity can no longer be ignored.

True, even in 2021, some groups such as the resurgent Taliban and Boko Haram — to say nothing of the Iranian regime — remain committed to a type of Islamist militancy that includes an emphasis on violence, with all the human suffering that entails. But for the most part, jihadist militancy has proved unpopular among Muslims, often inviting a violent counter-reaction. Its promise of an Islamist dream state has lost its appeal.

Yet Islamists in the West appear to have found a possible solution that sidesteps, at least for now, the use of explicit violence. The core of this alternative strategy is to focus as much as possible on dawa.

Nearly 20 years after 9/11, Westerners still remain unfamiliar with dawa. In theory, the term simply refers to the call to Islam, a kind of invitation; Westerners would recognise it as part of a proselytising mission. In practice, however, Islamists rely on dawa as a comprehensive propaganda, PR and brainwashing system designed to make all Muslims embrace an Islamist programme while converting as many non-Muslims as possible.

Among Western analysts, dawa — which became a tool of the Muslim Brotherhood in the 20th century — has traditionally received far less attention than militant jihad, though observers have emphasised its importance in the “humanitarian” activities of Hamas.

In Unveiled, the ex-Muslim Yasmine Mohammed compellingly describes her difficult marriage to the Egyptian jihadist Essam Marzouk. Yasmine commented on the rivalry that exists between jihadists (such as her ex-husband) and ostensibly “non-violent” Islamists:

“The truth is that Essam hated the [Muslim] Brotherhood: he thought Islamists were a bunch of pansies. He was actually aligned with a more militant group in Egypt called Al Jihad, who were the Egyptian wing of Al Qaeda. Both Islamists and jihadis have the same goal — to spread Islam — but they have different methods. Islamists want to do this through passive means such as politics, immigration and childbirth.”

This important point is often lost on politicians in Western countries. For no matter what misguided retired CIA officials may claim, groups such as the Muslim Brotherhood are neither moderate organisations nor pluralist partners in civil society. Islamist groups are certainly not likely to prevent the radicalisation of young Muslims. Instead, as one observer noted more than a decade ago, “the history of the Brotherhood movement shows, in fact, that it has operated by and large not as a firewall against jihadism, but as a fertile incubator of radical ideas in a variety of locales”.

In a cynical way, Islamists achieve far more through dawa than when they confine themselves to simply blowing things up and stabbing people to death. The threat is not as obvious. Jihad and the use of violence tend to provoke an immediate response. With dawa, on the other hand, it is possible to talk about charity, spirituality and religion — and then compare it to normal religious proselytising missions. In a free society, what reasonable person would take issue with that?

But dawa is also about building networks: local, regional and international. In The Call, Krithika Varagur revealed both the enormous global scale and opaque nature of these efforts. Saudi Arabia, in particular, has channelled billions of dollars into dawa — with much of it directed into the US.

In the West, these regimes are not given much thought, nor is the Islamist infrastructure in the United States. Nonetheless, Islamism is spreading within Western institutions, and it’s largely thanks to an unlikely alliance: dawa has recognised the alluring power of “woke”, and has started to adopt the language of civil rights and multiculturalism.

Of course, this is not an entirely American phenomenon, but the energy in our progressive movement has taken this cooperation one step further. In France, by contrast, “Islamo-gauchisme” (Islamo-Leftism) is much more likely to be correctly identified as a threat to the model of universal, secular and republican citizenship. In Britain, it remains less prominent, confined to fringe politicians such as George Galloway, who believes that “the progressive movement around the world and the Muslims have the same enemies”.

Yet as historian Daniel Pipes has noted, the relationship between Islamism and extreme Leftism is nothing new. In 2007, Oskar Lafontaine, former chairman of Germany’s Social Democratic party, noted: “Islam depends on community, which places it in opposition to extreme individualism, which threatens to fail in the West. [In addition,] the devout Muslim is required to share his wealth with others. The Leftist also wants to see the strong help the weak.”

But the internal tension between “wokeism” and Islamism is never far away. Just look at Al Jazeera, which uploads documentaries about transgender rights on to its social media channel, while broadcasting sermons suggesting husbands should beat their wives on its Arabic station.

Nevertheless, the two movements do share objectives. Both are anti-West and anti-American. Both have a critical attitude towards “capitalism” based on individualism. True, the Islamists have been around for much longer. But Islamist ideologues are willing to co-operate with non-Muslim Leftists as long as it serves their purposes.

To their credit, some on the Left refuse to countenance Islamism, as they become increasingly aware of the contradiction between supporting universal human rights (including women’s rights) and the demands of Islamists. In France, for example, the centre-Left former Prime Minister Manuel Valls courageously denounced Islamo-Leftism without the least hesitation.

In the United States, however, such vocal opposition from the Left is increasingly rare. Indeed, at the 2019 Netroots Nation conference — America’s “largest annual conference for progressives” — multiple panel discussions and training sessions reflected the Islamist agenda, frequently coalescing around a critique of Israel while neglecting the toxic role played by Hamas in perpetuating the conflict. Meanwhile, Linda Sarsour, a feminist organiser and co-chair of the “Women’s March”, has made her support for Islamism more explicit: “You’ll know when you’re living under Shariah law if suddenly all your loans and credit cards become interest-free. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

In government, too, Islamism’s capture of progressivism has become increasingly clear. Turkey’s Islamist President Erdogan might lead one of the world’s most brutal and repressive regimes, but that hasn’t stopped Ilhan Omar, the Democratic congresswoman from Minnesota, from expressing support for him. No doubt she was inspired by Erdogan last year when he proclaimed that “social justice is in our book”, and that “Turkey is the biggest opportunity for western countries in the fight against xenophobia, Islamophobia, cultural racism and extremism”.

Erdogan, in effect, was explicitly using progressive rhetoric. It’s a move that’s since been mirrored in Iran. The Tehran Times — which describes itself as “a loud voice of the Islamic Revolution” — recently attacked former US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo for his “deep-rooted Islamophobia”. And in March, Iranian Foreign Minister Zarif “lauded the determination of Islamic countries to address Islamophobia as one of the main challenges facing the Islamic Ummah [community in the West]”. Islamists, in other words, are becoming skilled at wrapping themselves in a mantle of woke words, while engaging in systematic brutality and repression within their own countries.

To this new alliance between Islamism and progressive rhetoric, there is no simple response. Dawa, by its very nature, is inherently more difficult to fight than jihad. But those who believe, as I do, in a free, open, pluralist society need to be aware of the nature and magnitude of this new challenge. After two decades of fighting Islamist terrorism, we have a new and more subtle foe to contend with. Wokeism has long been regarded as a dangerous phenomenon — but only now are we starting to see why.

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ultravioletsoul · 4 years

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Can you rank your fave CoD antagonists?

Hello there nonny, sorry for taking so long to reply and thank you for your ask ♥♥

Rank my favorite CoD antagonists? Sure, I can do that! There are several antagonists in the series, but I’ll only rank my top 3. Hope that is okay with you c:

3. Jonathan Irons

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Advanced Warfare may not be a series as popular as BO or MW, but I actually enjoyed the game and I also liked Irons. Honestly, I don’t think we’ve gotten that many antagonists that started out as our allies in CoD (at least I don’t remember any others atm), much any less an American antagonist, so that kinda made him stand out to me.

I’m not familiar with Kevin Spacey’s works, and I barely watched any trailers pre-release. So to see Irons go from someone who I believed genuinely wanted to make the world a better place, where every human being could live in peace and thrive, away from the pointless wars that governments waged, to someone who was willing to use any means necessary to achieve his goals, regardless of how many lives he had to sacrifice... well, that was something that hit me hard.

This man who gave my character a second chance, who treated me (Mitchell) as his son, who cleaned up after the colossal mess that others countries made, helped people from devastated war-zones rebuild their lives and gave them hope for the future, turned out to be someone I was forced to betray because of different viewpoints and philosophies. Despite everything, I think Irons had his heart in the right place, but his methods were ultimately terrible and in his messianic delusions he ended up doing more harm than good, so of course he had to be stopped.

And what I liked about him was that he didn’t start out as a bad man, he didn’t do all those things because of greed, and his characterization wasn’t that of a cartoonish villain. In a way I could find logic in his arguments, he made a few good points about the current state of the world and the inability (or indifference) of many politicians to solve the real problems of the people. But the root of it all lies in the loss of his son, his only child, to a government he no longer trusted nor had any faith in doing what was right. Despite having served in the military in his youth, Irons had grown disillusioned at the way the US handled domestic and international policy, and strongly disagreed with them— opposing the status quo in favor of change.

One could argue that serving in the military was entirely Will’s choice all along, and as a grown adult he knew what he was getting himself into. Still Irons couldn’t help but think that if that war had never happened, Will would still be alive. So that left him with a bitter taste, and it served as the catalyst behind his actions.

If nobody else would bother to do anything to actually solve the world’s problems, then he would be the savior to do it— whether they liked it or not. And he didn’t care what methods he had to use, how many had to die, or if he had to plunge the world into total chaos before he could ultimately end all wars and bring everlasting “peace” (perhaps one of the greatest ironies) as his dream seemed to be. Even at the cost of such a high price.

I don’t think Irons gets the credit he deserves.

2. Raúl Menéndez

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BO2 is one of my favorite games and Raúl is undoubtedly one of the most memorable antagonists in the series. Much like Irons, his actions were heavily motivated by the loss of a loved one but his life is also one sad story, so it’s no wonder he turned out the way he did. Not to justify him, but it’s not hard to understand what led him to do all those things.

From a very young age, his life was destroyed by the actions of Americans, from the horrors of the dictatorship in Nicaragua (in which the Contras were supported by the US); the crippling and disfigurement of his young sister Josefina, due to the greed of an American owner who burned down a warehouse in order to obtain 11,000$ through insurance fraud. After losing everything during an earthquake, and becoming homeless, Raúl and his father started over by selling drugs, successfully establishing a cartel that was so powerful in Nicaragua that they were equally feared and admired among the people.

But this status and power they had newly acquired concerned the US government, and it wasn't long before they sanctioned an assassination order on Raúl's father and sent the CIA in to kill him. Raúl observed it all, a teenager back then, and managed to escape thanks to his father's training. Though he could do nothing to stop it, nothing to save his father, this event marked him and further embittered him against the US and the West. And the last straw was the unfortunate death of Josefina, at the hands of Woods. He lost his sister, the only living relative he had, and his world fell apart. But if we think about it, Raúl was indirectly responsible for her death too, after the horrible torture he put Woods through in Angola. So the next time Woods saw Raúl he lost his mind and threw the grenade that tragically bounced into Josefina's bedroom and killed her.

So he spent all his life orchestrating a huge plan, a brilliant plan, that would shake the US from the very ground. And he was damn charismatic while executing it, earning the support and approval of billions of people all around the world— even from those who lived in US soil!— to begin a world revolution and end the dominance of capitalist nations that had subjugated other weaker countries, amassing huge riches through market economy and wars for resources, destroying lives and sinking many in poverty. And he also manipulates and pits two superpowers against each other... sending everyone to the brink of another world war, or a second cold war at best.

He wanted revenge on the US for playing with the lives of other people, for taking everything he loved away from him, by making them live in fear and destroying everything they had built. He wanted them to feel the same pain, to suffer the way he did. And he wouldn't rest until he achieved that because he had nothing to lose anymore.

Depending on the outcome, he can get revenge on Woods for Josefina, as well. And though we all like it when the "good" guys prevail and foil the plans of the villain, I think this particular ending had a much deeper and stronger emotional impact. The conversation they have at the end is something I didn't expect. Raúl has come to kill Woods but they're both in a place where the years have beaten them down with the weight of they’ve done and rather than an over the top scene, what we’re given is quite the opposite of that.

There’s no screaming, no heated argument between them, no dramatic lines. It’s just two old men who had to live with what they’ve done, and who have come to terms with the inevitability of that moment. Raúl slits Woods’s artery with Josefina’s pendant, and then he does something that surprised me: he closes Frank’s eyes, takes him off the wheelchair and lies his body on the bed. Something that is a huge contrast with what he did to Hudson many years ago... the savagery he used when killing him. For Raúl to behave that way with Woods, the man he considered to be his sister’s killer, it raises the question as to whether he still hated Woods after all these years, or maybe deep down he finally acknowledges that his actions (namely torturing Woods and killing his whole team) was the true motive that led to Josefina’s death.

The thing is, Raúl knows that he's to blame for what happened. It's also the reason why he burns himself alive in front of Josefina's grave. It’s because he has to pay for what he's done to her, too, and he chose to do it in probably the most horrible way possible but it didn’t matter to him. Nothing was more painful than living with the knowledge that his sister died because of what he did.

To him Josefina was the true innocent soul, who didn't deserve any of the suffering she went through.

1. Vladimir Makarov

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It’s no secret that Vladimir is my most favorite antagonist (and character) in all of Call of Duty.

Though his background and motives weren’t as well developed and explained as those of other antagonists in the series, his untold story (which you won’t find anywhere in the game, though you can deduce if you have a basic idea of the situation before and after the fall of the Soviet Union) perhaps says a lot more about him than one might expect.

There’s not a lot we know about his past other than the meager information that was provided in some loading cutscenes, but it’s reasonable to think that Vladimir wasn’t always the trashbag that we see in the games. He once was a young man with dreams of patriotism, who wanted the best for his country, who loved Russia with his soul, and who would do anything to protect her, because as a soldier that was what he was taught to do. As a soldier, that was his purpose in life and without that reason to drive him on, he had nothing left.

And however vague his backstory may seem to be, it gives you an idea that Vladimir in a way was a victim of a system that imparted a type of soft indoctrination on him, from a very young age (as many states do all around the world in some form or another, even those who hold democratic values), all the way to his education in the military academy and his brutal training in the special forces, that further cemented this undying love for Russia, maybe in a way that bordered brainwashing.

His true radicalization came after the fall of the Soviet Union with the loss of his homeland and the Soviet culture as he knew it, as well as Russia becoming weak and losing much of her power and influence across the world. Then came his deployment in Chechnya in 1994, where he lived the horrors of a war that most likely left him psychologically scarred after the experiences he had to go through. And when he returned home, he was kicked out of the armed forces under accusations of human rights violations during the First Chechen War. And they may be true, he probably did a lot of bad things there (under the illusion that he was serving his country for a higher cause), and sadly it’s something commonplace in many armed conflicts. I’m going to leave this short post here for some details on that.

When he returned from war, he didn’t receive any professional help or if he did, it didn’t work. He didn’t know how to cope, he ultimately was unable to adapt to a normal life, he became a misfit. He had lost his job, he had a stain in his career, and finding a decent way to get by was very difficult at the time when the country was in the middle of a political, social, and economic crisis.

He was in financial ruin, and it was hunger that pushed him to become a criminal (something that wasn’t uncommon for ex military men in 90s Russia). Not just that but also hatred for those in power as well as society as a whole, and what they represented: total decadence and the reason why Russia was falling apart with these “stupid” western conceptions about freedom that in his eyes did nothing but give leeway for debauchery and corruption, which he ultimately sought to “fix” by returning Russia to what it used to be (a god-fearing empire under the autocratic rule of a tsar that was likened to a father to all his subjects, and where religion was used as a resource to legitimize his power and as a moral regulator that maintained the social order).

He pretty much felt abandoned, betrayed by his government— a leadership that had done nothing but sink Russia deeper and deeper into ruin, destroying the values under which he was raised and turning people like him into cynical masses that had lost faith in everything and were adrift without any real purpose in life, no future to look forward to, completely disillusioned that the dreams they’d bought into, the promises they had been sold by the west, were nothing but lies.

He’s still a piece of garbage, we know that, but I also think that he’s gone through a lot of struggles and bad experiences in his youth that marked him and filled him with resentment. Everyone sees Vladimir as the puppet master of the storyline of MW, and we have to give him credit for that, but deep down he’s just a man who has been a slave to his own obsessions and ambitions, unable to free himself from the hatred that has poisoned his mind for years, which led him to commit so many atrocities and strip himself from any semblance of humanity— all for the sake of a higher cause, as he undoubtedly tried to justify his actions at the end of the day.

In conclusion, all three were marked by losses in one way or another, and saw themselves as men who had to take the hard path and do what had to be done. And it’s also curious that Call of Duty, while not a game with any deep meaning on the surface, almost seems like social commentary on how war ruins lives and how anyone can do horrible things if put through the wringer enough times. It’s like these stories are trying to say that bad circumstances can make bad men out of seemingly good people, who wouldn’t have done any of the evil they did if maybe things had been different.

And I think that’s what makes these characters so interesting.

#vladimir makarov #raul menendez #jonathan irons #call of duty #modern warfare #black ops #advanced warfare #i'm really sorry again #it took me a while to write this one!#but it's done at long last c:

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opedguy · 3 years

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Germany Goes Ahead with Nord Stream 2 Pipeline

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), Feb. 6, 2021.--German Chancellor Angel Merkel, 66, a key player in the European Union, sent a loud message to 78-year-old U.S. President Joe Biden that she will move full steam ahead on completing the Nord Stream 2 natural gas pipeline with Russia. While Merkel has sympathy for 44-year-old jailed Russian dissident Alexi Navalny, it won’t impact her relationship with the Russian Federation. Merkel pointed out that Germany has been buying natural gas and petroleum since post WW II days when the Soviet Union supplied German vital resources to rebuild the war-torn country. Biden came to power Jan. 20 like gangbusters going after 68-year-old Russian President Vladimir Putin, saying the U.S. would no longer be “rolling over” like 74-year-old former President Donald Trump. Trump never “rolled over “ for anyone, just wanted a chance to improve the abysmal relations with Russian left by 59-year-old former President Barack Obama.

Obama took the unusual step three weeks before Trump’s inauguration to expel 35 Russian diplomats Dec. 31, 2016. Biden apparently has picked up where Obama lseft off Jan. 20, 2017, alienating Putin and the Russian Federation. Biden’s 58-yar-old newly minted Secretary of State Tony Blinken practically jumped up and down telling Putin to release Navalny and other Russian dissidents. Threatening more sanctions and telling Putin what to do with an internal Russian affair doesn’t play well with Putin or the Kremlin. Biden forgets he had a chance to put his foot down with Putin March 1, 2014 when Russian invaded and annexed Ukraine’s Crimean Peninsula, home to Russia’s warm-water fleet in Sevastopol. Obama and Biden could have acted more forcefully but chose to do nothing. Suddenly Biden’s the tough old rooster on the block, hurling insults and warnings at Putin.

Biden and Blinken have slammed Trump’s “America First” foreign policy, pledging, like Obama, to fall in line with the European Union [EU]. Merkel’s decision to move forward with competing the Nord Stream 2 pipeline under the Baltic Sea serves notice that she intends to continue doing business with the Russian Federation. Whatever sanctions Biden or Blinken contemplate for Putin’s actions with Navalny, election-year-influence or hacking secure computers systems, etc., Merkel plans to meet her contractual obligations with the Nord Stream 2 pipeline. Biden and Blinken counted on the EU to lend clout to U.S. actions against Putin. Biden and Blinken want Germany to buy liquefied natural gas from the U.S., where it’s in abundant supply with the fracking industry. Merkel rejects the idea that Germany and the EU have grown increasingly dependent on Moscow for energy.

When it comes to energy, the Russian Federation supplies 40% of EU’s natural gas and 30% of its petroleum. Biden and Blinken won’t get Merkel to renege on her commitment to the Kremlin for energy supplies. Merkel said she wouldn’t allow Germany to be “unilaterally dependent” on Russian energy, knowing that Russia has supplied German energy for over 70 years. Alienating Putin hurts U.S. national security at a time when the State Department needs the linkage with Moscow to face growing challenges in the Middle East, North Africa, North Korea and Iran. Acting aggressively toward Putin won’t build the global linkages needed to solve evolving crises around the globe, especially on the Russia-Ukraine border when pro-Russian separatists seek to split off the Donbass region. Yet Biden and Blinken have already alienated Putin to point he would do nothing to help the U.S.

Merkel understands perfectly well that the U.S. has a beef with Putin over a variety of pressing issues, like alleged recent hacking of SolarWinds network management software used by numerous government agencies, including Homeland Security and the Pentagon. But Merkel is no fool when it comes to Germany. She’s all in when it comes to the Paris climate accord but knows that Germany’s transition from fossil fuels will take time. When it comes to the Nord Stream 2 pipeline, Merkel secures low cost natural gas to heat German hopes in the cold winter. “It’s clear that this is a controversial project that is being discussed in Europe,” Merkel said, knowing that 43-year-old French President Emmanuel Macron wants to sanction Putin for his repressive treatment of Navalny and use of banned chemicals to poison his enemies. Putin has denied using Soviet-era Novichok nerve agent to poison Navalny.

Biden and Blinken think they’re talking tough with Putin, trying to contrast their firmness with Putin to that of Trump. But Trump did everything possible to improve U.S.-Russian relations only to watch it sabotaged by Democrats and the U.S. press. Democrats and the press accused Trump for four years of inappropriate ties to the Kremlin, baseless accusations made by former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton with her paid opposition research AKA “the Steele dossier,” a pile of rubbish given to the CIA and FBI by Obama and Biden. Biden and Blinken won’t get the cooperation they think to start applying more pressure on Putin, not when the EU buys 40% of its natural gas and 30% of its petroleum from Russia. “I had questions at the beginning, we coordinated, a decision has been made and I’m in fully solidarity,” Macron said, letting Biden and Blinken know where things stand.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma. Reply Reply All Forward

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shiveringpinkala · 4 years

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voyage to the heart’s land

so, i wrote a fic for @renelemaires because i’m not good at headcanons as was initially requested, but i can do this apparently. sending happiness and good vibes your way!

voyage to the heart’s land; renee lemaire after the war w/ vague hints of baberoe, renee/gene and possible future renee/gene/babe. 2969 words.

Renee left Belgium two years after the war ended.

She loved her home, but the magic of the forests and memories of running around the city square in the blush of youth no longer held the easy charm that she associated with those times. And so, one day, in the height of July’s peaking summer, she pulled out an old atlas of her father’s – yellowed at the edges, curls crinkling on the front of most pages, one corner missing and taking a chuck of the Soviet Union, Egypt and Newfoundland with it – and looked for something new.

She bookmarked Morocco for the language and Portugal for the ocean, but stopped completely when she reached the United States. Jagged borderlines between oddly shaped provinces and big – so much bigger than Belgium, bigger than Europe – and thought of Eugene. She traced her fingers down the neatly labeled Appalachian Montagnes, bypassing the likes of Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and sweeping over until she landed on Louisiana; little dots pointing out the towns of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. She tapped idly on the image and thought of the Eugene’s low voice and rough accent, the weary determination in his eyes. Her hands stilled.

Louisiana is was then.

Her mother kissed her cheeks at the train station. Her father tucked a riot of bills in her pocket and when she tried to protest, only said to write when she reached America. The subsequent journey took her out to England and then to an ocean liner setting sail for New York. She spent every waking moment she could on deck, drinking in the spray of ocean air and watching contentedly as an Irish mother of four tired to corral her children unsuccessfully.

Once she landed in New York, she asked the nearest shop owner – a plump, friendly woman with a thick Polish accent – where she could find a telegraph office and was given an escort in the form of the woman’s ten year old son who delivered her to her destination with a gap toothed smile. She sent her message; carefully relaying the address that was postmarked on the envelope of the single letter Eugene had written her a year earlier, hoping he hadn’t gotten the urge to pick up roots as well in the time that had lapsed. From there, it was off to the currency exchange station, and then to a hotel. She spent two days in New York, enjoying the rush of bodies and movement despite herself, listening to the array of languages and marveling at the lights that never seemed to dim. On the third morning, she ventured to Grand Central Station and caught a train headed to Philadelphia.

The ride was surprisingly short, but it was also dark and her next train wasn’t due to leave until the morning, but – to her surprise – when she stepped onto the platform there was a giant hand-written sign with her name on it in blocky letters. She blinked, caught out and cautiously approached the strangers huddled around it. One of the men, short and solidly built, braced on a pair of crutches, beamed when he spotted her approach and waved her over.

“Hello?” She asked, still confused. The pretty – and lone – woman standing beside the man in question rolled her eyes at the man’s enthusiasm and held out a hand of Renee when she got close enough.

“Ignore him,” she said, waving a hand at the man’s indignant bark, “I told him that no woman in their right mind would want to walk over to a group of strange rabble without reason, but he insisted,” she smiled, “I’m Frannie.”

“Renee,” she answered bemused, “as you know, apparently. How did –”

“Babe sent us,” the man said, accent broad and unfamiliar, but not unappealing, “Doc told him you were coming and he told us.”

“Babe?” Renee asked, looking at Frannie to see if he was being serious.

“You’ll meet him when you get down there,” he said, “My name’s Bill. Guarnere. I served with the Doc. And this here –” he looked over at the person holding the sign and then whacked at the legs peeking out underneath it with one crutch, “— put that down, ya idiot. There’s a lady present. This is Ralph Spina, one ‘a Doc’s fellow medics.”

Ralph lowered the sign with her name and sent Bill a caustic glare, then looked back at her and nodded. “Nice ta meet you, ma’am.”

“Renee is fine,” she smiled at the trio, unduly charmed, “it’s nice to meet you as well.”

Frannie stepped forward and looped an arm through Renee’s and pointed at her bags, “Ralph get those, will you? Right this way, honey. No friend of Doc Roe is spending the night in some roachy motel. You like Italian? I was thinking ravioli or gnocchi, maybe.”

Renee dropped the protest that she could carry her own luggage when Ralph picked it up immediately and followed in Frannie’s footsteps without complaint. She thought about Eugene and this Babe person arranging for her to have a welcoming party and let the bickering chatter between the three American’s envelope her in gentle waves.

The dinner was amazing (“Now that rationing’s lifting, makes getting the right ingredients easier.” Bill laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at Ralph, and their other friend Joe Toye, who only rolled his eyes at Bill’s bombastic tone, “No more Army noodles here.”) and the company even better as they told her endless stories about what seemed to be every single man they’d served with. At some point, she realized she was laughing so hard that tears were actually welling in her eyes and the salt in them felt like a cleansing of some kind. Like a layer of heavy silt had been washed from her soul. She fell asleep on her borrowed bed that night with a smile on her face.

To repay their generosity, she woke up early – not difficult as her internal clock was a mess from slipping between time zones so quickly – and made a somewhat augmented version of her mother’s waffles and homemade hot chocolate for everyone.

Frannie took a sip while the boys ate seconds – or in Joe’s case, thirds – and said: “That was really good. If everything you make is this good, you should sell it. No point in giving heaven away for free.”

Renee thought about lazy mornings making bread with her mother in the kitchen of their old house. Kneading the dough, watching it rise and the whole house filling up with the smell as it baked. Regular cooking had never been something she’d had much patience for, but baking was something else entirely. She’d always found a peace in the careful measurements and methodical movements; her mind could wander away and rest from its troubles. The look on someone’s face when they took a bite was only a bonus.

She stared down at her hands and thought, for the first time in a long time, that maybe there was something special about them.

“Maybe,” she murmured and enjoyed the contentment of a job well done.

Frannie and the boys saw her off hours later. “Write, you hear,” Frannie said, hugging her tightly, “I need more women in my life that’ll understand my pain.”

“I am a goddamned joy and you know it,” Bill argued, but also pulled Renee into a one-armed embrace. “Tell those idiots to write too, ain’t like they don’t have pens and paper in the swamp.”

“I will. And thank you,” she directed the last at the whole group, who waved away the gratitude with mumbled protests and continued waving as she stepped onto the train.

This one took her to Charleston, down through rolling green hills and farmlands that gave the country some space, opening up into long tracks of fields that both reminded her of home and was nothing at all like it. It was only a stop over this time, but the hour of rest came with polite men and women, an ocean view and accents that were similar to Eugene’s. The leg after took her down to Georgia where she drank an ice-cold Coca-Cola from a Soda Fountain in the rail yard and watched a group of kids played a game right in the middle of the street with a ball and stick; jeers and cheers filtering into the open door of the Fountain. From Savannah, the train took her all the way to New Orleans.

New Orleans was like stepping into a different world. Music seemed to be infused in the air around her from the minute she got off the train; slow saxophone’s and staccato snares, trumpets whisking a melody away into the melting summer breeze. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, taking in the atmosphere. She walked around some of the city; wandering into the French Quarter and marveling at the architecture and listening to accented French coming in fits and stops from the residents who tipped their hats at her as she passed. Eventually, she found herself in a kind of civic center and asked for directions to the town that Eugene had written to her from. The kindly older man working there, showed her where it was on a map and arranged for her to get a cab down.

The bayou, as she learned the whole area was referred to, was almost like something out of a fairy tale. Swamps, running into jungle forests and moss covering everything from the trees to the roofs of the houses half-hidden from the road. The cab dropped her off at a little general store/café that the driver in question assured her would be helpful if she was looking for someone in particular.

A few curious eyes lit on her when she walked into the open aired restaurant, but the stares were without hostility and her purpose was quickly deduced correctly because a kind looking woman with wild grey-touched curls in a faded red dress came up to her with a smile.

“You look like a woman who could use a hand,” she said, eyeing the suitcase and bag at Renee’s feet, “I’m Bea, what can I help you with, sugar?”

“I was told that you could help me find someone?” Renee asked.

Bea’s eyes widened and she whistled lowly. “Honey, that is some pretty voice you got there. As for help, I know just about every person in this neck of the woods; and if I don’t, then they ain’t here. Who you looking for?”

“Eugene Roe.”

A fond smile settled on Bea’s lined face. “That boy got popular in Europe,” she commented and then led Renee over to one of the wrought iron tables in the café. “You sit tight and I’ll give ‘im a call, alright?”

Renee thanked her and sat there, nerves suddenly erupting her stomach as she waited. It had been so long and she had basically invited herself. Maybe he’d be cross? But no, why send a welcoming committee in Philadelphia otherwise? She drummed her knuckles on the table and was only interrupted when Bea set some iced, amber colored liquid in front of her; condensation beading at the tall glass.

“Sweet tea,” Bea explained, “It’s a staple down here. Best get used to it, if you’re staying.”

Renee took a drink, flavor bursting across her tongue. The coolness of it hit her and relaxed some of the tension that had sprung up. “It’s good,” she said, a little surprised.

“Glad to hear it,” Bea replied, grinning. She patted Renee on the shoulder and then twirled away to serve another customer.

When Eugene finally arrived, it took Renee a moment to recognize him. Gone were the worn green army fatigues, and in its place was a pair of denim jeans and a button up checked shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black hair was a bit longer and his skin had lost the deathly pale hue that she got used to seeing in Bastogne, warming to a pale caramel under his home’s beating sun. She couldn’t stop the smile from lighting up her face at the sight and stood up, so that he could see her better.

Sure enough, he spotted her and froze in the middle of the café before a more subdued, but no less genuine version of his own, smile crossed his features. He resumed his walk and when he was standing in front of her and – after a moment’s hesitation – gently pulled her into his arms. The breath she’d been painfully holding in her lungs gave way, and she breathed in the woodsy citrus kick of his aftershave as she held on.

“It’s good to see you,” he said into her hair, before pulling away to look at her.

“Vous aussi,” she said which softened his smile into loveliness.

“These your bags?”

“Oui. They are.”

“Well, okay then,” he reached down and picked them up, “I got the guest room made up,” he stopped for a moment and then shrugged, expression sheepish, “unless you’d rather stay at an inn? Your choice, o’ course.”

“Your guest room is fine,” she said, following him out of the café, where they waved goodbyes to Bea, who hassled them into agreeing to lunch the next day, “as long as your friend doesn’t mind?”

A series of emotions flickered over his face before settling into rueful. “Edward don’t mind; he’s the one been fretting about pillows or some such since your wire.”

The last knot of anxiety loosened in her gut at that. “Then lead on.”

Eugene’s – “Gene, I insist.” – house was a medium sized bungalow set back a little way from the dirt road and surrounded by a sparse, moss ridden wood with the nearest neighbors half-a-mile down the road. It was sweet and Renee found an instant kinship to the large dormer windows and wide porch that extended out from the house.

“It’s not much,” he said, almost sounding apologetic.

Renee refrained from saying that any standing building was stunning to her now, no matter the size or color or shape. “It’s beautiful,” she told him honestly.

They were greeted at the dog by a floppy eared beagle whose whole hindquarters wriggled when Renee leaned down to pet him. “That’s Rex,” Gene said, rolling his eyes good naturedly at the pup, “wandered into the yard one day and never left. Ain’t much of a guard dog, as you can see.”

“He doesn’t need to be. He’s lovely exactly the way he is,” she said, laughing when he took a chance to lick at her cheek.

Gene led them into the house. Renee took in the cozy decorating, lacking a bit in the way that most male driven houses did, and was examining a series of photos on an end table when the last resident of the house came bounding around the corner, stopping abruptly when he saw her. He was as Bill had described him – skinny, redhaired, eyes too big for his ugly mug – though she would argue the ‘ugly’ descriptor; he had a sweet, open face that put her at ease immediately.

“Hey,” he said, practically vibrating in anticipation, giving her a half-wave from his place in the doorway and biting his lip, “you must be Renee. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Enchante, Edward. I’ve heard much about you.”

“You have? From – wait, Edward?” He looked over at Gene who was deliberately turned away, though Renee could see the hint of a pleased grin on his face. “Really, Gene; Edward?” He turned back to Renee in a mild huff. “Call me Babe, everyone does.”

“Babe,” she agreed, noticing that some of the stiffness in his frame had disappeared in the wake of the mix-up. Probably, that was Gene’s intention all along.

“Right. Are you hungry? Gene was making some kind of stew thing –”

“It’s jambalaya, Babe, you know this.”

“— before Bea called. It’ll make your senses wish they’d died, but it tastes amazing.”

Renee nodded. “I’d love to try some.”

She sat at the dining table as Gene and Babe worked seamlessly around each other in the small kitchen, and rather than feeling awkward or forgotten, both men managed to include her in their ritual, making her feel as at home for the first time since the bombs began to fall. Babe, in a similar vein to Bill, gave her all the gossip about town, while Gene corrected the most outlandish claims the redhead made (“It did not try to eat you, Babe.” “It wanted too – I could tell, stared at my leg like it was a rack of ribs.” “It was an alligator snapping turtle not an actual gator.” “Well, what he hell’s it got alligator in its name for then, huh? Huh Gene? Answer me that!”) with a well-rehearsed fondness.

The jambalaya was as Babe advertised it – amazing, but eye wateringly spicy – and was finished off with powered French pastries Gene called beignets. Gene asked about her journey and she indulged them with the story, making sure to thank them for setting Frannie and the others in her path.

“Bill says that you two must write him sometime. He was quite insistent,” she said teasingly.

Babe snorted. “Sure. Tomorrow I’ll send him a telegram: Dear Bill, screw you, Love Babe.”

She laughed and Babe grinned all the brighter for it. Gene shook his head, but his eyes kept bouncing between them with a contentedness that Renee was glad to see he was capable of. It made the restless, inadequate feelings in her heart go into hibernation. A tranquil hush came to a rest in her blood. Whatever may come, she thought she could be herself here. Perhaps even be truly happy.

It was a something to look forward too. A gift.

And she intended to enjoy it.

#it's longer than i intended #(was supposed to be a ficlet)#hopefully you like it!#*fingers crossed*#band of brothers #gift fic #renee lemaire #eugene roe #babe heffron

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grootpoepjeplasjehoofd · 4 years

Text

I’m reading Markus Wolf’s memoirs and I absolutely love his description of growing up in Moscow but also that rapid shift in tone omfg

We adjusted slowly to a strange language and culture, fearful of the harsh manners of the children who shared our courtyard. “Nemets, perets, kolbassa, kislaya kapusta,” they would shout after us: “Germans—pepper, sausage, sauerkraut.” They laughed at our short trousers, too, and we begged our mother for long ones. Finally she gave in with a sigh, saying, “You’re proper little men now.”

But we were soon fascinated by our new environment. After our provincial German childhood, the bustling city, with its rough and ready ways, thrilled us. In those days people still spat the husks of their sunflower seeds onto the pavement, and horse-drawn traps clattered through the street. Moscow was still a “big village,” a city with peasant ways. At first we attended the German Karl Liebknecht School (a school for children of German-speaking parents, named after the Socialist leader of the January 1919 Spartacist uprising, who was murdered in Berlin shortly thereafter), then later, a Russian high school. By the time we became teenagers we were barely distinguishable from our native schoolmates, for we spoke their colloquial Russian with Moscow accents. We had two special friends in George and Victor Fischer, sons of the American journalist Louis Fischer. It was they who gave me the nickname “Mischa,” which has stuck ever since. My brother Koni, anxious not to be left out, took the Russian diminutive “Kolya.”

The Moscow of the thirties remains in my memory as an era of light and shadow. The city changed before our eyes. By now I was a rather serious teenage boy and no longer thought of Stalin as a magician. But as the new multistory apartment blocks soon appeared around the Kremlin, and the amount of traffic suddenly increased as black sedans replaced the pony traps, it was as if someone had waved a powerful wand and turned the Moscow of the past into a futuristic landscape. The elegant metro, with its Art Deco lamps and giddyingly steep escalators, hummed into life, and we would spend the afternoons after school exploring its vaults, which echoed like a vast underground church. The disastrous food shortage of the twenties abated, but despite the new buildings, my family’s friends, mainly Russian intellectuals, lived cheek by jowl in tiny apartments. There were spectacular May Day parades. The exciting news of the day carried highlights of the age like the daring recovery of the Chelyushkin expedition from the pack ice of the Arctic Ocean after its conquest of the North Pole. We followed these events with the enthusiasm that Western children devoted to their favorite football or baseball teams.

With similar passion Koni and I both joined the Soviet Young Pioneers— the Communist equivalent o f the Boy Scouts—and learned battle songs about the class struggle and the Motherland. As Young Pioneers we marched in the great November display on Red Square commemorating the Soviet revolution, shouting slogans of praise for the tiny figure in an overcoat on the balustrade above Lenin’s tomb. We spent our weekends in the countryside around Moscow, gathering berries and mushrooms because even as a city dweller our father was determined to preserve his nature worship as a way of life. I still missed German delicacies, though, and found the sparse Soviet diet, with its mainstays of buckwheat porridge and sour yogurt, desperately boring. Since then I have learned to love Russian food in all its variety, and if must say so, I make the best Pelmeni dumplings (stuffed with forcemeat) this side of Siberia. But I have never developed a great fondness for buckwheat porridge, probably as a result of having consumed tons of the stuff in my teens.

In summer I was dispatched to Pioneer camp and elevated to the role of leader. I wrote to my father complaining about the miserable gruel and military discipline that prevailed there. Back came a typically optimistic letter, bidding me to resist the regime by forming a commission with my fellow children. “Tell them that Comrade Stalin and the Party do not condone such waste. Quality is what counts.. . . Under no circumstances must you, as a good Pioneer and especially as a Pioneer leader, quarrel! You and the other group leaders should speak collectively with the administration. . . Don’t be despondent, my boy.”

The Soviet Union was now our only home, and on my sixteenth birthday, in 1939, I received my first Soviet papers. Father wrote to me from Paris, “Now you are a real citizen of the Soviet people,” which made me glow with pride. But as I grew older I realized that my father’s infectious utopianism was not my natural leaning. I was of a more pragmatic temperament. Of course, it was an exhilarating time, but it was also the era of the purges, in which men who had been feted as heroes of the Revolution were wildly accused of crimes and often condemned to death or to imprisonment in the Arctic camps. The net cast by the NKVD—the secret police and precursor of the KGB—closed in on our emigre friends and acquaintances. It was confusing, obscure, and inexplicable to us youngsters, schooled in the tradition of belief in the Soviet Union as the beacon of progress and humanitarianism.

But children are sensitive to silences and evasions, and we were subliminally aware that we were not party to the whole truth about our surroundings. Many of our teachers disappeared during the purges of 1936-38. Our special German school was closed. We children noticed that adults never spoke of people who had “disappeared” in front of their families, and we automatically began to respect this bizarre courtesy ourselves.Not until years later would we face up to the extent and horror of the crimes and Stalin’s personal responsibility for them. Back then, he was a leader, a father figure, his square-jawed, mustached face staring out like that of a visionary from the portrait on our schoolroom wall. The man and his works were beyond reproach, beyond question for us. In 1937, when the murder machine was running at its most terrifyingly efficient, one of our family’s acquaintances, Wilhelm Wloch, who had risked his life working for the Comintern in the underground in Germany and abroad, was arrested. His last words to his wife were “Comrade Stalin knows nothing of this.”

Of course, our parents tried to keep from us their fears about the bloodletting. In their hearts and minds, the Soviet Union remained, through all their doubts and disappointments, “the first socialist country” they had so proudly told us about after their first visit in 1931.

My father, I now know, was fearful for his own life. Although his wife and children had been granted Soviet citizenship because we lived there, he spent much of his time abroad and so was not a citizen. He was, however, still able to travel on his German passport, even though his citizenship had been revoked. He had already applied for permission from the Soviet authorities to leave Moscow for Spain, where he wanted to serve as a doctor in the International Brigades fighting against General Franco’s Fascists in the bitter Civil War there. Spain was the arena where the Nazi military tried out its deadly potential, practicing for its later aggression against other vulnerable powers. Throughout Europe, left-wing volunteers were flooding to the aid of the Republicans against the Spanish military insurgents. For many in the Soviet Union, fighting there also meant a ticket out of the Soviet Union and away from the oppressive atmosphere of the purges. Decades later, a reliable friend of the family told me that my father had said of his attempts to reach Spain: “I’m not going to wait around here until they arrest me.” That revelation wounded me, even as a grown man, for it made me realize how many worries and reservations had been hidden from us children by our parents in the thirties, and how much sorrow must have been quietly harvested around us among many of our friends in Moscow.

My father never did reach Spain. For a year, his application for an exit visa lay unanswered. More and more of our friends and acquaintances in the German community had disappeared and my parents could no longer hide their anguish. When the doorbell rang unexpectedly one night, my usually calm father leapt to his feet and let out a violent curse. When it emerged that the visitor was only a neighbor intent on borrowing something, he regained his savoir-faire, but his hands trembled for a good half hour.

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

Note

Okay ONE MORE because I'm needy. “Ring the bells that can still ring. Forget your perfect offering. There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” For Garcy or Asher/Maria.

The Engineering & Aerospace Technical and Industrial Summit’s keynote opening address is held in the New York Hall of Science, and starts four minutes past nine AM on April 28, 1972. Maria is in the audience with the others, Lockman lanyard around her neck, notepad and number-two pencils at the ready. As promised, it’s a notably international gathering. President Nixon’s groundbreaking visit to China in February means that a group of student engineers from Beijing have been granted permission to attend, and they sit together in a self-contained huddle, with wary glances at the others. There are Mexicans, several Brits (instantly recognizable as they moan about the quality of the conference-supplied tea) and a decent selection of Western European intelligentsia. There are also some who may well be from the other side of the wall. Maria has heard snatches of German, something that might be Polish, and other Eastern Bloc languages, though nobody is dumb enough to openly speak Russian. The fact of this being conceived as a showpiece for the promotion and exchange of advanced American technological prowess means that it is also a possible target for the Soviets. There are a few ordinary-looking men in plainclothes, occasionally wandering up to random delegates and making friendly conversation, who Maria suspects of being CIA.

The keynote address is dull, but Maria takes dutiful notes. There are three more days of panels and papers to go, and the morning proceeds as you would expect. Weedy men in badly fitting suits struggle with their slide projectors, and drone on about bogglingly obscure minutiae in commercial combustion engine design. Even some of the other Lockman delegates are yawning, but Maria pays intent attention, and not just because it’s her job. She’s good at this, she knows she is, and she translates some of the more obtuse mathematical formulas into plain English before she hands them over to the men, who are supposed to understand better than she does, but don’t actually. Shocking.

Lunch is held in the cafeteria, a not-terribly-appetizing selection on offer, and Maria wrinkles her nose at whatever is pretending to be beef stroganoff on her plate. As she’s trying to decide whether she wants to eat it, a voice says, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

She looks up with a start. She thought it would be one of the Lockman engineers, but it’s not. The man is tall, lean, a few years older than her, and wearing a trim blue blazer, a tie, and slacks that actually fit. He does not have one of those disagreeable mustaches; he’s clean-shaven, and his hair is thick and dark and prone to flip over his forehead. His eyes are dark too, lively and intelligent, and his strong nose suggests southeastern Europe, as does his accent. The badge around his neck reads Jugoslovenski Aerotransport. JAT, the national airline of Yugoslavia. He might be into those very engines.

Maria is surprised – yes, there is open space at the table, but there are spots at other tables too. Presumably he should be sitting with the rest of JAT, as she should be with the rest of Lockman, but she makes a small gesture, inviting him to set his tray down. He does, swings his long legs over the bench, and examines the dismal culinary prospects without relish. “Do you think they’ll make us eat this the whole time?”

Taken aback by the fact that he has read her mind, Maria laughs. It feels like something for which she should have asked permission, though from who she has no idea. “I hope not.”

“I hope not too.” He speaks English well, mostly fluently, with the careful intonation of someone who has learned it out of books. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I am sitting down next to you, and I have not introduced myself. Asher Flynn.”

“Maria,” she says by reflex, glancing down; his name is indeed printed on his badge, though it strikes her as slightly Anglo for someone from Yugoslavia. Not that it is her business why he would have any kind of name at all. “Maria Tompkins.”

They shake hands, and he nods to her, having evidently also read her badge. “You are with Lockman? That must be exciting. They work with NASA, yes?”

Maria nods back, though she cannot help be wary of why this man has chosen her to chat up and immediately seemed interested in her employer. They choke down the gluey stroganoff for a few moments, and then she says, “Isn’t Yugoslavia a communist country?”

This is rather skip-the-formalities with someone she’s just met, and Asher Flynn looks surprised. “Yes,” he says, as if that was obvious. “Well, mostly. Tito is no friend to Moscow, though, and we are officially non-aligned. We’re the only country in Eastern Europe where you can travel abroad without an exit visa, and emigrate if you want to. Those poor bastards in the USSR, they need a passport even for domestic travel, they have to request leaves of absence from their hometown council if they plan to be gone longer than thirty days, and they can’t leave the country. I wouldn’t want to live that way.”

Maria notes the elegance of this answer, how he seems to be responding to the real question (are you a Soviet spy?) hidden within her first one, while never letting on that he is. Or maybe it’s just her imagination, and he’s gotten this a lot from suspicious Americans, inclined to mistrust a dark young man with an Eastern European accent and an interest in spaceflight technology. Maybe that’s why he goes by Asher Flynn, if the name is easier for the West to trust. Maria takes a bite of bread (stale), and says, “So that’s where you’re from?”

“Yes. SR Croatia. Zagreb.” He doesn’t seem offended by her asking. “You?”

“Texas.” She bites her tongue on asking if he knows where it is. Just because she couldn’t find Zagreb on a map doesn’t mean he can’t. “Houston.”

“Houston,” Asher says, nodding. “Yes, yes. Where they launched Apollo 11. Were you there for that?”

Maria looks at her plate. She can feel the stroganoff revolting, threatening to come back up and taste even more vile this time, and swallows heavily. Asher cannot know that he has stepped directly onto her most vulnerable sore spot, her most enduring wound, and she tries to concentrate until the urge to scream and run backs down. He can sense at once, however, that something is wrong. “I didn’t – ” he says. “Sorry, is that – ?”

“I – no. I wasn’t there.” The words are dredged out of her like leaden anchors. “There was – there was a family emergency. My son, he – ” God, no, no, no, she is not telling this man she just met, she is not doing it, she is not throwing it onto him, and yet she is. “My son actually – my son died that day. It was – a bee sting, a bad allergic reaction. He – he didn’t make it.”

Asher blinks like she’s hit him. There are any number of things he could say or do in response, not least some screaming and running of his own. Then he reaches out and pats her hand; his own is large enough to cover it, if he held on, but he doesn’t. “Please forgive me,” he says quietly. “I did not know, of course, but I am very sorry. You may tell me to go away and eat my lunch somewhere else, if you would like.”

“I – no.” Maria is determined not to crumble, not to sit here and cry in the middle of the cafeteria, and she might do that if he left. “No, it’s – ”

He’s still looking at her, pensive, considering. Then he says, “What if we throw away this mess, and go get a sandwich? I heard New York has good sandwiches. The next panel I want to attend is not until two o’clock.”

Maria tenses. “Are you just – because you feel sorry for me?”

“I do feel sorry for you,” Asher says, simply and unpretentiously. “But I was going to ask if you wanted a sandwich before you said that, so it’s not why. There is a shop on the corner. It would take only a few minutes. If you would like.”

Maria supposes there is something to be said for the fact that he took the dead-son bombshell and his next move to is to seek out more of her company, to see her cracks and her ruins and somehow find them -- well, not beautiful, but not dead, unbearable, disqualifying. She can give into it, she’s never going to see him again, and the stroganoff is disgusting. She pauses, then says, “Okay.”

Asher smiles – it’s unforced, natural, dazzling, and her insides do something strange – and gets to his feet, once more nearly tripping over the bench that has not been made with the interests of a six-foot-three man in mind. He strides at her side as they leave the cafeteria, as Maria recalls the warning against walking alone in New York and then decides that after all, she isn’t alone. The sandwich shop is not far from Shea Stadium, bedecked with graffiti, and the 7 train rattles overhead on its elevated tracks, felonies presumably being committed aboard. It looks seedy, but Asher ducks inside with easy confidence, strides up to the counter, and orders them both a New York sub special, opening his wallet and carefully counting out cash to pay before Maria can offer to go Dutch. It’s hot and greasy and possibly the most delicious thing she has eaten in her life.

She looks at her watch when it’s done, decides to get back so she can serve as Lockman stenographer for the afternoon sessions, and Asher escorts her back. As he regards the Unisphere with a slightly ironic expression, Maria asks, “Is this your first time in America?”

It’s rich of her to be asking, since she’s a newcomer to the city herself, but she finds herself wondering. He nods. “Yes,” he says. “I can’t say that New York’s impressed me very much.”

“Is it different back home?” Maria has no idea what Yugoslavia is actually like, other than presumably Soviet Union-lite. The American imagination does not encompass much social diversity (or quality of life) over there in the Red parts of Europe, those oppressed and faceless millions bereft of the freedom and luxury of the West. “Better?”

Asher shrugs. “Every country has its problems. It was devastated by the war, the Nazis occupied it and turned it into a puppet state – it used to be the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, but the last heir to the throne fled in 1941, and the monarchy was abolished. That’s the year I was born, so I don’t remember, but Tito rallied the Partisans and the anti-fascist forces, and they fought to drive the Nazis out. Then he became president of the republic, and he separated from Stalin fairly quickly. But my mother was born in a farmhouse with dirt floors, in a poor and rural country that was still essentially in the nineteenth century, and now she lives in a nice rent-free apartment in Zagreb. She can go on vacations to the seaside and to cafés with her friends, her health insurance is paid for, she has a television set and a washing machine and likes to read Žena u borbi and watch soap operas. I can even take her to Paris, Milan. I don’t think that is so bad, no?”

Maria glances sidelong at him. The way he speaks about his mother makes it sounds like he loves her, and is proud that she has a comfortable life. Maria wonders what Asher is leaving out, what sacrifices are made for this, but then, is it any less than the sacrifices made in America, this increasingly strange land that they all accept as the norm? She looks at this dirty city, the trash blowing in the gutters. Remembers the pictures of burning TV sets and prostitutes and homeless people in suits sleeping in the street. She says, “No, it sounds nice.”

They reach the fairgrounds, and go inside. Asher gives her half a bow, old-fashioned, oddly charming, before he returns to the JAT contingent, and Maria finds herself inexplicably reluctant to see him go. In her defense, he was polite and well-dressed, gracious about that inadvertent emotional minefield, interesting to talk to, not from around here, and saved her from having to eat the cafeteria food. Out of nowhere, she wonders if he’ll take her to lunch again tomorrow, if she could induce him to do so, but that seems manipulative. She could even ask, but that – no. She doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. Not when, as she already has to remind herself, they are never going to see each other again.

#timeless ff #asher x maria #note that this is an excerpt #from my much longer fic of them #which is already like.... 40k words #and will be finished one day #possibly #i have the feelings #prompt fills #extasiswings #ask

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ollies-studyblr · 4 years

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German III: 4.12-4.16

Relative Pronoun Review:

What determines whether the relative pronoun is masculine, feminine, neuter, or plural?

It matches the antecedent (the word it refers/relates back to).

What determines the case of the relative pronoun?

Its use in its own clause.

Where does the relative pronoun go in the sentence?

At the beginning of its clause; if it goes with a preposition, the preposition is first in the clause.

Where does the conjugated verb go in a relative clause?

It goes at the end of the clause.

Which relative pronouns are not identical with the definite article?

Dative plural (denen), and all the genitives (dessen, deren, dessen, deren) are not identical.

Wo ist das Mädchen, das gestern hier war? --> (N/nom.)

Der Hund, mit dem ich gestern gespielt habe, ist sehr freundlich. --> (M/dat.)

Meine Verwandten, die in der Schweiz wohnen, heißen Trachsel. --> (Pl/nom.)

Der Junge, dessen Bruder krank ist, ist sehr traurig. --> (M/gen.)

Der Hosenanzug, den sie am Sonntag trägt, ist sehr elegant. --> (M/acc.)

Wir sitzen an einem Tisch, der 200 Jahre alt ist. --> (M/nom.)

Die Kinder, mit denen ich nach Hause ging, sind sehr nett. --> (Pl/dat.)

Interview Q&A:

Where was he Nov. 9, 1989?

at home preparing for school the next day

What did he do when he heard the news?

He decided to try to visit his parents.

How difficult was it to cross the border?

The line was long, but there was no passport check.

What were they greeted by in the West?

Huge crowds, with total strangers handing out welcoming flowers and bottles of wine.

What word did they hear over and over?

“Wahnsinn” meaning “crazy, unbelievable”

Did they find his parents?

Yes, they were home following everything on TV. They had even seen his car come through!

What happened in school the next morning?

There wasn´t any school. Teachers as well as students were in West Berlin.

Did he get to keep his teaching job?

Yes, the history and government teachers had a much harder time keeping their jobs than the math, science, and language teachers.

What does he think of the “Wall in the Head” idea?

It´s still there for many people—those who always see the “bad” instead of the “good” in a situation.

How did he get the piece of the Wall that now sits on his desk?

He joined the other Mauerspechte (wall peckers) and hammered off several pieces for his family.

Fun Fact Review:

What four countries occupied Germany after World War II?

England, France, the Soviet Union (Russia), and the United States

What is the name of the plan that helped West Germany rebuild so fast?

the Marshall Plan

In which zone was Berlin located?

the Soviet zone

When did the Soviets block all land and water routes to Berlin?

1948

What is the German word for "airlift"?

die Luftbrücke

Who was Gail Halvorsen?

He was a pilot who dropped little parachutes with candy and raisins for the children of Berlin.

What was the nickname of the planes that dropped little presents as they approached the Berlin airport?

Rosinenbomber (raisin bombers)

Why did the Soviets build a wall all the way around West Berlin?

They did this to keep their citizens from going to the West. They needed them to work in the East, but the standard of living was much better in the West.

On what date was the Berlin Wall begun?

August 13, 1961

What was it made of at first?

barbed wire

What kind of communication was there between East and West Berliners after the Wall went up.

none

How dangerous was it to try to cross the Wall?

It was extremely dangerous; the guards had orders to shoot immediately.

What were some of the other defenses used besides just a wall?

trenches, spikes, guard dogs, electrical fences, mines, false walls to mislead would-be escapees, trip wires that automatically shot the person tripping them, search lights, watch towers

Where were the major anti-government demonstrations right before the Wall opened?

Leipzig, Dresden, and Berlin

When did the Wall open?

November 9, 1989

How did it happen?

There was an announcement on TV news that East Germans no longer required an exit visa to leave the country.

What does "Wahnsinn" mean?

insanity, craziness

What sorts of things did the East Berliners buy when they first went West?

electronics: microwaves, boom boxes, TVs, VCRs.

What does "Wiedervereinigung" mean?

reunification

When was Germany officially reunited?

October 3, 1990

What is the "Mauer im Kopf?"

"wall in the head"—a psychological barrier to accepting people from the other half of Germany

What are the slang words for former East Germans and West Germans?

Ossis and Wessis

What is a main prejudice of the Wessis against the Ossis?

They expect the government to do everything for them; they don’t know how to work.

What is a main prejudice of the Ossis against the Wessis?

They´re arrogant and selfish and treat us as second-class citizens; they´re acting like carpet baggers.

Who is the current Chancellor of the Federal Republic, and why is that special?

Angela Merkel: she´s the first woman Chancellor AND she’s from the former East Germany.

Fun Facts:

Escapes did occur by increasingly clever means, but the DDR became just as clever at preventing them. If you go to Berlin, be sure to go to the Haus am Checkpoint Charlie, and give yourself plenty of time to see all the museum has on display. You´ll be amazed at the many ways people used to escape, mostly in the early years.

It’s also amazing the lengths to which a government will go to keep its people from leaving. All of the items pictured here were used, although not necessarily all at the same place. The devices to stop vehicles (anti-tank obstacles and anti-car trenches, as well as beds of spikes) served little purpose after the cement wall went up. Then most of the devices were aimed at individuals: patrol cars, search dogs, low tension fences, tripwire alarms, and various "walls" to give the person the deceptive feeling she had escaped before actually reaching the legal border. The most gruesome of all came late in the game, when fences were armed with shrapnel guns attached to trip wires. In essence, the would-be escapee shot herself!

A government that has to resort to such extreme measures is bound to collapse, and that´s just what happened. In October, 1989, the DDR celebrated its 40th anniversary amid great pomp and celebration. But all around the country, the protests were well underway, centering mainly in Leipzig and Dresden as well as Berlin. In a never-to-be-forgotten evening news broadcast on November 9, an unexpected statement was made that residents of the DDR no longer needed an exit-visa to leave the country. That was it!

In a very short time, all the checkpoints in Berlin were swamped with people wanting to "go West." They mostly wanted to visit relatives, sight-see, shop, and then come back. Thousands streamed across the border, and the department stores were wiped clean of things like microwaves, color TVs, boom boxes, and computers. At least one woman in labor came, so her baby could be born in the West. (Fortsetzung folgt)

Post Wall Facts

Things changed very rapidly in both East and West Germany. As the Mauerspechte ("Wall peckers"—a play on the word "Specht" woodpecker) chipped away souvenirs, and cranes took away large chucks of the Wall, the cement barrier almost disappeared. The DDR tried to maintain its independence through various changes in government, but it was almost inevitable that it would become part of the BRD, which already had unification built into its Basic Law. DDR money went out of existence quickly, and the official "Wiedervereinigung" (reunification) came on Oct. 3, 1990.

The euphoria, however, could not last forever, and reality sank in. You would have to read many books and watch many documentaries to come to your own opinion about what could/should have happened. Politicians made loud but unrealistic claims that misled thousands who took them literally. The East German economy all but collapsed since it had a highly deteriorated infrastructure and few quality goods to offer. The education system fell into disarray because many of the teachers had gotten their positions through political connections. It is fair to say, however, that many people were more "Opportunists" than "Communists." Life was tolerable and fighting the system had seemed hopeless, so they just went along and did the best they could. Wouldn´t most people in such situations?

Prejudices instilled by society (consciously or unconsciously) surfaced, "verified" by events of the day. "Westerners (Wessis) are selfish and think they know better about everything." "Easterners (Ossis) are lazy and greedy and just want hand-outs from the government." "Wessis are coming East and trying to take over our businesses and schools." "Ossis are coming West and taking our jobs and our hard-earned benefits." And, as always, a lot of the tension had to do with money. Who owned land or houses abandonded 30–40 years ago? The former owners who had made a good life for themselves in the West, or the current owners who had done all the upkeep? The government? Who was going to pay for all the rebuilding that was truly necessary in the East? Western tax money? Large private companies that were viewed with deep suspicion in the East?

These and other questions led more than one person to say, "The Wall in our midst has come down, but it will take a long time for the Wall in our heads to disappear." Maybe as the generation that never knew life with the Wall grows up, it will be able to overcome the prejudices of the past and feel itself as only a "German" once more, not "Ossi" or "Wessi."

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alexsmitposts · 4 years

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Food Stamp Cuts – Western Capitalism & “Useless Eaters” Donald Trump recently announced changes to the US Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), commonly called “Food Stamps.” This program enables low income Americans to buy food. As a result, 750,000 people will immediately lose their food assistance, while it is expected that as many as 3 million will be deprived of their benefits in the near future. Meanwhile, Michael Bloomberg, former New York City Mayor, has announced that he is running for President of the United States as a Democrat. Many are revisiting his leadership of New York City and the many controversial things he did. Among them is was a subway advertisement campaign intended to discourage teen girls from becoming mothers by shaming them. The ads, showing a small child with the words “I’m twice as likely not to graduate high school because you had me as a teen” had the obvious, though unstated goal of increasing abortion among low-income New York City residents, many of which are not white. Unemployment in the USA is low currently, and despite numerous projections that things could get bad soon, the stock market numbers and other measurements currently look somewhat better than most of the last decade. So, why cut food stamps? Eliminating “Useless Eaters” To Save Capitalism Those who equate the Soviet Union with Nazi Germany overlook many very key differences between the two countries and their political systems. One of the most obvious is this: the Soviet Union worked very hard to expand its population, while the Nazis worked very hard to reduce their population. As Stalin’s Five Year Economic plans created huge steel mills and power plants, and new universities sprung up across the Soviet Union amid the abolition of illiteracy, a special prize called “Mother of the Soviet Union” was given to any woman who had more than 10 children. The Soviet government wanted more people to be born and to join in the project of building and developing a new, strong socialist country. However, Nazi Germany did the opposite and began forcibly sterilizing people. In 1934, just a year after the Nazis took power, 300,000 to 400,000 people were forcibly sterilized. A law was passed in 1935 making it illegal for anyone to get married if any kind of hereditary ailment could be passed on to the children. Following the sterilizations came the exterminations. The Nazi government began referring to disabled people as “useless eaters” and executing them in gas chambers. Eventually, the Nazi state began exterminating Jews, Gypsies, Homosexuals and Political Dissidents. The justification for this “final solution” was belief that all social defects were hereditary and needed to be eliminated from the gene pool. The Nazis were big believers in the concept of “overpopulation,” though this was a concept they did not invent. The term comes from the work of Robert Thomas Malthus, the British economist who blamed the French Revolution and the social unrest of the 1790s on the population growing at a faster rate than the food supply. John D. Rockefeller, the billionaire and founder of Standard Oil (now Exxon-Mobil) was a big supporter of Malthus and his economic theories. Eventually Rockefeller bankrolled the Birth Control League of Margaret Sanger, now known as “Planned Parenthood.” The organization pushed for the legalization of contraception and abortion. One of the posters used to raise funds for the Birth Control League was a poster of a starving child holding out an empty bowl begging for food. Though Margaret Sanger had once been a socialist, as she became the voice of the “Birth Control” movement she published explicitly racist books and pamphlets and spoke at Ku Klux Klan events. She also began using phrases like “the cruelty of charity” arguing that the social welfare state was immoral because it encouraged inferior people to breed. When Margaret Sanger traded socialism for sex, and abandoned class struggle in pursuit of sexual liberation, she stopped advocating for the working class. During the 1930s depression, the Communist Party USA organized “Hunger Marches” saying “Don’t Starve, Fight!” The Communist Party USA said the great depression pointed toward the need for the US economy to reorganized in a rational way, to serve the people, not the irrationality of profits. However, Margaret Sanger took the opposite approach, working to reduce “overpopulation” by eliminating “useless eaters.” Automation & The Crisis of Capitalism The causes of the Great Depression were rooted in the technological advancements of the 1920s. Henry Ford’s assembly line innovations and other breakthroughs made it easier for radios, cars, and other commodities to be churned out more efficiently than ever before. Soon the market was glutted with more products than ever before, produced more efficiently than ever before. However, across the western world millions of workers were left “outcast and starving” because they had no place at the assembly line. They could not afford to buy these products, and soon banks failed, corporations collapsed, and the US experienced an episode of mass malnutrition. The 2008 financial crisis was the opening explosion of a long-term crisis rooted in the same problem, decades later. The innovations of Henry Ford and the 1920s factory owners were child’s play compared to the continuing computer revolution, marching forward at a rapid pace since the 1980s. Andrew Yang, the maverick Democratic Presidential candidate continues to highlight the looming threat of mass unemployment due to technology. He told the New York Times: “All you need is self-driving cars to destabilize society…we’re going to have a million truck drivers out of work who are 94 percent male, with an average level of education of high school or one year of college. That one innovation will be enough to create riots in the street. And we’re about to do the same thing to retail workers, call center workers, fast-food workers, insurance companies, accounting firms.” Among Silicon Valley forecasters, the alarm bells about automation are going off, and proposals such as “universal basic income” are being raised. The underlying basis of the discussion is the same as Malthus, Sanger and Rockefeller’s discussion in times past. The voices raising alarm about the crisis of automation are all essentially asking “Soon millions and millions of Americans will have no place in the economy. What do we do about all the useless eaters?” Western capitalism has entered a stage where it views the population not as an asset, but as a burden. Instead of seeing each citizen as capable of creating a contribution to society, and making the country better, the population is viewed as a problematic horde that must be carefully managed and prevented from causing further problems. “Populism” is presented as a great evil, because it involves the rabble asserting political aspirations deemed by the elite to be unacceptable. Even much of what passes for “socialism” in 21st Century America, addresses the question in the same manner. The “Democratic Socialist” current argues that as technology eliminates jobs, more money should be spent to provide healthcare and education to the population. At the same time, however, the “Democratic Socialist” voices like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Bernie Sanders advocate reducing US living standards and consumption in the name of environmentalism. They argue that Americans consume too many resources, and in the name of climate sustainability, the population should transition to a lifestyle of less extravagance. However, the basic solution to this long standing problem seems to be ignored. Karl Marx’s magnum opus, the economic textbook called “Capital” discusses the General Law of Capitalist Accumulation and workers competition with machines, pointing toward the only real way to resolve this contradiction. The banks, factories and industries must be operated in a rational way. The economy must not operate on the basis of profits. In a centrally planned economy, in which profits are no longer in command, automation would increase the wealth of society, and abundance would not result in poverty. The pessimism of the 21st century western world is rooted in the economic reality that under the rule of profits, technology and historical progress continue to point toward great catastrophe. It is only by re-opening the question of whether or not socialism is a viable alternative that this pessimism can be overcome.

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chrysaliseuro2019 · 5 years

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Lapping it All Up

It's Sunday morning and time to part company with Sue and Peter. It was a fun 5 days. We are heading to Helsinki and they will drive the car back to Riga where it all commenced. They are stopping the night at Parnau. Rainy day again as we said our farewells and they dropped us at the ferry terminal. Saw an amusing sign at the terminal which pointed to the very short term car park (15 mins). It said " Kiss and Sail" which was very apt. We had laughed our way through Latvia and Estonia with them and had covered a bit of ground in those 5 days. Despite it bucketing down Liz did a quick sortie after they left to take a photo of the sign. This led to one of those amusing moments. Something you very rarely see Liz do - "run". If I said a sort of Donald Duck style of running I might be close to the mark. Possibly even being flattering. There is a lot of action, arms flapping, feet akimbo, head rolling from side to side and forward momentum is not speedy. The ferry ride from Tallin to Helsinki takes about 2.5 hours. We had basic tickets so it was first in best dressed for seats. A number of bars and cafes on board and as soon as boarding started the regulars made for prime positions. We had to stow our luggage and were given a bit of a bum steer, in terms of where to store them, by one of the staff so a lot of seats had gone by the time we were free to look. Anyway we snagged a couple of uninspiring but fine seats in a a cafe and settled back for an uneventful trip. Despite the rain it was petty calm and we had a snack, read and blogged. Interestingly they had a couple of stages with musos performing. I might expect that on a cruise ship in the Bahamas but not somehow on a couple of hours ferry in the Baltics. One stage was on the upper deck where quite a raucous bar was in full swing. The wind and rain were coming down on the uncovered end though plenty of cover. Singer was flat as a tack and slaughtered Ed Sheerin's " A Girl Like You" (a bit of a holiday anthem as you hear it a lot in beach bars etc over here). The audience didn't care. They were all getting tanked. Another singer was close to us in a neighbouring area and he was playing the guitar and performing solo with some electronic instrumental help. Not too bad, middle of the road - Eric Clapton, Jonny Cash etc but more importantly his voice I was better. I strolled around looking at the duty free shop where the Finns on board were fairly determinedly stocking up on booze which is much cheaper in Estonia than Finland. This included people with several slabs of beer. Liz noticed that many of those slabs were being consumed on board. It was certainly a lively ship. Trip was easy and we worked out we could get a tram into the city and quite close to our hotel from the ferry terminal. A bit of a scramble getting off but we were in no rush so took our time. Slight problem though, it was raining quite steadily. We headed for the tram stop which was close by but in a master stroke of planning the ticket machine was exposed to the elements and quite a queue. This included the guy who had no idea what to do, did not appear to have the right money (possibly any money), whose credit card would not work and who consequently held us all up in the hissing rain for 5/6 minutes - could have been longer. This on top of the 7/8 mins we had already been waiting. In the end the couple behind paid for him. Liz was now huddled under the tram shelter while I stood out there in the pak-a-mac. No point in two of us getting wet(ter). By the time I got to the front of the queue the wind had set in and rain was horizontal so jeans and shoes pretty soaked. Guys behind (equally wet) who seemed local provided some guidance on the payment process but even they stuffed it up a bit so another minute or two of soaking. Anyway at last I had two tickets in my hand but the various delays meant we just missed a tram by about a minute so had a 6/7 minute wait for the next one. Still, under some shelter, though I was drenched. We duly trundled off for the 10 minute ride and I couldn't wait to get out of my jeans and shoes. I made the mistake of sitting down which was even more uncomfortable so quickly sprang up. Anyway the Hotel Helka was only about a 10 minute walk from the tram stop. Liz did a good job of getting us off at the closest stop and guiding us home. At last, out of that gear and into the shower. All was well and Hey! We were in Finland. Time to explore and we headed off into town. Basically heading for the main square and market square. First impressions were that it was more modern than Riga or Tallinn and a little less atmospheric. Plenty of shopping malls, cafes etc. and even the older buildings which were often quite attractive, of the the six storey terrace variety, did not seem that old. Made our way to market square where there were a number of stalls selling local "products". Very soft hats, wood carvings, paintings, the usual fridge magnet memorabilia stuff but also fox, wolf and reindeer pelts and extremely sharp hunting type knives in scabbards - not sure exactly what the purpose of them was. The market was starting to close but quite a few stalls selling food were in full flight. Now around 4.00pm and we had only snacked post breakfast so were hungry. The offerings were often local delicacies and we couldn't resist sharing a plate of fried Vendace (very similar to sardines) with garlic sauce. Just on a paper plate, pretty decent serve (30 or so smallish fish) you eat the lot, heads and all, and we wandered around happily chomping on them. Very delicious and sauce not too garlicky at all but tasty and needed. It was sun over the yard arm time and we looked for a decent pub/ venue to have a drink. Plenty of craft beer here though we had heard horror stories about the price of alcohol. We couldn't quite find what we were looking for in terms of character but settled on a cafe/bar and sat outside. Rain had stopped but not exactly balmy. After that we continued to wander through the back streets though being Sunday a lot of places closed. Did find a good looking Pho joint which was a possibility if all else failed. Liz loves her Pho. We headed back for the hotel. The Helka is a little boutique hotel and quite quirky. They had a little Swiss style bird house (no birds) that you could deposit your keys in when you left. The coffee mugs in the room had an inscription inside the rim which read " Stolen from Hotel Helka" Staff very friendly and a range of nice touches. We determined that dinner would be in their relaxed little bar/cafe area downstairs. Some good craft beer on tap and bottled and rose OK too. I had the salmon on bread with salad. Big chunks of salmon served cold - excellent. Liz had the coconut and sweet potato soup which was also very good. A local porter and IPA for me (both good especially the porter) rose for Liz. All very laid back and sat very happily not feeling we had to traipse about town. Not too late a night headed up around 10.30 for the usual blogging, reading and planning next phase. Greece definitely on. Thessaloniki as a kick off point looking the goods. Also need to ensure we have a flight out of there to London about a week after arriving in Greece as flying home from London. All pretty tortuous evaluating alternatives but in the end have to bite the bullet and its Turkish airlines to Thessaloniki and BA from there to London though the poms charging usuriously. Liz doing sterling work with bookins Next morning at 11.00 we were going on a free tour of Helsinki. After a great breakfast at the Helka (we expected nothing else given its form to date) we headed for the meeting point a 20 minute fast walk away, back at market square. Our guide was a young and vivacious lady who had spent time in Canada hence a slight North American accent. Super smart and despite a crowd of around 35-40 with a microphone headpiece and a resonant voice she was easy to hear. We covered a lot of ground both literally and metaphorically. Some aspects were: Lutheran religion is the main one for Finns. Apparently a not unusual fall away in those following a structured religious approach in Finland though you have to attend a religious camp for a week when in your late teens if you want to be married in church. A lot of the design of the buildings in the older parts of Helsinki was under the auspices of the German architect Engels in the 19th century. He had spent time in St Petersburg and hence there are similarities between the cities (though not the flamboyant stuff). Education is subsidised in fact you are paid to attend for your first 5 years at Uni. Food is also subsidised for uni students and is free at kindergarten. Start school at 7 pre that it's kindergarten where formal lessons are minimal. At junior school the first 5 years are pretty hands on - sewing, woodwork etc. no homework in that period. Health care free for all though dental must be paid for unless impacts health more generally. We were starting to understand why prices were so high with all those taxes. The guide (Maria I think) quipped that they all live a good life but it's hard to get rich. They were ruled for hundreds of years by the Swedes and then from early 19th century by the Russians. They gained independence in 1917 and in that period also had a bloody civil war. Fought against the Soviet Union in 1939 and collaborated with the Germans to fight against the Soviet Union 1941-44. They did not persecute minorities however. Then they also had to fight against the Germans to remove them from Finland as the tide turned at the end of the war. They are proud to have maintained their independence throughout despite some land losses to the Soviet Union. In winter the harbour freezes over so all boats must be lifted out and stored in dry dock including some pretty large fishing boats. Ice breakers were also visible in the harbour. It was a wide ranging, interesting tour with plenty of fun thrown in. Amazing coincidence of a couple from Melbourne, Meredith and David, being on the tour more especially because Meredith taught the preps at Camberwell primary around the time our kids went there. She didn't teach them as it turned out. Liz and Meredith swopped school and other local stories ++. David was an interesting character. He had worked for the CSIRO and was a resin expert. He had for the last umpteen years supported businesses making wood paneling and other resin involved products around the world. This included a 5 year stint for the whole family living in Italy while he worked there. He had most recently been working in China and had come straight to Finland from there. Yet again there's a lot of different stuff makes the world go around. Nice guy to chat to. Pommie origins though born in Australia and we had a good time dissecting Brexit. He has the same problem as us may lose his European passport. We were interested in the big issues! We did that nattering over a coffee and tea that stretched for about an hour and a half post the free tour. After that Liz and I headed for the market square again and needed something to eat. Beside the square was a pretty attractive and ornate indoor market building. Really it was a tasteful food hall with a range of tidbits you could buy to eat immediately or take away including exotics like reindeer jerky. We plumped for a couple of open sandwiches which we consumed at a little eating area outside by the docks. One was cured salmon and the other was prawns in a sweet chilli sauce. We shared the first two but so tasty we went again. Me for the prawns and Liz for the salmon. Just very nice sitting there with this scrumptious food. Back to the market square and as opposed to yesterday evening all stalls were in full swing so we had a good look around at the knick knacks but did not purchase. Time to go our own ways. We both went looking through shops though Liz also found a strange square which looked like a lunar landscape. People were skateboarding and sitting around the square and it all seemed a bit unexpected in what seems like quite a conservative city. I stumbled across the City Museum. This was a very quirky place which essentially probed some alternative aspects of Helsinki and Finland. One of the highlights was an exhibition by 5 Finnish artists. It was titled "Objection". Essentially it was about disagreement and the role that it plays in our society (particularly Finnish society). Each artist illustrated a different story. One was about Hjalmar Linder the wealthiest man in Finland who fled to Sweden during the 1918 civil war. On his return he found that members of the losing side were still being persecuted (killed) so he wrote a letter to the newspaper saying "enough of this bloodbath" which broke ranks with his peer group. He was then hounded out of the county and eventually died penniless, slashing his own wrists. Another was about left wing activism in the 1930s and 40s. It was being suppressed and so a password " Have you seen a running dog" was used to identify sympathisers. Essentially how people find a way to "object" Yet another was about a book "the Price of Our Freedom" still found in many Finnish homes. It contained a photograph and short description of each of 26000+ people who were killed in the Winter War 1939-1940. The artist had taken the photographs of key people in the book and turned them into ghost like portraits using hundreds of layers of pictures - "the Price of Freedom". Separately there were also general narratives about what Helsinki was like in the past. Pretty rough and ready in the 1920s apparently. Also a photograph gallery with some fantastic photos of Helsinki in the past including one which captured the docks area including market square. I couldn't see a date but perhaps 100+ years ago. All these photos were available for purchase. I kept wandering post the museum. Just walking lost really. Took in a few shops and generally soaked up the city. Liz did much the same. No acquisitions. Liz grabbed a bit of shuteye and we met up again around 7.00 in the hotel bar/restaurant. We decided not to move. The restaurant which the guy in "Radio" restaurant in Tallin recommended was closed ,being Monday night, and the informal dinner they served at the Helka had been pretty good the night before. We both had the open sandwich salmon. Thick chunks of salmon. Liz not the greatest salmon fan (she prefers her fish to be white) but enjoyed it, and I certainly did including polishing a few remnants of salmon from her plate. Of course a couple of craft beers also supped. Liz took it easy as a bit tired and slightly heady. It was relaxing and we headed up around 10.00. I took a quick stroll to walk off dinner but boy had it got cold. I think you can probably keep the Finnish summer. Here we were 12th August and it might have been about 16 degrees out but with a healthy wind that felt around 12-14. I was wishing I had a scarf. This reaffirmed our decision to head back to some warmth in Greece.

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weirdmirrors · 5 years

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Study of Nostalgia

The second chapter of my dissertation is on nostalgia. I have been conducing a bit of research on nostalgia in my previous studies, and in particular, in my manuscript Debris of Utopia. I opened it to take notes on my notes and perhaps use something in my dissertation. Debris of Utopia and my dissertation have been functioning like a small system of connected retorts.

Political - socially acceptable to be nostalgic for the Soviet times, as opposed (at least recently) to the Nazi nostalgia. And it is understandable: Soviet project was a project for the world that still has its appeal.

Nostalgia for the Soviet times is not nostalgia for the Soviet times but a meta-nostalgia, nostalgia for nostalgia: "I sometimes think that what one deals with in the post-Soviet spaces is the sedimentation of ruins, the rubble that left from the ruins of the Soviet constructions and infrastructure: not with ruins as such but rather with ruins of ruins. And the affect that they bring is, in fact, not nostalgia but rather the meta-nostalgia: a nostalgia for the nostalgia. While nostalgia is an experience of longing for something that may or may not have been there, the meta-nostalgia is longing for the purity of this experience. But the always-already-polluted can only dream of purity."

Ruins produce nostalgia: "Ruins are generative in terms of affect, producing nostalgia and melancholy, and also creating lacunae of experimental social / bodily explorations and not-always-legal or simply frowned-upon usages."

Nostalgia is acute: "Gazing at ruins and exploitation of ruins is pleasurable, and the nature of this pleasure is complex, from purely distanced aestheticized savoring of the “elegiac elegance” of ruins to the more acute feelings of nostalgia and loss. Yet Soviet ruins, I tend to forget, ascribing my own sensitivities of a native observer to others, are foreign to the Western reader. Rann suggests Soviet ruins are attractive for a Westerner because communist iconography, refined and redefined, stripped from its threatening meaning, is a veritable succession of images of a dissolved empire: “Russia and eastern Europe serves as an imaginary space in which western nations can play out their own crises of identity, without having to confront them directly” (Rann, 2014). In other words, Russian ruins serve as a mirror of a polished shield looking at which Perseus does not risk to be blinded by the Medusa Gorgon’s exterminating sights."

Nostalgia is mythology-producing: "Similarly, it is too compelling to announce the Soviet past to be the past and to overlook the summoning of this past conducted most notably by the state in contemporary Russia, to say that whatever is happening now is something entirely different from the past. The USSR’s was a revealing collapse. It still is. This existence in the non-existence of the Soviet Union is still so painfully evident in a multiplicity of manifestations as perhaps its very presence wasn’t. The collapse of the USSR has started, and it is not near the end of its unfolding. Like the collapse of the Roman empire, it will reverberate through the centuries. Not surprisingly, therefore, not only the empire is thought and described in dualistic terms, but that it is also likely to evoke the sense of nostalgia in the observers. The sense of nostalgia is going to be purified by those invoking it until it reaches that ideal vision of empire which is entirely fictitious, mythological, and also mythology-producing. "The unexpected and the unsurprising" merged in the collapse of the USSR, according to Yurchak (282). But for whom was it unsurprising? Surely for many people, as Yurchak himself attests, the end of the Soviet Union was the personal tragedy. There was a lot of the staggering—not just the surprising before, during, and after the collapse. In “Conclusion,” Yurchak writes: “This book began with a paradox: the spectacular collapse of the Soviet Union was completely unexpected by most Soviet people and yet,…most of them also immediately realized that they had actually been prepared for that unexpected collapse.” (Ibid). But is this such a paradox? People seemingly smoothly went on with their daily lives. What else was or is there to do? Is it not what "always" happens in the times of significant transformations and social changes? Who can, goes on, and who cannot, does not. The latter might look quite differently. People could depart for the inner emigration and engage into escapism, find for themselves enclaves where the life goes on as if nothing happened, and people could die. While many didn’t die, many did. While in some regions the collapse went (seemingly) smoothly, in others there erupted wars and military conflicts, often with ethnic component and civil wars: Transnistria, Nagorno-Karabakh, Abkhazia, South Ossetia, Tajikistan. Many-years Chechen wars and the currently unfolding hybrid war between Russia and Ukraine is the consequences and the continuation of the collapse."

Nostalgia is “sentimental” in Etkind's reading (somewhat tautologically): "Alexander Etkind writes about the affective register of the “high Soviet period” that he defined as stretching from 1928-1953, overshadowed by the common knowledge and reluctance, impossibility to speak about gulag, as the atmosphere of “coercion, violence, and angrst,” which resulted in the “complex of feelings—fear, bewilderment, resentment, compassion, and mournfulness.” (Etkind, 2013, 30). For those who grew up in the Soviet republics which were on the subaltern position towards Russia, the mixture includes “political guilt, sentimental nostalgia, and apocalyptic mindset” (Ibid, 33). Etkind derives this formula from the analysis of Grossman’s novel Everything Flows, the protagonist in which recalls his childhood memories unfolding in the Caucasus, the land subjected to colonization by the imperial Russia and the enduring colonial practices during the Soviet time and beyond. I spent summers of my childhood in Ukraine, the country in many grievous entanglements with Russia; Summers here are about it. These feelings are familiar, but the affect that I lived are different. As much as guilt was present, there was denial."

I do not have nostalgic feelings about school: "Nostalgia is likely to emerge in connection to the memories of childhood, school years, family time, the blessed bygone are when our parents were young, the world was bigger, felt fresh, and trees were huge1. But I do not have any nostalgic feelings in connection to school."

Allegiance to nostalgia: "At the end of the Soviet times, young critics of Communism refused to wear ties. I, to the contrary, had been wearing my tie for longer than anyone else in class, longer than it was appropriate. Even teachers squinted at it, annoyed. It was my inverted resistance, directed, for some reason, at the new fashions, rather than past injustices. And, I think, it was my first pledge of allegiance to the all-encompassing, eternal nostalgia."

To evoke your nostalgia by describing my nostalgia is my goal: "Soviet nostalgia, Stalinist nostalgia, Mao nostalgia, and recently not admitted to the public spaces Nazi nostalgia, which seems to resurge, all coincide in the feeling: Life was far better during the past regime. You might have been killed but you were young; after all, you still might be killed, but you are no longer young. A collection of fleeting glances and interrupted shadows that I file, catalog, and number for my and, hopefully, your amusement, dear reader, is, for sure, endless. There is always something to elaborate upon, something to add, and something to retract. The politics of revocations and additions is complex. A non-intentionality of this phenomenological project is absolute and exceeds itself. I am trying to convey the value of valueless objects, a preciousness of things that are nothing in your eyes. Things are just present; they do not necessarily do anything except for making you understand me. I was swung in the cradle of ruins; I fetched debris out of the nonexistent and the unimportant. For an observer. All I want is to make you love my debris the way I loved it. My only intent is to contaminate your vision, to communicate the bittersweet disease of nostalgia for the world you did not know. To express longing for a never-existed past, for a number of glimmering pasts, in fact, contesting pasts which hint at the tournament of the futures. I want the world to conflagrate my slow exitless burning. I was born at the Parthenon of the Soviet civilization. I am an absolute cosmonaut, suspended in space, surviving the cosmic shipwreck. Hence the method: I do not document that much or situate it in any context, as I create an affective feel."

The work of nostalgia is transformative: "My mother and her friend’s braids, their heels, their modest chintz dresses add to my vision of Maidan Nezalezhnosti. This is the work of nostalgia transforming things and adding the second dimension to the reality."

Nostalgia is sickness: "With the social transformations that begin with the goal of ultimate obliteration of previously existing social relations and structures, many things die leaving next to no trace, which partly accounts for the severe forms of nostalgia for the Soviet times. Such nostalgia bears the semblance of homesickness, since a former Soviet citizen, never mind her allegiances, is displaced even having never transgressed the borders of the country. She did not go anywhere; instead, the borders in one moment trembled and shifted under her feet. One day hundreds of thousands of Russians found themselves living abroad without moving, and everyone had awakened in a different country altogether."

Apart from the nostalgia for the USSR, there is a wide-spread nostalgia in Russia for the 1990s, the time of social transformation: "Many of those who were young during the 1990s, recollect the time with nostalgia and regret, others, with horror or simply grudgingly, but most remember gazillions of details comprising the zeitgeist."

Ostalgie: "Oustalgie can refer to different aspects of Soviet experiences not only pertaining to the East Germany but to the former Soviet space in general."

Indulging in nostalgia is a method: "Indulging in nostalgia might become a method of understanding it—all the more alluring since it is predetermined to be imprecise. Ruins do not offer the full story, only hint at it and thus allow the observer to inhabit it, “to experience historicity affectively, as an atmosphere” (Boym, 2001, 15)."

Pages 152-158 devoted to nostalgia.

Then "nostalgia" largely disappears, although does a work because it is used to classify things along the lines of what they trigger: "Nostalgia is easily triggered by taste, smell, memory of disappeared texture (hand cream). From Proust’s famous madeleines, the connection of the taste and memory has been well established: "She set out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changed that were taking place." (Proust, Swann’s Way, 2012, page number)"

Caitlin's nostalgia: "My colleague Caitlin once remarked that during her fieldwork in Lebanon she could not even begin smelling the lemon trees, and I was greatly surprised: “How so? One could not choose, usually, whether to smell or not.” Olfactory sensations impose themselves on the preceptor. “But I mean, for someone it would be easy,” she replied. “Someone would say, maybe, ‘My grandma had lemon trees in her garden,’ but not I. My grandma did not have lemon trees, you know. That’s why when I was talking with that woman, and she was sharing with me her nostalgia, all the evocations that lemon trees had to her, I was not going along. She was only two years older than me and could not possibly remember the civil war in Lebanon; it was imprinted upon her, along with the lemon trees’ smell. I found it was hard to situate myself in the same mode evoked just by the lemon trees.”..."I was failing to be in this nostalgia with her.” Caitlin explained."

Nostalgia is evoked by audio and sound: "Nostalgia is triggered and propagated by the audio, by sound. Alexei Yurchak describes how compact radio transmitters brought to life new socialities deterritorializing the grand Soviet narrative (Yurchak, 2006, page numbers)."

We can make ourselves experience nostalgia: "Nostalgia is a reenactment, a reproduction of scenes that have been repeating. Nostalgia could be spontaneous, but it could also be deliberate. One sets herself out for the pleasant and poignant experience of recollection, and the listener signed themselves in to be reminded or enlightened, by virtue of being present with their cup of coffee with petals."

Photography is one of those technologies that reproduce nostalgia: "If the music, being a sound, and not unlike taste or texture, store nostalgia, if everyday technologies and the yesteryear technological advancements that rapidly go out of circulation can produce nostalgia, photography will be one of these technologies."

Family photography perhaps more than other types of photography has a potential to evoke nostalgia: "Perhaps Soviet family photographs will communicate to the attentive observer something about photographs in general, as well as about nostalgia, the imperial, the ephemeral, and the empyrean."

Nostalgia can be a powerful market motivator: "As if playing this game or possessing the object today would have given the former player or owner the sense of the days of childhood perhaps returning. All too often the first urge upon recollection of something long gone is to seek reacquisition. That’s why nostalgia is not only a feeling, a state of mind, or complex affect, but it can be a powerful market motivator."

Nostalgia turns terrible things into great memories: "Nostalgia turns terrible things into great memories."

Digital nostalgia (not a developed concept).

Nostalgia can be exploited by the state and by the agents active on the market: "Doubtlessly, Longing for Sleep project is not the only project exploiting the nostalgia for the Soviet times, debris “too worthless to plunger” (Brown, 2015) reframed as “another man’s treasure” are everywhere you look. (Examples include Crêpe De Chine and Georgette crepe “vintage-looking” fabric patterned in the Soviet style—in huge wide-branching flowers; ice cream rebranded as the “Soviet plombir (ice cream) sold in Russia and beyond, and something else perhaps I could use here.) All of it shows that nostalgia is the good to be sold, that nostalgia is turnable into money; it is able to bring revenue, and generate different communities, be it a huge and hard to define community of the “Soviet ice cream” eaters, or a refined little community of the former Soviet blankets’ wearers."

Nostalgia comes in surges: "Some two years before that, in one particularly unbearable surge of nostalgia, I searched the Internet for this lamp and found it, to my amazement, for sale on eBay."

Another two pages on nostalgia: 248-249

Of nuclear threat and its now almost-nostalgic affect: "What once was disturbing becomes merely nostalgia-inducing even if the threat itself did not vanish."

The post-Soviet nostalgia is syncretic: ). "In 2015, in Moscow people spotted (and there was a news item about it) that the high-school graduates sported the Soviet-school-style dresses, but the aprons were cut into the dresses. No way to take the apron off. It appeared to me that there was something symbolic about it: the apron as a part of the dress was a perfect metaphor for the Soviet nostalgia: it combined the previously familiar elements into the totally new whole, the order of things was rearranged the way it has not worked before. The syncretic nature of the Soviet nostalgia was thus revealed. One thing that does not belong attached to another, centaurus hybridized with griffin, the deer wearing the cherry tree for antlers, Stalin framed as a Christian saint, use the German photographs to illustrate the narrative about the heroism of the Red Army, and all of it for the purposes of reaching the authentic is, evidently, the common principle of the plastic restoration, the imperial nostalgia that does not really want the past restored, but merely toys with some of its aesthetic elements the meaning of which it nonetheless discounts and to the separate existence of which it refuses to attend."

-------------------------

1 “When the Trees Were Tall,” the film by Lev Kulidzhanov, produced in 1961.

#nostalgia #Etkind #Yurchak #USSR #Soviet project #Boym #anthropology #affect

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phonghoinghi · 3 years

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Scary Details About Japanese Bride Exposed

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rfhusnik · 4 years

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Not A Good Buy Then

Written By: Orlon Braem

America’s 2020 presidential race will be remembered as having been an extremely important one because what’s really being decided in it is whether or not the United States will remain a free democratic capitalist republic in years to come, or whether it will begin a trek leftward politically which will end eventually with the nation going as far in that direction as it can go; in other words, if America elects the Biden/Harris ticket it starts down the road to becoming either another modern day China, or World War two era Soviet Union, most likely featuring a dreadful tyrant such as Stalin. But please don’t misconstrue this piece’s long opening sentence. It’s not saying Biden or Harris are, or will become another Stalin. What it is saying is that their election will begin a process which, years in the future will culminate with the United States of America becoming a left wing dictatorship.

When asked how long last summer’s protests would continue, the Democrat candidate for vice president said the protests should continue up to, and even after the presidential election. And since we know those protests often turned violent, what was Kamala Harris really advocating when she answered that question as she did? I’ll let you guess. And what would Harris do to America if she ever became its president? Sadly, the answer to that question is most likely this: Lead it toward socialism and a reality of life in which many of the freedoms once taken for granted by Americans would need to be surrendered to the government.

But as far as the man on the Democratic ticket is concerned, weak, ineffectual, and cognitively challenged people should never lead nations – and especially not the very powerful ones. One can look to both the histories of America and the world as a whole to see what often happened to such leaders in the past. Many times they were taken advantage of by both domestic and foreign foes, and sometimes even people they considered their friends betrayed them.

Thus, if you’ve already voted for the Biden/Harris ticket, you’ve already voted for a ticket which will in all likelihood set America on an unalterable course toward socialism in the near future; and communism in the years to come. Yet, today while we’re still able to live in a capitalist (not a utopian economic system either, but unlike socialism, communism, and fascism, at least one which allows people to have personal freedom) society, of course we need to buy things to facilitate our daily well-being. And most of us buy those things in stores. Some of our fellow Americans however apparently feel that society owes them those items, so they steal or loot them. But for us who do obey the law and make purchases, “good buys” are always a thankful find. And sometimes (and perhaps sometimes for literary expediency only) we can make a connection between purchases and choices, although good choices are probably more important than good buys. And given that soon Americans will choose a president to serve them for the next four years, they’ll need to make a good choice and not a bad buy. Then America will remain great.

But don’t all lives matter? Don’t all people live via grace extended by a force beyond them which exerts the complete mastery of all that exists earthly, universally, temporally, and eternally? And doesn’t that force decide what one’s race and gender shall be? Yes, but beyond that the Deity leaves almost all subsequent decisions concerning any living mortal to that mortal’s free will - free will being a concept difficult to fathom when one must realize that the power mortals know as God allows them the choice to do right or wrong.

But why would such a freedom be extended? It must be because the Deity wants the human to live freely, and give its love freely to both the Deity and its fellow man, unfettered by wrongs which entered existence through free will abused. In other words, there must be fidelity now to the reality that the human was created in God’s image – and was meant to be free and non-sinful. And knowing this, we know why all impediments to human existence exist. They’re real to show the consequences of wrong and evil choices freely made.

And yes, it’s too bad that all mortals, even those seeking a nation’s highest office, sometimes forget about, or even condone evil. But then again, maybe we’ve now acknowledged the real reason for racism and all the most current health and non-health related scourges upon mankind. Maybe humans no longer know enough about their Creator or, maybe they don’t know him at all. And maybe that’s why, while some say they oppose violence, aborting human life doesn’t bother them.

And in the upcoming presidential election, all Americans will choose between two elderly gentlemen. One seems to be in control of his faculties, while the other seems fortunate to know the day of the week. And while one will offer Americans a safe succession should any great evil befall him during the next four years, the other will offer someone who will most likely try to lead the nation much further toward socialism today, and communism tomorrow. Yes, those are dreaded ways of life which reward only the non-productive and criminal elements of any society.

And in a socialist America police forces would probably be severely underfunded or perhaps completely eliminated. And it’s very possible that America would then be back to the days of lawlessness it once knew in the post Civil War era when gunslingers spread fear and terror – especially in the West. And it’s also very possible that gangs of thugs, murderers and rapists would run wild then across the American nation. There might even very well be a return to the days of hard core criminals such as Dillinger, who either individually, or as members of organized or unorganized groups, would then terrorize the American landscape. And they’ll have guns, but the weapons of everyday Americans will have been confiscated, even if their owners once used them for hunting only.

But, unfortunately a great number of Americans are apparently ready now to accept the scenarios of the previous paragraph. They’re apparently ready now to defund and eliminate their local police forces so that a large number of individuals can then have a “free reign” to loot, murder, rape, and commit only God knows what other forms of evil without the fear of repercussion. And in response to increased crime, liberals will add to the number of judges on the nation’s Supreme Court. That way they’ll have enough socialists so that it will then prosecute only those who try to protect themselves and their property.

And please don’t be taken in by twisted rhetoric. It’s not really because of police over-stepping their authority that their elimination is being sought. It’s rather because a large number of people simply want to be able to do, without any legal consequence, whatever they damn well feel like doing whether or not it’s currently considered legal or illegal.

But of course the coronavirus is a campaign issue in the upcoming election. Thus, I’d ask you to keep two things in mind when liberals try to blame the spread of the virus on the current administration. One: If this administration had done, and was still doing all that liberals say it should have done, and should still be doing in regard to the virus, then today liberals would be saying that the administration should have followed, and should still be following the course of action it did take, and is currently still taking; and Two: during the timespan that liberals claim more should have been done to combat the coronavirus, they had the entire government embroiled in an impeachment process which had no grounds for implementation. And this phony impeachment inquiry then hindered all government processes, while it simultaneously, in all probability rendered the impeachment process ineffective in the future should that process really be needed then to be used against any government official who actually may have abused his or her position of power.

And if the threat of police elimination in and of itself weren’t enough from keeping people to “buy in” to one certain candidate’s ideas, then the threat of socialism certainly should be. If you want an America in which you can work ever harder to support criminals, intentionally non-productive individuals, and “overlords” who’ll do nothing but criticize you no matter what you do, then vote incorrectly in the upcoming election.

And make no mistake about it, life will deteriorate in America under a socialist regime. And a severely socialist or communist United States of America will then have a drastic effect worldwide. Many poorer nations which look to a capitalist U. S. for support and guidance today, won’t find it long after Biden and Harris are gone, and the states united are being run by a dictator; probably someone such as Stalin.

But maybe you think we’re blowing this out of proportion. Yet, look at what the prospects of electing the wrong president in November could and probably would be. A trend toward socialism would then begin. And what could this trend possibly lead to during the next, and subsequent administrations? Here are some very real possibilities: 1. an end to private gun ownership, 2. a severe defunding and/or elimination of police forces, 3. open borders which will allow millions of modern day carpetbaggers from anywhere south of the Rio Grande river to enter the U.S. and apply for government benefits here, 4. an end to red meat consumption and the elimination of cattle, 5. no prosecution of lawbreakers who loot and destroy property, 6. a legislative attack on America’s suburbs which will force them to construct low cost housing within their geographic areas, thereby lowering their standard of living, and increasing their taxes, 7. an end to fracking, 8. gas and oil shortages which will raise the prices of these commodities and most likely add huge costs to homeowners who need to heat their dwellings in winter, 9. increased gas prices for automobiles and the eventual banning of automobiles which will lead to, 10. an aspect of the years to come that’s probably not well understood by most modern day Americans. In its left-wing future, America’s citizens will be sequestered in groups within certain areas. And these areas of the U.S.: the South, the Southwest, the Great Plains, and especially the Midwest will serve as “worker areas” to support left-wing radicals who’ll reside in the Pacific coast and upper eastern Atlantic coast states.

And if liberals succeed in their threats to eliminate the electoral college system of electing the U.S. president, the above mentioned worker areas will basically have no say in who their leaders will be. And then, added to this is the possibility that modern day left-wing enclaves such as Puerto Rico, American Samoa, and Washington D.C. may receive statehood. This would result in the Democratic Party having perpetual control of the U. S. Senate, and most likely in the eventual outlawing of the Republican Party, and censure, or even imprisonment of anyone exposing conservative viewpoints.

And isn’t it strange how so many people seem to worry so much about the environmental future tomorrow’s Americans may face, yet don’t seem to care at all about a very probable future political environment that will rob them of their very freedoms in the years to come? And also, how can people be led astray by politicians of all ages whose political naivete is so glaring? Free health care, free collage, a guaranteed income whether one wants to work or not, massive government benefits for illegal aliens, virtually no punishment for lawbreakers, and the list goes on and on. And remember, all these handouts will need to be paid for. And we’ve already said which areas of the nation will work to provide the funds. But, of course the left wing lawmakers won’t help raise this money. They’re too good to do manual labor. But, to give them some credit, at least they’ve been able to make it through life living off the toil of others.

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